Intentional History: Spinning Time in Ancient Greece 3515096833, 9783515096836

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Intentional History Edited by Lin Foxhall / Hans-Joachim Gehrke / Nino Luraghi

Intentional History Spinning Time in Ancient Greece Edited by Lin Foxhall / Hans-Joachim Gehrke / Nino Luraghi

Franz Steiner Verlag Stuttgart 2010

Cover illustration: Akharnai, Attica, stele with the ephebic oath and the oath of Plataea, middle of the fourth century BCE © École française d’Athènes

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. ISBN 978-3-515-09683-6 Jede Verwertung des Werkes außerhalb der Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. Dies gilt insbesondere für Übersetzung, Nachdruck, Mikroverfilmung oder vergleichbare Verfahren sowie für die Speicherung in Datenverarbeitungsanlagen. © 2010 Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Druck: AZ Druck und Datentechnik, Kempten Printed in Germany

CONTENTS

1. Introduction LIN FOXHALL AND NINO LURAGHI

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2. Representations of the past in Greek culture HANS-JOACHIM GEHRKE

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3. Myth as past? On the temporal aspect of Greek depictions of legend LUCA GIULIANI

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4. The Trojan War’s reception in early Greek lyric, iambic and elegiac poetry EWEN BOWIE

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5. The Great rhetra (Plut. Lyc. 6): a retrospective and intentional construct? MASSIMO NAFISSI

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6. Collective identities, imagined past, and Delphi MAURIZIO GIANGIULIO

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7. Fish heads and mussel-shells: visualizing Greek identity JOSEPH SKINNER

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8. Media for Theseus, or the different images of the Athenian polis-hero RALF VON DEN HOFF

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9. Ulterior motives in ancient historiography: what exactly, and why? KURT RAAFLAUB

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10. Tragic memories of Dionysos RENATE SCHLESIER

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11. Connecting with the pat in Lykourgan Athens: an epigraphic perspective STEPHEN LAMBERT 12. Intentional history: Alexander, Demosthenes and Thebes IAN WORTHINGTON

225 239

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13. The demos as narrator: public honors and the construction of future and past NINO LURAGHI 14. God and king as synoikists: divine disposition and monarchic wishes combined in the traditions of city foundations for Alexander's and Hellenistic times KOSTAS BURASELIS 15. “They that held Arkadia”: Arcadian foundation myths as intentional history in Roman Imperial times TANIA J. SCHEER 16. Ethnography of the Nomads and “Barbarian” History in Han China NICOLA DI COSMO 17. Beyond intentional history: a phenomenological model of the idea of history JONAS GRETHLEIN 18. Constructing antiquity and modernity in the eighteenth century: distantiation, alterity, proximity, immanency KOSTAS VLASSOPOULOS    

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273 297

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS With one exception, the papers collected in this volume were presented at the conference Intentionale Geschichte – Spinning Time at the Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg on September, 14-16, 2006. For financial support the editors are especially grateful to the Deutsche Foschungsgemeinschaft, and to Freiburg University itself, in particular to the Zentrum Antike und Moderne, the Promotionskolleg Geschichte und Erzählen and last but not least the Seminar für Alte Geschichte, in the person of our colleague and friend Astrid Möller and her staff, for all their help and support. In the process of turning the contributions into a book, the editors have incurred further debts that they wish here to acknowledge. The articles by Hans-Joachim Gehrke, Luca Giuliani, and Tanja Scheer have been expertly translated from the German by Helen Imhoff. Rose McLean has done invaluable work on formatting files written in a surprising array of different formats and with an even more surprising variety of Greek fonts. At Steiner Verlag, Katharina Stüdemann and her staff, especially Harald Schmitt, have been unfailingly supportive. Uwe Mieth of Cicero Computer GmBH has walked us through the preparation of the manuscript with skill and patience. It is now ten years since the foundation of the European Network for the Study of Ancient Greek History, spearheaded by our friend Josine Blok. Looking back on a decade of invaluable scholarly and personal exchanges, the editors wish to express their deep gratitude to the other members of the Network, especially to Josine, the soul of the group, and to Oswyn Murray, our Nestor. Lin Foxhall Hans-Joachim Gehrke Nino Luraghi

1. INTRODUCTION Lin Foxhall and Nino Luraghi Intentional history (intentionale Geschichte) following Gehrke (2001: 286, 297-8; this volume) is the projection in time of the elements of subjective, self-conscious self categorization which construct the identity of a group as a group. Gehrke developed the concept in an attempt to understand the function of the past in the self-definition of communities of Greeks, and has explored this theme particularly in relation to identity and alterity. The phenomenon of ‘intentional history’ serves as the starting point of this book, from which we move on to explore its ramifications in a range of case studies, culminated by two theoretical papers. The concept can be taken much further to investigate the dynamism of the past in creating the present, of the present in evoking the past, and in attempts to shape the future, because of the prescriptive and foundational value attributed to the past (Gehrke 2001: 300). This also raises the whole question of why it might be considered necessary to locate an event in time, at a specific point or in a much more vague and undefined position, where it might shape the present and future as well as the past. A key issue is that of social agency in the formulation of ideas, notions and stories about the past, and how these become, or aspire to become, shared possessions of a whole community. ‘Intentional history’ is never history in a vacuum. It always belongs to someone, sometimes an individual, but usually a group of people, often in the Greek world functioning as a collective entity. And, it is generally set in specific social, political, economic and geographical/spatial contexts. There is a strong proprietary aspect to it. If ‘intentional history’ is a way of giving meaning to the past, then who gives the meaning? In trying to answer this question, we need to go beyond the concept of ‘the invention of tradition’ to focus on both the space in the margins which allow creative engagements with the past and the frameworks which make it difficult or impossible to change some aspects of the past. Groups, and identities, are not of course monolithic, and within groups there may be alternative or conflicting versions of those elements of subjective, selfconscious categorization, some of which may ultimately predominate. As historians, it is often hard to determine whether we are party to a conversation between conflicting discourses, whether we have received a particular version of tradition which ignores or overrides other versions, or whether we are reading the outcome of a compromise. It can also be difficult for us to ascertain the degree of agency of specific individuals or groups which can play a major part in the creation and transmission of notions and narratives relating to the past, historical and/or historicizing, in classical antiquity. On the other hand, the existence of frameworks of ‘fixed points’ in the past serve as a foundation of belief in the truth of the past for most societies. Without such beliefs it would be pointless to invent or manipulate tradition; indeed such waypoints serve both to anchor and to validate narra-

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tives of the past. Hence there can be no intentional history without unintentional history. As historians and archaeologists of the classical world we are not in a position to interrogate the societies we study directly. Instead we must interrogate textual, visual and material remains that are representative of cultural traditions, usually generated by a limited sector of these societies. Hence intentional history must therefore address issues such as genre, which create templates for attaching types of events specific to the particular genre and for attaching events to the names of great men. In tragedy the god Dionysos plays a key role in remembering and forgetting, perhaps in part as the patron or host in a sense of the genre itself (Schlesier, this volume). One could indeed go further to suggest that genre to some extent defines the very notion of an ‘event’. Even in visual imagery this is important. Von den Hoff (this volume) shows how images of Theseus in monumental sculpture present a very different aspect of Athens’ archetypal hero in a panhellenic setting in contrast to vase painting where he is portrayed in a more local perspective, defeating adversaries as the champion of Athens. Of course different genres may be connected, for example von den Hoff (this volume) notes the power of images to evoke stories recounted in words. In tandem with the impact of genre, later works become contingent upon earlier templates, and in the classical tradition permanence attaches itself to well-established pasts which come to hold authority. The templates provided by narratives of the foundation of cities offer a good example (see below). Di Cosmo (this volume) similarly shows how in the Chinese history writing a set of templates develops into which the discourse of Chinese imperialism is fitted, but these also serve for the ‘others’ on the edge of the Chinese realm to link themselves to Chinese historiographical tradition. Indeed, how and what kinds of elements and ideas from the past, both historical and legendary, are (re-)presented in texts, may depend as much on the genre and medium of transmission as on the content of the ideas themselves. The result of this may be the ‘de-historization of the past’. Bowie (this volume) has argued that the Trojan War, a key cycle of events in the Greeks’ mythologised past, was not a default choice of archaic poets but is prominent, especially in long poems for public performance. The poets who chose these Trojan War themes often seem to be in dialogue with Homer in several different ways. It is intriguing to ask whether these themes derived their relevance in the archaic period because they were believed to be ‘the past’, or because they were considered heroism par excellence? The same question is raised by Giuliani’s (this volume) suggestion that the images of ‘Dipylon’ warriors with their figure-of-eight shields represent not the past, explicitly, but the heroic individual fighter taken out of time altogether. The Greeks invented history-writing as a genre. Why? Why did they feel the need to create a past from the present and attach it to a tradition? What was the relationship of writing history to innovation? And, were there cultural mechanisms for forgetting as well as for preserving the past? If so, how did they work; what elements did they filter out? Certainly there are no obvious mechanisms that make it easy to obliterate or overcome parts of the past. Clearly there was a strong sense of historical contingency, a view of how the past both actively and passively

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shaped the present and future, which we explore further in this volume. The surviving legacy of monuments, commemorations and inscriptions alone suggests that many Greeks aimed to influence the future’s perception of their present at the level of both individual and family as well as at the level of polis and community. Indeed, in the earliest self-consciously historical works that we have: the histories of Herodotus and Thucydides, the past is deployed explicitly in the context of the writers’ present, as commemoration, contingent explanation, and justification. Later uses of ‘history’ in public and civic inscriptions employ these same modes of deploying the past, to canalize the past in particular directions (Lambert; Luraghi, this volume). Further, it is clear that some Greek and Roman historical writers were fully aware of the ways in which political concerns or personal relationships might influence how the past and the present might be recorded for the future (Raaflaub, this volume). However, for all that the collective imagination of the past formed an important element of many kinds of Greek identities and representations (of both themselves and others), the mundane aspects of time and timekeeping were of limited interest for intentional history. Transmission and succession were a major concern of families for establishing their past and ensuring their future. Yet, the Greeks largely kept track of age, birth, death and marriage not by written records but by discussion and negotiation, This is parallel to the way in which evidence for Athenian jurors was largely a question of persuasion, not documents per se (although documents could be part of an act of persuasion, it was the latter which was pre-eminent). Indeed, written records seem to have played only a very limited role in the Greek creation of ‘fixed’ history – why the apparent reluctance to depend predominantly upon written records? This attitude is very different from the more modern ‘archive mentality’ which endeavours to record everything comprehensively, even where the memories may be painful (as in the case of the Holocaust), or where selective and targeted remembering and forgetting becomes a political tool in ‘truth and reconciliation’ (as in Northern Ireland or South Africa). The time depth of families was demonstrably short, generally limited to three or four generations before being swallowed up in the confusion of the bilateral kindred. The Homeric image of leaves on a tree which die and are blown away only to regenerate in the next season is developed by Grethlein (this volume) as a powerful metaphor for the power of chance in structuring the kinds of historical contingencies expressed in the encounter of Diomedes and Glaukos in Iliad 6.119-236, and is echoed in Mimnermos (Bowie, this volume). However, the falling of leaves and their annual re-growth also echoes the continuous waxing and waning of human generations, representing a kind of time that almost steps to one side of ‘history’ as we, or the Greeks, know it; where each succeeding generation is the same but different, and the particular contingencies of historical processes may be, at best, only tangentially relevant to the trajectory of events on this scale. Even the patrilineal genealogies on which some groups within Greek societies depended for their coherence usually became unstable (or ceased to matter) after a few generations. The few cases where families managed to resist this instability still left few certain links to the distant past. Lycurgus as one of Eteoboutadai, and

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thus with a family connection to the Acropolis may have been particularly inclined to stress these cults as linking Athens in his own time to the more glorious past (Lambert, this volume), but these family links were general, not specific. Heroes thus stood on the threshold of time between the known and the unknown, as a threshold between ordinary temporality and a vast swirling timeless past inhabited by immortals. For the Greeks heroes were real people who represented some kind of fixed milestone in the largely unknowable past. In some cases they seem simply to have stepped out of time altogether into another dimension. The heroes of Marathon rapidly acquired a kind of poetic stability denied to most ordinary people. Lykourgos and Lysandros were probably equally real, or unreal, to most fourth-century Spartans. The attribution of change, beginnings, or ‘reforms’ to dehistoricized individuals (real and legendary) whose personas subsequently accumulated events and who were credited with actions which did not belong to them is a common ‘historical’ technique in Greek thought and writing. Nafissi (this volume), for example, suggests that the Great Rhetra, attributed in antiquity to Lykourgos and the Delphic Oracle in the deep (imagined) past of Sparta was more likely an archaic period invention contemporary with Tyrtaeus, reflecting communal concerns in his world about Spartan social order, the famous eunomia. Similarly, oikistai seem to have been real people to the classical inhabitants of the cities they allegedly founded, the beginning of a community’s intentional history. Significantly, by the later sixth century, these characters, teetering between the timeless realm of immortals and the world of mortal temporality, were regularly perceived as belonging to particular communities, thus serving as a waypoint locating the social and political community within the cosmos. It is not surprising that such figures become narratives of the past developed by a collective actor. For example, Giangiulio (this volume) suggests that the content of oracles (especially literary ‘Delphic’ oracles) were created initially in a range of different forms from local collective traditions. From there they entered the (literary?) oracular tradition, emerging from Delphi through a complex series of relationships and processes which served to valorize local communities by inserting Delphic Apollo at heart of their past. This sheds light on the observations of Buraselis (this volume) that divine approval in retrospect for the foundation of Hellenistic royal cities in tandem with the development of appropriate mythic heritages followed the early Greek colonial template, making kings into oikistai. We could go further to consider Greek (and to some extent Roman) history as a collection of entities as historical actors, which gives rise to very different notions of historical causation and contingency. From a modern point of view causation and contingency may be ‘de-historicized’. Scheer’s (this volume) investigation of the Arkadian ‘ancestry’ attributed by Roman writers to a range of other groups including Cretans, Bithynians and Italic peoples (the Oinotrians) suggests that the stereotype of Arkadians as ageless beyond time and ‘primitive’ in character allowed them to be easily assimilated to other somewhat marginal groups, providing a Greek heritage that by the Roman period went back beyond the reach of real time. This is comparable to the processes Di Cosmo (this volume) documents

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in Chinese history writing, where specific ethnic designations become generalized to mean simply ‘other’ or in Greek terms perhaps, ‘barbarian’. This permits the merger by Chinese historians of the pasts of different people based on similar ‘habits’, and their ‘natural’ otherness. But notions of causation and contingency were varied and complex in classical antiquity, as they are for us. Grethlein (this volume) presents temporality as subject to forces humans cannot control; it is unpredictable by definition. This opens up a range of different ways of experiencing it: chance, contingency, regularity and development, allowing the past to be used in different ways, for instance as tradition or exemplum. Raaflaub (this volume) notes that ancient historical writers were aware of their personal involvement in the construction of their subjects, perceiving the past and future as malleable, both melting into the present. Similarly, di Cosmo (this volume) highlights Chinese awareness of political pressure on history writers, seen as a problem for Confucius. Vlassopoulos (this volume) distinguishes four types of relationships to the past which emerged in the eighteenth century as modes of relating the contemporary present to classical antiquity: distantiation, proximity, alterity, immanency. These, he argues, are still the predominant templates for understanding and locating the classical past to ourselves today. All of these examples demonstrate the continuity of collective responsibility for the past beyond alterity and identity, in part indicated by the need to link different pasts together, or to select specific aspects of the past as especially relevant at a particular moment. The tool of intentional history permits access to the agency of both producers and consumers of these historical enactments as they unfold in their communal settings. Skinner (this volume) thus argues that images on coins may depict a collective shared (often mythical) past as representing the present to the outside world. Luraghi (this volume) shows how historical narrative features in honorary decrees of fourth century BCE and beyond. Frequently zooming in on critical and/or controversial moments in Athens’ recent past, this seems to have been history developed by individuals, but approved by the community, where the inscription serves to ‘fix’ a specific version of community and others. Lambert (this volume), writing of Lykourgan Athens, similarly notes how specific elements of Athens’ fifth century past– victory and the imperial heritage – were evoked and celebrated in the cult in the late fourth century. Worthington (this volume) observes that oratorical sources blame Demosthenes’ bribe-taking while later sources blame Alexander’s desire to sent a warning to the Greek for the destruction of Thebes in 335 BCE, when, in fact, the complex involvement of a whole range of different agents seems to have led to this horrific outcome. Our task in the present volume is to investigate from different angles the elements and the processes of those self-conscious acts of subjective self categorization which, in their broad temporal setting, built the intentional history of the Greek world. Here at the junction of the imaginable and the knowable, we shall explore the Greek invention, in both senses, of history.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY GEHRKE, H.-J. 2001: Myth, history, and collective identity: uses of the past in ancient Greece and beyond, in N. Luraghi (ed.) The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford, 286–313.

2. GREEK REPRESENTATIONS OF THE PAST Hans-Joachim Gehrke The way in which the ancient Greeks dealt with their past has been discussed extensively in modern scholarship.1 The topic is usually addressed in the context of Greek historiography. In this chapter, however, a broader framework is to be established for this topic. My thoughts on the matter, of which I intend to give an overview here, are based in many respects on Edmund Husserl’s concept of “lifeworld” (Lebenswelt), and in particular on the extension of this concept to the study of social reality by Alfred Schütz and his follower Thomas Luckmann.2 Observing history from the point of view of its incorporation into the social “lifeworld” means studying history as a formative power. History is then not simply a collection of memories or an academic pursuit but a determining force, which is decisive for different individuals’ and collectives’ existence and perception of the world. History in its social function, the focus here, is particularly important for one simple reason: communities, or rather social groups, can only exist as such if they are capable of surviving beyond the lifespans of the individuals who constitute the group. This is where the transmission of information which is relevant to the group’s identity, in brief, memory, comes into play. We must understand this as a form of memory which is important for the group’s sheer survival. Without such memory, one could not talk of community at all. In order to describe this particular type of memory, Maurice Halbwachs has coined the term mémoire collective, or “collective memory.” Aleida and Jan Assmann have developed this concept further by distinguishing different kinds of such memory, “communicative” and “cultural memory.” The first is based on the natural prerequisites of remembering, that is the existence of people who pass on their memories directly from parents and grandparents to children and grandchildren. This kind of remembering is part 1

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The present contribution is an extended version of a talk which I gave on 14 November 2006 in the “Colloquium Phaenomenologicum” in Freiburg. I would like to thank my friend HansHelmuth Gander for the opportunity to take stock of and develop my views on the topic, which I have developed over many years and through intensive interdisciplinary dialogue (in particular in the context of the Research Group Identitäten und Alteritäten and now the Graduate School Geschichte und Erzählen). The oral character of my contribution has been retained, and references are therefore kept to a minimum. In general, some of my own publications provide further references and detailed discussions, in particular GEHRKE 2001, 2003 and 2005. – Important contributions can now also be found in CANDAU MORÓN – GONZÁLEZ PONCE – CRUZ ANDREOTTI 2004. HUSSERL 1992, § 33f., 123–38; SCHÜTZ – LUCKMANN 1979/84. On the context and general background, see RICŒUR 2004, 201f.; on current philosophical discussion, cf. above all GANDER 2001, 13f. and 111–66; FIGAL 2006, 178–81.

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of social communication and is thus found in a face-to-face context. For purely biological reasons it can only span three, at the most four, generations. As a result, the identity of groups which are only united by this kind of memory remains precarious. In order for a more firmly founded community to develop, its members must anchor the group’s existence in a time which lies much further in the past, ideally in primeval times. Above all, they must bridge a period of time which is longer than that restricted by natural circumstances. This is why the Assmans’ second type of memory, “cultural memory,” is of decisive importance for the community. Remembering, thus, becomes a particular form of memory. It has to be maintained, that is, cultivated, by the community, and this is done by means of rituals which are repeated in fixed form and order, by tales which are told repeatedly from generation to generation and by monuments and pictures which tell of important people, events and achievements. Written reports and documents, on which modern historical research usually lays the greatest emphasis, are only one part of this type of memory. In any case, the identity of a given group is very closely linked to the specific way in which it deals with its past. In this context, scholars have also spoken of the “social surface” of memory. If one wishes to look at these connections more closely, the elements and phenomena which are characteristic of the coherence and identity of a community need to be examined in more detail. These need to be conceptualised analytically, and this must be done regardless of size and structure of the respective unit, which can range from small, undeveloped agrarian communities and clans, all the way to tribes and nations and even whole civilisations. In this context the concept of intentionality, created in ethnosociology and decisively influenced in particular by Wilhelm Mühlmann, becomes important and helpful. It can be summarised in the following way: the identity of a group and the phenomenon of belonging to a certain community is not, or not only, a question of physical relationship. Biology plays an important role, but it is not the decisive factor in resolving the question of membership or non-membership. Rather, a group’s identity is determined by the subjective and collective self-categorisation according to which one is a member of a certain community, an attitude or a feeling, conscious or subconscious, or rather pre-conscious, on which one has reflected or which one has accepted unquestioningly during the process of socialisation and which to that extent is part of the “lifeworld” in question. For this reason, communities cannot be understood as natural creations. We must think of them as intentional units. In relating these ethnological concepts to the previously mentioned ideas regarding collective memory, I would like to suggest that that part of cultivated memory which is relevant for a group’s identity should be called intentional history. What we are talking about, then, is history as expression of a group’s selfperception, Eigengeschichte in the terminology of the Dresden Research Group Institutionalität und Geschichtlichkeit. In dealing with intentional history and with the way in which it is generated, one finds that elements of self-categorisation relevant for collective identity are regularly projected into the past or that older

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traditions are re-interpreted in their light, should it be necessary. This in turn affects the self-perception and the social norms of the group. Although our analytical perspective reduces the role of natural circumstances, these must not be underestimated, especially when examining the self-perception of the individual communities. This is because biology is decisive from the communties’ perspective. Members of a community do not assume that their identity is based on “soft” elements, such as intentionality or consciousness, but on hard facts of nature. They understand and describe themselves as a unit determined by physical factors, as a community of relatives who are connected through blood ties and who are descended from the same ancestor. In this way, an idea which exists only in the minds of those belonging to a particular group becomes an indisputable fact. In the words of Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann, it becomes reified (verdinglicht).3 This is particularly important for the content and structure of intentional history. It does not only stress the early, even primordial origins of a community but its specific character as a group of relatives in a narrower and/or wider sense as well. We may speak of ‘inventions of traditions,’ but the group and its members (and not infrequently our own societies, too) consider these traditions to be true, and they believe in them; they are the core of their identity. In this respect these traditions are constructed (from an analytical perspective or rather from the point of view of a modern historian or ethnologist) as well as being true. In order to know and to understand a particular community or society, its concepts and behaviour, one has to consider that, for the group, this was its real history. Many investigations, in particular over the last 20 or 30 years, in the most diverse subjects and in different disciplines have resulted in abundant examples of how this mechanism works. Interesting concepts have been developed in order to describe these phenomena, for example Pierre Nora’s lieux de mémoire. It has meanwhile become common to speak of ‘politics of memory.’ This approach compels us to look at history through eyes other than our own. This is the most important aspect of this subject. In this context the role of the media, amongst other things, is defined differently from the way it is understood in the modern study of history. What implications does this have for the representation of the past in ancient Greece? To begin with, our horizon is generally broadened in three respects: firstly, we do not ask how we ourselves, that is modern historians, can determine or (re)construct Greek history, but how the Greeks, or rather, the groups who were affected and involved, did. Their ideas of history become the subject of historical research. Secondly, the diversity of Greek history is rendered more accurately, its fragmentation into over 1000 poleis of very different dimensions, regions and forms of organisation, which also go beyond the polis. We get Greek histories instead of Greek history, and we develop a feel for the plurality at a local level and, going beyond that, for ‘ethnic,’ regional and panhellenic relationships and links as 3

On this concept, see BERGER – LUCKMANN 1969.

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well. We learn to acknowledge competing versions. Greece did not have a unified set of practices for the cultivation of memory, which might, for example, be supported and controlled by a central ruling authority such as we find in the ancient Near East or Egypt. Thus, we reach an appropriate understanding of Greek history and its general characteristics. Finally, and thirdly, our gaze is directed towards all genres in which memory was cultivated and towards their contexts in ritual and performance. Historiography is not given a privileged position but instead it is contextualised and integrated. For it was characteristic especially of Greek memory that, from the beginning, history was an object of aesthetics, above all in literature (at first in an oral milieu) and later also – in a different way – in pictorial art. It is only with this in mind that the significance of historiography and – later – biography can be adequately determined.

2.1. HOMER AS ‘PATER HISTORIAE’ The characteristics of the Greek representation of the past mentioned above are found from the very beginning, as is evident from the Homeric epics, which I will refer to simply by the name of Homer.4 In this way, the very earliest examples of Greek literature exemplify how the Greeks dealt with the past, and they continued to serve as a reference work for the Greeks in the long term.5 Hence the Iliad may not be a ‘history book’ with which one might determine a particular event, the Trojan Wars, but it is in fact an historical work, which allows us to see the modes of construction and the cultivation of memory. It is, as it were, a history book of intentional history. Three phenomena are important in this context: At first, the epics were embedded in the social milieu in which their songs were performed. They belonged to a world in which élites came into being in small, barely organised communities. These élites tried to demonstrate and consolidate their position, not least by way of a special lifestyle. The élites referred to leisure (schole) in order to emphasise their independence from work as a means of obtaining a living. They did this by presenting themselves decidedly as a leisure class, displaying their wealth ostentatiously in their behaviour and appearance. Certain forms of sociability, in particular the symposion, were part of this. Singers performed in this context, and consequently they were in direct contact with their audience. This milieu, which belonged entirely to the present, was now reflected and represented in the epics, but in the process, present circumstances were transferred into the past, or rather, were represented as a past milieu. We are, therefore, not dealing with a case of history as understood by historicism, that is, history as something independent and therefore at least potentially different. Rather, present and past were identical, but in such a way that those events projected back in time were understood as past and as history. The distance between past and present was 4 5

On this topic, cf. also GRETHLEIN 2006. Cf., for example, Plato’s comment in his Politeia that Homer educated Greece.

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even indicated in a particular way: everything was bigger and more impressive and it was capable of setting norms. At the same time, in addition to the simple past of the heroic age of the warriors who fought at Troy a pluperfect became discernable, in the tales of the venerable Nestor and in the use of genealogies. Here one has the beginnings of more complex time structures and greater temporal depth. Nevertheless, in the main, three generations were still referred to, those of the fighters, their fathers and sons, as, most clearly, in the case of Laertes, Odysseus and Telemachos in the Odyssey. Here the various generations are also classified differently: Laertes is the former leader, who is, as it were, retired, Odysseus is the lord and hero in the prime of his life, and Telemachos is in the process of acquiring that position. All of this clearly shows a close connection to traditional forms of memory. In addition, the epics clearly accentuate a general Greek component. This is independent of local traditions, which must be assumed for the time being and will shortly be proved. Although they may still be called Achaeans, Argives or Danaans rather than Greeks, they are already much more than merely representatives of individual communities and regions. They are able to act jointly and they have a framework of communication which is shared by all. Here, we already find the dialectic of unity and diversity, internally as well as in relations to others, such as the Trojans and Lycians, which is so very characteristic of the Greek world. Certain ordering principles prevail according to spatial and political-genealogical origins, and these are expressed very clearly in the Catalogue of Ships of the Iliad.6 The reason for this is obvious: it was the élites, in particular, to whom the songs and epics were addressed, who distinguished themselves through great mobility and an extensive network of communication, which included marriage connections with members of other groups. In addition, a panhellenic culture of festivals, the most tangible examples of which are for us the Olympic and the Pythian Games, developed during the time in which the epics came into being. The fundamental component of this culture was the agon, a peaceful contest in different fields, in particular in sports and in the arts. Participation in this competition was an important element of the afore-mentioned lifestyle of the leisure class. Finally, as suggested above, the epics remained the most important reference works in later times, too, foundational texts, as it were. The Trojan War was considered the first great event of Greek history, in the Greeks’ self-perception. Later generations established a connection with it and thus also with the people and groups documented in the epics. They associated themselves with it in a very concrete way by seeing their own precursors and predecessors at work there. Due to the relatively indistinct profile of the Greek nobility, this did not apply so much to individuals and families but rather to collectives, which conformed to later units, above all the poleis. This leads us to the next point.

6

On this topic see above all VISSER 1997.

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2.2. FORMATION IN THE PHASE OF EXPANSION (EIGHTH – SIXTH CENTURIES) Greekness was formed in the archaic period, or rather in the age of the so-called great colonisation, emerging as a group identity based quite decidedly on culture. We are thus dealing with an exemplary case of ethnogenesis.7 The literary spectrum had widened swiftly; together with the epics it shaped and reflected this process. Making use of the metre of the epos, Hesiod and poets who followed his tradition created a new type of learned poetry. It did not restrict itself to depicting contemporary milieux, but it also made use of genealogical catalogues to organise the whole world, from gods and heroes to Greeks and non-Greeks (‘barbarians’). In addition, different lyrical forms, elegies, songs and dances were created. Increasingly they found a place not only at the symposia but also in the context of cults, where they functioned, for example, as praise poetry. In this way, they were present in the public sphere on a local, regional or pan-Greek level, depending on the extent of the religious event in question. At the same time, mythical scenes increasingly became the subject of pictorial representations. In all of this, certain motifs and characteristics developed with regard to the representation of the past. The genre of genealogy grew very noticeably. A particular stemma developed, which determined membership of the Greek world through descent from a common and eponymous ancestor called Hellen. An internal differentiation resulted through descent from his various sons and grandsons, Aiolos, Doros and Ion. This corresponds exactly to traditional tribal-ethnic thinking in terms of descent groups, as found for instance among the Israelites. In Greece, internal differentiation was not, however, solely or primarily ethnic in a strict sense. The ‘tribes’ of the Aeolians, Ionians and Dorians, which resulted from the descent from Hellen, were in no way the primary reference points. Rather, a sense of artificiality clung to them.8 The role of the polis, the communal living and settlement space with its neighbourly, village-like patterns of solidarity and its soft hierarchies was dominant. Here, already, the polis was the primary point of reference. It was integrated into the ethnic organisation, but it was of central importance and was not simply derived from this organisation or from the tribe. This is evident in the system of phylai, which, as it were, extend the artificial tribes as internal groupings into the polis. It is this kind of interlacing that shows the primacy of the polis. The genealogies frequently went back to the core formed by the Trojan War. The tales of the return of the warriors from Troy (nostoi) form an important topic 7 8

Cf. the overview in FREITAG 2007. The problem of a tribal structure in early Greece, which is connected to this, cannot be discussed in detail here. It is characteristic that groups which one can interpret as being relics of earlier tribes cannot be connected to those mentioned above. Rather, these are also visible, at the very least in the case of the Ionians and Dorians, in the internal structure of the poleis, namely in the phylai. It is these, however, which we do not find in connection with the supposed tribal survivals (on this problem, cf. GEHRKE 2000, and cf. now also FREITAG 2007, 381–3).

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in the epics, as the Odyssey already shows. This included the warriors’ diverse fates and references to children they fathered. In this way, the sons’ generation entered the picture and this allowed the connection to ‘historical’ events. The Heraklidai, that is the descendents of Herakles, had, according to the generally accepted view in its different variations, ‘returned’ to the Peloponnese, the place in which their ancestor had once exercised his power. The Spartan poet Tyrtaios tells an extremely characteristic version of this story.9 According to this, Dorians and Spartans immigrated along with the Heraklidai. Zeus gave them “this town” (asty), that is, Sparta. It is significant that Tyrtaios uses the first person plural to relate this tale, thus highlighting the identification of the Spartans of his time with the people mentioned in his account: “we, the Spartans.” We find a clear connection of local variants (from Sparta and the region of Doris) with the general Greek sphere (Herakles and the Heraklidai). This, in particular, is a specific characteristic of this kind of idea of the past. However, our example also shows that, in contrast to the case of Israel, the classic model of ethnic organisation, referring back to founding ancestors, was not decisive, as has already been suggested. The Spartans themselves were not the descendents of Herakles; instead they took their place beside them in a thoroughly self-confident way. This shows the importance and the strength of local communities’ own traditions. This situation is illustrated even more clearly by the fact that in addition to, or rather, in a more important position than the founding ancestor, there was another primordial figure, who was essential to a group’s history and identity: the eponymous hero or founder (ktistes) of the unit (polis or ethnos). This was an essentially fictitious figure, whose name was derived from that of the collective, but who was intended to be regarded as a leader, ktistes or the like. Examples of this are Aitolos for the Aetolians, Eleios for the Eleans, etc. Certain formative experiences in the period from the eighth to the sixth centuries influenced the development of these ideas and constructions.10 The processes of migration and expansion, very complex in the details but with far-reaching consequences overall, are of particular importance. In the course of these processes, Greeks settled permanently in large areas of the coastal regions of the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. This development is generally known as the great colonisation. It greatly supported the above-mentioned ethnogenesis,11 but in addition, it had considerable consequences for ideas about the past.12 It is for this reason that another motif, that of travelling, or rather immigration with the rights of a conqueror, appeared alongside the motif of autochthony. The latter had allowed to explain in a straightforward way the origin of a group and to support its 9 10 11 12

Fr. 2 West. The discussions by R. Koselleck are now fundamental on the subject of the importance of different experiences for concepts of history: KOSELLECK 2000, 27–77. Cf. MALKIN 1998. Thus, MAZZARINO 1974, 111, considering later Greek historiography, in which these processes found their reflection (see below), could say: “Tutta la storia greca era considerata dagli antichi, in buona parte, storia di apoikiai.”

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claim to its own territory. Both could be combined in the motif of the return. It is this that explains the great importance of the above-mentioned eponymous heroes. At the same time, it becomes apparent that this way of representing the past, in addition to addressing the need to create and preserve identity, had another important role: it was not least a question of legitimising territorial claims in a volatile age of migrations and conquests. One great advantage of this kind of ‘organisation’ of the past was obvious. It made it possible to weave an inter-connected web of movements and relationships, while taking into consideration different situations and in some cases dramatically changing relationships. At the same time, increasing knowledge of the world could be reflected. This is precisely what the Greeks, or more precisely their poets and authors, did, everywhere and in an extremely varied range of ways. Many people created such webs, which were different from one another but analogous in structure and similar in content. It was easy to combine, correct or extend these, a process which could be called ‘spinning the past.’ The audience recognised itself in these networks of connections and so ‘confirmed’ the authenticity of the different stories. In this way, the tales were reified (verdinglicht) and thus became components of intentional history. The focus of this was the Greeks with their diverse internal distinctions and classifications that have already been highlighted. But non-Greeks could also be included in this scheme depending on the way in which they were perceived, and in this context, observations on language, religion and customs were important. In any case, the latter were also included in the pan-Greek past. In addition to places founded by those returning from the Trojan War, we also find those founded by refugees from Troy. In this way, the ‘barbarians’ are not presented as simply foreign or even monstrous, but rather as ‘neighbours.’13 Rome provides the best example of this. On the one hand we find the well-known myth of Aeneas but, on the other hand, Agrios and Latinos, as sons of Circe and Odysseus, are already mentioned in Hesiod’s Theogony (1011ff.). Using the same model that had been used for Greek communities, the Latins were anchored in the past and, at the same time, connected to a Greek hero through an eponymous ancestor, Latinos. This does not yet take us as far as Rome, but the Romans were part of the Latins and shared their language. If the role of Rome among the Latins was perceived properly, then the idea could be adopted and developed. This is likely to be the basis of the appelation polis hellenis, “Greek polis,” which Aristotle’s pupil Herakleides Pontikos applies to Rome. Of course, this version existed alongside others and could not become dominant. But later, as Greek relations with Rome intensified in the hellenistic age, comparable patterns of identification emerged, without, of course, one variant ever becoming predominant.14 Everything that has been emphasised here was an inherent part of life in the individual communities, as mentioned above, and it reflects their relationships 13 14

On this term, see TIMPE 2000, 203–30. Cf. MAVROGIANNIS 2003.

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with different areas. The songs, tales and pictures of this past, which had actually been distilled from the present and from the comparison with older versions, were omnipresent. They had a place at the symposia of the leading élites and at festivals and in competitions. They were to be found in all genres; in addition to those already mentioned, they also existed in the form of the dithyrambos, the choral song, and finally the tragedy. Rhetoric became increasingly important in communities from the end of the sixth century because of the development of constitutions which were based on participation, and it was added to the range of forms which were used to present the past.

2.3. THE NEW INTELLECTUALS AND GREEK HISTORY A completely new approach in Greek thought, connected to pre-Socratic philosophy, resulted in entirely new components in Greek ideas about the past. PreSocratic philosophy was also part of the social context of elitist leisure; as a result it was emphatically devoid of pratical purpose and it can be considered a sort of intellectual game. The search for the origins and ultimate causes (archai) is characteristic of this philosophy, as is the interest in searching and researching (historie). These intially developed in Miletos and then spread, at first in a limited way, within Ionia in Asia Minor, but soon also further afield. The organisation of the world according to rational categories was one aspect of this new intellectual reorientation: Anaximander created a mathematical, that is, geometrically-based, map of the world, to which detailed information was added by Hekataios. In this way, geography also became part of history. In addition, these pre-Socratic circles made special use of the written word. Philosophers imparted their teaching in written form, as prose texts, independently of conversations and teaching through personal contact. In this way, information was disconnected from the situation of concrete performance. It could be read, and it was therefore possible for it to be received diachronically and, at the same time, repeatedly criticised and discussed. This was precisely what it was all about: the individual intellectual examination and assessment of received notions in the several fields of research. This is signalled by the use of the phrase “as it seems to me.” In this way, the body of old traditions, that is the myths and genealogies mentioned above, became the object of this new activity. They were critically examined and the myths were rationalised, a process already undertaken by Hekataios. A new genre of prose literature developed as a result of this from about the beginning of the fifth century. Numerous authors of whom we often know barely more than the names (in particular Akusilaus of Argos, Pherekydes of Athens, Hellanikos of Lesbos, as well as Damastes of Sigeion, Hippias of Elis, Polos of Akragas, Xenomedes of Keos, Xanthos of Lydia)15 collected, compared, checked and

15

Cf. Cic. De or. 2.53; Dion. Hal. Thuc. 5.

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(re)constructed the old legends and genealogies.16 This process entailed a constant, not infrequently polemical exchange of ideas over time. This led to new versions, which were different again. They were a product of the turn towards different areas and groups and the corresponding recurse to local traditions.17 Now, however, they were further multiplied because of intellectual agonality. Learned discourse fed on information from the ‘lifewordly’ contexts outlined above, but it was also able to distance itself from these and from their variants, while at the same time influencing them. This is the context in which Herodotus belongs. He clearly emphasises the difference to traditional forms, very noticeably already in his proem.18 At the same time, Herodotus went one step further – entirely in keeping with the allembracing explanation of the world which was typical of this cultural context. The prerequisite for this was the particular experience of a major event, the Persian Wars, later followed by the experience of the Greek world wars (the so-called first Peloponesian War and the Peloponesian War proper). This was an extremely significant experience, both in a negative and a positive sense. Facing the threat of Xerxes’ great attack (480 BCE), many Greek poleis had come together to form an alliance and had defended their freedom by fighting together. Later this extremely precarious unity was broken up by very bitter conflicts. Attempts to explain the cause of these dramatic events brought the problem of over-stretching political power, the problem of hybris, into focus. The completely unimaginable success in the Persian Wars was processed in a characteristic manner. The contemporary events were moved closer to myth and were connected in particular to the fight for Troy. This was also done by means of the traditional modes of presentation. In an elegy about the battle of Plataia (479 BCE), the poet Simonides drew parallels betweens the Spartans and the warriors at Troy, between the Spartans’ leader Pausanias and Achilles and between himself and Homer. In his play The Persians (472 BCE), the attic tragedian Aeschylus presented the military success in a genre which had really been reserved for mythical subjects. Moreover, this was done with clear echoes of Homeric language. We also find this epic diction in epigrams for the fallen. Others obviously even believed in a causal relationship between the Persian and the Trojan Wars, as is evidenced already by the proem of Herodotus, in which he makes just such a connection between the two events. But it is important to note that Herodotus parodies it downright and defamiliarises it – he has Persian “wise men” make the connection – and he takes an entirely new and different approach in his description and interpretation of events. Although he is actually acquainted with and 16 17 18

As NENCI 1967 has highlighted, genealogies, foundation stories and ethnography were combined here; cf. also VANOTTI 1996, especially 98ff. on Hellanikos. Dion. Hal., Thuc. 5. At the same time this, by the way, provides confirmation of Ricœur’s objection (RICŒUR 2004, 190) to Halbwachs’s self-contradictory assumption of social determination of memory: it is possible, as it were, to step outside of the chain of the mémoire collective; different perspectives exist (ibid. 192).

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transmits all sorts of traditional mythical-genealogical constructions, he brushes them aside. For Herodotus, they are not the key to explaining this historical event. Rather, the determinant force was the rise and fall of greatness and weakness, a process in which hubris and the gods’ envy are the driving forces. Two phenomena were connected to this new approach. On the one hand, Herodotus concentrated on what was concretely tangible and verifiable. The methodology of historie is expressed in the preference for one’s own research, the most important element of which is autopsy (opsis). Hearsay joins this only as a secondary category. On the other hand, in addition to preserving past deeds and achievements, research serves a particular concern, which one could describe as an historical explanation of the world: the conflict between Persians and Greeks is understood fundamentally, that is universally and in a secular way, and contrasting values, for example the clash between despotism and freedom, hubris and order, become part of the explanation. But this does not result in an anti-barbarian pamphlet. Instead, this normative orientation contains a warning, or rather an admonition to the Greeks, not least to the Athenians. All this is emphasised even further in Thucydides’ writings. He omits anything divine and mythical from his analysis and explanation of events. Human actions are the cause, and these are dominated by a strict power discourse, which is set as a virtually absolute code of conduct for the actors. The historian’s work is dominated by the rules of strict research and logical argumentation. Rhetorical and aesthetic processes as means of historical representation are criticised harshly. In this way, the process of distancing oneself from traditional aesthetic forms of representation of the past, already found in Herodotus’s work, is extended further. The historian becomes a veritable destroyer of legends, as Thucydides exemplifies in his treatment of the familiar foundation myth of Attic democracy, the beautiful tale of the tyrant slayers, who even received heroic honours in Athens. This, in particular, should be noted: authors whom we consider to be founding fathers of history and historiography move away from intentional history and so their work is not representative of it, even if to some extent it ended up being absorbed in it. In any case, this definitely marked the birth of the genre of historiography, and in that respect, Herodotus’s reputation as pater historiae is justified. The two founders of the genre had huge influence on its tradition and on learned discourse. Their influence, however, extended beyond these somewhat narrow confines, and this in turn made the Greeks’ intentional history yet more complex and, so to speak, more pluralistic. While writing, one had Herodotus in mind, both as an author to whom to refer and as an opponent in the learned-literary agon, as the example of Thucydides already shows. At the same time, while Thucydides essentially took the end of Herodotus’ work as his starting point, other historians like Xenophon, Philistos, Theopompos and the author of the Hellenika Oxyrhynchia simply continued writing where Thucydides had stopped. In this way, Greek history was ultimately presented as a series of wars. In general, the founding fathers were thus part of intellectual discourse, but they also had a wider impact. Further development went in precisely this direction, and this is connected to the growing importance of rhetoric. Rhetoric had not only strong opponents, such

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as Thucydides and Plato, but also influential proponents and representatives, above all Isocrates, who saw himself as a philosopher and a teacher as well. Aristotle, too, conceded a methodic dignity of its own to rhetoric in certain areas.19 He did not consider rhetoric as a psychagogical-polemical power and persuasive force, and therefore as an instrument of the devil. Instead he believed that with its enthymemes, probability arguments, loci communes and forensic presentation of evidence, it had its own dignity. In addition to this, the speech-writers and advocates became more common due to court rhetoric, with which we are particularly familiar from fourth-century Athens. All of this was particularly important because rhetoric, in this disciplined form and with its proper rules and techniques, became the most important instrument of Greek education. It continued to be decisive for the linguistic and intellectual shaping of the élites, it formed the normal and obligatory framework for regulated communication and it was firmly anchored in social life and politics, at court and in the imagination. For this reason, large numbers of people from different classes were very familiar with it and were able to make discerning judgments. In this way, rhetoric also became a common medium of historiography. It was not least rhetoric that provided historiography a broader appeal and, as a result, increased its influence on intentional history. Particularly important in this context are Theopompos of Chios and Ephoros of Kyme. The former continued Thucydides but also set a new course through his treatment of the new significant political figure of his time, King Philip II of Macedonia, whereas Ephoros broke free from the tradition that had begun with Herodotus and made a new beginning with a history of the world. In doing so, he combined the old form of mythography with the new genre of historiography. 2.4. NEW EXPERIENCES AND DEVELOPMENTS SINCE THE HELLENISTIC PERIOD A further impulse in the development was again connected to a major event in history. Alexander’s conquests, which had turned everything on its head, now turned out to be a formative event in the same way that the convoluted processes of the age of the so-called great colonisation and later the great wars had influenced the formation of the Greek representation of the past. This did not just apply to the conquest and transformation of the Persian empire, which contrary to all expectation had resulted from Alexander’s campaign. It also applied to their manifold consequences. There were new waves of expansion and migration, numerous cities were founded, the horizon of Greekness was considerably broadened. In general, even after Alexander’s early death, great changes and developments came about in a very short space of time in the wars of the Diadochi. This affected the life of many groups, and it had considerable consequences for the way in which the Greeks dealt with their past. 19

This has been shown particularly clearly by GINZBURG 2001, 11–62.

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Alexander’s incommensurable greatness and the unexpectedness of events could not be adequately captured by traditional means, not even those of classical rhetoric. In order to do justice to events, it was clearly felt to be necessary to fall back on something beyond reality, on the divine and miraculous. The writings of Kallisthenes, the official reporter of the campaign, and more generally the writings of the first generation of historians of Alexander, show that this was already happening during Alexander’s lifetime. This resulted in an equally early reaction, such as, for example, from Aristobulos and Ptolemy, the first king of one of the three hellenistic empires. This led to the portrayal of events with a relative degree of restraint. But the new attitude swiftly became the mainstream of historiography: Douris of Samos polemised against Ephoros and Theopompos, whose “imitation of life,” he claimed, had not been artistic,20 and he argued strongly for a form of historiography enriched by pathos. This was clearly to be understood in the sense of the ideas of “fear (phobos) and pity (eleos)” of Artistotelian poetics – Douris had also written a work On tragedy. In addition to the miraculous, emphasis was placed on the phantastical, the incredible and paradoxical, the irrational, the unpredictable and the reversal of fortunes as such. This was the very opposite of the Ionian rationality and logical clarity of the founding fathers. Events were greatly dramatised and the resulting practice is also referred to as “tragic historiography.” This development also found expression in style. Grotesque exaggeration, poetic embellishment and baroque bombast became predominant. Anything that was related had to sound wild and sensational. This style was known as Asianic. Phylarchos from Athens or from Naucratis, one of the most influential historians of the third century, was one of the most important representatives of this trend. In this way, historiography also again approached traditional aesthetic genres of representing the past, in particular epic. In the end, this led to the development of a new genre, the novel, “the fruit of an affaire between the elderly epic and the young and capriciously exciting Hellenistic historiography.”21 Boundaries became fluid: the entirely fairy-tale-like Alexander Romance, which was extremely influential right into the middle ages, was taken at face value and, significantly, attributed to Kallisthenes. In addition, from the third century onwards particular forms of the collective cultivation of memory were promoted strongly in the newly emerging world of hellenistic states and poleis. There were two prerequisites for this. On the one hand, a feeling of the loss of earlier greatness dominated in life, in particular in the old major poleis. In Athens, this can already be observed in the fourth century, especially in that period in which Athens was subject to Macedonian rule and was arming itself against Alexander both intellectually and militarily. This feeling remained, with appellative and aesthetic aspects becoming increasingly dominant. 20 21

Douris FGrHist 76 F 1. WEINREICH 1962, 234: “die Frucht einer Liaison, die das gealterte Epos mit der kapriziös reizvollen hellenistischen Historiographie einging.”

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In concrete terms, this meant that the memory of the great deeds of old, especially the Persian Wars, was particularly cultivated. This was not only done through historiography, but also and especially through monuments, rituals and the formalised socialisation of the ephebes. Our main evidence of this is the many surviving inscriptions. These adopted an almost historiographical ductus, in political contexts too, which reflects the argumentation of contemporary rhetoric and which shows very clearly what was particularly important to contemporaries. This is intentional history in its purest form. Past and present were compared and the achievements of the collective and of individuals of past times were evoked. This created a sequence of comparable achievements, the imitation of which was recommended and which were intended as a means of transmitting social norms. On the other hand, new general conditions existed for the poleis, which had by no means lost their vitality during the hellenistic period. Most belonged to monarchic empires or needed, at least, to communicate and negotiate with these. At the same time, their ‘inter-state’ communication intensified, in peaceful ways too, and they thus operated within a wider context. Repositioning was necessary and this in turn led to the occurence of certain motifs in the representation of the past. The increased communication between poleis extended beyond the – permeable – borders of the different kingdoms and it found expression in the mutual participation in cults and agons as well as, in connection with this, the recognition of asylia, that is, the renunciation of violence in the context of cult practices and in specifically designated locations, as well as in the practice of international arbitration. In this way, an extremely tight-knit net of panhellenic connections and something akin to an all-Greek public developed. In this wide frame of reference it was not least the élites, who had remained extremely mobile, who were active. Looking back at the past became especially important in the formation of this intensive communication. Traditional relationships, which were based on and kept alive through family relations and close friendship, and achievements for the common Greek cause were stressed again and again in reciprocal dealings. Due to the panhellenic perspective, the focus in this context was above all on fights against barbarians. The Trojan and the Persian Wars, the traditional heroic deeds, were joined by the bitter conflicts with the Galatians, Celtic groups who had threatened central Greece in the third century before finally settling in Asia Minor. The Galatians, wild and lawless enemies, formed a polar opposite to Greek civilisation in the eyes of the latter’s representatives. In this way, the line which had previously connected the fight for Troy with the Persian Wars could be extended into one’s own present time. Mechanisms and modes of these ‘politics of memory’ remained very similar. On the other hand, many towns were newly founded. In addition to this, many indigenous, that is, not originally Greek communities adopted the status of Greek poleis, usually voluntarily. This state of affairs, in particular, reflects the process of hellenisation so characteristic of this period. However, in order to be accepted as Greek and to strengthen their new identity and position, these newcomers were especially dependent on shared notions of Greek history. They had to be accommodated, or rather find a place for themselves, within this general Greek past. In

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this context too, the widespread motifs of family relations and friendship as well as panhellenic achievement were utilised. In this way, the Phoenician town Sidon, for example, whose lifestyle had become decidedly Greek, could imagine and represent itself as the mother-town of Thebes, entirely in the spirit of Greek foundation stories. A Phoenician, Kadmos, had reached Greece while looking for Europe, his kidnapped sister (or niece, according to other versions), which was the way in which the myth of Zeus as the bull had long since been rationalised. In Greece, Kadmos had founded Thebes, whose acropolis was called Kadmeia. The creation of these new historical webs of relationships followed a similar pattern to the process in the first great phase of expansion in the archaic period. It was possible to formulate arguments in the same way, to use and alter earlier information, of whatever kind it might be, and to construct new ideas along the same lines. Some of our relevant texts explicitly highlight the special role of poets and historians in this context. In addition, orators and the numerous monuments and their inscriptions influenced this development. All of these had their place within the polis and the social interaction of its citizens. The countless festivals which were celebrated offered many occasions for the presentation of stories, in particular at the artistic agons. Anniversaries commemorating particular events or people were celebrated, and panegyrics in honour of towns became increasingly popular and were taught as part of a standard education. The public areas of towns were filled with monuments and inscriptions, which also told stories about the past. The polis Magnesia on the Maeander is a good example of this. The polis’s main festival, that of Artemis Leukophryene, had been upgraded by its citizens. In order to gain recognition by the reigning kings and other Greek poleis and to gain the status of asylia, Magnesia dispatched legations to all parts of the world. These made use of an official history of the town, certified by invented ‘documents’ and highlighting the Magnesians’ Greek origins, their achievements on behalf of all of Greece since the time of the Trojan War, as well as their connections based on kinship and friendship with various other Greek communities. The Magnesians were very successful in their undertaking because their story and their arguments were accepted everywhere. We would speak of falsification of historical facts, but for those involved it was true history, their intentional history. The text of the resolutions of approval received from the other Greek towns, the Magnesians’ foundation story, the fictional documents and the Magnesians’ own decrees concerning the matter were engraved in stone in a large hall in their agora by the Magnesians, in direct proximity to the great altar and monumental temple of their great goddess. In a certain way, the experiences from the beginning of the hellenistic period were repeated from the third century onwards in connection with the wars with Rome. Here, too, completely unexpected events had befallen the people, leading to Roman rule. This foreign rule proved to be permanent, even if there were many who did not at first want to accept this fact and had to suffer cruel consequences on account of this. Likewise, Roman rule had no competitors: Rome had truly achieved world domination, a position for which others had previously fought in

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vain. It is this experience which is highlighted by Polybius. He had initially belonged to the victims of events but then, through a happy coincidence, had achieved a not insignificant position as mentor and advisor to a leading Roman politician. A clear opponent of the tragic historiography mentioned above, Polybius sought to analyse the causes of the unheard-of Roman successes and to explain the process in a scientific fashion, entirely in keeping with the rationality of the founding fathers of history. In addition to this, we increasingly find evidence of philosophers also interpreting world events according to their respective doctrines. This applies in particular to the Stoa with its idea of a world community, which, due to Roman world-rule, had now become concretely tangible. In this context, conventional distinctions with their sharp categorisations, for example, between freeman and slave, Greek and barbarian, were problematised in keeping with the philosophical doctrine. This was done especially by Posidonius and Strabo, respectively in the first century BCE and in Augustus’ time. The gaze of Greek historiography, which had always been universal, could find confirmation in such ideas, and they were also topical in the sense that they were accepted by the Romans themselves. To the same extent that the Romans made themselves rulers and lords of the Greek world, too, they had also been open towards the culture of those they had defeated. This is demonstrated not least by their approach to their past. In addition to many other things, they learnt how to write history from the Greeks and the first Roman historians even wrote in Greek. When Cato the Elder, writing in Latin and consciously attempting to distance himself from the Greeks, formulated a Roman view of history in his work Origines, he used the whole range of instruments available in traditional Greek representation of the past, including genealogies and foundation and migration stories. Later, Greek influence grew increasingly stronger; one need only think of Cicero. Under the first emperor, Augustus, the idea of world rule was connected with the idea of a Greco-Roman ecumene. This idea was taken up by Greek historians, such as Strabo and Dionysios of Halikarnassos, and slowly Greeks in general began to identify with this empire. Therefore, the historiography of imperial times also presents a largely homogeneous picture, despite differences in details. Historians such as Tacitus may still represent the intellectual world of a Roman senator, but not long afterwards members of the Greek élite increasingly also became officials in the Roman empire and obtained positions of authority. When they wrote about Roman history, as Appian or Cassius Dio did, it was their own history. In general, all familiar modes of expression remained strong, and the past was presented and imagined in many different forms, media and genres. In historiography, dramatically colourful elements, exaggeration and over-statement dominated, as they did in the heyday of Asianism. These elements were connected to a clear tendency towards categorical judgments. This is illustrated by Lucian’s work How to write history, which refers critically to descriptions of the Parthian wars of the emperor Lucius Verus (161– 6). The achievements of Roman emperors were exalted in the same way as had been done with the deeds of the warriors at Troy and the deeds of those who fought in the wars against the barbarians, as well as with the exploits of Alexander

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and his Diadochi. As an antidote to this, Lucian recommends going back to Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon. We are again dealing with a specifically intellectual discourse, which was criticial of current forms of intentional history. This is the discourse of the Second Sophistic. This combined with an intensive recalling of the great, splendid past in the very period in which the Greek world of the polis was being absorbed into the Roman empire. One’s own greatness was placed alongside that of Rome, as Plutarch’s parallel biographies had already done. In this way, however, the past was also constantly juxtaposed with the present, for this greatness had passed. Yet this was not melancholic contemplation of the past but a reflection of self-assurance, because in the Roman empire the Greek past was part of the Roman past. In the second century it was not least emperors themselves, above all Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius, who admired the greatness of Greek culture and history. In this way the intellectual discourse just mentioned also had an effect on large parts of the population, especially as it also gained acceptance in rhetoric. The distinctive stylistic influence of the Attic model was particularly characteristic. The Athenian orators of the fourth century became unrivalled. In the area of historiography, this led to a clear use of the classics as models, as can be seen in Lucian’s writings. At first Xenophon with his sober and clear mode of expression was especially popular, as Arrian’s work clearly shows, but Herodotus and Thucydides were also considered great models. In general, this situation prevailed for many centuries also in Byzantine historiography. The historical writings of Kritoboulos of Imbros still demonstrate this after the capture of Constantinople. Kritoboulos’s hero was no lesser person than Mehmet the Conqueror, but the fifteenth-century author described his hero’s deeds in the same way as the achievements of the heroes of Troy and Salamis and those of Alexander the Great and the Roman emperors had been described, and Kritoboulos used diction such as was found in Herodotus, Thucydides or Arrian. Fortunately for us, it is precisely the authors just mentioned who served as models for centuries in the middle ages. This circumstance was a decisive factor in the ongoing study, and therefore preservation, of authors such as Herodotus and Thucydides. As a result, they survive complete even today. Historians such as Douris or Phylarchos, on the other hand, have fallen by the way. We would like to read their works, too, but certainly not instead of Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ writings. This also has negative consequences, however. The state of preservation leads to a very one-sided picture of Greek historiography in particular, and the Greek representation of the past in general. The original panorama was considerably wider. ‘Our’ authors are not necessarily representative of the entire spectrum of Greek representations of the past, particularly if we consider their social dimension. It was my concern to draw attention to this point and to open up the discussion on the greater dimensions of the way the Greeks dealt with their past.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY BERGER, P. – LUCKMANN, TH. 1969: Die soziale Konstruktion der Wirklichkeit. Eine Theorie der Wissenssoziologie, Frankfurt – Main. CANDAU MORÓN, M. – GONZÁLEZ PONCE, F. J. – CRUZ ANDREOTTI, G. 2004: Historia y mito. El pasado legendario como fuente de autoridad, Malaga. FIGAL, G. 2006: Gegenständlichkeit. Das Hermeneutische und die Philosophie, Tübingen. FREITAG, K. 2007: Ethnogenese, Ethnizität und die Entwicklung der griechischen Staatenwelt in der Antike, Historische Zeitschrift 285, 373–99. GANDER, H. H. 2001: Selbstverständnis und Lebenswelt. Grundzüge einer phänomenologischen Hermeneutik im Ausgang von Husserl und Heidegger, Frankfurt – Main. GEHRKE, H.-J. 2000: Ethnos, Phyle, Polis. Gemäßigt unorthodoxe Vermutungen, in: P. Flenstedt-Jensen – Th. H. Nielsen – L. Rubinstein (eds.) Polis and Politics. Studies in Ancient Greek History. Presented to M. H. Hansen on his Sixtieth Birthday, August 20, 2000, Copenhagen, 159–76. 2001: Myth, history, and collective identity: uses of the past in ancient Greece and beyond, in: N. Luraghi (ed.) The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford, 286–313. 2003: Was heißt und zu welchem Ende studiert man intentionale Geschichte? Marathon und Troja als fundierende Mythen, in: G. Melville – K.-S. Rehberg (eds.) Gründungsmythen, Genealogien, Memorialzeichen. Beiträge zur institutionellen Konstruktion von Kontinuität, Köln et al., 21–36. 2005: Die Bedeutung der (antiken) Historiographie für die Entwicklung des Geschichtsbewußtseins, in: E.-M. Becker (ed.) Die antike Historiographie und die Anfänge der christlichen Geschichtsschreibung, Berlin – New York, 29–51. GINZBURG, C. 2001: Die Wahrheit der Geschichte. Rhetorik und Beweis, Berlin 2001. GRETHLEIN, J. 2006: Das Geschichtsbild der Ilias. Eine Untersuchung aus phänomenologischer und narratologischer Perspektive, Göttingen. HUSSERL, E. 1992: Die Krisis der europäischen Wissenschaften und die transzendentale Phänomenologie. Gesammelte Schriften Band 8, Hamburg. KOSELLECK, R. 2000: Zeitschichten. Studien zur Historik, Frankfurt – Main. MALKIN, I. 1998: The Returns of Odysseus. Colonization and Ethnicity, Berkeley et al. MAVROGIANNIS, TH. 2003: Aeneas und Euander. Mythische Vergangenheit und Politik in Rom vom 6. Jh. v. Chr. bis zur Zeit des Augustus, Naples. MAZZARINO, S. 1974: Il pensiero storico classico I, Bari. NENCI, G. 1967: La storiografia preerodotea, CS 6, 1–22. RICŒUR, P. 2004: Gedächtnis, Geschichte, Vergessen, Munich. SCHÜTZ, A. – LUCKMANN, TH. 1979/84: Strukturen der Lebenswelt, 2 vols., Frankfurt – Main.

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TIMPE, D. 2000: Der Barbar als Nachbar, in: Ch. Ulf (ed.) Ideologie – Sport – Außenseiter, Innsbruck, 203–30. VANOTTI, G. 1996: L’idea di colonizzazione in Ellanico e Tucidide, in: C. Antonetti (ed.) Il dinamismo della colonizzazione greca, Naples, 97–107. VISSER, E. 1997: Homers Katalog der Schiffe, Stuttgart et al. WEINREICH, O. 1962: Heliodor, Aithiopika. Die Abenteuer der schönen Chariklea, Hamburg.

3. MYTH AS PAST? ON THE TEMPORAL ASPECT OF GREEK DEPICTIONS OF LEGEND Luca Giuliani

Do archaic and classical Greek images have a particular iconography of the past? This question appears redundant at first, for, of course, it is possible to list countless images which refer to mythological tales and thus represent events which took place in the distant past. But are such mythical events also depicted as having taken place in the past? Can iconographic elements be detected which function as indicators of the past and which lift the scene from out of the present? Attempts have been made to identify certain pictorial elements as indicators of the past. But it seems to me that none of these have met with success. In the following chapter, I take the position that those who created these images did not draw a line between the present and the past and that this distinction was not given particular emphasis. If this conclusion is correct, is it of interest to historians? Does it need to be interpreted or explained? And does it lead to further inferences? The best introduction to this subject is provided by the images on a group of Attic vases from the geometric period. A whole series of these vases was found in the necropolis in front of the Dipylon gate in the Kerameikos in Athens. They are attributed to a workshop which was active around the middle of the eighth century and which is called the Dipylon workshop after the main site of discovery.1 Among other things, a particular way of representing warriors is characteristic of this workshop (fig. 1). The warriors wear helmets and are armed with a sword and two spears. Above all, however, they carry shields which have a very striking shape and the outlines of which appear to form a unit with the warriors’ silhouettes. Towards the middle, the shields narrow to a small waist, but towards the upper and lower edges, they widen into a sickle-like contour, so that, overall, they look like a circle with deep incisions on the sides.2 The site of discovery and name of the workshop have been transferred to the warriors and their shields, and one usually speaks of Dipylon warriors and Dipylon shields. Such warriors are not only found in two-dimensional forms of art. Less frequently, they are also found as three-dimensional statuettes, providing an even more vivid impression of the shields’ concrete shape.3

1

2 3

COLDSTREAM 1968, 29ff. The abbreviations which will be used here comply with the guidelines of the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut: http://www.dainst.org/medien/de/richtlinien_ abkuerzungen.html. On such “shield warriors,” cf. in particular KAESER 1981, 18–27. Attic clay group of a quadriga with a warrior in the chariot, Vienna: HIGGINS 1967, 22 pl. 8B; Thessalian bronze statuette, Athens, National Museum: KARUSU 1976, 23–30 pls. 5–6.

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Fig. 1: Fragment of an Attic krater; Athens, National Museum: c. 750 BCE (after G.Ahlberg, Prothesis and Ekphora in Greek Geometric Art (1971) Abb.5).

T. B. L. Webster took this warrior iconography, especially the Dipylon shields, as his starting point in a famous essay, written in 1955. He interpreted the shields as indicators of the fact that the relevant scene was not to be understood as referring to the present, but to a distant, heroic past.4 Webster’s arguments can be summarised in brief: 1) “All the representations could be explained as stylised reminiscences of the Minoan figure-of-eight shield, whether to mark a scene or figure as heroic or as a decorative motive.”5 The reference to bronze-age figure-of-eight shields6 is problem4

5

6

WEBSTER 1955, on the Dipylon shields, see in particular 41–3; Webster’s idea has met with much agreement, cf. for example SNODGRASS 1964, 58f. and 1980; similarly WHITLEY 1991, 51–3; HURWIT 1993, 35. For a critical view of Webster, see in particular FITTSCHEN 1969, 36–9; KAESER 1981, 195f.; BOARDMAN 1983, 26–33 (SNODGRASS 1980, 53f. also refers to other critical reactions). WEBSTER 1955, 41; the alternative, explicitly mentioned by Webster, that the shields should perhaps be understood as a “decorative motif,” points to a strange indecisiveness in interpretation, as a decorative motif (whatever that may be) would surely not allow conclusions regarding the temporal character of the scenes. Cf. for example MARINATOS 1959, pls. 35–6 (dagger from Mycenae, Grave Circle A, Shaft

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atic, as these appear to have fallen out of use as early as the thirteenth century. At any rate, no later representations are found. Thus, we have a hiatus of half a millennium between the disappearance of the figure-of-eight shield and the representation of Dipylon shields on eighth-century vases. One would have to work out how vase painters of the eighth century might have been acquainted with this particular type of shield, which had long since disappeared.7 This question is somewhat pointless, however, as the genealogy of the Dipylon shields as suggested by Webster is not correct. For a start, there are clear differences between the Dipylon shape and the figure-ofeight shields. In addition, there is evidence of the characteristic form of the Dipylon shields already in the thirteenth century.8 Figure-of-eight shields and those which have incisions in their sides, therefore, do not represent chronologically consecutive stages of development of the same type of shield. Instead, they are different varieties which coexisted in the thirteenth century. To be sure, Webster’s main hypothesis is not proved wrong by this. Instead, it is modified. The Dipylon shields of the eighth century should not be understood as memories of bronze-age figure-of-eight shields, but of Mycenaean proto-Dipylon shields, for the existence of which we have evidence by the thirteenth century at the latest. But how do we know that the Dipylon shields were only a retrospective memory in the eighth century, rather than real weapons which were actually used? 2) Webster provides an easy answer: “No Dipylon shield survives.”9 No real examples have been found, and Webster infers from this that shields with this shape were never used in the geometric period.10 But is the absence of archaeological shield-finds really a reliable indication? One of the reasons why shields are preserved only infrequently is that they were rarely given as grave goods. In addition, they were probably made of leather and thus of perishable material, whose chance of survival is extremely low. A strong indication of the real existence of Dipylon shields in the geometric period is the clay model of such a shield in the British Museum.11 The provenance of this little object is not known. We do not know whether it was a consecration gift in a shrine or whether it was found in a grave, but both possibilities only make sense if the realistic and wholly non-stylised model represents a real and familiar object. The easiest way of testing Webster’s hypothesis is provided by the prothesis

7

8 9 10

11

Grave IV) and pl. 223 (ivory model from Mycenae). WEBSTER 1955, 42 suggests different possibilities: the shield-form might have been preserved by representations in perishable materials, perhaps textiles; alternatively, individual, valuable examples of the old shields might have survived into the eighth century. Cf. the frieze depicting warriors on a krater fragment from the thirteenth century: DAUX 1961, 769f. fig. 20; also SNODGRASS 1964, 58. WEBSTER 1955, 41. Strictly speaking the argument ought to apply to all earlier times as well and not just to the geometric period. One would then have to conclude there were no shields with this shape in the thirteenth century either. London, British Museum: LORIMER 1950, 156f. pl. 7, 2–4 (fig. 3 is upside down ); KAESER 1981, 20 and 194, n. 17.

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scenes found on geometric vases. In these, a corpse is laid out and mourned. In his essay, Webster considered these images briefly and, entirely in keeping with his argument, took them to refer to mythical events.12 This interpretation can, of course, no longer be accepted. Ever since Gudrun Ahlberg’s systematic examination of the prothesis representations, we know that they can be differentiated according to gender.13 On kraters and neck amphoras, which, according to their shape, belong to male burial contexts, the corpse is male in all cases in which its gender can be ascertained. On belly amphoras and jugs, which are only found in female burial contexts, also the corpse is female.14 There is not a single myth which tells us of the burial ceremony for a woman. The female prothesis scenes must, therefore, refer to contemporary deaths. But if this is the case for female prothesis representation, then the same must be true of the male ones. It would be absurd to take the female scenes as a reference to contemporary deaths and the male scenes as a reference to mythological events. As Dipylon warriors are often found amongst the mourners who line the bier on both sides in the male prothesis scenes,15 these must also belong to the actual contemporaneous world. The Dipylon warriors with their spectacular shields do not, therefore, signal a heroic past. Instead, they must have been perceived as compatible with the customs of the present. It is reasonable to assume the same compatibility with the present for the geometric scenes of fighting as well, especially as these are often directly connected to male prothesis depictions. It would be very surprising if both were to be assigned to different categories. There is, however, one point which appears to contradict the compatibility with the present of (at least some of) the combat scenes. This, I hope, will show itself to be only an apparent difficulty, but it must be addressed here nonetheless. The stumbling block is represented by the fragments of two kraters on which a chariot appears in the context of a fight.16 On the fragment which is in a better state of preservation the narrative context can be reconstructed. A warrior who a moment before was standing high in the chariot box has been hit by a spear and is about to fall head first to the ground. An enemy warrior has taken hold of the plume of his helmet and is raising his arm to deal him a deadly blow. The bodies of several fallen warriors which the warrior was supposed to recover lie in the chariot. A chariot in the context of a fight is directly reminiscent of the combat descriptions in the Iliad in which the princely warriors – in contrast to the rank and file – use horse-drawn chariots to travel to the place of combat and also to retreat.17 In this context, the two-wheeled chariots are generally only used as a means of transport. The warriors get out of the 12 13 14 15

16 17

WEBSTER 1955, 44–6. AHLBERG 1971a, 32–40. AHLBERG 1971a, 39 lists 41 male and five female corpses. AHLBERG 1971a, 25–9 includes a catalogue of representations; cf. in particular nos. 4 (krater Louvre A 517), 5 (krater Louvre A 522 and Athens, National Museum: above fig. 1), 7 (krater Athens, National Museum 802) and 14 (krater Sydney, Nicholson Museum 46.41). AHLBERG 1971b, 55f.; A5 (Louvre 519): figs. 6–8, pp. 16-17 and, A7 (Louvre 560): figs. 10–11, p. 18. WIESNER 1968, 26f.; GREENHALGH 1973, 7–18.

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chariots and advance on foot when they are fighting, but on occasions, a warrior is hit in his chariot and falls.18 This kind of military use of horse and chariot as it is described in the Iliad is usually considered anachronistic. It is thought that horse-drawn chariots played no part in the real military practice of the eighth century. If this verdict is correct, then it affects not only the Iliad, but also geometric iconography. In the case of the pictures on the vases, we would be dealing with a clearly anachronistic element which could not be harmonised with contemporary fighting methods. But is this conclusion justified? It is only possible to sketch the outline of this problem here. The war chariot was frequently used for fighting in the bronze age and was common in the Near East and in Egypt. War chariots were manned by archers and were used as highly effective, mobile artillery.19 General opinion holds that the poet of the Iliad no longer had a clear understanding of bronze-age fighting methods and believed the two-wheeled chariots to be a means of transport by which the warriors hurried to the scene of battle in order to dismount there and fight on foot.20 There is no doubt that the way in which horse and chariot are used in the Iliad no longer has anything to do with the bronze-age method of employing mobile archers. But is the difference really due to a misunderstanding and the loss of tradition? The combination of war chariot and archer, which is so characteristic of the Near East and Egypt, does not appear to have existed at all in the Greek sphere even in the bronze age. In Mycenaean iconography horse and chariot are found as a prestigious means of transport which was presumably reserved for princes. There is no trace of archers.21 Horse and chariot are no longer part of a specific fighting technique, but function as a sign of social distinction. It is in this function that they were used in civilian, as well as in military contexts.22 With the collapse of Mycenaean culture, the evidence for horse and chariot in Greece also disappears, only to reappear in the eighth century. Chariot wheels found as grave goods in geometric graves, thousands of clay and bronze horse statuettes in shrines, and above all the iconography on Attic geometric vases indicate the high regard in which horse and chariot were held.23 It is the monumental kraters from the Dipylon necropolis, in particular, which time and again show whole processions of Dipylon warriors who drive all around the vase in their two-wheeled chariots, one after the other.24 These vessels were made for weal18 19 20 21

22

23 24

Cf., for example, 5.580–8; 16.401–10 and 737–43. LITTAUER – CROUWEL 1979; cf. AHLBERG 1971, 84f. In this sense, for example, GREENHALGH 1973, 7–10. BENSON 1970, 20–6; VERMEULE – KARAGHEORGHIS 1982, 20f., 27 and passim; see in particular the appendix in this volume by LITTAUER – CROUWEL, 181–7. Cf. LITTAUER – CROUWEL 1979, 90-1, 101-10; CROUWEL 2006, 165–70. CROUWEL 1981, 59–145. In Cyprus, a princely tholos grave in the Mycenaean tradition provides revealing evidence. The skeletons of chariot horses with breast plate armour lay in the dromos: KARAGHEORGHIS 1967, 31–3.49 pl. 128 (grave 3). Cf. COURBIN 1967 and DETIENNE 1967; LITTAUER 1972. MÜLLER-KARPE 1962, esp. 66, 72f. and 125 on graves 13 and 58 (the wheels are interpreted as remains of the ekphora chariot). GREENHALGH 1973, 19–39.

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thy aristocrats, who defined themselves above all through their martial abilities and who considered horse and chariot the greatest of treasures and a sign of wealth and prestige. They took part in aristocratic funerals in their horse-drawn chariots and carried out sporting competitions in which the racing of quadrigae enjoyed the highest prestige. Against this background, how plausible is it that the military, horse-andchariot-obsessed nobility of the eighth century should have done without the use of horse-drawn chariots in battle? Why should eighth-century nobles not have driven to the scene of battle in their quadrigae in more or less the same way as it is described in the Iliad?25 The warrior who is falling from his chariot on the geometric krater would, therefore, only be an anachronism if we could prove that no chariots were ever found on any battlefield of the eighth century. Proof of such has never been attempted and cannot be made. Under these circumstances, it makes more sense to return to our original assumption: overall, the combat iconography of geometric vases appears to be compatible with the practices of their present time. There is nothing in this iconography that an observer of the time would have had to consider anachronistic or see as a reference to a heroic past. This is also true, then, of the sporadic use of horse and chariot. Consequences for the interpretation of the Iliad also result from this. The assumption that the poet of the Iliad, in his description of the war chariots, misunderstood a fighting technique of the distant past, reveals itself to be a case of unfounded petitio principii. It is far likelier that the poet used a realistic element (or rather one that was compatible with reality) in his description. It has to be said, however, that horse-drawn chariots only occur very rarely in the battle iconography of geometric vases. Their use in real battles is likely to be have been just as marginal. The epic poet increased the frequency of the war chariot and turned the horse-drawn chariot into a consistent mark of prestige of princely warriors. In doing this, the poet was diverging from common practice in a stylised way, but without the intention of contradicting that practice. Let us return to the Dipylon shields. The shape of these shields is the dominant one in mid-eighth-century paintings on Attic vases. The vase painters’ preference might have had formal reasons, as the Dipylon shield seems ideal for hinting at and reflecting the human shape of its bearer. The wide upper spandrels correspond to the shoulders, the narrowing in the middle represents the small waist. The shape of the shields thus turns out to be the product of a conscious and strict stylisation, just as the shape of the human bodies themselves. The contrast between narrow middle and wide spandrels was probably increased significantly, as a comparison with the London clay model also shows. Of course, this does not change the fact that a contemporary observer must have associated this shape with real shields that were actually in use. From the middle of the eighth century, this shield-shape gradually becomes rarer. The simple round shield appears alongside it, finally asserting itself and dominating 25

A convincing argument for the actual use of horse and chariot is made by VAN WEES 1994, in particular 9–13 and 140f.

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the scene from the end of the century.26 But that is not the end of the story. Shields with incisions on the sides whose contours show direct similarities with those of the Dipylon shields reappear in archaic iconography. A prominent example is found in the coins minted by the alliance of Boiotian poleis which was formed in around 525 BCE. The obverse of these coins uses this shield-form as a common symbol, whereas the reverse shows the initial of the polis which minted the coin.27 This has led to this particular shield-form conventionally being called the Boiotian shield in academic writings. The ancient name is unknown, as is often the case. In Cycladic relief ceramics, on Peloponnesian shield-bands and in Corinthian and Attic vase painting the Boiotian shield is used in depictions of fights and of armour; even if it occurs less frequently in all these genres than the normal round shield. The formal continuity between the Dipylon shield and the Boiotian shield appears obvious. However, this should not obscure the fact that the differences between the two shields represent a deep-rooted change in two respects, despite all formal similarities. 1) The Dipylon shield’s shape is the result of a specific technique of construction. Georg Lippold was the first to suspect that, as part of this technique, a piece of leather was stretched between two fixed outer wooden borders, with a central strut which served to keep the two apart. As the leather dried, it contracted at the sides and pulled the outer strips of wood into a bow shape.28 This is, of course, an oldfashioned technique. From the late eighth century, shields were made more and more frequently of wood covered with bronze rather than leather. By the sixth century, wooden shields covered with bronze are likely to have been the rule. It is therefore striking that the shape developed a life of its own and survived the change in production technique, although its justification through that technique had been lost. 2) But it was not just the production technique which changed. On the level of military handling, too, an epoch-making change occurred between the Dipylon and 26

27

28

On this subject, see CARTER 1972, 57; KAESER 1981, 21 and 196 n. 21. Cf., for example, the four-footed stand from Athens, Kerameikos Museum Inv. 407 (c. 740): CARTER 1972, 45.52; the warriors in the frieze which runs towards the left alternate between those carrying Dipylon shields and those carrying round shields. The juxtaposition of the two forms is also found in Corinthian ceramics: cf. two aryballoi from the early seventh century: AMYX 1988, 25 B1 (Corinth, CP 2096) and 25 D1 (Athens, from Perachora). KRAAY 1976, 108–10 figs. 338–50; RITTER 2002, 103. The same motif is also found on a rare stater from Chalkis (KRAAY 1976, 90f. fig. 266), which was probably minted in 507 to mark the alliance between Chalkis and Thebes; if the Boiotian shield is here used as a coat-of-arms-like symbol for Thebes, then this, I believe, provides us with a terminus ante quem for the use of the motif on coins from Thebes and the Boiotian alliance. Why the Boiotians chose this shield-form as a mark is unknown; perhaps one should imagine the shield as made of leather and this might then be understood as an allusion to the fact that cattle-rich Boiotia contained the cow (bous) in its name, as it were. From an iconographical perspective, the great advantage of the Boiotian shield lies in its characteristic, unmistakable shape. LIPPOLD 1909, 410–42; the lateral incisions had previously been interpreted as an improvement in military technique. According to this interpretation, the incisions made it easier to observe the enemy or facilitated the throwing of spears. This does not seem particularly plausible.

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the Boiotian shield.29 The Dipylon warrior held his shield by a single handle located in the middle of the back of the shield.30 When he wasn’t holding the shield in his hand, he carried it across his shoulder with a leather strap. This strap is called telamon in Homeric poetry. The same principle basically applies to all types of shield in the bronze age and the early iron age. By contrast to this, the concave round shield is fundamentally new. On the inner side it has a double handle, a central band (porpax) through which the warrior’s lower arm is put, and an off-centre handle (antilabe). This double handle has the advantage that the entire lower arm now bears the shield’s weight, rather than just one hand. This enables the warrior to carry even a heavy shield, which affords him more protection. In vase painting, the representation of shields with the double handle begins in the early seventh century (fig. 2).31 This innovation seems to have asserted itself very quickly. Of course, there were disadvantages as well as advantages, as a warrior’s mobility was restricted because of the new shield. The shield now had its firm place

Fig. 2: Proto-Corinthian aryballos; Corinth, Museum: 690-680 BCE (after Hesperia 37, 1968, Tab.102,2).

on the warrior’s left side, which meant that the right side was more or less unprotected. This works very well for the battle technique of the phalanx, in which the warriors no longer act as isolated and mobile individual fighters, but stand side by side in a row. Each individual covers not only his own left side with his shield, but also the otherwise unprotected right-hand side of his left neighbour.32 The shield with double handle is not the only indication of a changing battle technique. At about the same time, the so-called Corinthian helmet developed, which was made from a single piece of metal and provided optimum protection from the neck to the chin. It covered the ears and only left small slits through which a warrior could see.33 Compared to the old helmets, which did not cover any part of the face, the change is striking. A warrior wearing a Corinthian helmet cannot hear very much and can only see what is directly in front of him. This would be extremely unsuitable for an individual fighter who has to be extremely mobile and expect attacks from all directions. For the phalanx technique, however, the helmet is ideal. The changes in shields and helmets thus 29 30 31 32 33

It was discovered by HELBIG 1909. See SCHAUER 1980. Cf. the bronze statuette of a warrior in Olympia: HERRMANN 1972, 73 pl. 13a: the warrior holds the bow-shaped central handle of the (lost) shield in his left hand. Cf. for example the middle proto-Corinthian aryballos in Corinth: above, n. 26. On the phalanx tactics see in particular HANSON 1989; see also HANSON 1991. PFLUG 1988, 67-74; SNODGRASS 1964, 10f. and 20–8.

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point in the same direction: warriors are becoming less agile, they are better protected, but at the same time can only attack in one particular direction. But let us return to the Boiotian shield. There is an interpretation of this type of shield which essentially corresponds to Webster’s hypotheses regarding the Dipylon shield. According to this, Boiotian shields were no longer used in archaic times. When they appear in the iconography, they do not represent real, contemporary weapons, but are to be understood as indicators of a heroic past. As Lippold wrote in 1909, “[I]t was an old-fashioned weapon. This is why it was attributed preferably to the powerful heroes of the past.”34 Snodgrass made a similar statement in 1964: “it [the Boiotian shield] remains a favourite device of Greek artists for centuries, and is usually a sign that the scene is taken from heroic saga.”35 This hypothesis is based on two arguments. 1) The Boiotian shield form is not confirmed by archaeological finds. The situation is thus the same as with the Dipylon shield. But in the latter’s case, we have already seen the problems associated with concluding, on the basis of the absence of archaeological evidence, that the item in question never existed. 2) The form of the shield, with deep incisions on the sides, is extremely unsuitable for fighting in a phalanx. The conclusion drawn from this has been that the Boiotian shield marks its bearer out as a heroic individual fighter, not a member of a phalanx. The shield is to be taken not as a real requisite, but purely as a pictorial formula which refers to a heroic age long since past in which shields with the shape in question were still used. There is, of course, a problem with the second argument. With regard to the shields, there is indeed a distinct break between the past, which was remembered as a heroic age, and the present. But this affects their handling rather than their shape. This break has not just been recognised by modern researchers. Rather, it was also remembered by ancient contemporaries. In a famous passage in his Histories, Herodotus writes that the Carians, known as mercenaries and war specialists, had introduced three decisive military innovations. According to Herodotus, they invented the feather plumes on the helmets, the signs on the shields (semeia) and, above all, the ochana used for holding shields. Ochanon is a technical term for the shield strap and it is often used synonymously with porpax. Herodotus adds: “until then all who used shields carried them without ochana, and handled them with leather straps (telamon) which they slung round the neck and over the left shoulder.”36 It is obvious that Herodotus is referring to those changes in shields which did actually occur in around 700. In the mid-fifth century, then, the difference between the shields of the heroic past and those of the present was still known in some detail.

34 35

36

LIPPOLD 1909, 425. SNODGRASS 1964, 55; LORIMER 1950, 156 describes the Boiotian shield as “the attribute of heroes, [...] a deliberate piece of romantic archaizing”; cf. also KUNZE 1950, 149 n. 1; KAESER 1981, 195f. Hdt. 1.171.4; talking about the older shields, Herodotus only mentions the shoulder strap and not the central handle, which he clearly silently assumes: cf. KAESER 1981, 221 n. 76.

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If we take the Boiotian shield, as it is represented in archaic and early classical iconography, and try to understand it as an antiquarian indicator of the time in which the action depicted takes place, it becomes ambiguous against the background just outlined. The form of the shield points to the period before 700, the double handle with porpax and antilabe, however, indicates the period following that date. This double handle refers to the context in which the warriors fight side by side and each covers the unprotected right-hand side of his left neighbour. In such a context, however, the incisions on the sides of the shield, which severely impair the protective function of the shield, make no sense. The warriors in a phalanx are unlikely to ever have fought with shields shaped like the Boiotian shields. But can the Boiotian shield’s disfunctionality in the context of phalanx warfare really allow us to come to conclusions regarding the shield’s significance as an iconographic sign? The question of whether or not the Boiotian shield functions as an indicator of a heroic past in iconography is largely independent of the actual use of the shield. It can only be answered from the inconography itself. Is the Boiotian shield used as a mark of heroes in archaic and early classical iconography? Can it be understood as a necessary and sufficient sign in this context? That would mean that all mythical warriors carry a Boiotian shield, and, conversely, that any warrior not bearing a Boiotian shield cannot thus be taken as a mythical warrior. That would be unambiguous and clear, but it does not correspond to what we find. Naturally, there are plenty of demonstrably mythological combat scenes in which round shields, not Boiotian shields, are used. I will limit myself to two examples, chosen at random. The scene on the neck of a Cycladic relief amphora from around 670 shows the wooden horse with Achaian warriors.37 None of them carry a Boiotian shield. On a Rhodian plate of the late seventh century, Menelaus and Hektor fight for the body of Euphorbos. The names of all three are given and all three have round shields.38 The Boiotian shield is therefore certainly not a necessary characteristic for the marking of mythical combat scenes. One could, at most, postulate the weaker hypothesis that the Boiotian shield is not a necessary but at least a sufficient characteristic of mythical warriors. But precisely because this second hypothesis is weaker, it is difficult to refute. In order to prove it wrong, one would have to give the example of a representation of warriors who have Boiotian shields but who were not understood as heroes of the past by the contemporary observer. Such a refutation is difficult to undertake, as there is not a single image in all archaic iconography which has to refer to an episode in the present. Names, which refer to contemporaries, do not appear until the late sixth century. So a certain detour is necessary. But let us first consider some examples. The duel between Achilles and the Amazon queen Penthesilea is represented on Peloponnesian shield straps from the late seventh century.39 The iconography remains more or less the same for several decades (fig. 3). Achilles, striking out to the left, 37 38 39

Mykonos, Archaeological Museum: GIULIANI 2003, 81–5 fig. 11a–b. London, British Museum: GIULIANI 2003, 125f. fig. 19. KUNZE 1950, 148–51; BOL 1989, 69f.; KOSSATZ-DIESSMANN 1981, 162 no. 721.

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carries a small Boiotian shield. Penthesilea, who collapses as a result of Achilles’ attack, has a round shield. It is clear that the different types of shield have no temporal relevance. At most, one could say that the Boiotian shield designates the impetuous victor. Representations of the destruction of Troy point in a similar direction. Achilles’ son Neoptolemos, killing the old king Priam or his grandson Astyanax, usually bears a Boiotian shield. This, however, does not have to be the case. In one instance, he carries a round shield, shown in profile, instead of the Boiotian shield.40 One would hardly consider the image to have a different meaning because of this.

Fig. 3: Peloponnesian shield-band relief; Olympia, Museum: c. 550 BCE (after LIMC 1, 162, s.v. Achilleus Nr.721).

Pictures of the Ransom of Hektor on Attic vases show Achilles on his kline, surrounded by his weapons. A hydria in Zurich41 and a belly-amphora in Kassel42 show two complete sets of armour rather than just one, and this is consistent with the content of the Iliadic tale. One set of weapons had been lent to Patroklos by Achilles. When Patroklos died, they became Hektor’s property and were finally regained by Achilles. The other set was given to Achilles by Thetis to replace the first set after it had been lost. Thus, we see two shields: a Boiotian one and a round one. Of course, it is not the difference between the first and second set of weapons that lies behind this, but rather, it is the result of the charm of variety. Nothing suggests a particular significance of the Boiotian type. Achilles and Ajax are represented playing a board game on a famous black-

40 41 42

KUNZE 1950, 157–61 (Neoptolemos with the round shield: pl. 31); BOL 1989, 72f. BEAZLEY 1971, 32 no. 1bis; GIULIANI 2003, 170–3 fig. 30. BEAZLEY 1971 56, no. 31; GIULIANI 2003, 174 fig. 31.

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figure belly-amphora now in the Vatican.43 The two heroes’ weapons, which they have set aside, create a martial still life to the left and right, functioning as a border for the picture. The large Boiotian shields are prominent here. This iconography of the heroes playing a board game was subsequently taken up and copied by many vase painters.44 In these cases, the Boiotian shields were usually retained, but there are exceptions to this. On a bilingual belly-amphora in Boston45, the painter has, on the black-figured side, given the left-hand hero a round shield, but the hero on the right has a Boiotian shield. On the red-figured side, the situation is the exact reverse. Once again, one does not get the impression that this change is significant. On an early fifth-century kalpis in New York, the two heroes have round shields.46 By this time, however, Boiotian shields have already become rare on Attic vase paintings. One of the last representations is found on a cup in Vienna.47 On the picture on the inside, we see a young man receiving a helmet, armour, spear, and a Boiotian shield from an older man. The scenes on the outside of the cup depict the argument between Ajax and Odysseus about Achilles’ weapons. It is likely, therefore, that the scene on the inside should be understood in the same thematic context, and that one should think of Odysseus, who is giving Achilles’ weapons to the latter’s son Neoptolemos. From the second quarter of the fifth century, Boiotian shields are no longer found in Attic vase paintings. The shape has become extinct. This does indeed form a contrast with the round shield, which has now become dominant. But this disappearance in no way means that the Boiotian shield should be understood as an indicator of the past. On the contrary: military deeds of mythical warriors remain a common iconographic subject after 480 too. If the Boiotian shield had been a distinctive characteristic of a heroic past, one would not have been able to dispose of the shape so easily. Rather, it is the disappearance of the Boiotian shield from the iconography which supports the idea that it had no (or, to put it more cautiously, no significant) semantic function. But we have already reached the same conclusion by looking at the iconographical examples which dated from the late seventh to the early fifth century. Round shield and Boiotian shield do not relate to one another as semantic opposites, but rather like a simpler form to its more sophisticated, aesthetically more demanding variant. It seems to me that it is a vain undertaking to look for a difference in meaning between the two. The shape of the Boiotian shield is only explicable by its descent from the Dipylon shield. With a shield made from metal rather than stretched leather, the shape had lost its technological justification resulting from its production. It is remarkable that the shape was retained nonetheless. The incisions on the side of the shield are not, of 43 44 45 46 47

ABV 145, 13; BEAZLEY 1971, 60. KOSSATZ-DIESSMANN 1981, 97 no. 397. ARIAS 1962, pl. 62.17. MOMMSEN 1980, 139–52; KOSSATZ-DIESSMANN 1981, 96–103. BEAZLEY 1963, 4, 7”; BEAZLEY 1971, 320. KOSSATZ-DIESSMANN 1981, 97 no. 392 and 101, no. 421. BEAZLEY 1963 1634, 75bis; BEAZLEY 1971, 343; KOSSATZ-DIESSMANN 1981 102, no. 425; MOMMSEN 1980, pl. 36. BEAZLEY 1963 429, 26; BEAZLEY 1971, 374; BUITRON-OLIVER 1995, 75 no. 42. pl. 26.

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course, functional. They decrease the protective function of the shield instead of strengthening it. In other words, the incisions represent a handicap which a mighty warrior can display proudly. His military prowess is so great that he has no need at all to hide behind his shield. The shield with its incisions on the side, counteracting its protective function and, in the extreme case, leading to absurdity, becomes the symbol of the true hero. All this applies to an individual fighter, but hardly to a hoplite who forms a phalanx with his comrades and also has to protect his left neighbour with his shield. No warrior fighting in a phalanx is likely to ever have gone into battle with a Boiotian shield. There is no doubt that the Boiotian shield could not function properly in the context of the phalanx, but this is no great help for the interpretation of the iconography. It is true that, from the seventh century, there was no alternative to the phalanx tactic in Greek warfare. The hoplite phalanx played the decisive role in the reality of warfare, but in iconography it remained absolutely marginal. The depictions of a phalanx can be counted on the fingers of one hand.48 They are clearly exceptional. Normal iconography shows fighting broken up into individual groups, not as an encounter of closed formations. We see either two warriors standing directly opposite one another, or simple groups of three people, for example when a warrior has already overcome his first opponent who is now joined by a second coming to his aid.49 These simple pictorial schemes, which are found in endless variation, correspond directly to the descriptions of fighting in the Iliad, but not to the actual military practice of the archaic period. In the case of the latter, closed hoplite contingents arranged in a phalanx fought one another. Pushing shield against shield, they put pressure onto each other. The fight was decided when one of the two contingents gave way to the other’s pressure. Our original question, which concerned the significance of the Boiotian shields, thus leads to a more general question: why does the iconography retain the pictorial scheme of the individual fighter, despite radical changes in military practice? Should the conclusion be that all depictions of fights between individuals do not refer to contemporary events but to warriors of a mythical past? I do not think that the iconographical findings allow such a conclusion. As already noted, there is hardly any archaic vase picture for which it could be stringently proven that it has to refer to the present. Such proof is, however, possible for the pre- and post-archaic period. We have seen above that the depictions of fighting from the geometric period (just like the prothesis scenes and geometric iconography in general) are definitely not to be understood as referring to a distant past. Nevertheless, it would be wrong to attribute a specific contemporary reference to geometric iconography. This depicts 48

49

The best known representation is found on a protocorinthian jug in Rome, Villa Giulia (c. 640– 30): AMYX 1988, 32 A3. Further examples are a protoattic stand in Berlin (c. 670), CVA Berlin 1 pl. 30, 1–2; protocorinthian aryballos Berlin (c. 650): AMYX 1988, 32 A2; protocorinthian oinochoe from Erythrai (c. 640): AKURGAL 1992, 85. On the discussion regarding the phalanx iconography see most recently VAN WEES 2000, 125–66. Just one random example: lid of a three-footed kothon in the Louvre (c. 570): ABV 58, 122; BEAZLEY 1971, 23: SIMON 1976, fig. 58.

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actions and events that belong to the realm of the standard behaviour and which could, therefore, happen at any time, with the unspoken proviso that the course of the world does not change over time. The contemporary observer of a geometric prothesis depiction will naturally have related it to the person to whose grave the vase belonged and thus to the contemporary deceased. A similar situation is likely to be the case for the geometric images of fighting. The situation is slightly different for the (rare) early-fifth century Attic vase pictures which show fights between Greeks and Persians. The earliest pictures are from the 480s and presuppose direct experience of the Persian invasion.50 The reference to very recent events which belonged to the direct contemporary range of experiences is clear. The painters’ interest is directed above all at the ethnically relevant differences. The Greeks are usually depicted as hoplites, with helmets and armour, round shields and spears. The Persians on the other hand wear hats, long-sleeved garments, and breeches. They are armed with bow and arrow, sword and axe, all weapons which, in close combat as depicted in the pictures, are clearly inferior to the Greek spears. Even the shape of the Persian quivers, which are square at the front and rounded at the back, is accurately observed. This shape of the quiver was otherwise unknown in Greece and has parallels in the Achaemenid area. The fighting is repeatedly broken up into individual groups, the iconography of which is largely conventional. In their composition and the individual motifs the fights between Greeks and Persian are hardly any different from those in which Greeks face other Greeks:51 both types of picture have the same timeless single-combat typology. As the contemporary reference cannot be denied in the case of the iconography with regard to the Persians, one must conclude that such a reference is also possible, and perhaps even likely, for depictions of fights between Greeks. There was no contradiction between single combat typology and contemporary reference for the observer of the early fifth century. Under these circumstances, it is extremely unlikely that this would have been different for a sixth-century observer and that he would never have related images of single combat to the present but always to myth. Sixth-century iconography of fights may not have corresponded to real practice, but this contradiction does not appear to have 50

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BOVON 1963; HÖLSCHER 1973, 38–48 and 98; RAECK 1981, 101–33; STÄHLER 1992, 53–67; HÖLSCHER 2000, 301–4; MUTH 2007, 239–67. HÖLSCHER 1973, 44f. observes the “conventional composition of the scenes, following typical patterns” (konventionelle und typengebundene Komposition des Szenen), which can hardly be distinguished from scenes of mythical fights; this seems to me to be fundamental to the interpretation of the images. This similarity is, according to Hölscher, not to be understood as an assimilation of the fights with the Persians to mythic events. Rather the point was that both fights of the present and fights of the mythological past were depicted “in rigid, predetermined schemes.” Hölscher also emphasises the fundamental balance of the representations: “The Persians are absolutely worthy opponents, nowhere is it possible to perceive an ideologically determined bias resulting in contempt or hostility.” Hölscher later revised his interpretation regarding this point and came to a different, and in my opinion less convincing, conclusion; cf., for example, HÖLSCHER 2003, 10: “the Persians are not considered to be adversaries of equal value; they are absolute enemies who have to be crushed with violence.” See in particular MUTH 2007, 252: “The early depictions of fight with Persians ... show no fundamental divergence from the contemporary iconography of hoplite warfare.”

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been considered a problem. Above all, it did not function as a way of distinguishing between images of myth and images of the present. There does not seem to have been any need for such a distinction. Archaic vase painting does not then, include temporal indicators. When, as is so often the case, two fully armed warriors face each other with raised spears, there is nothing in this scene which would force or justify the observer to relate it to a duel between two mythical heroes of the distant past or to a fight in the present. Past and present are not distinguished. The dividing line between them is blurred in two ways. Firstly, with regard to weapons, episodes of myth are adapted without exception to the technology of the present. Mythical warriors have shields with an eccentric double handle, Corinthian helmets, bell-shaped breastplates, and greaves. Secondly, scenes of fighting which are not explicitly mythological in nature and which could just as well refer to the present do not show the contemporary phalanx tactic but retain the scheme of the individual fighter which is canonical for epic tales. We can, therefore, note a double, reciprocal adaptation: myth to the present and the present to myth. A comparative look at the representation of past events in the art of the modern age suggests itself.52 On medieval depictions of biblical episodes all people wear clothing of the present, as is well known. After all, the content of the picture was to appear immediate and familiar to the observer. The past events of which the biblical stories tell retain their unchanged validity also in the present. A change does not become apparent until the fifteenth century. In scenes which refer to holy or secular tales of antiquity one occasionally finds architecture or costumes which take their cue from Roman antiquity. But this is not the only possibility. In the late fifteenth and early sixteenth century, some painters use costumes which had been in fashion only two or three generations earlier. Of course, this does not mean that they are referring to this specific, recent past, but that they mean the past in general. The fashion of the late gothic period is used here, as it were, as a marker of a unified past, differentiated in no further way. But these are individual cases. More common are the historical paintings which give their protagonists a contemporary appearance and do not highlight the temporal distance. I will limit myself to two randomly chosen examples, one from central Italy, the other from Germany. In Piero’s cycle of frescos on the Legend of the Cross in the choir chapel of S. Francesco in Arezzo (completed by 1466), we find episodes whose temporal setting ranges from the primeval times of Genesis to late antiquity. The more recent episodes include two large battle depictions, which complement one another.53 One shows Constantine’s victory over Maxentius in 312, the other shows the battle between Emperor Heraklios and the Persian king, Chosroe, in 627. In both pictures, almost all of the warriors are provided with fifteenth-century dress and 52 53

On the following, cf. KOSELLECK 1979, 17–37; HAUSSHERR 1984; see also the important review by SUCKALE 1985; NAGEL 2004; ROECK 2004, 217–19. BATTISTI 1992, 100–215 and 441–77; on the two battle paintings, see 169–88 and 464–70; Death of Adam: 107–20 and 459f.

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weapons. There are only a few individual instances of antique-style armour, as, for example, with Maxentius and one of Constantine’s companions. In the entire cycle, the only instance of a consistent divergence from the present is found in the scene of Adam’s death. Here the characters only wear extremely simple garments – when they are dressed at all. The absence of any sort of tools is also noteworthy. Where one of the characters leans on a stick, the stick is an unworked stump on which all of the stubs of the branches are still visible. It is likely that this is a mark of primitive simplicity. Two generations later, Albrecht Altdorfer painted his “Battle of Alexander at Issus” (1529)54 in such a way that it is completely indistinguishable from contemporary battles; the scores of combatants, painted in minute detail, conform to the customs of the present in all details of clothing and weaponry. The Persians are here characterised as Orientals by their Turkish dress, but it is contemporary Turkish dress. Only for one detail was there no correspondence in contemporary reality: when it comes to the depiction of the war chariot of the Persian Great King, Altdorfer engaged in antiquarian research and took his cue from the literary record. It is not until the eighteenth century that a more frequent effort is made to achieve a degree of authenticity when it comes to historical costumes. In the nineteenth century, this becomes a central law of historical painting. We need not be concerned further with this process. It is enough to note that the increased interest in the specific dissimilarity of the past is directly related to the self-discovery of modernity as a fundamentally different epoch whose relationship to the past is conceived of less as a continuous development and more as a fundamental change. This concept of a significant break constitutes, in the eighteenth century, one of the major changes in perspective. As is known, nothing corresponds to such a change in antiquity. It is precisely because of this that, in antiquity, we do not find a basis on which a systematic demarcation of the present from the past could have developed. The iconographic findings thus correspond to what was to be expected anyway. This does not, of course, mean that there was no awareness of the past before this period of change in the late eighteenth century. The early sixteenth-century observer of Altdorfer’s “Battle of Alexander at Issus” knew very well that the painting depicted an episode of the distant past, but he was not interested in understanding the past as a period which was fundamentally different from the present. Rather, he was interested in emphasising the possibilities of comparison between the battles of Alexander and military events of the present. This interest was embedded in the natural supposition of a basic invariance. It is likely that a similar attitude may be assumed for the contemporary observer of ancient vase painting. He, too, knew that a particular mythical episode had taken place in the past, and in some cases he might have been able to specify the temporal distance more or less precisely. However, more important than the distance was the assumption of continuity. Myths retain their validity as models and their usefulness as mirrors precisely because circumstances do not fundamentally change. 54

WINZINGER 1975, 40–6 and 100–2 no. 50; GREISELMAYER 1996, 19–60; SCHAWE 2006, 66. On the Persian Great King’s war chariot: RONEN 1992, 7 and 93–106.

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One last comment. It is true that one does not find chronological marks of alterity in Greek iconography; ethnic distinctions of this kind, however, are obvious and prominently represented from the second quarter of the sixth century onwards.55 The difference between Greeks and non-Greeks (Scythians, Thracians and others) obviously has a completely different relevance than the difference between present and past. The differentiation between one’s own culture and that of neighbouring peoples (in concrete cases, particularly that of Oriental neighbours) is much more obvious and has a very different relevance than differentiating between present and past. In Greece, alterity, which served as a foil and contrast to one’s own group identity with regard to politics and culture, was primarily ethnic and not historical in nature. The otherness of foreigners is a much more conspicuous and also highlycharged phenomenon than the otherness of the Greeks’ own past. For this reason, one need hardly be surprised that it was observed at a significantly earlier date, not only in antiquity but also in early modern times.

55

VOS 1963; RAECK 1981.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY AHLBERG-CORNELL, G. 1971a: Prothesis and Ekphora in Greek Geometric Art, Göteborg. 1971b: Fighting on Land and Sea in Greek Geometric Art, Stockholm. AKURGAL, M. 1992: Eine protokorinthische oinochoe aus Erythrai, MDAI(I) 42, 83-96. AMYX, D. A. 1988: Corinthian Vase Painting of the Archaic Period, Berkeley. ARIAS, P. E. 1962: A History of Greek Vase Painting, trans. and rev. by B. B. Shefton, London. BATTISTI, E. 1992: Piero della Francesca, Milan. BEAZLEY, J. D. 1963: Attic Red Figure Vase Painters, 2nd edn, Oxford. 1971: Paralipomena, Oxford. BENSON, J. L. 1970: Horse Bird and Man. The Origins of Greek Painting, Amherst, MA. BOARDMAN, J. 1983: Symbol and story in geometric art, in: W. G. Moon (ed.) Ancient Greek Art and Iconography, Madison, WI, 15-36. BOL, P. C. 1989: Argivische Schilde, Oympische Forschungen 17, Berlin. BOVON, A. 1963: Le représentation des guerriers perses et la notion de barbare dans la 1re moitié du Ve siècle, BCH 87, 579-602. BUITRON-OLIVER, D. 1995: Douris, Mainz. CARTER, J. 1972: The beginning of narrative art in the Greek geometric period, BSA 67, 25-58. COLDSTREAM, J. N. 1968: Greek Geometric Pottery, London. COURBIN, P. 1967: La guerre en Grèce a haute époque d’après les documents archéologiques, in: J.-P. Vernant (ed.) Problèmes de la guerre en Grèce ancienne, Paris, 69-91. CROUWEL, J. H. 1981: Chariots and Other Means of Land Transport in Bronze Age Greece, Amsterdam. 2006: Chariot depictions from Mycenaean to Geometric Greece and Etruria, in: E. Rystedt and B. Wells (eds.) Pictorial Pursuits. Figurative Painting in Mycenaean and Geometric Pottery. Papers from Two Seminars at the Swedish Institute at Athens, 1999 and 2001, Stockholm, 165-70. DAUX, G. 1961: Chronique des fouilles et découvertes archéologiques en Grèce en 1960, BCH 85, 601-953. DETIENNE, M. 1967: La phalange. Problèmes et controverses, in: J.-P. Vernant (ed.) Problèmes de la guerre en Grèce ancienne, Paris, 119-142. FITTSCHEN, K. 1969: Untersuchungen zum Beginn der Sagendarstellungen bei den Griechen, Berlin. GIULIANI, L. 2003: Bild und Mythos. Geschichte der Bilderzählung in der griechischen Kunst, Munich. GREENHALGH, P. A. L. 1973: Early Greek Warfare. Horsemen and Chariots in the Homeric and the Archaic Ages, Cambridge.

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GREISELMAYER, V. 1996: Kunst und Geschichte. Die Historienbilder Herzog Wilhelms IV. von Bayern und seiner Gemahlin Jacobäa, Berlin. HANSON, V. D. 1989: The Western Way of War. Infantry Battle in Classical Greece, New York. 1991: Hoplite technology in phalanx battle, in V. D. Hanson (ed.) Hoplites. The Classical Battle Experience, London – New York, 63-84. HAUSSHERR, R. 1984: Convenevolezza. Historische Angemessenheit in der Darstellung von Kostüm und Schauplatz seit der Spätantike bis ins 16. Jahrhundert, AbhMainz 4. HELBIG, W. 1909: Ein homerischer Rundschild mit einem Bügel, JÖAI 12, 1-70. HERRMANN, H.-V. 1972: Olympia. Heiligtum und Wettkampfstätte, Munich. HIGGINS, R. A. 1967: Greek Terracottas, London. HÖLSCHER, T. 1973: Griechische Historienbilder des 5. und 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr., Würzburg. 2000: Feindwelten – Glückswelten: Perser, Kentauren und Amazonen, in: T. Hölscher (ed.) Gegenwelten: zu den Kulturen Griechenlands und Roms in der Antike, Munich, 301-4. 2003: Images of war in Greece and Rome: between military practice, public memory and cultural symbolism, JRS 93, 1-17. HURWIT, J. M. 1993: Art, poetry and the polis in the age of Homer, in: S. Langdon (ed.) From Pasture to Polis, Columbia, MO. KAESER, B. 1981: Zur Darstellungsweise der griechischen Flächenkunst von der geometrischen Zeit bis zum Ausgang der Archaik: eine Untersuchung an der Darstellung des Schildes, Bonn. KARAGHEORGHIS, V. 1967: Excavations in the Necropolis of Salamis, pt. 1, Nicosia. KARUSU, S. 1976: Ein frühes Bildes Achilleus?, MDAI(A) 91, 23-30. KOSELLECK, R. 1979: Vergangene Zukunft der frühen Neuzeit, in: R. Koselleck, Vergangene Zukunft. Zur Semantik geschichtlicher Zeiten, Frankfurt, 17-37. KOSSATZ-DEISSMANN, A. 1981: Achilleus, Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 1, Zurich, 37-200. KRAAY, C. M. 1976: Archaic and Classical Greek Coins, Berkeley. KUNZE, E. 1950: Archaische Schildbänder, Olympische Forschungen 2, Berlin. LIPPOLD, G. 1909: Griechische Schilde, in: Münchner Archäologische Studien, dem Andenken Adolf Furtwänglers gewidmet, Munich, 399-504. LITTAUER, M. A. 1972: The military use of the chariot in the Aegean in the late Bronze Age, AJA 76, 145-57. LITTAUER, M. A. – CROUWEL, J. H. 1979: Wheeled Vehicles and Ridden Animals in the Ancient Near East, Leiden. LORIMER, H. L. 1950: Homer and the Monuments, London. MARINATOS, SP. 1959: Kreta und das Mykenische Hellas, Munich.

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MOMMSEN, H. 1980: Achill und Aias pflichtvergessen? in: H. A. Cahn – E. Simon (eds.) Tainia. Roland Hampe zum 70. Geburtstag dargebracht, Mainz, 139-52. MÜLLER-KARPE, H. 1962: Metallbeigaben der früheisenzeitlichen Kerameikos-Gräber, JdI 77, 59-129. MUTH, S. 2007: Gewalt im Bild. Das Phänomen der medialen Gewalt im Athen des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts v.Chr., Berlin. NAGEL, A. 2004: Fashion and the now-time of Renaissance art, Res 46, 33-52. PFLUG, H. 1988: Korinthische Helme, in: A. Bottini (ed.) Antike Helme. Sammlung Lipperheide und andere Bestände des Antikenmuseums Berlin, JbRGZM Monogr.14, 65-106. RAECK, W. 1981: Zum Barbarenbild in der Kunst Athens im 6. und 5. Jahrhundert v.Chr., Bonn. RITTER, ST. 2002: Bildkontakte. Götter und Heroen in der Bildsprache griechischer Münzen des 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr., Berlin. ROECK, B. 2004: Das historische Auge. Kunstwerke als Zeugen ihrer Zeit, Göttingen. RONEN, A. 1992: Altdorfer’s Battle of Issus. The chariot and its source, in: L’Art et les Revolutions. XXXVII congrès international d’histoire de l’Art, Strasbourg 1989. Actes, Strasbourg, 7, 93-106. SCHAUER, P. 1980: Der Rundschild der Bronze - und frühen Eisenzeit, JbRGZM 27, 196-247. SCHAWE, M. 2006: Alte Pinakothek. Altdeutsche und altniederländische Malerei, Munich. SIMON, E. 1976: Die griechischen Vasen, Munich. SNODGRASS, A. 1964: Early Greek Armour and Weapons, from the End of the Bronze Age to 600 B.C., Edinburgh. 1980: Toward the interpretation of the geometric figure scenes, AM 95, 51-8. STÄHLER, K. 1992: Griechische Geschichtsbilder klassischer Zeit, Münster. SUCKALE, R. 1985: Review: HAUSSHERR 1984, Kritische Berichte 13, H. 1, 72-8. VERMEULE, E. – KARAGHEORGHIS, V. 1982: Mycenaean Pictorial Vase Painting, Cambridge, MA. VOS, M. F. 1963: Scythian Archers in Archaic Attic Vase-Painting, Groningen. WEBSTER, T. B. L. 1955: Homer and Attic geometric vases, BSA 50, 38-50. VAN WEES, H. 1994: The Homeric way of war: the Iliad and the hoplite phalanx, G&R 41, 1-18 and 131-155. 2000: The development of the hoplite phalanx: iconography and reality in the seventh century, in: H. van Wees (ed.) War and Violence in Ancient Greece, London, 125-66. WHITLEY, J. 1991: Style and Society in Dark Age Greece. The changing face of a pre-literate society, 1100700 BC, Cambridge.

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WIESNER, J. 1968: Die Denkmäler und das frügriechische Epos, Bd. 1, Lief F: Fahren und Reiten, Archaeologia Homerica 1, Göttingen. WINZINGER, F. 1975: Albrecht Altdorfer. Die Gemälde, Munich.

4. THE TROJAN WAR’S RECEPTION IN EARLY GREEK LYRIC, IAMBIC AND ELEGIAC POETRY Ewen Bowie

First, some general points. On the one hand the story of the sack of Troy and stories associated with its preliminaries and consequences constituted a large and influential body of mythology shared in divergent versions by a very high proportion of the archaic and classical Greek world. On the other hand it was not the only important nexus of myths that might be recognised in many parts of that world. In some places, e.g., Argos, myths concerning the two expeditions against Thebes were just as important; and in Thebes itself the cycle linking the stories of Laios, Oidipous and the attack on Thebes by Polyneikes seems likely to have been more important than things Trojan.1 In the Greek west the cities founded in the eighth and seventh centuries might have heard more that could be related to their own history in stories about Herakles, though these were very far from being confined to the west. Other themes which might been expected to have primarily local interest, e.g., the Calydonian boar-hunt, acquired wide popularity; on the other hand the deeds of Theseus rarely seem to have generated interest outside Athens, Attica and some Aegean islands. Stories of the Trojan War, therefore, are not simply the default choice from the available stock of panhellenic mythology. When a poet in almost any genre uses Trojan War material he or she does so by deliberate choice. I say ‘almost any genre’ because for hexameter poetry it is clear that in some formal performance contexts – in Sikyon before Kleisthenes put a stop to it early in the sixth century, and in Athens at the Panathenaea from no later than the Pisistratid tyranny in the later sixth century – rhapsodes were expected to perform Homeric poetry about the Trojan War, and this in turn may have encouraged hexameter poets ambitious to get their work into the canon likewise to engage with Trojan themes. That said, a whole range of non-Trojan subjects was treated in hexameter poetry for much of which only titles or a few fragments survive, and for little of which can a particular context of first performance even be conjectured.2 1 2

Trojan themes are present in the Hesiodic Catalogue of women and in Pindar’s epinikia, but they are far from dominant. The Trojan Cycle comprised eight poems (Iliad, Odyssey, Cypria, Aithiopis, Little Iliad, Sack of Ilion, Returns, Telegony. But several poems concerned Thebes (Oedipodea, Thebaid, Epigoni, Alcmeonis). A Herakles hexameter poem Capture of Oechalia was attributed to Kreophylos of Samos, and others were composed by Pisandros of Kamiros and Panyassis of Halikarnassos. The city most involved in Eumelos’ poems Corinthiaca and Europia was Corinth; it is less likely that Returns was focused on a single city. For discussion see WEST 2003, 1–35.

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It would be especially illuminating to be able to establish whether the choice of a theme drawn from the Trojan War was related to performance in different genres and in different contexts. Up to a point the groundwork can be done – metrical form allows us to allocate even small fragments to elegiac, iambic or lyric compositions.3 But that in itself does not take us very far towards contexts of performance. For archaic iambic poetry, indeed, the primary context or contexts of performance remain uncertain, although to me the evidence seems to point to sympotic performance. As for elegiac and lyric, there are a number of poems or fragments that can with confidence be said to have been composed primarily for sympotic performance; other lyric fragments, e.g., the long heroic narratives of Stesichoros, were almost certainly composed for performance in some form of public festival.4 But some of the fragments most interesting for this enquiry cannot so confidently be categorised: in lyric, Sappho’s poem about the wedding of Hektor and Andromache (fr. 44 Voigt) and Ibykos’ musings on the Trojan War addressed to Polykrates (fr. S151 Davies); in elegiac poetry some of the most relevant fragments of Mimnermos and the new Telephos fragment of Archilochos. That requires us to offer different possible models, without yet being able to say which corresponds more closely with reality. I shall pick out the case of Mimnermos to illustrate the sorts of problem that arise. The crucial text is fr. 14 West:                              

οὐ  µμὲν  δὴ  κείίνου  γε  µμέένος  καὶ  ἀγήήνορα  θυµμὸν       τοῖον  ἐµμέέο  προτέέρων  πεύύθοµμαι,  οἵ  µμιν  ἴδον   Λυδῶν  ἱπποµμάάχων  πυκινὰς  κλονέέοντα  φάάλαγγας       Ἕρµμιον  ἂµμ  πεδίίον,  φῶτα  φερεµμµμελίίην·∙   τοῦ  µμὲν  ἄρ'ʹ  οὔ  ποτε  πάάµμπαν  ἐµμέέµμψατο  Παλλὰς  Ἀθήήνη           δριµμὺ  µμέένος  κραδίίης,  εὖθ'ʹ  ὅ  γ'ʹ  ἀνὰ  προµμάάχους   σεύύαιθ'ʹ  αἱµματόόεν  ὑσµμίίνῃ  πολέέµμοιο,       πικρὰ  βιαζόόµμενος  δυσµμενέέων  βέέλεα·∙   οὐ  γάάρ  τις  κείίνου  δῄων  ἔτ'ʹ  ἀµμεινόότερος  φὼς       ἔσκεν  ἐποίίχεσθαι  φυλόόπιδος  κρατερῆς   ἔργον,  ὅτ'ʹ  αὐγῇσιν  φέέρετ'ʹ  ὠκέέος  ἠελίίοιο       Mimnermos fr. 14 West Not indeed was that warrior’s might and courageous heart like this, so I have learned from my forebears, who saw him throwing into confusion the serried squadrons of Lydian cavalrymen

3

4

The latest poet I consider in this paper is Simonides of Keos. Handling of Trojan material by Bacchylides and Pindar would involve an undertaking on a much larger scale: much has already been written about Pindar’s handling of myth, including Trojan myth, see, e.g., NAGY 1990, and for Bacchylides see now the study of FEARN 2007, with an excellent discussion in chapter 5, “Bacchylides 15: Troy in Athens,” at 257–337. Note the term δαµμώώµματα, “presentations to the people,” in Stesichoros fr. 212 Davies. The still-debated issue of whether Stesichoros sang solo or accompanied a chorus singing his compositions is related to the question of context of performance, but either mode of performance might be argued for either context.

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across the plain of the Hermus, a man wielding an ashen spear. In his case never at all did Pallas Athena reproach the piercing might of his heart, when among the foremost fighters he charged in the uproar of bloody war, forcing his way through the stinging missiles of the foe. For no one of the enemy was a man better than him in ranging across the mighty battle-roar’s handiwork, when he was borne like (?) the rays of the swift sun . . .

The usual interpretation of this striking passage is that Mimnermos contrasts a lesser contemporary fighter and one who more successfully fought the Lydians in a previous generation, and that his contrast is modelled on that between Tydeus and his father Diomedes in the Iliad.5 Recently, however, Grethlein has suggested that the relative pronoun in line 2, ὅς, “who” (plural) should be emended to ὡς, “when,” and that the intertextuality with Iliad Book 4 involves a reversal – Mimnermos is offering unqualified praise of a contemporary warrior who has been seen performing spectacular feats on the battlefield. The exploitation of an audience’s presumed knowledge of the Diomedes scene in the Iliad remains, but the case shows how our understanding of the manner of such an exploitation can depend on fine and precarious detail. With Grethlein’s emendation (originally proposed by Meineke) the poet would be contrasting exploits heard from an older generation (and hence perhaps to be doubted as possibly distorted by intentional story-telling?) with what he had seen with his own eyes; “it is not from my forebears that I learned that he was like that, I who saw him . . .” The other problem concerning fr. 14 West is to what poem or type of poem it belongs. I have tended to the view that this is part of a shortish poem composed for sympotic performance.6 But in quoting it Stobaios (our only source) does not (as he does when he cites frr. 4 and 8 West) signal it as coming from the Nanno (which I take to be the title of the standard ancient collection of Mimnermos’ short poems). It is possible, then, that it comes from Mimnermos’ only substantial elegiac poem to be cited in antiquity, the Smyrneis,7 which certainly had parts devoted to a war or battle between the Lydians under king Gyges and Greeks from Smyrna (fr. 13 West) and possibly also treated the foundation of Smyrna. If that is so, and if I am right to suppose that such long elegiac poems were composed for first performance in public festivals, then the intertextuality with the Iliad illuminates not sympotic perspectives on the Trojan War story but what might be appreciated in a public context. The contexts of other Trojan references in the fragments of Mimnermos are even more allusive. Mimnermos was claimed by Demetrios of Skepsis to have mentioned the Trojan hero Daites, though it is not clear that, like Demetrios, he 5 6 7

4.370–400. See the good discussion by GRETHLEIN 2007 (but note that his proposal ὅς  was unfortunately printed as ὡς, as he has kindly confirmed in personal correspondence). For example BOWIE 1986 and 2001. For a review of different positions on the attribution of the fragment see GRETHLEIN 2007, 102 n. 2.

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asserted that Daites received a hero cult from the Trojans.8 It may also have been in relation to Troy or the Troad that Mimnermos introduced the Paionians, from the Axios River in Macedonia, as we know he did from a scholion on the Iliad where, as by Mimnermos, they are picked out for their horses.9 It might even be suggested that the famous fragment which quotes and reworks the words of the Lycian hero Glaukos, son of Hippolochos, to Diomedes in Iliad 6.145ff.10 (a fragment also quoted by Stobaios without indicating the title or category of the poem from which it is drawn) is not an independent and uncontextualised sympotic poem of reflection but part of a longer narrative in which the positions being taken up by indigenous Anatolians and Greek invaders are being explored partly via intertextualities with an analogous situation in the Trojan War. That Homer’s account of events in the tenth year of the Trojan War contributed something to Mimnermos’ poetry, then, seems quite likely, but in our present state of knowledge we can do little more than speculate on what that contribution was. These complexities and uncertainties show how difficult it might be to claim a clear pattern of responses to the stories of the Trojan War in which sympotic poetry is seen to behave in one way and longer, festival poetry in another. Nevertheless there are enough cases, above all in lyric poetry, to make it worth trying, and hence the following analysis examines the surviving fragments under the two broad categories of sympotic and public festival poetry, and subdivides each of these by metrically determined genre. 4.1. EARLY SYMPOTIC ELEGY Prima facie the symposium, with its focus on entertainment and consequent cheerfulness, εὐφροσύύνη, and its tendency to explore or to emphasise the values of the sympotic group against the values of the πόόλις as a whole, is not a place where anything more than casual and decorative exploitation of the Trojan War might be likely to be found. One might expect exceptions, such as the martial exhortatory elegies composed by Kallinos in Ephesos and Tyrtaios in Sparta, sung in symposia but generated by particular military crises.11 But even in surviving fragments of this martial poetry there is very little that can be taken as allusion to epic treatment of the Trojan War in particular.

8 9 10

11

In Athenaios 174a = Mimnermos fr. 18 West. Schol. T. on Iliad 16.287 (ὃς  Παίίονας  ἱπποκορυστάάς) : Μίίµμνερµμος·∙  Παίίονας  ἄνδρας   ἄγων,  ἵνα  τε  κλειτὸν  γέένος  ἵππων  ( = Mimnermos fr. 17 West). Mimnermos fr. 2.1–2 West “but we, like the leaves that are begotten by the many-blossomed season | of spring” (ἡµμεῖς  δ'ʹ  οἷα  τε  φύύλλα  φύύει  πολυάάνθεµμος  ὥρη  |  ἔαρος...), reworking Iliad 6.146 “such indeed as is the generation of leaves, so I say is also that of men” (οἵη   περ  φύύλλων  γενεήή,  τοίίη  δὲ  καὶ  ἀνδρῶν). BOWIE 1990.

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4.1.1. Tyrtaios Tyrtaios fr. 10.21–7 West notoriously stands very close to words of Priam in Iliad 22.71–6:  

 

           

      25      

αἰσχρὸν  γὰρ  δὴ  τοῦτο,  µμετὰ  προµμάάχοισι  πεσόόντα     κεῖσθαι  πρόόσθε  νεῶν  ἄνδρα  παλαιόότερον,   ἤδη  λευκὸν  ἔχοντα  κάάρη  πολιόόν  τε  γέένειον,     θυµμὸν  ἀποπνείίοντ'ʹ  ἄλκιµμον  ἐν  κονίίῃ,   αἱµματόόεοντ'ʹ  αἰδοῖα  φίίλαις  ἐν  χερσὶν  ἔχοντα  –         αἰσχρὰ  τάά  γ'ʹ  ὀφθαλµμοῖς  καὶ  νεµμεσητὸν  ἰδεῖν,   καὶ  χρόόα  γυµμνωθέέντα·∙  νέέοισι  δὲ  πάάντ'ʹ  ἐπέέοικεν  .  .  .   Tyrtaios fr. 10.21–7 West

25

        75    

For indeed this is shameful, that, fallen among the fighters in the forefront, an older man should lie there in front of younger men, with his head already white and his chin grizzled, breathing out his valiant spirit in the dust, holding his bloody genitals in his own hands – these things are shameful to the eyes, and enraging to look upon, and his skin laid bare: but for young men everything is seemly. . .           νέέῳ  δέέ  τὲ  πάάντ'ʹ  ἐπέέοικεν   Ἄρηι  κταµμέένῳ  δεδαιγµμέένῳ  ὀξέέι  χάάλκῳ   Κεῖσθαι·∙  πάάντα  δὲ  καλὰ  θανόόντι  περ  ὅττι  φανῄῃ·∙   ἀλλ'ʹ  ὅτε  δὴ  πολιόόν  τε  κάάρη  πολιόόν  τε  γέένειον   αἰδῶ  τ'ʹ  αἰσχύύνουσι  κύύνες  κταµμέένοιο  γέέροντος,   τοῦτο  δὴ  οἴκτιστον  πέέλεται  δειλοῖσι  βρόότοισιν.   Homer, Iliad 22.71–76

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but for a young man it is in all ways seemly if he is slain by Ares, that he should, sundered by sharp bronze, lie there: and everything is beautiful that can be seen, even though he is dead. but when a grizzled head and grizzled chin and genitals are brought to shame by dogs when an old man is slain, that indeed is a most pitiable thing for wretched mortals.

Many scholars hold that here Tyrtaios reworks the lines our Iliad puts in the mouth of Priam, whereas others, noting that they suit Tyrtaios’ purpose better than Priam’s, suggest they have been added to the Iliad after Tyrtaios12 or (in West’s case) that the poet of the Iliad is working later than Tyrtaios and is refashioning his lines.13 If that is so, it must be insisted that Tyrtaios gives his audiences no prompt that this is a specifically Iliadic trope, and many or most may have heard it

12 13

For a good discussion see RICHARDSON 1993, 113. E.g., cf. ADKINS 1977, 87–92 for what he argues to be Homeric echoes or allusions in Tyrtaios 11 West. WEST 1970, restated WEST 1995, 206.

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as an example of the poetic language of war shared by several epic traditions14 and perhaps by much more martial elegy than survives.

4.1.2. Kallinos The surviving corpus of Kallinos, though smaller, may yield more. Kallinos fr. 1.12–13 West observes “for in no way is it fated that a man should escape death, not even if his stock has immortal ancestors” (οὐ  γάάρ  κως  θάάνατόόν  γε  φυγεῖν   εἱµμαρµμέένον   ἐστιν   |   ἄνδρ’,   οὐδ’   εἰ   προγόόνων   ᾖ   γέένος   ἀθανάάτων): this could be illustrated by cases from the Iliad, above all Sarpedon, or from other poetry of the Trojan cycle, by the fate of Achilles himself, but again nothing in fr. 1 West focuses our thoughts in that direction. Two other details in Kallinos might, however, show him exploiting his own and his audience’s familiarity with the Iliad. Pausanias claims concerning lines of the Thebais that “when Kallinos came to recall these lines he said that Homer was their composer” (τὰ   δὲ   ἔπη   ταῦτα   Kαλλῖνος,   ἀφικόόµμενος   αὐτῶν   ἐς   µμνήήµμην,  ἔφησεν  Ὅµμηρον  τὸν  ποιήήσαντα  εἶναι, 9.9.5 = fr. 6 West). It would be surprising if in the middle of the seventh century Kallinos used the name Homer,15 and I suspect that what Pausanias refers to will have been lines in which Kallinos linked the poets of the Trojan and the Theban Wars – for example as purveyors of “renown,” κλέέος, or as in some other way undertaking similar, or different, poetic composition to his own, perhaps offering them as a precedent for some narrative on which he himself was embarking, as did Simonides much later in fr. 11 West.2 Whether or not this reconstruction is correct, it seems certain that Kallinos referred to the Theban as well as the Trojan cycle. The other fragment that might have made reference to the Iliad is Kallinos fr. 7 West ( = Strabo 13.1.48): Strabo writes that Kallinos was the first to tell the story of the settlement of Hamaxitos, near Chrysa, in the Troad by Teukroi from Crete, a settlement linked with an oracle about an attack by “earth-born” (γηγενεῖς) which was fulfilled by an attack of mice. That the Chrysa and Apollo Smintheus (mouse-god?) of Iliad Book 1 did not play some part in this story would be surprising, and some link with Τρωικάά is the most likely explanation for Kallinos, from a part of the western coast of Asia Minor well south of Troy, mentioning the Troad.

14

15

This is close to the position taken by RICHARDSON 1993, 113. There are also no clear indications of Homeric allusion in the other instance in Tyrtaios of what strikes us as ‘Homeric language,’ e.g., the cases ADKINS 1977, 87–92 argues to be Homeric echoes or allusions in Tyrtaios 11 West. Cf. GRAZIOSI 2002.

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4.1.3. Archilochos Archilochos’ previously-known sympotic elegiac fragments offered only a little that might ask audiences to relate them to the Trojan War. In fr. 13 West it was suggested by Adkins16 that the proximity of  φίίλε,  ἕλκος and φάάρµμακον in lines 6, 7 and 8 might have triggered intertextuality with Iliad 4.190–1, where Agamemnon becomes more optimistic about the outcome of Menelaus’ wounding by Pandaros:      

ἀλλὰ  θεοὶ  γὰρ  ἀνηκέέστοισι  κακοῖσιν     ὦ  φίίλ'ʹ,  ἐπὶ  κρατερὴν  τληµμοσύύνην  ἔθεσαν   φάάρµμακον·∙  ἄλλοτε  ἄλλος  ἔχει  τόόδε·∙  νῦν  µμὲν  ἐς  ἡµμέέας     ἐτράάπεθ'ʹ,  αἱµματόόεν  δ'ʹ  ἕλκος  ἀναστέένοµμεν  .  .  .     Archilochos fr.13.5–8 West But recall that for irremediable ills the gods, my friend, have applied stout endurance as a remedy: one moment one man faces this, at another another; now upon us it has turned, and it is a bloody wound we bewail . . .

     

εἰ  γὰρ  δὴ  οὕτως  εἴη,  φίίλος  ὦ  Μενέέλαε·∙   ἕλκος  δ'ʹ  ἰητὴρ  ἐπιµμάάσσεται  ἠδ'ʹ  ἐπιθήήσει   φάάρµμαχ'ʹ  ἅ  κεν  παύύσῃσι  µμελαινάάων  ὀδυνάάων   Iliad 4.189–91 for indeed I wish it might be so, my dear Menelaus: and a healer will lay hands on your wound, and will apply remedies, which may rid you of black pains

Adkins also raised the possibility that at the opening of the poem there was some sort of allusion to Odysseus’ description of his narrative at Odyssey 9.12–13 and his description of Herakles in Odyssey 11. 601–4:    

κήήδεα  µμὲν  στονόόεντα,  Περικλέέες,  οὔτέέ  τις  ἀστῶν     µμεµμφόόµμενος  θαλίίῃς  τέέρψεται  οὐδὲ  πόόλις.  .  .   Archilochos 13.1–2 West Our lamentable woes, Perikles, neither will any of our fellow townspeople blame, and take pleasure in banquets, nor indeed will the city… σοὶ  δ'ʹ  ἐµμὰ  κήήδεα  θυµμὸς  ἐπετράάπετο  στονόόεντα   εἴρεσθ'ʹ,  ὄφρ'ʹ  ἔτι  µμᾶλλον  ὀδυρόόµμενος  στεναχίίζω   Odyssey 9.12–13 But you have been turned by your heart to ask about my lamentable woes

16

ADKINS 1985.

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so that even more may I lament as I grieve τὸν  δὲ  µμέέτ'ʹ  εἰσενόόησα  βίίην  Ἡρακληείίην,   εἴδωλον·∙  αὐτὸς  δε  µμετ'ʹ  ἀθανάάτοισι  θεοῖσι   τέέρπεται  ἐν  θαλίίῃς  καὶ  ἔχει  καλλίίσφυρον  Ἥβην   And after him I perceived the might of Herakles, his phantom: but he himself among the immortal gods takes pleasure in banquets, and possesses Hebe of the slender ankles Odyssey 11.601–4

It is impossible to verify or falsify Adkins’ suggestions, or even to quantify how much support they should be claimed to be getting from the extra meaning they bring to the Archilochean poem. If they are right, they show both major poems on the Trojan War being drawn upon for purposes that do not affect an audience’s perception of the Trojan War itself. I have recently suggested a rather different exploitation by Archilochos of the Odyssey. That he did this depends on whether or not my arguments for Theognidea 1123–8 being a piece of Archilochean elegy are accepted.17                  

µμήή  µμε  κακῶν  µμίίµμνησκε·∙  πέέπονθάά  τοι  οἷάά  τ'ʹ  Ὀδυσσεύύς,     ὅς  τ'ʹ  Ἀΐδεω  µμέέγα  δῶµμ'ʹ  ἤλυθεν  ἐξαναδύύς,   ὃς  δὴ  καὶ  µμνηστῆρας  ἀνείίλετο  νηλέέι  θυµμῷ     Πηνελόόπης,  Εὔφρων,  κουριδίίης  ἀλόόχου,   ἥ  µμιν  δήήθ'ʹ  ὑπέέµμεινε  φίίλῳ  παρὰ  παιδὶ  µμέένουσα     ὄφράά  τε  γῆς  ἐπέέβη  δειµμαλέέους  τε  µμυχούύς  .  .  .   Theognidea 1123–8 Don’t remind me of my misfortunes: I tell you, I have endured such things as Odysseus did who came back after getting out of the mighty house of Hades, he, indeed, who also killed with ruthless spirit the suitors of Penelope, Euphron, his wedded wife, who waited long for him by the side of his dear son, and when he set foot on his land and its fearful recesses . . .

These six lines raise many more questions than can be explored in this context. The persona of a long-absent traveller who has returned from extreme peril and picks out for especial highlighting Odysseus’ murder of Penelope’s suitors might be taken as a warning to the singer’s drinking companions that he too takes his marriage seriously. Whether this piece of elegiac poetry is by Archilochos or by another archaic singer, it again shows exploitation of names and components of the Trojan War story without any apparent attempt to modify the audience’s perception of it. 17

For an argument that this is a piece of Archilochos, and that Euphron is a proper name, see BOWIE 2008. The key element of the argument is the appearance of what can be read as the name Euphron both in Theognidea 1126 and Archilochos fr. 23.9 West.

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4.1.4. Theognidea As I pointed out in my introduction, the Trojan War is only one of several mythological themes that can be quarried, and that is illustrated by the range of mythological references in the Theognidea. A long elegiac fragment in the Theognidea, 699–718, praising wealth, includes in its comparanda the knowledge of Sisyphos, to which 11 lines are allocated (702–12): this was presumably drawn from some Corinth-related mythology (one might think of Eumelos). The Boreads and Harpies have only two lines (715–16) and are perhaps from some Argonautic material. Two other lines (713–14) compare the ability to spin rhetorical falsehoods, naming Nestor but using phraseology used in the Odyssey of the false tales of Odysseus:      

οὐδ'ʹ  εἰ  ψευδέέα  µμὲν  ποιοῖς  ἐτύύµμοισιν  ὁµμοῖα       γλῶσσαν  ἔχων  ἀγαθὴν  Νέέστορος  ἀντιθεοῦ     Theognidea 713–14 Not even if you could compose falsehoods similar to the truth Possessing the excellent tongue of godlike Nestor

Likewise in the prooemiastic quatrain of ‘Book 2’ of the Theognidea, a collection of homoerotic elegiac poetry that is not easy to date, two Trojan exempla are set alongside that of Theseus (which one would expect to be Attic):          

σχέέτλι'ʹ  Ἔρως,  Μανίίαι  σ'ʹ  ἐτιθηνήήσαντο  λαβοῦσαι·∙       ἐκ  σέέθεν  ὤλετο  µμὲν  Ἰλίίου  ἀκρόόπολις,   ὤλετο  δ'ʹ  Αἰγείίδης  Θησεὺς  µμέέγας,  ὤλετο  δ'ʹ  Αἴας     ἐσθλὸς  Ὀιλιάάδης  ᾗσιν  ἀτασθαλίίαις.   Theognidea 1231–4 Outrageous Desire, it was the Madnesses who took you off and weaned you: because of you perished the citadel of Ilion, perished the son of Aigeus, mighty Theseus, perished Ajax the noble son of Oileus, through his own outrageous acts.

4.2. SYMPOTIC IAMBUS 4.2.1. Archilochos Our most surprising and thought-provoking fragment involves a reworking of a passage from Iliad Book 3. The iambic trimeter poem from which fr. 48 West comes can hardly have been anything other than an erotic narrative, addressed to Archilochos’ friend Glaukos. As a papyrus demonstrates, the narrative was quite long – not less than 32 lines – but the papyrus preserves no more than the first ten

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letters of each line, often fewer. Fortunately two crucial lines are also quoted by Athenaios:      

τροφὸς  κα̣τ̣[ῆγεν]  ἐσµμυριχµμέένας  κόόµμην   καὶ  στῆθος,  ὡς  ἂν  καὶ  γέέρων  ἠράάσσατο.   ὦ  Γλαῦ̣κ̣  ̣[   Archilochos 48.5–6 Their nurse was bringing them down, perfume smeared on their hair and breasts, so that even an old man would have felt desire. O Glaukos…

The clause “so that even an old man would have felt desire” surely alludes to the scene at Iliad 3.139–60 where Helen, accompanied by Aithra and Klymene, appears on the walls of Troy and the old men, too old to fight, comment to each other that it is no disgrace to suffer many years for such a woman. If so, Archilochos plays his game cleverly. A nurse chaperones two girls whose sexual attractiveness depends at least in part on their perfumes, whereas in the Iliad two respectable mythological ladies chaperone the flighty Helen – but Helen’s natural beauty is unquestioned (αἰνῶς  ἀθανάάτῃσι  θεῇς  εἰς  ὦπα  ἔοικεν, 158). By his reference to old men Archilochos sets himself and Glaukos apart from the older men in their community, hot-headed and hot-loined youth against sober old age. The parodic element simultaneously raises and lowers the girls’ status. It may also, coming as it does from the composer of the elegiac shield-poem (fr. 5 West) invite us to question the values of Homeric epic. Morover, it is an easy move from ‘would we rather be chasing girls or be chased by Trojans’ to ‘would you rather I composed erotic narrative to entertain you than heroic hexameter epic?’ Intertextuality with poetry about Troy is thus used by Archilochos to set his sympotic iambic poetry about seduction against Homer’s hexameter poetry about the Trojan War. It is possible that Archilochos’ trochaic tetrameter narratives of the battles of Thasian settlers, most probably fought on the Thracian peraea, were intended for performance to a sympotic audience (but a case can also be made for their performance to a larger civic group).18 Whatever the audience or audiences, the poems are given epic colour by the involvement of Athena19 and of the scales of Zeus.20 But though we as modern readers know these tropes from the Iliad it would be unwise to suppose that for Archilochos’ listeners they were specifically Iliadic rather than generally epic.

18

19 20

In favour of a single addressee within a sympotic group are the single addressees of fr. 88 West (Erxies, cf. fr. 89.29 West) and fr. 105 West (Glaukos, cf. fr. 96.1 West); in favour of a civic group fr. 109 West (“O godforsaken citizens,”  λιπερνῆτες  πολῖται). Frr. 94.1–6 West and 98.6–7 West, cf. ad. el. = Arch. 61.9 West. Fr. 91.30 West.

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4.2.2. Hipponax A final crumb from the table of sympotic iambic is the parodic fragment of Hipponax, fr. 128 West.21        

Μοῦσάά  µμοι  Εὐρυµμεδοντιάάδεω  τὴν  ποντοχάάρυβδιν,   τὴν  ἐγγαστριµμάάχαιραν,  ὃς  ἐσθίίει  οὐ  κατὰ  κόόσµμον,   ἔννεφ'ʹ,  ὅπως  ψηφῖδι    κακὸν  οἶτον  ὄληται   βουλῇ  δηµμοσίίῃ  παρὰ  θῖν'ʹ  ἁλὸς  ἀτρυγέέτοιο.   Tell me, Muse, of the sea-Charybdis, of the stomach-knife, him who does not eat in due order, tell me, so that he may die a wretched death by a wretched vote by public deliberation, on the shore of the unharvested sea.

Like the Archilochos fragments, these lines have epic colour, in this case phrases we know from the Iliad and the Odyssey, and the fact that all four line endings can indeed be paralleled from the Iliad or the Odyssey may suggest it is these, rather than epic in general, on which Hipponax draws for parody.22 For some members of the audience some of the phrases might recall the events on the Trojan plain with whose narrative these poems associate them, but there is nothing to push their minds firmly in that direction, far less suggest to them that they rethink their ideas about Troy.

4.3. SYMPOTIC LYRIC 4.3.1. Sappho and Alkaios

A similar use of martial themes to Archilochos fr. 48 West is notoriously made by Sappho in fr. 16 Voigt.23 The story of Helen’s abandonment through “desire,” ἔρως, of the best of husbands for Paris and for a new home in Troy is used to illustrate Sappho’s claim that for anyone the most beautiful thing is what that person desires, and to lead into a brief account of the analogous abandonment of Sappho by Anaktoria, now terribly missed by Sappho: ο]ἰ  µμὲν  ἰππήήων  στρόότον,  οἰ  δὲ  πέέσδων  

21 22

23

I print the text of GERBER 1999. For the end of line 1 cf. Od. 12.113 (Χάάρυβδιν); line 2 cf. Od. 20.181 (but several times in a different sedes in the Iliad, 2.214, 5.759, 8.12 and 17.205); line 3 Il. 3.417; line 4 Il. 1.316 and 327. For a good discussion see DEGANI 1984, 187–205 and 216–25. For good discussions see HUTCHINSON 2001, 160 and PALLANTZA 2005, 61-79 (with considered assessments of much earlier scholarship).

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        5             10             15              

ο̣ἰ  δὲ  νάάων  φαῖσ'ʹ  ἐπὶ  γᾶν  µμέέλαι[ν]αν   ἔ̣µμµμεναι  κάάλλιστον,  ἔγω  δὲ  κῆν'ʹ  ὄτ-­‐‑   τω  τις  ἔραται.   πάά]γχυ  δ'ʹ  εὔµμ̣αρες  σύύνετον  πόόησαι   π]άάντι  τ[ο]ῦ̣τ'ʹ  ·∙  ἀ  γὰρ  πόόλυ  περσκέέ̣θ̣ο̣ι̣σ̣α   κάάλ̣λ̣ο̣ς  [ἀνθ]ρώώπων  Ἑλέένα̣,  [τὸ]ν  ἄνδρα   τὸν  [.  .  .  άάρ]ιστον   καλλ[ίίποι]σ̣'ʹ  ἔβα  'ʹς  Τροΐαν  πλέέοι̣[σα.   κωὐ̣δ[ε  πα]ῖδος  οὐδὲ  φίίλων  το[κ]ήήων   π̣άά[µμπαν]  ἐµμνάάσθη,  ἀλλὰ  παράάγ̣α̣γ'ʹ  α̣ὔταν                                                ]σαν                ]αµμπτον  γὰρ  [              ].  .  .  ν̣  κούύφως  τ[                  ]οη.[.].   .  .]µμε  νῦν  Ἀνακτορίία̣[ς]  ἀ̣νέέµμναι-­‐‑   σ'ʹ  οὐ  ]  παρεοίίσας   τᾶ]ς  κε  βολλοίίµμαν  ἐρατόόν  τε  βᾶµμα   κ̣ἀµμάάρυχµμα  λάάµμπρον  ἴδην  προσώώπω   ἢ̣  τὰ  Λύύδων  ἄρµματα  κἀν  ὄπλοισι   .  .  .  .  .  ]µμ̣άάχεντας   Sappho fr. 16.1–20 Voigt Some men say that a squadron of horsemen, and some of footsoldiers, and some of ships, is over the dark earth the most beautiful thing: but I say it is that which someone desires.

5

And it is utterly easy to make intelligible to everyone this is so: for she who was by far pre-eminent in beauty among mortals, Helen, left her man who was the finest of all

behind, and went to sailing off to Troy, 10 nor did thought of her child nor of her dear parents enter her mind, but there led her astray .... [ . . . . . . . .] [...] for easily twisted(?) [ . . . ] [ . . . . . .] lightly [ . . . . . . . . . . ] [this?] has now brought back to my mind Anaktoria who is not here: I would rather have her lovely walk and the bright sparkle of her face in my sight than the Lydians’ chariots and men in full armour battling on foot.

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The singer questions male love of war (πόόλεµμος) and admiration for weaponry (well-illustrated by Alkaios fr.140 Voigt = fr. 203 “and the great house glitters with bronze . . .” (µμαρµμαίίρει   δὲ   µμέέγας   δόόµμος   χάάλκωι.   .   . ) and perhaps for heroic poetry, though (s)he does not question the Homeric portrayal of Helen (whether Iliadic or Odyssean). To quote Hutchinson: “in the Homeric poems, Helen acknowledges her error but is sympathetically handled, and the presentation in Sappho is not widely distant. This makes it difficult to see the poem as straight-forwardly antiHomeric.”24 Knowledge of the outline of Helen’s story is needed, knowledge for which the Iliad would be adequate, and reference to that story elevates Sappho’s presentation of her passion for Anaktoria. Not much, if any, reassessment of the Trojan narratives themselves is invited, and the war itself goes unmentioned. At least one fragment of Alkaios works with Trojan War material in a similar way. Fr. 298 Voigt ( = SLG 262), which runs to more than 52 lines, narrated the rape of Kassandra by the lesser Ajax and the destructive consequences for the Greeks at Troy who failed to punish him, and it is clear that it did so to incite Alkaios’ Mytilenean audience to punish Pittakos, and perhaps some of his “comrades,” ἑταῖροι, for a crime or crimes that Alkaios was presumably able to claim was comparable. The long narrative of crime and punishment shows the poet absorbed in telling the story compellingly for its own sake: we cannot be sure whether it modifies any of the details Alkaios might have encountered in a hexameter Sack of Ilion, Ἰλίίου  πέέρσις.25 One or more fragments of Alkaios, frr. 42 and 44 Voigt, and one fragment of Sappho, also coincidentally 44 Voigt, are interestingly different. Brief to the point of miniaturism, Alkaios fr. 42 Voigt appears to link and contrast the marriages of Peleus and Thetis and of Paris and Helen, marriages linked by the death of the child of the first in the war precipitated by the second. ὠς  λόόγος  κάάκων  ἀ[   Περράάµμῳ  καὶ  παῖσ[ι   ἐκ  σέέθεν  πίίκρον,  π[   Ἴλιον  ἴραν.  

                               

παῖδα  γέέννατ'ʹ  αἰµμιθέέων  [               ὄλβιον  ξάάνθαν  ἐλάάτη[ρα  πώώλων,  

24 25

HUTCHINSON 2001, 160. See PALLANTZA 2005, 45-57 for a full discussion.

οὐ  τεαύύταν  Αἰακίίδα̣ι̣[ς   πάάντας  ἐς  γάάµμον  µμακ̣[   ἄγετ'ʹ  ἐκ  Νήή[ρ]ηος  ἔλων  [   πάάρθενον  ἄβραν   ἐς  δόόµμον  Χέέρρωνος·∙  ἔλ[υσε  δ'ʹ   ζῶµμα  παρθέένω·∙  φιλο[   Πήήλεος  καὶ  Νηρεΐδων  ἀρίίστ[ας.   ἐς  δ'ʹ  ἐνίίαυτον  

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οἰ  δ'ʹ  ἀπώώλοντ'ʹ  ἀµμφ'ʹ  Ἐ[λέέναι   καὶ  πόόλις  αὔτων.   As the tale goes, because of evil [deeds grief?] for Priam and his children [came once, Helen(?)], from you, bitter, [and with fire Zeus destroyed] Troy’s sacred city. Not such was the bride the Aiakid [, the noble one,] when all the blessed ones to his wedding [he had invited], took and married from Nereus’ [halls a delicate maiden to the house of Chiron: and he loosed the girdle of the maiden. The love-making [blossomed?] of Peleus and the best of the Nereids. and after a year she gave birth to a child who was of demi-gods the [ ] blessed driver of chestnut colts, but they perished on account of Helen [. . . .] and their city.

No attempt to connect the story with Alkaios’ contemporary world is visible. I am not persuaded by Page’s suggestion that Mytilenean interest in the Troad makes a poem implying (but not describing!) the tomb of Achilles located there a ‘patriotic’ theme for his audience.26 We are simply given Alkaios’ ‘take’ on these particular details of the Trojan War story. Pallantza attractively argues that the person apostrophized was not Helen but Paris, and that it is to him that the phrase “from you”,   ὲκ   σέέθεν, refers. If that is correct, Alkaios is, as she points out, chiefly blaming Paris, and is praising nobility of the sort claimed by Alkaios and condemning an act of treachery and an opportunistic marriage which could both be taken as covert criticism of Pittakos.27 Alkaios fr. 44 Voigt is even less well preserved, and we cannot be sure when it began, though it certainly ended with line 8. If Page was right to think that the poem is complete, its eight lines make it even shorter than fr. 42 Voigt: only of the last three lines is the sense clear – Achilles calls on his mother by name, and she supplicates Zeus to take account of her son’s “wrath,” µμᾶνιν:       5       26 27

ἀγ̣[   ἄκ[   θ.[   ἐ[   µμ[  .  ]ρ̣[.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .]νι  κάάκω  περρ[   µμάάτε[ρ’  ἐξονοµμ]άάσδων  ἐκάάλη  νάά[ιδ’  ὐπερτάάταν   νύύµμφ[αν  ἐνν]αλίίαν·∙  ἀ  δὲ  γόόνων  [ἀψαµμέένα  Δίίος  

PAGE 1955, 278–81. PALLANTZA 2005, 29-35. For earlier discussion see MEYERHOFF 1984, 91–113, DAVIES 1986, RACE 1989. PALLANTZA 2005, 34-42 also disucsses fr. 283 Voigt, arguing persuasively that there too his blame is aimed more at Paris than at Helen.

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ἰκέέτευ’  [ἀγαπάά]τω  τέέκεος  µμᾶνιν  [   [……………] of evil [ . . . . he called upon his mother, naming her, the Naiad who was [supreme] among the nymphs of the deep: and she, clasping the knees [of Zeus] besought him her beloved son’s wrath to [ . . . . . . ]

Again, it seems, we have a miniature whose interpretation is up for grabs, and although intertextuality with the Iliad (24.495–511) is likely28 there is again no hint that Alkaios seeks to change his audience’s perspectives on the war. Returning to Sappho, we find in fr. 44 Voigt a much longer narrative that may, unlike the long fragment 298 Voigt ( = SLG 262) of Alkaios, have had no explicit linkage with the contemporary world:           5           10           15           20  

Κυπρο̣  .  .[                                                                                                ]ας   κάάρυξ  ἦλθε  θε[                                                    ]ελε[.  .  .].  θεις   Ἴδαος  ταδεκα  .  .  .  φ  [.  .]  .  ις  τάάχυς  ἄγγελος   <                                                                                                                                                  >   τάάς  τ'ʹ  ἄλλας  Ἀσίίας  .  [  .]δε.αν  κλέέος  ἄφθιτον·∙   Ἔκτωρ  καὶ  συνέέταιρ[ο]ι  ἄγοισ'ʹ  ἐλικώώπιδα   Θήήβας  ἐξ  ἰέέρας  Πλακίίας  τ'ʹ  ἀ[π'ʹ  ἀι]νάάω   ἄβραν  Ἀνδροµμάάχαν  ἐνὶ  ναῦσιν  ἐπ'ʹ  ἄλµμυρον   πόόντον·∙  πολλὰ  δ'ʹ  [ἐλίί]γµματα  χρύύσια  κἄµμµματα   πορφύύρ[α]  καταύύτ[  .  .  ]να,  ποίίκιλ'ʹ  ἀθύύρµματα,   ἀργύύρα  τ'ʹ  ἀνάάριθµμα  ποτήήρια  κἀλέέφαις.   ὢς  εἶπ'ʹ·∙  ὀτραλέέως  δ'ʹ  ἀνόόρουσε  πάά[τη]ρ  φίίλος·∙   φάάµμα  δ'ʹ  ἦλθε  κατὰ  πτόόλιν  εὐρύύχορον  φίίλοις·∙   αὔτικ'ʹ  Ἰλίίαδαι  σατίίναι[ς]  ὐπ'ʹ  ἐυτρόόχοις   ἆγον  αἰµμιόόνοις,  ἐπ[έέ]βαινε  δὲ  παῖς  ὄχλος     γυναίίκων  τ'ʹ  ἄµμα  παρθενίίκα[ν]  τ  .  .  [  .  .]ο̣σφύύρων,   χῶρις  δ'ʹ  αὖ  Περάάµμοιο  θύύγ[α]τρες[   ἴππ[οις]  δ'ʹ  ἄνδρες  ὔπαγον  ὐπ'ʹ  ἀρ̣[µματ   π[          ]ες  ἠίίθεοι  µμεγάάλω[σ]τι  δ[   δ[          ].  ἀνίίοχοι  φ[.  .  .  .  .  ]  .  [   π̣[          ´]ξα.ο[   several lines are missing [                                                                                          ἴ]κελοι  θέέοις     [                                                                                            ]ἄγνον  ἀολ[λε-­‐‑     ὄ̣ρ̣µματ̣α̣ι̣[                                                            ]νον  ἐς  Ἴλιον,     αὖλος  δ'ʹ  ἀδυ[µμέέλης  [κίίθαρίίς]  τ'ʹ  ὀνεµμίίγνυ[το   25   καὶ  ψ[όό]φο[ς  κ]ροτάάλ[ων  λιγέέ]ως  δ'ʹ  ἄρα  πάάρ[θενοι     ἄειδον  µμέέλος  ἄγν[ον,  ἴκα]νε  δ'ʹ  ἐς  αἴθ[ερα     ἄχω  θεσπεσίία̣  γελ[     πάάνται  δ'ʹ  ἦς  κὰτ’  ὄδο[ις     κράάτηρες  φίίαλαίί  τ'ʹ  ὀ[  .  .  .  ]υεδε[  .  .  ]  .  .  εακ[.]  .  [  

28

See PAGE 1955, 281–3. WEST 1995, 206–7 claims this to be the earliest literary text that shows knowledge of the Iliad.

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30          

5

10

15

20

25

30

µμύύρρα  καὶ  κασίία  λίίβανόός  τ'ʹ  ὀνεµμείίχνυτο·∙       γύύναικες  δ'ʹ  ἐλέέλυζον  ὄσαι  προγενέέστερα[ι,   πάάντες  δ'ʹ  ἄνδρες  ἐπήήρατον  ἴαχον  ὄρθιον   Πάάον'ʹ  ὀνκαλέέοντες  ἑκάάβολον  εὐλύύραν,   ὔµμνην  δ'ʹ  Ἔκτορα  κ'ʹ  Ἀνδροµμάάχαν  θεοεικέέλο[ις].     Sappho fr. 44 Voigt Cyprian [ ] the herald came [ ] Idaios[ ] swift messenger a line is missing ‘and of the remainder of Asia [ ] imperishable renown; Hektor and his fellow-companions are bringing the flashing-eyed girl from sacred Thebe and from the ever-flowing Plakia, delicate Andromache, in ships over the briny sea. And many are the bracelets of gold, and robes of purple, perfumed(?), finely worked things of beauty, and of silver countless drinking cups, and ivory.’ So he spoke: and quickly his dear father leapt up; and report travelled to his friends through the city with its broad dancing-places and at once the sons of Ilios brought beneath the smooth-running carriages the mules, and there climbed upon them the whole gathering of women and of (slender?-) ankled maidens, and apart in their turn the daughters of Priam [ ] and horses were yoked to chariots by men [ ]who were yet unmarried, and greatly [ ] [ ]charioteers [ ] [ ] several lines are missing [ ]like the gods [ ]holy, all together she sets out[ ] to Ilion, and the pipe with its sweet sound and the cithara were mingled and the snap of castanets, and [clearly?] the maidens sang a pure song, and there [came] to the heavens a marvellous ringing, lau[ghter? ] and everywhere there was in the streets [ ] mixing-bowls and cups [ ] myrrh and cassia and frankincense were mingled: and the women uttered a ritual cry of joy, those who were older, and all the men shouted out the lovely high-pitched song, calling on Paion, the far-shooter, fine on the lyre, and they hymned Hektor and Andromache, the godlike.

Again we have the end but not the beginning of a poem, in this case a poem of well over 35 lines. When these become readable on the papyrus there are references to Cyprus or Aphrodite (line 1), then to a Trojan herald Idaios (line 3) whose name is

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known from the Iliad.29 Idaios announces that Hektor and his companions are bringing Andromache from Thebe with a rich dowry; Trojan women mount carriages and men chariots; and the whole city goes out to meet the couple. After a gap in the papyrus we are back in the city, ringing with the music which culminates in praise of Hektor and Andromache. Sappho’s stance here is strikingly different from other Trojan narratives we know. Despite the Trojan perspective of Books 6 and 24, the Iliad’s focalisation is predominantly Greek; more may have been given Trojan focalisation in the Cypria, but there, too, much was presented from a Greek perspective. Here in fr. 44 Voigt the narrator is the only Greek in sight, and the focalisation is wholly Trojan. Sappho has chosen an episode that is no more than implied in the Iliad, and of which we have no evidence that there was any treatment in the Cypria. She zooms in on the rite de passage that for women canonises their excellence, ἀρετήή, in the way that war does that of men, i.e., marriage, and to emblematise it she picks out Andromache’s departure from her father’s house in Thebe (lines 6–7) and her arrival at that of her husband in Troy. Many audiences would surely hear this song against the two mentions of Thebe in the Iliad, and their inclination to do so might be encouraged by Sappho’s use of a higher than usual proportion of non-Lesbian linguistic features.30 In the first Homeric mention of Thebe, Iliad 1.366, Achilles is telling Thetis the story of his dishonouring – the episode Alkaios had compressed into fr. 44 Voigt. Achilles starts at the beginning: ‘we went off to Thebe, sacred city of Eetion, sacked it, brought the loot back, and I got Briseis.’31 In Book 6.414–28, Andromache reminds Hektor how dependent she is on him, because Achilles sacked her city, killed her father Eetion, and killed her seven magnificent cowboy brothers (421–4); her mother, though ransomed, died on return to her father’s house. The Thebe of the Iliad is a city built to be sacked, a mise en abyme of the Trojan War as a whole: Andromache’s marriage to Hektor is the only happy thing about Iliadic Thebe, and that happiness is destined not to last for long. The predominance of the Trojan, the domestic and the festive in Sappho’s poem invites an audience to reflect that there are happier moments embedded in the story of Troy than Homer chose to celebrate. Not that Sappho is suggesting Homer’s narrative is wrong, though it seems she treats Plakie as a river (6) whereas Homer gave a version of the toponym to a mountain: indeed her festive city owes some details to the city at peace on the shield of Achilles in Book 18 that Homer had offered his audiences as a reminder of what is lost in war. Sappho’s poem uses a Trojan scene to highlight the demerits of war in a different way. 29

30 31

7.248ff and 24.325ff. For discussion see PAGE 1955, 63–74, BURNETT 1983, 219–23, PALLANTZA 2005, 79-88, and on Idaios especially 84-5, noting that two of his appearances in the Iliad relate to the ransom of Hektor and suggesting that this and other features of Sappho’s poem suggest that it was intended to be read or heard against that episode. Cf. PAGE 1955, 64–74. 2.689–91, however, has Briseis taken from Lyrnessos, sacked at the same time as Thebe.

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So far I have tried to interpret the poem without reference to context. And since we cannot know the context of first performance, that is only prudent. But the placement of fr. 44 Voigt at the end of Book 2 in the Alexandrian edition of Sappho (known from the subscription in POxy. 2076, cf. 1232) together with the survival of an epithalamic fragment at the very end of Book 1 (fr. 30 Voigt) and an apparently epithalamic fragment somewhere near the end of Book 1 (fr. 27 Voigt), raises the possibility that fr. 44 Voigt is also epithalamic.32 I see no way of deciding if it is or is not an epithalamic poem. What difference would it make if it were? My inclination is to say, not much. The epithalamic context might have pushed Sappho towards choosing the narrative of a wedding for her theme: but she did not have to choose a wedding with so markedly an Iliadic setting, far less one whose bridegroom was destined to die young and whose bride thereafter to be enslaved (to say nothing of Astyanax). If anything, the choice of this narrative for a wedding context might heighten rather than diminish the sense that Sappho is choosing to sing differently from Homer. Another aspect of performance context merits brief mention. Greeks on Lesbos, and Mytileneans in particular, had established settlements in the Troad in the seventh century, and by its last decade Mytilene was contesting one of these, Sigeon, with Athens. Sappho’s own grandfather was perhaps an early settler, if one of the names claimed for Sappho’s father, Skamandronymus (or Skamandros), is indeed correct (it may well not be, and there are other claimants).33 If Sappho is performing in Mytilene, then some members of her audiences have a keen interest in the Troad, and that too may contribute to her perspective. For an Ionian Homer, from some way to the south, the Troad would be more distant and alien. For Aeolians involved in settlements in the Troad the embattled civic life of its small πόόλεις is something they have a stake in, and it might be easy to adopt a Trojan, or Hypoplakian Theban, focalisation. 4.3.2. Ibykos Further south on Ionian Samos, and two generations later, Ibykos used a probably sympotic poem (S151 Davies) to move through a long recusatio of celebration of the Trojan War towards praise of the renown (κλέέος) and beauty (κάάλλος) of his young host – or his old host’s son – Polykrates. It is by no means the only use of the Trojan War by Ibykos, but our remains are still too fragmentary to judge how its use in other Ibykan poems compared with their use of other mythology.34 32 33

34

See PAGE 1955, 125–6. Skamandronymus and Skamandros are given as alternatives in the papyrus life, POxy. 1800 fr. 1, cf. CAMPBELL 1982, testimonium 1. The Suda life (Σ 107 = iv 322 Adler) offers seven names as well as that of Scamandronymus. The Trojan War in Ibykos: the killing of Troilos by Achilles, fr. S224 Davies; the Molionidae fr. 285 Davies; Kassandra fr. 303(a) Davies. For an excellent discussion of the état de la question concerning Ibykos’ poetry in general, and an excellent commentary on Ibykos S151 Davies, see HUTCHINSON 2001, 228–56.

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        5             10             15             20             25             30             35            

.  .  .  ]α̣ι̣  Δαρδανίίδα  Πριάάµμοιο  µμέέ-­‐‑   γ'ʹ  ἄσ]τ̣υ  περι̣κ̣λεὲς  ὄλβιον  ἠνάάρον   Ἄργ]ο̣θεν  ὀρ̣νυµμέένοι   Ζη]ν̣ὸς  µμεγάάλο̣ιο  βουλαῖς   ξα]ν̣θᾶς  Ἑ̣λέένας  περὶ  ε̣ἴδει   δῆ]ριν  πολυύύµμνον  ἔχ[ο]ντες   πόό]λεµμον  κατὰ  [δ]ακρ[υόό]εντα,   Πέέρ]γαµμον  δ'ʹ  ἀνέέ[β]α  ταλαπείίριο̣[ν  ἄτα]   χρυ]σοέέθειραν  δ[ι]ὰ̣  Κύύπριδα·∙   νῦν  δέέ  µμοι  οὔτε  ξειναπάάτ[α]ν  Π̣[άάρι]ν̣   .  .]  ἐπιθύύµμιον  οὔτε  τανίί[σφ]υρ[ον   ὑµμ]νῆν  Κασσάάνδραν   Πρι]άά̣µμοιόό  τε  παῖδας  ἄλλο̣υ[ς   Τρο]ίίας  θ'ʹ  ὑψιπύύλοιο  ἁλώώσι̣[µμο]ν̣   ἆµμ]αρ  ἀνώώνυµμον,  οὐδεπ̣[   ἡρ]ώώων  ἀρετὰν   ὑπ]εράάφανον  οὕς  τε̣  κοίίλα̣[ι   νᾶες]  πολυγόόµμφοι  ἐλεύύσα̣[ν   Τροίί]α̣ι  κακόόν,  ἥρωας  ἐσ̣θ[λούύς·∙   τῶν]  µμὲν  κρείίων  Ἀγαµμέέ̣[µμνων   ἆ̣ρχε  Πλεισθ[ενίί]δας  βασιλ̣[εὺς]  ἄγος  ἀνδρῶν   Ἀτρέέος  ἐσ[θλοῦ  π]άάις  ἐκγ[ο]νος.   καὶ  τὰ  µμὲ[ν  ἂν]  Μοίίσαι  σεσοφι̣[σ]µμ̣έέναι   εὖ  Ἑλικων̣ίίδ[ες]  ἐ̣µμβαίίεν  λογω[ι·∙   θνατ[ὸ]ς  δ'ʹ  ο̣ὔ̣  κ̣[ε]ν̣  ἀνὴρ   διερὸς  τὰ  ἕκαστα  εἴποι,   ναῶν  ὅ̣[σσος  ἀρι]θ̣µμος  ἀπ'ʹ  Αὐλίίδος   Αἰγαῖον  διὰ  [πόό]ν̣τον  ἀπ'ʹ  Ἄργεος   ἠλύύθο̣[ν,  ἐς  Τροίία]ν   ἱπποτρόόφο̣[ν,  ἐν  δ]ὲ  φώώτες   χ]αλκάάσπ[ιδες,  υἷ]ε̣ς  Ἀχα̣[ι]ῶν·∙   τ]ῶν  µμὲν  πρ[οφ]ερέέστατος  α[ἰ]χ̣µμᾶι̣   .  .  .  .]  .  πόόδ[ας  ὠ]κὺς  Ἀχιλλεὺς   καὶ  µμέέ]γας  Τ[ελαµμ]ώώνιος  ἄλκι[µμος  Αἴας   .  .  .  .  .  ].  .  .  [.  .  .  .  .  ]λο[.]  .  υρος·∙   .  .  .  .  .  .  κάάλλι]στο̣ς  ἀπ'ʹ  Ἄργεος   .  .  .  .  .  .  Κυάάνι]ππ[ο]ς  ἐς  Ἴλιον                                          ]                                          ]  .  .[.]  .  .  .  

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.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  ]α  χρυσεόόστροφ[ος   Ὕλλις  ἐγήήνατο,  τῶι  δ'ʹ  [ἄ]ρα  Τρωίίλον   ὡςεὶ  χρυσὸν  ὀρει-­‐‑   χάάλκωι  τρὶς  ἄπε̣φθο[ν]  ἤδη   Τρῶες  Δ[α]ναοίί  τ'ʹ  ἐρόό[ε]σσαν   µμορφὰν  µμάάλ'ʹ  ἐίίσκον  ὅµμοιον.   τοῖς  µμὲν  πέέδα  κάάλλεος  αἰὲν·∙   καὶ  σύύ,  Πολύύκρατες,  κλέέος  ἄφθιτον  ἑξεῖς,   ὡς  κατ'ʹ  ἀοιδὰν  καὶ  ἐµμὸν  κλέέος.   Of Dardanos’ descendant Priam they destroyed the much-renowned prosperous city setting forth from Argos according to the plans of mighty Zeus over blonde Helen’s beauty engaging in a conflict much-hymned, in a tearful war, and up into long-suffering Pergamon did madness climb by reason of the golden-locked Cyprian. But now it is not host-deceiving Paris that it is in my heart, not slender-ankled Kassandra to hymn and the other children of Priam and high-gated Troy’s conquestday, not to be named, nor [shall I review?] the heroes’ valour in its pride – whom hollow ships with many pegs brought to Troy as its destruction, noble heroes: them did ruling Agamemnon lead, kin of Pleisthenes, king, leader of men noble Atreus’ sired son. And on these things the Muses with honed skills dwelling on Helikon might embark well with their tale: but no mortal man in his life could tell all the details, of ships how great a number from Aulis across the Aegean sea from Argos came to Troy the nurse of horses, and in them warriors with brazen shields, sons of the Achaians: of them the most outstanding for his spear

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[ ] swift-footed Achilles and mighty Telamonian valiant Ajax [ f]ire(?) [ [ [ [

]most beautiful from Argos went Kyani]ppos to Ilion ] ]

[ to whom]golden-girdled Hyllis gave birth, and to him, it seems, Troilos, like gold to orichalc, gold that has been already thrice refined, was compared by the Trojans and Danaans as very similar in his beauty. They, then, have a share in beauty for ever; you too, Polykrates, shall have imperishable renown just as my renown too rests in my song.

Of this poem, as all too often, we lack the opening. In the surviving 48 lines Ibykos repeatedly claims he does not intend to tell the story of the war, but in doing so he alludes to language and scenes from the Iliad and Cypria (and also Hesiod). What we come away with is a sense that Ibykos wants to distance himself from other and perhaps hexametric narrations of Τρωικάά, but is quite happy to take from his Trojan vignettes those elements that interest him and that he expects to interest his Polykratean audience. Most prominent among these is the importance of sexual desire and physical beauty in details of the narrative. As in some other fragments of Ibykos, these are interwoven with mythology. Here the part of beauty in precipitating the Trojan War is stressed early in our surviving fragment (“over the beauty of blonde Helen,” ξα]ν̣θᾶς  Ἑ̣λέένας  περὶ  ε̣ἴδει, 5; “by the agency of the Cyprian with her golden locks,” χρυ]σοέέθειραν   δ[ι]ὰ̣   Κύύπριδα, 9). Further on the presence of beautiful people in the conflict is picked out (“slender-ankled Kassandra,” τανίί[σφ]υρ[ον] . . . Κασσάάνδραν, 12; Kyanippos 37; Zeuxippos 40; Troilos 41). But the wandering eye of Ibykos has also picked out a martial detail that would hardly displease his principal host (be it Ajax or Polykrates): the best of the Achaians at Troy were Achilles and Ajax (32–5). Of course that pre-eminence was not controversial (at least until the award of Achilles’ arms to Odysseus). But it can be said with especial force in the house of Aiakes or of his son Polykrates, because by its use of the name Aiakes it is probable that the family is claiming kinship with the Aiakos who was grandfather to both Achilles and Ajax. There is, then, some spin in Ibykos S151 Davies. Poetic spin, elevating the singer above those who simply narrate martial versions of Τρωικάά (whether or not any poet ever did simply that). Sympotic spin, picking out a matter of perennial sympotic importance, the beauty of young men and young women. And some political spin, reminding us that the two most prominent warriors at Troy were kin to Aiakes and Polykrates. Finally there is one of the earliest secure appearances of the

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claim to confer poetic immortality, perhaps implying, but certainly not stating, that the survival of the renown, κλέέος, of the warriors at Troy was also due to the power of Homeric poetry.35

4.3.3. Later Sympotic Elegy: Simonides I can pass rapidly by Anakreon, whose singing seems on present evidence to have been oblivious of the Trojan War, and finish these sections with a brief glance at a sympotic elegy of Simonides. From a papyrus published in 1992 it has emerged that what was already known from Stobaios was an abbreviated version of a longer argumentative sequence. That is now given by fr. 19 West2 (Stobaios 4.34.28 lines 1–5) and 20 West2 (Stobaios 4.34.28 lines 6–13 overlapping POxy. 3965 fr. 26). We knew from the lines transmitted by Stobaios that the moralising message was to enjoy life while we can: “but learning this lesson persist to the end of your life indulging your heart with good things” (ἀλλὰ  σὺ  ταῦτα  µμαθὼν   βιόότου  ποτὶ  τέέρµμα  |  ψυχῇ  τῶν  ἀγαθῶν  τλῆθι  χαριζόόµμενος, fr. 20.11–12 West2). We also already knew that Simonides had explicitly attributed the γνώώµμη of fr. 19.2 West2 to the man from Chios:  

ἓν  δε  τὸ  κάάλλιστον  Χῖος  ἔειπεν  ἀνήήρ·∙   οἵη  περ  φύύλλων  γενεήή,  τοίίη  δὲ  καὶ  ἀνδρῶν.   Simonides fr. 19.1–2 West2 But one thing most fair did the Chian man utter: “such indeed as is the generation of leaves, so I say is also that of men.”

That is indeed Homeric (Iliad 6.146) and, as we have seen, already reworked by Mimnermos. What the papyrus evidence has now also told us is that Simonides returned to quotation of Homer: .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  ]φράάζεο  δὲ  παλα[ιοτέέρου  λόόγον  ἀνδρόός·∙       ἦ  λήήθην  ]  γλώώ̣σσης  ἔκφυγ'ʹ  Ὅµμηρ̣[ος   15        κοὔ  µμιν  ]  πανδαµμάά[τωρ  αἱρεῖ  χρόόνος.   fr. 20.13–15 West2 and heed [the word of a man of] olden times: indeed Homer has escape oblivion of his tongue [ . . .] and him does not] all-conquering [time overtake.

For Simonides, in this elegy at least, Homer’s Iliad has become what it was for so many later Greeks, a quarry for γνῶµμαι, and the Trojan context is not even visible. 35

Theognis’ claim to offer Kyrnos poetic immortality (237–54) must be close in date. See above for a suggestion that Kallinos fr. 6 West might have played with this idea, and below for Simonides fr. 11 West.

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4.4. POETRY COMPOSED FOR PUBLIC PERFORMANCE: LYRIC First I treat lyric poetry, for which Alkman and Stesichoros are our chief witnesses before Simonides. Of these Alkman can be briefly dismissed, since so far the range of his mythological narrative and allusion has included very little relevant to the Trojan War. It is perhaps significant, however, that what he is known to have told of Helen’s adventures relates entirely to her teenage abduction by Theseus, involving as it did Kastor and Polydeukes.36 The evidence for Stesichoros is much richer.37 First, as I noted in my introduction could well be the case, Trojan tales compete with several other ‘cycles.’ From the Argonautic legend Stesichoros drew The Games for Pelias, ἆθλα   ἐπὶ   Πελίίᾳ (frr. 178–80 Davies); from Herakles stories his Geryoneis (frr. 184 and S8– 87 Davies), Cerberus (fr. 206 Davies) and Cycnus (fr. 207 Davies); from the Theban cycle Eriphyle (S148–50 and fr. 194 Davies), Europeia (fr. 195 Davies) and the poem, title unknown, from which comes the magnificent long speech of Iocaste (fr. 222(b) Davies); from the tale of the Calydonian boar-hunt Boar-hunters (frr. 221, 221 and ? 222(a) Davies). There was also a poem entitled Scylla (fr. 220 Davies). That still leaves ample room, however, for exploitation of Τρωικάά: a Helen (frr. 187–191 Davies), the Palinode (frr. 192–3 Davies), a Sack of Troy and/or Wooden Horse (frr. S 88–147 and frr.196–205 Davies); Returns (Νόόστοι: frr 208 and ?209 Davies); and an Oresteia (frr. 210–19 Davies). Does Stesichoros in his treatment of Τρωικάά stand markedly apart from what he found in the tradition, and if so why? In considering the first of these questions we are constantly hampered by our ignorance of the probably numerous mythological variants in circulation by Stesichoros’ time. To answer the second of these questions we should have to know more about the context of his poems’ first performance than we do. For example, from the statement of a scholion on Euripides Orestes 46 (fr. 216 Davies) that Stesichoros (and later Simonides) put Agamemnon’s palace in Lakedaimon and not, as Homer had done, in Mycenae, Bowra argued that Stesichoros was trying to please Spartan patrons. He also proposed that the creation of a nurse for Orestes and giving her the name Laodameia (fr. 218 Davies) was a response by Stesichoros to Spartan claims on Triphylia through a Triphylos, son of Amyklas and a Laodameia; and that his giving Agamemnon the patronymic Pleisthenidas (fr. 219 Davies)38 was a way of dissociating Agamemnon from the Argive or Mycenean Atreus. The same was suggested for his introducing in his Palinode the idea that not Helen herself but a “phantom,” εἴδωλον, went to Troy.39 But we have no explicit evidence that Stesichoros went to Sparta, or even to Lakedaimonian Tarentum in southern Italy. Presently I shall argue briefly that he had purely artistic reasons for introducing the “phantom” (εἴδωλον), and the same 36 37 38 39

Alkman fr. 21 Davies = Paus. 1.41.4, Σ AD Hom. Il. 3.242. PALLANTZA 2005, 90-123 discusses it much more fully than is possible here. In fr. 209 ii 4 Davies Pleisthenidas is used either of Agamemnon or Menelaus. BOWRA 1961, 111–15.

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might be true for the location of Agamemnon’s palace in Sparta (and to repeat my earlier point, we cannot be sure that Stesichoros was the first to put it there). That Stesichoros’ changes to elements in the story of Menelaus, Helen, Agammenon and Orestes were motivated by a Spartan context of first performance is an enticing hypothesis, but it can be no more than that. A further note of caution may be sounded on the basis of fr. 209 Davies, presumably from Returns, Νόόστοι. Its treatment of Penelope’s encounter with Telemachos is very close to that of Odyssey 15.68–170. The difference from Homer lies not in substance but in technique, a rapid movement from one clearly sketched element to another, a technique also well-illustrated in the Geryoneis. The most extensive Stesichorean treatment of Τρωικάά we now have are the fragments that a papyrus title (S133 Davies) assigns to a Wooden Horse, Ἵππ[ος   δούύρειος, which may or may not be the same as the Sack of Ilion, Ἰλίίου  πέέρσις, from which some very short fragments are quoted (frr.196–205 Davies). Given that our hexameter accounts are equally fragmentary it is not at all easy to establish details of divergence from their account, far less any general tendency. Stesichoros was not alone in putting a hundred warriors in the horse (fr. 199 Davies = Eustathius on Od. 11.522). His focus on its maker Epeios’ early career as a water-carrier for the Atreidai may be unusual (frr. 200 and S89 Davies), but it may simply show his eye for telling detail rather than an urge to spin. Telling detail, too, may be the motive for including Klymene among the Trojan captive women (fr. 197 Davies = Paus. 10.26.1): we and some early audiences may recall that Klymene was a named chaperone of Helen at Iliad 3.144. So too what may be unique to Stesichoros, that Hektor was a son of Apollo (fr. 224 Davies = S Lycophron 265) and that Hekabe was carried off by Apollo to Lycia (fr. 200 Davies = Paus. 10.27.2 ). Of course if we knew that the poem was composed for first performance at a Karneia, whether in Lakonia or southern Italy, or at another festival of Apollo, an important god in colonial Sicily, then these innovations might be seen as introduced to honour the god and his cult. But we do not know anything of the sort. Let me turn now to the poem later called the Palinode in which we do know, from the papyrus quoting Chamaileon (fr. 193 Davies), that Stesichoros flaunted his departure from both the Homeric and indeed the Hesiodic narrative. I have already indicated some years ago40 the outlines of how I interpret the evidence for this poem, and shall publish a fuller treatment in due course. Here I must be brief. In the prooemia of the Palinode, the first lines of two strophes of which are quoted by the papyrus, Stesichoros first blamed Homer’s muse for making Homer sing that Helen was at Troy, and not her phantom, and then blamed that of Hesiod. The main part of the poem must have narrated the alternative version that Stesichoros now vouched for, that Helen was somehow transported to Egypt, and spent the duration of the war there. Stesichoros’ ostensible reason for this new version was his becoming blind when he began to compose the poem along the traditional lines; there had followed a

40

BOWIE 1993, 23–8.

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dream in which Helen appeared to him,41 telling him presumably to compose the Palinode and that he would thus recover his sight. That Stesichoros’ recovery of his sight was certainly in the poem is made clear by the phraseology of Plato and Isocrates ( = fr. 192 Davies). This manoeuvre gained Stesichoros the opportunity to sing yet again of one of mythology’s favourite characters, Helen (and as the Iocaste fragment shows, fr. 222(b) Davies, Stesichoros liked writing speeches for feisty women);42 it also allowed him to place himself as a poet on a level with, as well as in opposition to Homer and Hesiod. That he is responding to the political interest of any city or group seems to me quite unlikely: Sparta, suggested by Bowra as the place of first performance, seems to have been as hospitable to the Homeric poems with their only partly reconstructed Helen as all other Greek cities. The poem we have lost was an artistic coup de theatre, not a political sleight of hand.

4.5. POETRY COMPOSED FOR PUBLIC PERFORMANCE: ELEGIAC When we turn to elegiac poetry composed for public performance our evidence continues to be meagre. On the basis of testimonia in later Greek authors I argued in 1986 that several early elegiac poets composed long narrative elegies, probably for performance in public festivals. But until the Plataia elegy of Simonides was published in 1992, very few lines that might have been from such poems survived – perhaps the 40 or so lines, in six separate fragments, of Tyrtaios’ Eunomia. As I have argued earlier,43 most titles we know point to such elegies having been concerned with the early and/or recent history of their poet’s polis, not with panhellenic myth. Two possible exceptions are the Herakles and Deianeira elegy of Archilochos (frr. 286–8 and perhaps fr. 289 West) and the Sack of Troy, Ἰλίίου  πέέρσις, of Sakadas of Argos. I shall return to Herakles and Deianeira shortly, and first consider briefly the case of Sakadas of Argos.44 About the time of the restructuring of the Pythia in 586 BCE, Sakadas, an aulos-player and also a composer of elegies set to music,45 composed and presumably accompanied, on his aulos, a poem entitled Sack of Ilion, Ἰλίίου  πέέρσις. It certainly had an extensive catalogue of the warriors in the horse.46 Since several of the few warriors in the horse mentioned by Homer are Argive one 41 42 43 44 45 46

Attested in the Suda iv 433 Adler, printed as part of fr. 192 by Page in Poetae Melici Graeci, omitted by CAMPBELL 1991 and DAVIES 1991. For a good discussion of this fragment see HUTCHINSON 2001, 120–39, with extensive bibliography 120 n. 9. BOWIE 2001. A full version will appear in the papers of a colloquium held to honour Oswyn Murray in September 2004, to be edited by A. Moreno. [Plut.] De musica 1134a, cf. 1134c. Athenaios 610c.

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might expect very many of those in Sakadas’ version also to be from Argos. We can be fairly sure that it included the episode of the theft of the Palladion, shortly before the sack, by Diomedes and Odysseus, and in a version that was to the discredit of Odysseus. So far as we can know anything at all, then, the poem had an Argive spin; and although it takes a slice of panhellenic Trojan mythology, it is manifestly a slice that was also a major episode in the early history of Argos and was important for explaining the Argive cult of Athena. It is against this background of an elegiac poem composed for public performance that might have straddled the categories of local and panhellenic that I moved forward some 100 years to Simonides’ Plataia poem. This poem, substantial fragments of which were first published in 1992, does not seem to fall into the same category as earlier elegies treating episodes in the recent history of the conflicts of a polis with its neighbours, like Tyrtaios’ treatment of the conquest of Messenia two generations before his own and Mimnermos’ Smyrneis (though as we have seen it is uncertain whether that poem handled contemporary warfare with the Lydians or events Mimnermos had heard only from his elders). But the opening hymn to Achilles and the observation that the dead at Troy gained their immortal κλέέος from Homer’s account allowed Simonides to present himself doing for the heroes of Plataia what Homer had done for Achilles and his generation of ἡµμίίθεοι (fr. 11.1– 20 West). It is of course only one among many cases of the generation of the Persian wars comparing their achievements to that of the Greeks who went on the Trojan expedition. Our evidential basis has been reconfigured once more with the publication in 2005 of the Archilochos Telephos papyrus.47 In it Archilochos narrates the defence by Telephos of his Mysian territory against the Argives/Danaoi who have landed in error, mistaking Mysia for the Troad, and seems to introduce the martial assistance of Herakles (if the supplements that bring him into the story are correct). The point in the text whose solution is crucial for the fragment’s overall interpretation is the transition from the (uncertain) theme of lines 2–4 to the narration of Telephos’ resistance in lines 5ff. (I print the text of OBBINK 2006):       5          

εἰ  δὲ].[  .  .  .  .].  [  ]  .  .  θεοῦ  κρατερῆ[ς  ὑπ’  ἀνάάγκης     οὐ  χρὴ  ἀν]α̣λ̣[κείίη]ν̣  κ̣αὶ  κακόότητα  λέέγει̣[ν   π]η̣µμ̣[α]τ̣’  ε̣ὖ̣  [εἵµμ]εθα  δ̣[ῆι]α  φυγεῖν·∙  φεύύγ[ειν  δέέ  τις  ὥρη·∙     κ̣αίί̣  π̣οτ̣[ε  µμ]οῦν̣ος  ἔ̣ὼν̣  Τήήλεφος  Ἀ̣ρκα̣[σίίδης   Ἀργείίων  ἐφόόβησε  πολὺν  στράάτ̣[όόν,]  ο̣[ἱ  δὲ  φέέβοντο     ἄ̣λκι̣µμ̣[οι,],  ἦ̣  τ̣όόσα  δὴ  µμοῖρα  θεῶν  ἔ̣φόόβει,   αἰχµμητ̣α̣ι̣  περ̣  ἐόόντε[ς]  .  .  .   POxy. 4078 fr. 1.2–8 But if [to flee?] under the powerful constraint of a god ought not to be termed spiritlessness and cowardice, [well did we hasten] to flee our [hostile woes]: [there is a right time] to flee;

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and once, though on his own, Telephos of the stock of Arkasos terrified into flight a numerous host of Argives, and they fled in fear valiant – indeed so much fear does the gods’ destiny bring – spearmen though they were . . .

Given that line 4 has a first person plural verb, it seems that the narrative was in some way related to the situation or beliefs of the persona loquens. Obbink’s initial supplement (in line 4) νῶτ'ʹ   ἐτρεψάάµμεθ'ʹ   αἶψα   φυγεῖν   implied a narrative of Archilochos’ own flight, comparable to his abandonment of his shield in fr. 5 West, a flight which Archilochos defended by reference to a mythological exemplum. Soon after Obbink, following West, proposed instead to read the text which I print (and of which I offer my own translation) above. Both Obbink’s original and his more recent supplement (and as far as I can discover all supplements proposed by other scholars)48 would anchor the poem in a sympotic context, with a set of reflections and perhaps a narrative related to the hic et nunc illustrated by a µμῦθος that is unusually, but not impossibly, long.49 Given, however, the length even of that portion of the narration to survive, I have been tempted to see the papyrus fragment as offering part of a longer narrative elegy like that I argue50 was composed by Archilochos on Herakles and Deianeira, and by Mimnermos on Smyrna’s recent and perhaps early conflicts. That would not be compatible with a first person plural verb in line 4 describing action or even decision-making, but a verb such as “we know,” ἐπιστάάµμεθ'ʹ, which I have proposed,51 would allow the mythological narrative to be unrelated to any account of his own actions by the singer: we could be at the point of transition from a prooemium which had reflections on modes of heroism, general

48 49

50 51

For recent proposals concerning supplements to the papyrus text see BERNSDORF 2006, D’ALESSIO 2006, LUPPE 2005, MAGNELLI 2006, OBBINK 2006, WEST 2006. One might compare, e.g., the priamel at Theognidea 701–16, illustrating the maxim of 699– 700 and 717–18, discussed above, section 3.1.4: but that is a farrago of myths, not a prolonged narration of a single mythical episode. BOWIE 2001. In BOWIE 2009, 151 I tentatively proposed [νῶι  δ'ʹ]  ̣ἐ̣[πιστάάµμ]εθ’  α[ἶψ]α  φυγεῖν, “we two know how to flee at once” or [π]ῇ̣̣µμ̣[α]τ̣'ʹ  ἐ̣[πιστάά]µμεθ'ʹ  ἄ[λλ]α  φυγεῖν  “we know how to flee from other woes,” noting that in the first of these the dual “we two,” νῶι, would locate the myth’s narration in a performace context in which the poem was (ostensibly) addressed to a single individual, i.e. almost certainly a symposium, whereas the second would allow a public performance context. Neither now seems to me very plausible, but I still think it possible that the first person plural verb was ̣ἐ̣[πιστάάµμ]εθ’ (the verb appears twice in Archilochos in a participial form ἐπιστάάµμενος, “knowing” at fr. 1.2 West and ad.el. fr. 61.10 West; and twice in the form ἐπίίσταµμαι, “I know,” at, fr. 23.14 West and fr. 126.1 West) or ἐ̣[δεξάάµμ]εθ'ʹ  “we are told/have received as a tradition,” for which cf. Simonides fr. 11.16 West. An attractive supplement would run [χ]̣ἤρ̣[ω]’   ἐ̣[δεξάάµμ]εθ'ʹ   ἄ[νδρ]α   φυγεῖν “we are told that even a man who was a hero fled” (for the synecphronesis of καίί and a word beginning with an aspirated η cf. Theogn. 160; for the expression ἥρως  ἀνήήρ cf. Od. 1.101): but it might be debated whether this is compatible with the meagre traces of ink on the muchdamaged papyrus. I am very grateful to Prof. Susan Stephens and to Jason Aftosimis at Stanford University for spending time discussing the papyrus.

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and particular (not unlike, therefore, the prooemium in Simonides fr. 11 West) to the particular story the poet is now going to give his audience.52 In either case an aspect of the Trojan saga, Τρωικάά, is being taken up and handled from the point of view not of the Argives but of their enemies. Whether Archilochos saw himself as choosing material that was in the first instance ‘Trojan’ we cannot tell, and we have to allow for the possibility that it was Herakles’ involvement that was crucial for his choice of theme. If that were so, it is appropriate to recall that one of our lost Archilochean elegies, mentioned briefly above, concerned Herakles’ killing the centaur Nessos as he attempted to have his way with Herakles’ bride, Deianeira. I suggest that we may have, in the Telephos and Deianeira poems, two elegies devoted to episodes in the career of Herakles composed for performance in association with the important Herakles cult on Thasos. At the same time the battles of Archilochos as a Parian settler against Thracians (who were doing no more than trying to retain their ancestral lands) may have coloured his handling of the Telephos story.53

4.6. CONCLUSIONS Although mythology related to the Trojan War has no monopoly on these poets’ uses of myth, it is certainly prominent. The genres of poetry that makes most use of myth, and hence of Trojan myth, are inevitably those whose primary mode is narration: the publicly performed long lyric poems of Stesichoros and elegiac Plataia poem of Simonides. But myth, and indeed Trojan myth, is also fundamental for Archilochos’ Telephos, Sappho’s possibly epithalamic fr. 44 Voigt, and Ibykos’ Polykrates poem, fr. S151 Davies. Elsewhere details of the story or language of the Homeric poems can be drawn upon to add extra layers of meaning: this has been seen in the sympotic elegies of Archilochos, Tyrtaios, perhaps Kallinos and Mimnermos, and again Simonides; it has also been seen in sympotic lyric of Alkaios and Sappho. On occasion the exploitation of Trojan myth moves towards re-evaluation of heroic ideals (Sappho fr. 16 Voigt) or of both these and of the Homeric style of narration (Ibykos’ Polykrates poem, fr. S151 Davies). What we miss so far is a protracted questioning of the heroic ideal or of the way Homer’s gods behave such as we find in later fifth-century plays of Euripides. That this absence may be partly to do with the smaller scale of most works in question might be suggested by the fact the nearest we get to such questioning is in the very long speech put by Stesichoros in the mouth of Iocaste: that this is a Theban, not 52

53

It should be noted that even the phrase κ̣αίί̣  π̣οτ̣[ε, which Chris Carey has rightly pointed out to me might suggest a transition to narration of an exemplum, is not secure (LUPPE 2006, for example, offers a different reading of the traces on the papyrus). Moreover the use of . . . ποτε  .  .   . to shift to narration of an exemplum seems not to be found in the Iliad. For apparent sympathy with the defeated enemy cf. Archilochos fr. 101 West.

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Trojan myth reminds us that Troy is not omnipresent, but it may simply be chance that at present we have no such speech by a Stesichorean character in a Trojan context. And it is Stesichoros who gives us, in his Palinode, our clearest example of rejection of a central plank of the Homeric mythological structure and its replacement by something that suited his purpose better. I have questioned, however, the view that this purpose was political spin, and it may be that a text of some or all of Sakadas’ Sack of Ilion would have given us a better example of a poet retelling elements of the Trojan myth in a way that accommodated them to an audience of his fellow Argives, or that a full text of Archilochos’ Telephos poem would disclose some Thasian spin in its account of Telephos and Herakles. It would be pleasing to be able to say that such a spin was more characteristic of poems composed for public performance – as Sakadas’ poem most probably, and Archilochos’ poem arguably, was – but our remnants of this poetry are so lacunose that such a generalisation would be unjustified: and if the papyrus finds tell us anything, it is that we must always be ready for surprises.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY ADKINS, A. W. H. 1985: Poetic Craft in the Early Greek Elegists, Chicago. ANDERSON, M. J. 1997: The Fall of Troy in Early Greek Poetry and Art, Oxford. BERNSDORFF, H. 2006: Halbgötter aud der Flucht – zu POxy. 4708 (Archilochos?) ZPE 158, 1–7. BOWIE, E. L. 1990: Miles ludens? The problem of martial exhortation in early Greek elegy, in O. Murray (ed.) Sympotica. A Symposium on the Symposium, Oxford, 221–9. 1993: Lies, fiction and slander in early Greek poetry, in C. Gill and T. P. Wiseman (eds.) Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter, 1–37. 2001: Ancestors of historiography in early Greek elegiac and iambic poetry, in N. Luraghi (ed.) The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford, 45–66. 2008: Sex and politics in Archilochus, in D. Katsonopoulou, J. Petropoulos and S. Katsarou (eds.) The World of Archilochus, Athens, 133-41. 2009: Historical narrative in archaic and early classical Greek elegy, in D. Konstan and K.A. Raaflaub (eds.) Epic and History, Malden, MA and Oxford, 145-166. BURGESS, J. 2001: The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle, Baltimore and London. BURNETT, A. P. 1983: Three Archaic Poets, London. D’ALESSIO, G. B. 2006: Note al nuovo Archiloco, ZPE 156, 19–22. DAVIES, M. 1986: Alcaeus on Helen and Thetis, Hermes 114, 399–405. FEARN, D. 2007: Bacchylides. Politics, Performance and Poetic Tradition, Oxford. GERBER, D. E. 1999: Greek Iambic Poetry, Cambridge, MA, and London. DEGANI, E. 1984: Studi su Ipponatte, Bari. GRETHLEIN, J. 2007: Diomedes redivivus. A new reading of Mimnermus fr. 14 W2, Mnemosyne 60, 102–11. LUPPE, W. 2006: Zum neuen Archilochos (POxy. 4708), ZPE 155, 1–4. MAGNELLI, E. 2006: On the new fragments of Greek poetry from Oxyrhynchus, ZPE 158, 9–10. MEYERHOFF, D. 1983: Traditoneller Stoff und individuelle Gestaltung. Untersuchungen zu Alkaios und Sappho, Hildesheim. NAGY, G. 1990: Pindar’s Homer. The Lyric Possession of an Epic Past, Baltimore and London. OBBINK, D. 2005: Archilochus Elegiacs (more of VI 854 and XXX 2507) in Oxyrhynchus Papyri 89, 18– 42 no. 4078 fr. 1. 2006: A new Archilochus poem, ZPE 156, 1–10. PAGE, D. L. 1955: Sappho and Alcaeus, Oxford.

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PALLANTZA, E, 2005: Der Troische Krieg in der nachhomerischen Literatur bis zum 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Hermes Einzelschriften, 94, Stuttgart. RACE, W. H. 1989/90: Sappho fr.16 L.-P. and Alkaios, fr. 42 L.-P.: Romantic and classical strains in Lesbian lyric, CJ 85, 16–33. RICHARDSON, N. J. 1993: The Iliad: A Commentary, G. S. Kirk (gen. ed.), vol. 6: books 21–4, Cambridge. WEST, M. L. 1970: Archilochus and Tyrtaeus, CR 20, 147–51. 1995: The date of the Iliad, MH 52, 203–19. 2003: Greek Epic Fragments from the Seventh to the Fifth Centuries BC, Cambridge, MA, and London. 2006: Archilochus and Telephus, ZPE 156, 11–17.

5. THE GREAT RHETRA (PLUT. LYC. 6): A RETROSPECTIVE AND INTENTIONAL CONSTRUCT? Massimo Nafissi It is today widely recognised that traditions of origins play a crucial role in the definition of the collective identity of any society. For the Greeks in particular, the creative elaboration of ‘memories’ of the origins of their communities is exceptionally well documented. Correspondingly, stimuli from the social sciences, and especially from research on oral tradition and collective memory, have comprehensively reorientated our approach to archaic Greek history.1 For most scholars, it is now obvious that stories about origins, because of their social function, can shed light on the contexts from which they originated, and when such stories are used as historical evidence, scholars tend to ignore, at least initially, their referential contexts, i.e., the events such traditions purport to talk about. This is the approach to the great rhetra that will be taken in the present contribution, with ideas scattered in the ocean of scholarship that covers this text being revived in the light of this new approach. My thesis is that the great rhetra is not a law that was in reality approved at any point in time, but rather the intentional reconstruction of a legislative/oracular act that was thought to have created the Spartan community. In other words, the great rhetra purports to describe the origins of Sparta, but offers evidence for the context in which it was composed. Therefore, the following pages will explore the heuristic value of ‘intentional history’2 for the purpose of historical reconstruction in a particular case, that of documents which in the past would have been set aside as ‘forgeries.’

5.1. FOUNDATION STORIES AND TRADITIONS ON LAWGIVERS: THE CASE OF SPARTA Narratives on the great lawgivers, with their topoi and their implicit logic, constitute a well-defined and well-investigated genre.3 They were extensively elaborated by ancient historians, philosophers, and learned men of various sorts, ac*

1 2 3

An earlier version of this essay was presented to the Instituto de Filología of the UNAM of Ciudad de Mexico in March, 2006, and in May of the same year to the Graduate School in Ancient History of the Università di Perugia. Beside the colleagues who discussed it with me on those and other occasions, I would like to thank Nino Luraghi i.a. for the time he devoted to improving the English version of this paper. On these topics see the crisp and perceptive synthesis of GIANGIULIO 2007b. GEHRKE 1994; GEHRKE 2001. SZEGEDY-MASZAK 1978; HÖLKESKAMP 1999, 44–59.

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cording to their several agendas and often with clear patriotic-propagandistic goals.4 Insofar as they constituted a living component in the culture of the relevant communities, these traditions contributed to the construction of collective identities and show that dynamic relationship and reciprocal interaction between past and present that is typical of intentional history, as defined by H.-J. Gehrke. Stories about lawgivers in many ways resemble foundation stories of Greek cities. The latter were charters for the unity of the citizen body, the former for the validity of the rules that regulated its life. By virtue of their connection to an ancient and venerable lawgiver – often established in a clearly arbitrary way – the nomoi in force in the city assumed a timeless nature and greater legitimacy, becoming more binding in the present.5 Furthermore, stories about lawgivers often functioned in collective memory as a sort of ‘second foundation.’ Thanks to the intervention of a wise lawgiver, an already-existing community had passed from disorder to order. Such a function is typically present in the case of lawgivers who were in some way chronologically anchored in the relatively recent past of the city and could not be projected back to its origin. One thinks for instance of Solon, who in his own poetry remembered the poor conditions of the polis in the time before his action. Obviously, their legislation could only be seen as a ‘second foundation’ of the city. However, the attractive idea of the passage from anomia to eunomia promoted by the lawgiver appears also in traditions regarding lawgivers we are used to considering as mythical. Such is clearly the case with the narratives regarding Lykourgos, beginning with the one told by Herodotos (1.65 f.).6 Lykourgos represents a particularly clear case of the functional analogy between lawgiver and founder in the memory of Greek political communities. While other lawgivers did not usually receive hero cults in their own cities,7 Lykourgos was honoured by the Spartans as a hero, or rather as a god.8 It is well known that oikists’ cult places were a central place for memory and identity for the poleis: hero cult was the rule, but divine honours are not unheard of.9 Like an oikist, Lykourgos received oracles from Delphi, which in his case activate the topos of divine inspiration frequent among lawgivers.10 4 5 6 7 8

9

10

Cf. e.g., Isoc. 4.39; 12.152–5 on the priority of Athenian over Spartan legislation. As SZEGEDY-MASZAK 1978, 208, put it, the codified law was “the hidden hero of the legends.” Cf. ibid. 203; HÖLKESKAMP 1999, 47. PARADISO 2000. MCGLEW 1993, 109. After Hdt. 1.65f., where the Delphic oracular response addresses also the question of the form of the worship of Lykourgos, divine or heroic, see Ephoros FGrHist 70 F 118; Arist. fr. 534 Rose ap. Plut. Lyc. 31.4; Nic. Dam. FGrHist 90 F 56.2; Paus. 3.16.6. On the cult of the theos Lykourgos in the imperial age, HUPFLOHER 2000, 178–82. Divine cult is not rare in the case of oikists: see e.g., Tennes on Tenedos (LESKY 1934, 502– 3), Autolykos at Sinope (Strabo 12.3.11) and Phalanthos at Taras (Iust. 3.4.18; SEG 34.1020– 1), whose legend (Iust. 3.4.13–15) tellingly follows in some ways the pattern of traditions about the lawgivers; cf. similar stories about Solon (Plut. Sol. 32.4; Diog. Laert. 1.62 with Crat. fr. 246 K.-A.) and Lykourgos (Iust. 3.3.11f.; Aristocr. FGrHist 591 F 3). SZEGEDY-MASZAK 1978, 204f.; HÖLKESKAMP 1999, 47f.

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The functional analogy between lawgivers and founders operates in the other direction, too: some founder heroes and kings were also lawgivers, who, at the time of the city’s birth, had established nomoi for the rising community. A law for the protection of landed property was attributed to Oxylos, the mythical herofounder of Elis,11 and the origins of Crete and its orderly way of life were traced back to Minos and Rhadamanthys.12 Such stories, which attribute the creation of the civic institutions and customs to royal founders, are attested also for Sparta. At the end of the fifth century, Hellanikos of Lesbos attributed the creation of the Spartan institutions to the kings Eurysthenes and Prokles, the founders of Dorian Sparta (FGrHist 4 F 116). However, for a reason that would be worth investigating in greater depth, Sparta preferred to connect its nomothesia to a figure who was of royal lineage, but was not a king. We could preliminarily speculate that the Spartans did not want to link with their basileia, of itself highly charismatic, the origins of those very same nomoi to which the kings themselves owed obedience.13 Although the tradition about Lykourgos is mainly structured according to the narrative theme of the ‘second foundation,’ in the Constitution of the Lakedaimonians (10.8) Xenophon refers to a tradition according to which Lykourgos lived at the time of the Herakleidae (!""#$%#&$'()$*+,$-.".)/(.(0)$01(0)$02$,/*0)$ 34567$ 5.89:;$ ?0@&%0:$ ?.(#$ (0A:$ B&.?"36C.:$ "9%3(.)$ %3D ,95E.)), at the beginning of Dorian Sparta.14 In all likelihood, this is a conscious choice, in line with Xenophon’s extreme idealisation of Sparta: arche and akme coincide, and the shadow of a period of disorder is banned from Sparta’s past.15 Even though it is conceivable that Xenophon wanted to emphasise Lykourgos’ antiquity for the sake of the argument, it would take strong reasons to believe that his expression was intentionally vague and had no real support in pre-existing traditions, traditions obviously different from those known to Herodotos and Ephoros.16 11 12

13 14

15 16

Arist. Pol. 6.1319a 12 ff.; cf. HÖLKESKAMP 1999, 97–9 and 50, on the fact that his being oneeyed connects him to the traditional image of the lawgiver. See e.g., Ephoros FGrHist 70 F 147 ap. Strabo 10.4.8, F 149 ap. Strabo 10.4.19; Nicol. Dam. FGrHist 90 F 103a ap. Stob. 4.2.25 Hense (GEHRKE 1997, 60–5 esp. 64; HÖLKESKAMP 1999, 47). In Diod. 5.78.2f. Minos is lawgiver and founder of Knossos, Phaistos and Kydonia. Often the lawgiver seems to constitute a potential danger for the autonomy of the law; see SZEGEDY-MASZAK 1978, 207; MCGLEW 1993, 107–9; HÖLKESKAMP 1999, 51–3. Xenophon’s view is echoed by Plutarch (Lyc. 1.5f.), who feels the necessity to explain that ?.(#$(0A:$B&.?"36C.: is to be understood as a reference to the time of the return of the Herakleidae. See PARADISO 2000, 385–9. Xenophon’s mention of the Herakleidae can hardly be taken as an imprecise reference to the tradition reported by Herodotos 1.65 (so OLLIER 1934, 52f. and recently KÕIV 2003, 148; the same opinion seems to be endorsed by TIGERSTEDT 1965–78, I, 72, cf. 458 n. 486), which implies that Lykourgos was a son of Agis I (cf. MEYER 1892, 276; obviously not a brother, as KÕIV 2003, 148 and 163 n. 83 seems to think). Other scholars admit that Xenophon’s view originated from the Spartans, but that it was a fourth-century innovation: DEN BOER 1954,

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Xenophon’s view has remained marginal. Ancient sources preserve only faint traces of this primitive foundational moment: Plato mentions the oaths exchanged in the beginning between kings and their peoples in the Dorian Peloponnese, one of which is clearly based on the model of the yearly oath exchanged between kings and ephors (Leg. 3.684a), and refers to equality as an original condition, owing to the ‘colonial’ nature of the Spartan community (Leg. 3.684d–e; 5.736c). Ephoros’ insistence on king Agis’ role in the institution of the status of the perioikoi and the Helots (FGrHist 70 F 117) should probably be seen in the framework of his polemic against Hellanikos, in which he emphasised that the eponymous of the royal families had not been Eurysthenes and Prokles, but Agis and Eurypon (FGrHist 70 F 118). On the other hand, the tombs of the wives of Eurysthenes and Prokles, located near to Lykourgos’ shrine (Paus. 3.16.6), seem to make best sense from the point of view involved in Xenophon’s tradition. However, our sources usually place Lykourgos later, a few generations or more after Eurysthenes and Prokles. According to Herodotos, he was the guardian of the Agiad king Leobotes, three generations after Eurysthenes, while for Ephoros (FGrHist 70 F 118, 149.19 and 173), whose ordering of earlier sources and tradition was enormously influential, he was the guardian of the Eurypontid Charilaus, the sixth (counted inclusively) descendant of Prokles. The great hellenistic chroniclers (Eratosthenes FGrHist 241 F 2; Apollodoros of Athens (FGrHist 244 F 64) translated this last genealogy into exact numbers: thus, Lykourgos would have legislated 118 years after the first year of Prokles’ reign, in 885/4 BCE. According to the Aristotelian Constitution of the Lakedaimonians (fr. 533 Rose), whose views are particularly important for our perspective, Lykourgos was even more recent: he lived at the time of the first Olympic Games in 776/5 BCE. As much was ‘documented’ by the disc of Iphitos, a false document forged around 360 BCE which included the names of Iphitos – the founder of the Olympic games according to Elean tradition – and of Lykourgos.17 Timaios (FGrHist 566 F 127), who followed the most common chronology for Lykourgos, thought that the Lykourgos connected to the institution of the games was only a namesake of the Spartan lawgiver. We should not be surprised that in the oral context of local culture different stories about Lykourgos, at variance regarding aspects such as genealogy, chronology or the circumstances of his life, could survive side by side for some time and be transmitted. Such contradictions did not involve the substance of his role in collective memory, and therefore could be tolerated in the occasional actualisations of the discourse about Lykourgos, which, we can imagine, occurred in connection with his cult (Hdt. 1.66.1) or in political debate. The various stories that

17

121–3 offered the unconvincing speculation that it originated in opposition to the date implied by the disc of Iphitos, on which see below, n. 17; Jacoby (FGrHist III B, Noten, 358 n. 12 and 359 n. 25) sees it as a reaction to king Pausanias’ treatise against the laws of Lykourgos, on which see below §2, with bibliography n. 62. See NAFISSI 2000, 309 and 321.

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were evoked in Sparta at different points in time became irreconcilable only when compared in the systematic way made possible by writing.18 Ancient historiography and erudition took care to bring order to this problem. Various factors favoured the disappearance of Xenophon’s ‘high’ chronology for Lykourgos in their systematic works. Certainly the authority of Herodotos’ views, followed already by Thucydides (1.18.1),19 and of Ephoros’ had an important impact, especially since they offered the appealing pattern of the transition from anomia to eunomia. We should, however, not underestimate the importance of Xenophon’s testimony in assessing other pieces of information about Lykourgos. I shall leave these considerations for the time being, and go on to the great rhetra.

5.2. THE RHETRA AND ITS RELATIONSHIP WITH THE ORACLES IN PLUT. LYC. 6.10 AND DIOD. 7.12.6 (TYRT. FR. 1B AND °14 G.-P. = FR. 4 W.) In the study of the dawn of Greek political institutions, students of Sparta appear privileged in having access to an ancient document that might constitute a foundation charter of those institutions: the great rhetra.20 The text of the rhetra is preserved and commented upon by Plutarch (Lyc. 6), who calls it a Delphic oracle received by Lykourgos. Plutarch derived text and commentary from the lost Peripatetic Constitution of the Lakedaimonians (an opinion of ‘Aristotle’ is quoted in paragraph 6; for convenience, I shall call the author of this treatise simply ‘Aristotle’ from now on).21 Clearly, in interpreting the text, ‘Aristotle’/Plutarch’s commentary is not binding. Ancient interpreters divided the rhetra in two parts: first they cited its main part and then, after some comments (6.8 or 6.4), a clause that, according to Plutarch and ‘Aristotle,’ “the kings Polydoros and Theopompos inserted (…) into the 18 19 20

21

THOMAS 1989, 180 and 183f. PARADISO 1995. Even Starr, in an article rightly praised for its cautiousness (1965), pointed out “the amazing fact that we have an undoubtedly genuine constitutional enactement in prose before 600 BC” (in WHITBY 2002, 37). An essential bibliography on the great rhetra should include: MEYER 1892; WADE-GERY 1943–4; HAMMOND 1950; JEFFERY 1961a, 144–7; FORREST 1963; KIECHLE 1963, 142–76; PAVESE 1967; SEALEY 1969; STEINMETZ 1969; OLIVA 1971, 71– 102; BRINGMANN 1975; ROUSSEL 1976, 233–45; LÉVY 1977; CARTLEDGE 1979, 134f. = 2002, 115–17; WELWEI 1979; BRINGMANN 1980; CARTLEDGE 1980; NAFISSI 1991, 51–81; RUZÉ 1991, 15–30; PAVESE 1992; WALTER 1993, 157–65; OGDEN 1994; MUSTI 1996; THOMMEN 1996, 30–44; LIBERMAN 1997; RUZÉ 1997, 157–72; MEIER 1998, 186–207 and 243–53; RICHER 1998, 93–115; VAN WEES 1999; LINK 2000, 19–30; LIPKA 2002a; MAFFI 2002; MEIER 2002; VAN WEES 2002; LÉVY 2003, 23–36; KÕIV 2003, 186–205; LINK 2003; THOMMEN 2003, 34–7; LUTHER 2004, 29–59; WELWEI 2004, 59–69; KÕIV 2005; DREHER 2006; LUTHER 2006, 84–6; RAAFLAUB 2006, 394–8. On the peripatetic Constitution of Sparta as a source for the rhetra, see e.g., TIGERSTEDT 1965–78, I, 54, 282; Piccirilli, in MANFREDINI – PICCIRILLI 1980, 234.

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rhetra.” Anglo-Saxon scholars call this amendment ‘the rider.’ I translate the text22 as if it were unitary. I am sure that it can be done in this way and will explain why later on. 1. Having founded a cult of Zeus Syllanios and Athena Syllania, having kept the divisions of [or: “divided”] the people in tribes (phylas phylaxanta) and having divided it in obai (obas obaxanta), 2. having appointed a council (gerousia) of thirty members, including the founders (archagetai), celebrate regularly the apellai between Babyka and Knakion. 3. Bring in (eispherein) and set aside (aphisthasthai) (proposals) as follows (houtos): 4. to the people must go (and here there is a corrupted word) and the final decision, (…) 5. (the rider) but if the people asks for something crooked (probably better than “speaks crookedly”) the elders and the founders are to be setters aside (apostateras) (author’s trans.; numeration added).

Some brief comments on this translation are in order. The aorist participles indicate acts to be carried out only once, while the present infinitive, with the function of an imperative, stands for actions that should be repeated in the future. As to their subjects, Pavese rightly remarked that with the infinitive imperative the subject can remain indefinite and can be deduced from the context.23 Re. 1. The meaning of the epithets Syllanios and Syllania is obscure. The text may be corrupt. However, none of the various corrections that have been proposed seems very convincing.24 8>"FG.,(. can be understood as a form of 8>"F55H (to preserve) or of the otherwise unattested 8>"FIH (cf. the coupled JKFIH, a hapax legomenon as well; the two verbs would mean “to divide into 8>".6” and “into JK.6” respectively). Some have thought that it may allude to both, 25 but the quantity of the first vowel is different in the two cases (8L"F55H and 8M"FIH). One must choose. Against the prevailing view,26 I would opt for 8L"F55H. Re. 2. As ‘Aristotle’ explains, the Knakion is a river and the Babykas a bridge (Plut. Lyc. 6.4). “Regularly” is a loose translation of a loose expression: N&.:$OG$ N&.: has a strong implication of perpetual repetition and could mean “every year (at the same season),” “at every season,” “every month”; its exact meaning de-

22

1. P)Q:$R>"".,60>$?.S$TE.,U:$R>"".,6.:$23&Q,$2C&>5F*3,0,7$8>"#:$8>"FG.,(.$ ?.S$ JK#:$ JKFG.,(.7$ VW$ (&)F?0,(.$ %3&0>56.,$ 5A,$ !&X.%9(.):$ ?.(.5(Y5.,(.7$ N&.:$OG$N&.:$!-3""FI3),$*3(.GA$Z.K[?.:$(3$?.S$\,.?)],0:7$^W$0_(H:$34589&3),$ (3$?.S$!865(.5E.);$`W$CF*a$$bWWWc$?.S$?&F(0:W$dWWWe$fW$g4$C+$5?0")#,$%3,9.:$ ?.S$ !&X.%9(.:$ !-05(.(i&.:$ 3j*3,W For the corrupted sentence (4.) cf. below. 23 PAVESE 1992, 266, referring to SCHWYZER – DEBRUNNER 1950–9, II, 620 and FRAENKEL 1950, 44 (ad Ag. 71). 24 OLIVA 1971, 77f.; Piccirilli in MANFREDINI-PICCIRILLI 1980, 234. As LÉVY 1977, 90 noted, the meaning of the epithet must have been clear to Plutarch, for he does not comment on it. 25 NAFISSI 1991, 80f.; WALTER 1993, 160f. 26 Expressed e.g., by LUTHER 2004, 36.

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pended probably on that of !-3""FI3),,27 an allusion to a yearly(?) festival of Apollo, when political meetings also took place.28 Re. 3. On the translation of 0_(H: as proleptic, see below (§3.). As for the verb !865E.*.), Thucydides (4.118.9) puts it in a Spartan mouth in the sense of “to stand aloof from,” which in this case means “to refuse to discuss a proposal during negotiations.”29 Note that the verb takes the genitive. This at least partly explains the corruption in the following phrase (4.) which, in the most ancient manuscripts, appears as %.*HCU,$%0&)U,$k*k,. Evidently the two initial words had to be Doric plural genitives for the scribes.30 Probably k*k, is a corruption of the Doric infinitive 3j*3,; with no accent in the manuscripts, k*k, must have puzzled the scribes.31 The exact wording is perhaps no more recoverable, but the general meaning of the sentence is clear. As the explanation by Plutarch/‘Aristotle’ shows (“When the populace was assembled, Lykourgos permitted no one else except the elders and kings to make a proposal, although the authority to decide upon what the latter put forward did belong to the people. Later, however, when the people distorted proposals and mauled them by their deletions and additions, the kings Polydoros and Theopompos…”),32 it implied that proposals had to be presented to the people and that the people had to have ultimate

27 28

29

30

31

32

WADE-GERY 1943–4, 66–8; DEN BOER 1954, 165–7; OLIVA 1971, 92; LÉVY 1977, 95f. Plutarch/‘Aristotle’ explains !-3""FI3), as O??"k5)FI3),$ (6.3). The current consensus, based on ancient evidence, is that the Spartan assembly was actually called O??"k56. (STE. CROIX 1972, 346f.). WELWEI 1997 has, however, revived the once widespread view that the name of the Spartan assembly was indeed apella. Lately, LUTHER 2006 has suggested that O??"k56.)$were the monthly political meetings, while the annual assemblies in which elections took place were called !-9"".); (even if accepted, this does not mean that the great rhetra implies the existence of the ephors, as he maintains). (0l:$ *+,$ =.?3C.)*0,60):$ ?.S$ (0l:$ G>**FX0):$ (.@(.$ C0?3l;$ 34$ C9$ ()$ m*l,$ 3n(3$ ?F"")0,$ 3n(3$ C)?.)/(3&0,$ (0[(H,$ C0?3l$ 3j,.)7$ 4/,(3:$ O:$ =.?3C.6*0,.$ C)CF5?3(3;$ 0oC3,Q:$%#&$!-05(Y50,(.)7$'5.$p,$C6?.).$"9%k(37$0q(3$02$=.?3C.)*/,)0)$0q(3$02$ G[**.X0). Ruzé’s interpretation of aphistasthai as “laisser faire,” “laisser le débat se dérouler jusqu’à son terme, l’assemblée gardant toute sa responsabilité” (1997, 167; cf. RUZÉ 1991; recently developed by VELISSAROPOULOS-KARAKOSTAS 2005) seems difficult to accept: cf. MAFFI 2002, 199–205. For a list of further, less likely interpretations, see LUTHER 2004, 38 n. 122. Other manuscripts have %.*HCU,$%0&).,6*k, (probably meant to be taken as an accusative with ?.S$?&F(0:) or %.*HCU,$%0&)U,$r*k, (or s$*t,, with circumflex added above s]): cf. the apparatus to Manfredini’s edition, MANFREDINI-PICCIRILLI 1980, 28. Aristotle transmitted the text with the dialectal color of the doris mitior (PAVESE 1992, 263f.); the passage from 3j*3, to k*k,$or )*k,, with consequent variation between the two forms, does not seem impossible; the alternative !"#$! (PAVESE 1967 and 1992; cf. GIANOTTI 1971; LÉVY 1977, 98f.) is also possible, but cf. below n. 56. Plut. Lyc. 6.6f. (trans. R. Talbert). (0@$ C+$ -"YE0>:$ !E&0)5E9,(0:$ 34-3l,$ *+,$ 0oC3,S$ %,u*k,$ (],$ v""H,$ O83l(07$ (t,$ Cwm-Q$ (],$ %3&/,(H,$ ?.S$ (],$ K.5)"9H,$ -&0(3E3l5.,$O-)?&l,.)$?[&)0:$x,$"3[3), as “deliberare in aggiunta” (258) is unparalleled and rests on the supplement of an accusative (5?0")/,) to a transmitted text where the direct object of O-)K0>"3[3), is an indefinite pronoun (()). RICHER 1998, 323–56. For MAFFI 2002, 196, the fact that only kings and gerousia have the right to propose a bill is one of the few things that the evidence makes “sufficiently clear.” Plut. Lyc. 7; cf. below. §3. PAVESE 1992, 278f.; VAN WEES 1999, 34 n. 62; cf. WADE-GERY 1943–4, 70. Ç06K0>$!?0[5.,(3:$y>EH,/E3,$0n?.Cw$h,3)?.,$$ $$$$*.,(36.:$(3$E30@$?.S$(3"93,(w$h-3.;

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97

Having listened to Phoebus, they brought home from Delphi prophecies of the god and words that will come true. Counsel is to begin with the divinely honoured kings, who have the lovely city of Sparta in their care, and with the ancient elders. Then the men of the people, responding in turn with straight enactments…

These verses are usually, and reasonably, seen as part of an elegy that the ancients called Eunomia. Tyrtaios’ Eunomia was a hortatory poem (1ª G.-P. = fr. 2 W., l. 10 !"#$%&"$'), which certainly mentioned the return of the Herakleidae, the event that gave the kings of Sparta their rights on Lakonia. Tyrtaios, indeed, placed a peculiar stress on the divine favour accorded to the kings. Aristotle had the same elegy in mind when he referred to the request of a redistribution of land, ges anadasmos, which occurred at the time of the Messenian War (Pol. 5.1306b 22ff. = Tyrt. T7 G.-P. = fr. 1 W.). The verses quoted by Plutarch could have preceded fragment 1ª G.-P. = fr. 2 W., which in the scraps preserved by POxy 2824 referred to oracular consultation.39 Verses 3–6 of this fragment reappear, with slight variations, in Diodoros (7.12.6 = Tyrt. fr. °14 G.-P., fr. 4 W.) in a poem in elegiac couplets cited as part of an oracle received by Lykourgos. The text of the oracle quoted by Diodoros is as follows:40

(()*+"#,(&-,(./0123($"/4#&54/03(.'6#12'37( ((((/86#(&91"#(:!;*4'3(4/07( )*+"#,(&-,(./0123($"/4#&54/03(.'6#12'37( /86#(&91"#(:!;*4B3("#,(4VA"(!=1"#(6O/1#=,7(( A5&/0(4"(!15$"#(,DOB,(O'U(O;*4/3(W!"6$'#X( ( ( Y/S./3(?L*(!"*U(4Z,([A\(F,9]B,"(!=1"#. 10

MASSIMO NAFISSI

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5

10

For thus spoke Apollo of the silver bow and golden hair the lord who works from afar, from his rich shrine “Counsel is to begin with the divinely honoured kings, who have the lovely city of Sparta in their care, and with the ancient elders. Then the men of the people, responding in turn with straight enactments must say what is noble and all that is just, and do not plot against this city. Victory and power will attend the multitude of the people.” For thus Phoebus declared to the city in these matters.

It is generally admitted that Tyrtaios’ couplets quoted by Plutarch refer to the great rhetra. According to a widespread opinion, moreover, Tyrtaios reshaped in elegiac couplets the rhetra or the oracle on which the rhetra was based.41 This has obvious implications for the chronology of the rhetra. Some scholars have assumed that it was enacted in Tyrtaios’ times, and that the poet presented an allegedly ancient oracle that instructed the procedure established in his days by the rhetra,42 others that it is earlier.43 If, on the other hand, the oracle quoted by Tyrtaios was really old and if one believes that Plutarch (or better ‘Aristotle’) found in Tyrtaios evidence for attributing the amendment to the rhetra to Theopompos and Polydoros,44 then the rhetra would date from the time of Theopompos and Polydoros if it is unitary, or be even older if Theopompos and Polydoros are considered to be the authors of the rider only.45 Hans van Wees has recently reminded us of how difficult it is to prove conclusively that the Eunomia includes references to the great rhetra.46 To be sure, van Wees’ views have met with opposition, and many scholars have reiterated that Tyrtaios knew about the great rhetra.47 Nevertheless, throughout the discussion, it has been practically taken for granted that all of the verses quoted by Plutarch and Diodoros (usually excluding ll. 1f. of either one) belong to Tyrtaios’

41 42 43 44

45 46 47

West’s text, but for l. 8, where I give the manuscript’s reading; the text is variously corrupted, as parentheses signal; VAN WEES’ translation (1997, 6, 9), except ll. 6 (cf. above n. 38), 8. WADE-GERY 1943–4, 1; PARKE – WORMELL 1956, I, 89f.; LÉVY 1977, 88f. WADE-GERY 1943–4, 4. On the chronology of Tyrtaios see NAFISSI 2009, 120f. THOMMEN 1996, 36 and MEIER 1998, 187, who date the rhetra ca. 650 BCE. Plut. Lyc. 6.9, BLUMENTHAL 1948, 1948; HAMMOND 1950, 49; KIECHLE 1963, 167–73 (who rightly pointed out that the fact that Polydoros and Theopompos were contemporaries was not apparent from the kings’ lists, and that the discovery of the synchronism led to the insertion of Soos into the Eurypontid genealogy); FORREST 1963, 158–62; STEINMETZ 1969, 66; WEST 1974, 185f.; MURRAY 1980, 161; NAFISSI 1991, 73. Opinions against this view: below, n. 60. The dating of the rhetra to the time of Theopompos and Polydoros was accepted in NAFISSI 1991, 73. VAN WEES 1999, 22–5, similar doubts had been expressed by ANDREWES 1938, 97–100, PARKE – WORMELL 1956, I, 90, and – in a different fashion – by DEN BOER 1954, 190–3. MEIER 2002, LINK 2003, RAAFLAUB 2006, 393–8; cf. DREHER 2006, 51 n. 36. VAN WEES 2002 restates his opinion, which LUTHER 2004, 90–2, shares.

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Eunomia.48 This is not at all clear.49 Some essential points need to be emphasised. Plutarch’s quotation is probably incomplete: h-3)(.$ C+$ Ck*/(.:$ v,C&.:7$ 3oE36.):$ |Y(&.):$ !,(.-.*3)K0*9,0>: seems to need a supporting infinitive.50 That the oracle cited by Diodoros was derived from the one quoted by Tyrtaios is indisputable, but that the poem quoted by Plutarch continued as in Diodoros is an easy but deceptive conclusion. In the text of the excerpta that form our book 7 of Diodoros the verses are not attributed to Tyrtaios; they are cited among many other Delphic oracles given to Lykourgos. Our lines have no prose introduction, but a marginal note calls them, too, an oracle given to Lykourgos.51 Tyrtaios never mentioned Lykourgos (an old argumentum e silentio52 that should be taken very seriously, in the light of the interest that the ancients took in Lykourgos) and Plutarch states, possibly on Tyrtaios’ authority, that the oracle had been given to the kings Polydoros and Theopompos. Note the two different opening couplets: Tyrtaios’ lines, with the subject in the plural, are not compatible with the notion implied by the excerpta from Diodoros that the oracle had been given to Lykourgos.53 West’s choice to merge the texts cited by Plutarch (Lyc. 6.10) and by Diodoros (7.12.6) as parts of the same fragment of Tyrtaios (fragment 4, composed of six verses from Plutarch and the last four from Diodoros) is misleading. Prato and Gentili-Prato place the couplets from Diodoros (°14) at the end of Tyrtaios’ fragments, declaring their authorship dubious.54 In my opinion they are very right. 48

49

50 51 52 53

54

VAN WEES 1999, cf. LINK 2003, 143 n. 14 and 144 n. 17. Cf. e.g., MUSTI 1996, 257–64. See the authors quoted in the previous note. DREHER 2006, 45f. n. 8 also thinks that the lines quoted by Diodoros belong to Tyrtaios’ Eunomia, but he inserts in l. 6 3oE36.):$ |Y(&.): taken from Plutarch. Note that ANDREWES 1938, 97–100, judiciously attributed Diodoros’ lines to an amended version of Tyrtaios, and Wade-Gery also (1943–4, 3–5) carefully distinguished the two poems. In favour of accepting Diodoros’ oracle or portions of it as a quote from Tyrtaios, BLUMENTHAL 1948, 1947–9; HAMMOND 1950, 47–9 (their suggestion that both couplets occurred in Tyrtaios, and that Plutarch and Diodoros’ sources choose the one more appropriate to their respective aims, is a desperate attempt to reconcile the evidence); DEN BOER 1954, 187–93; STEINMETZ 1969, 63–70 (Diodoros’ version would give the god’s words, Plutarch’s their announcement in Sparta by the messengers); WEST 1970, 150f. (who, while attributing to Tyrtaios the additional verses, condemned as aberrant the first couplet of Diodoros); 1974, 184f. n. 12; HÖLSCHER 1986. Against: MEYER 1892, 228f.; SCHWARTZ 1903, 678 (who damned Diodoros’ ll. 5f. as interpolation, in order to have the kings be the subjects of 7f.); ANDREWES 1938, 98f.; WADE-GERY 1943–4, 3–5; PARKE – WORMELL 1956, I, 89f.; JACOBY FGrHist IIIb, Text, 618f., Noten 360 n. 4 (that i.a. makes clear the sense of Schwartz’s lines); NAFISSI 1991, 56. Contra JACOBY, FGrHist IIIb, Noten, 360 n. 4; STEINMETZ 1969, 67f.; MEIER 1998, 245. B$y>E6.$hX&k53$(É$=>?0[&%a$-3&S$(],$-0")()?],$0_(H:W E.g., ANDREWES 1938, 99; PARKE – WORMELL 1956, I, 89f. WADE-GERY 1943–4, 6 regarded as a genuine reflection of Diodoros’ opinion the marginal note, rightly asking “why not?” Given the state of the sources, it is clear that the burden of the proof falls on the scholars who think that Diodoros’ verses come from Tyrtaios. To say that “the very disagreement demonstrates that the reasons for excluding Diodoros’ version as unauthentic are not compelling” (KÕIV 2003, 189 n. 223), turns the whole issue on its head. PRATO 1968, 44, “carmen Tyrtaeo denego.”

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These doubts weaken the case of the scholars who believe that Tyrtaios refers to the rhetra. Tyrtaios’ remark about “right” rhetrai (l. 6) has been taken (as Plutarch/‘Aristotle’ apparently did) as an allusion to the word “crooked” of clause 5 of the rhetra, but the semantic similarity could result from the use of a similar political and cultural code in both texts.55 Other than that, the only possible evidence that Tyrtaios did indeed know the rhetra is derived from Diodoros’ verses. First, ?.S$?F&(0: of Diodoros’ l. 9 corresponds to ?.S$?&F(0: of the corrupted clause 4 of the rhetra: Pavese’s now popular emendation ,6?k,$?.S$?&F(0:$rests on the presumed connection between the two texts.56 However, the same words occur often in oracles, which makes the supposed parallelism less conclusive.57 The second convergence is the product of a supplement to pentameter 8 of Diodoros, which – according to a widespread but not universal opinion – requires a metric restoration.58 Bach’s 5?0")/, (clearly inspired by the great rhetra) is usually accepted, thus creating a connection with the “crooked proposals” (5?0")F,) mentioned in the rider; “and do not deliberate in assembly anything crooked for the city” has also been proposed as a translation.59 But, as van Wees remarked, Plutarch/‘Aristotle’ does not seem to have read 5?0")/, in Tyrtaios. As we saw, in the lines Plutarch quoted there is only a reference to “right” rhetrai, and he apparently thought that this implied an appeal not to accept a “5?0")F,” request or proposal. One wonders why Plutarch/‘Aristotle’ should have interrupted the quotation from Tyrtaios if the word 5?0")/,, which is found in the rider (5?0")F,), had appeared in verse 8.60 This argument is made stronger by the fact that Plutarch/‘Aristotle’ expresses himself very cautiously regarding the close relationship between Tyrtaios’ verses and the rhetra. Note especially -0> (“to some degree,” “perhaps”).61 Would Plutarch/‘Aristotle’ have been so cautious if the word 5?0")/, had appeared in the next line? Supposing that 5?0")/, is a good restoration for Diodoros’ l. 8, then Tyrtaios’ verses would here be different from the lines quoted in Diodoros. To sum up. There are three arguments that may support the notion that Tyrtaios knew of the rhetra: the first one is inconclusive, the other two presuppose that Diodoros’ lines come from Tyrtaios – which is far from certain – and in any case the last argument is probably in itself completely fallacious.

55 56 57 58

59 60 61

OGDEN 1994. PAVESE 1967 and 1992. PAVESE 1992, 273f. See also MUSTI 1996, 276f. The pentameter is crucial: LINK 2002, 145. WILAMOWITZ-MOELLENDORFF 1884, 282 (but see Id. 1900, 108 n. 5) and MEYER 1892, 227 n. 9 regarded the line as prose; that would require no emendation. MUSTI 1996, 258–63. VAN WEES 1999, 10f. and 2002, 97. Weak objections by LINK 2003, 144 n. 17. Since Tyrtaios probably mentioned by name the recipients of the oracle (see above), I would not connect the caution expressed by '() with uncertainty about their identity, as VAN WEES 1999, 12f., does (cf. ANDREWES 1938, 99f.; PARKE – WORMELL 1956, I, 89 n. 17). The same doubts about the mention of the two kings are expressed by KÕIV 2003, 192f. n. 240.

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But what is the oracle of Diodoros? It is becoming clearer and clearer that we cannot interpret the rhetra and the texts connected with it (Tyrtaios fr. 1b and °14 G.-P. = fr. 4 W.) without keeping in mind the discussions of the fourth century on the origins of Spartan institutions which also influenced the ancients’ interpretation of the rhetra.62 At the beginning of the century, King Pausanias was sent into exile and wrote a pamphlet against the laws of Lykourgos, in which he included the oracles given to the lawgiver (Strabo 8.5.5). In all likelihood, these are the oracles that ended up in Diodoros (7.12), who must have found them in the work of Ephoros.63 The one just discussed was among them. King Pausanias was trying to undermine the power of the ephors (cf. Arist. Pol. 5.1301b17–19). He probably saw that there was no mention at all of the ephors in these words of the god and argued that Lykourgos created the ephors without Apollo’s blessing.64 He may have cited this oracle as a prophecy given to Lykourgos and referring to the rules of debate in the assembly. Tyrtaios, however, apparently connected it instead with Theopompos and Polydoros (Plut. Lyc. 6.9). The plural subject that we find in the opening couplet of Tyrtaios is suppressed in Diodoros’ version of the oracle, which is necessary in order to let Lykourgos, and not the two kings, receive Apollo’s response.65 Furthermore, the verses of the Eunomia explicitly attributed to Tyrtaios (4.1–6 W.) are, according to the most obvious interpretation, a simple invitation to obey the kings and their decisions.66 Pausanias’ oracle, however, dictated a deliberative rule. The verses probably predate the king, who may have found them in the royal collection of oracles. Even though ll. 3–6 derived from the oracle of Tyrtaios, the supposition that the following lines also derived from Tyrtaios is arbitrary: ll. 1–2 plainly do not. Furthermore there are small but important differences between Diodoros and Tyrtaios even in ll. 3–6.67 Note that -&35K>%3,3l: in l. 5 of Diodoros is closer to the rhetra than -&35K[(.: in Plutarch’s version. The author of this pastiche was the first to see the poem by Tyrtaios in the light of the rhetra. Consequently, it might be not unreasonable to use

62 63

64

65 66 67

MEYER 1892; DAVID 1979; NAFISSI 1991, 51–71; VAN WEES 1999, 14–22; SORDI 2004; BERTELLI 2004; DUCAT 2006, 42–5. Strabo’s text should be consulted using Radt’s edition (RADT 2003): Baladié’s Belles Lettres text (1978) is misleading. DUCAT 2006, 42–4, settles once and for all the dispute about the content of the script, making clear that “against the laws of Lykourgos” cannot be regarded as its title. It is generally admitted that the oracles in Diodoros derive from those quoted by Pausanias: KÕIV 2003, 186 n. 208 with bibliography. Attempts to argue that Tyrtaios mentioned the ephors (LINK 2000, 19–30), or even that they are present in the great rhetra (RICHER 1998, 98–106; LUTHER 2004, 44–59; cf. already NIPPEL 1980, 132) must be rejected. I am no longer convinced that Pausanias interpreted Ck*/(.:$v,C&.: as the ephors (as single members of the mass [CY*0>$-"iE0:]) and argued that Apollo had wanted the ephors to be subordinate to the basileis and to the gerontes (cf. NAFISSI 1991, 53–62). A well known point: ANDREWES 1938, 99. NAFISSI 1991, 77; VAN WEES 1999 and 2002, 92–8. See, e.g., Sealey’s (1969, 256f.) observations on the variant (3 or C+ at the beginning of 1. 5.

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Diodoros’ l. 9 to amend clause 4 of the rhetra, but it is impossible to know to what extent the version presented by Pausanias distorted Tyrtaios’ text. I would like to summarise the foregoing discussion in four points. 1. The first is a little rule: the rhetra and related texts should be understood each on its own terms. 2. We cannot attribute with certainty to Tyrtaios verses attested only by Diodoros. 3. The cumulative evidence in support of a relationship between Tyrtaios and the rhetra is composed of three elements. Taken alone, none of them is compelling. The seemingly strongest indication is an amendment to l. 8 of Diodoros; this amendment is uncertain and, moreover, it is inspired by the text of the rhetra. The argument is circular. 4. It is impossible to show, and improbable indeed, that Tyrtaios fr. 1b G.-P. alluded to the rhetra.68 These points have two very significant consequences. First, there is no compelling reason to translate and understand the oracles of Tyrtaios and Diodoros in the same way. All those who, while maintaining that the oracle of Tyrtaios is an appeal for order, and not a ‘constitutional’ text, try to demonstrate this with reference to an oracle that includes verses 7–9 of Diodoros also, take on an unnecessary task.69 Whoever challenges the interpretation of the oracle of Tyrtaios as an appeal for obedience using Diodoros’ amended version, breaks the rules of the game. Furthermore, if Tyrtaios’ verses and the rhetra are not strictly related, neither the couple Theopompos – Polydoros nor the poet himself marks a terminus ante quem for the rhetra. The relationship between the rhetra and the oracle quoted by Tyrtaios is to be judged in more general historical terms, in reference to their content. One cannot exclude that the relationship goes in the opposite direction, the rhetra following Tyrtaios. 5.3. THE UNITY OF THE GREAT RHETRA As previously mentioned, Plutarch cites the final clause (5) only after commenting on the first part of the text (6.4). He declares that it was surreptitiously added to the rhetra by kings Theopompos and Polydoros. To confirm this, he cites Tyrtaios’ verses. Accordingly, scholars call this part of the text the rider. Today, the prevailing opinion, supported by many authoritative scholars, is that the rhetra is 68 69

The lucid lines of KÕIV 2003, 192f. show the aporia to which the acceptance of the relationship between the rhetra and Tyrtaios leads. And a difficult one, indeed: -"YE0: (l. 9) makes the military reading very unlikely (LINK 2003, 146f.). Note, however, that DREHER 2006, 48–53, while pleading for such an interpretation of a ‘Diodorean’ Tyrtaios (cf. above, n. 48) suggests that also in the great rhetra the corrupted sentence after !865(.5E.) ending by ?.S$?&F(0: does not assess the decisional power of the damos, but is meant as an encouragement for the people, to whom the oracle promises success.

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a unitary text.70 There are three good reasons to believe that this opinion is correct: 1. The verb used by Plutarch to characterise the rider as an add-on, -.&3%%&F8H, indicates ‘interpolations’ fraudulently inserted in a text.71 This means that most probably the rhetra was handed down as a unitary text and that it was ancient interpreters who divided it. 2. The decision to divide the rhetra in two finds a good explanation within the framework of the fourth century discussions about the Spartan constitution. By separating the rider from the rhetra, its interpreters reconciled the tradition on the oracles given to Lykourgos with Tyrtaios’ information regarding an oracle given to Theopompos and Polydoros.72 Plutarch does not cite any verse by Tyrtaios that mentions these kings, but there is good reason to think that they were mentioned in a part of the elegy that was read, but not quoted, by Plutarch or by his source. A fourth-century tradition attributed the creation of the ephorate to one of the kings who promoted the addition of the rider to the rhetra, Theopompos. Some scholars find that these two political acts are inconsistent: one looks democratic, the other authoritarian.73 The argument could carry some weight if we were dealing with real historical events, but this is far from certain. In the reconstructive vein of our fourth century authorities, and particularly of ‘Aristotle’ in the Constitution of the Lakedaimonians, the two politically conflicting measures perfect the building of the Spartan mixed constitution. While the rider limited the dangerous power of the people, some of their representatives, the ephors, were granted the privilege to introduce proposals and to direct the assembly itself. Thus the Spartan politeia had preserved the balance that was so dear to its supporters. 3. A unitary reading allows a coherent interpretation of the final part of the rhetra. In fact, clauses 3–5 of the rhetra are tightly bound together. Let us admit that houtos (3) refers to what follows, as sometimes happens in prose, if rarely.74 The following phrase (4) is seriously corrupt, but it certainly refers to the damos (Plut. Lyc. 6.3 explains: “the damos had the power to give a decisive verdict”). 70

71 72 73 74

WADE-GERY 1943–4, 65 and 115; JEFFERY 1961a, 147 n. 28; FORREST 1963, 157–66; JONES 1967, 31; WEST 1974, 185f.; CARTLEDGE 1980, 99f. (29f.); MUSTI 1996; THOMMEN 1996, 34; LIBERMAN 1997; VAN WEES 1997, 19–21; MEIER 1998, 187; THOMMEN 2003, 35f.; WELWEI 2004, 60f.; DREHER 2006, 52f. (who suggests that Plutarch has displaced the rider from its original position in the rhetra, immediately after the sentence ending in !865(.5E.)); contra, the authors quoted by VAN WEES 1999, 36 n. 70 under (3) and RUZÉ 1997, 161–72; RICHER 1998, 93–109; KÕIV 2003, 196f.; LUTHER 2004, 25–59; the opinion of OGDEN 1994, who suggests that the rider antedates the rhetra, is difficult to accept. LÉVY 1977, 100; NAFISSI 1991, 68 n. 156. FORREST 1963, 159f. and 165f.; JONES 1967, 31; WEST 1970, 151 (1974, 185); LIBERMAN 1996. E.g., MEYER 1892, 268 and n. 1; DICKINS 1912, 10; KIECHLE 1963, 162, 174–6; RUZÉ 1997, 168. On the proleptic use of 0_(H*, see SCHWYZER – DEBRUNNER 1950–9, II, 209. A proleptic 0_(H: introduces the text of the rhetra in Plut. Lyc. 6.2. On the difficulty of connecting 0_(H: to the infinitive that precedes it, see LÉVY 1977, 96.

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Now, the same damos is the indirect object implied by 34589&3), in 3. On the other hand, clause 5 explains how to reject a proposal by means of a nomen agentis that clearly refers back to the other verb in clause 3 (!-05(.(i&.:$ Ñ$ !865(.5E.)).75 The interpreters (‘Aristotle’) of the fourth century were the ones who declared that the final clause was a later addition. We are not obliged to follow their antiquarian stratagems.

5.4. THE RHETRA AS A RETROSPECTIVE RECONSTRUCTION The ancient interpreters also imposed another misleading opinion concerning the nature of the rhetra. T&Xk%9(k: (dor. !&X.%9(.:) is a honorary title for founders, leaders of colonial undertakings, or for heroes and gods to which families, phylai and communities attach their origins.76 From those two meanings stems the use of archegetes as founder of religious activities (e.g., Poseid. fr. 370 Theiler), philosophical schools (Strabo 14.6.3), sciences (Strabo 1.1.2), and political attitudes (Hdt. 9.86). When used for men, archegetes is usually an epithet of personalities of the past, or contemporaries who will be remembered in the future as originators.77 But Plutarch (Lyc. 6.3) explains archagetai in the rhetra with basileis. Such an explanation finds no strong support in other ancient texts sometimes quoted for this purpose. In a few passages in tragedies, archegetes does designate chiefs (Aesch. Supp. 184; Soph. OT 751)78 or kings (Eur. Tr. 447). This is, however, an emphatic use of the word by the tragedians, who also use it in its proper meaning, as Aeschylus does in Supp. 251, when he labels an eponymous, Pelasgos, as an archegetes. In any case, the tragic poets employ archegetes only for chiefs or kings of the heroic age. The cognate word !&Xk%/: was used more broadly to indicate contemporary leaders, beginning with the famous dedication of the Plataia tripod by Pausanias (Thuc. 1.132.2). Overlaps with archegetes are abundant,79 but it is preferable not to use examples of archegos to explain the meaning archegetes.80 Apparently stronger support for the use of archegetes meaning “king” could derive from Bacch. 3.24, where Croesus is labelled =>C6.:$!&X.%9(.,. The designation has probably military undertones, since the poet is recalling the victory of Cyrus’ army. Croesus is, however, a king of the past whom Bacchylides is elevating to a mythical dimension, by telling the story of his rescue by Apollo and Zeus. Croe75 76 77

78 79 80

The last point has been made by MUSTI 1996, 264. LESCHHORN 1984, 109–15, 180–5 and 346–86; MALKIN 1989, 241–50. The latter may be the case of !&Xk%9(k:$ ?.S$ K.5)"3[: (Battos) in the alleged seventhcentury decree in SEG 9.3 = M–L 5, ll. 26f., which is in fact a retrospective text dating from the fourth century (cf. below, n. 113). CARLIER 1984, 312 n. 445. CHANTRAINE 1956, 88–92. As LESCHHORN 1984, 183 does. Byzantine uses are, of course, not to be adduced in this context.

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sus, in any case, is at the very best a king of the recent past. The term archegetes never appears as a title for contemporary kings, except in one very uncertain case. In a seventh century block from the necropolis of Thera, usually described as a stele and inscribed with names on four sides, the word !&?Ö.%9(.: appears second in a list of personal names on the front (Ü3?5F,0&$!&?Ö.%9(.:$y&0?"i:$ \"3.%/&.:$ y3)&.)3[:).81 It has been interpreted as a royal title, but it could just as well be the name of a person82 or, perhaps more likely, indicate a person responsible for the building of a chamber tomb for multiple depositions or perhaps of a sanctuary.83 This is not the place to discuss in detail the problem of archegetes/archegetis in later epitaphs:84 even if we suppose that in some grave inscriptions from Argos and elsewhere archegetes is neither a personal name, nor the epithet of an individual to be regarded as ‘founder’ by his/her posterity, but a title designating a contemporary person as ‘chief’ of an association,85 this still does not document the use of archegetes for a contemporary basileus in archaic times. Since the rhetra used the word archagetai, whose meaning is habitually retrospective, the rhetra was probably composed as an utterance of the past. We 81

82

83

84

85

IG XII 3.762; Suppl. p. 89; HILLER VON GAERTRINGEN 1932; GUARDUCCI 1939–40; JEFFERY 1961a, 144f.; JEFFERY 1961 (19902), 323 no. 5, pl. 61 (phot.). The stone was not inscribed on five sides, as still occasionally claimed (CARLIER 1984, 420), and accordingly it is less likely to have been a funerary trapeza, as suggested by DRAGENDORFF 1903, 104; CAHEN 1911, 1219 n. 14; DEONNA 1934, 70. Royal title: HILLER VON GAERTRINGEN 1932 (CARLIER 1984, 420f. favours his opinion); MALKIN 1994, 106–11, followed by RICHER 1998, 94 and n. 10. HILLER VON GAERTRINGEN 1932, 129–131 suggested that the words !&?Ö.%9(.:$ y&0?"i: were engraved first, and the last two were certainly added later. HILLER VON GAERTRINGEN 1932 considers archagetas an apposition of the name Prokles, Malkin believes that |3?5F,0& too is an epithet of Prokles. Interestingly enough, the great rhetra was the main support of the interpretation of archagetas as ‘king’ in this text, which is then circularly supposed be a proof that the word has that meaning in the rhetra. Name: BOECKH 1872, 41; GUARDUCCI 1939–40. See also the cautious remarks by JEFFERY 1961 (19902), 317f.: “three names, or two names and a title, were cut first and largest on the stone.” She however transcribed T&?Ö.%9(.: 413 (to pl. 61.5). The name is still on record in LGPN I as incertum. VOLLGRAFF 1951, 17–19: Prokles was leader of a religious band whose members alone could be buried in the tomb; JEFFERY 1961a, 144f.: Prokles founder (cf. JEFFERY 1976, 186); HUXLEY 1962, 122 n. 297: Rhexanor founder of a sanctuary. I would also point out that the very same uncertainty (a founder, a religious title, or a personal name?) surrounds the interpretation of archegetes on another recently published grave stele, this time from Epidauros, inscribed T&)5(08F,(0>$ !&X.%9(.. The possibility that Archagetas is a personal name is not ruled out by Stroud in SEG 38.322 (and by LGPN III A, s.v.). The monument from Epidauros with its reliefs (krater and kerykeion) recalls two other Argive funerary texts, SEG 14.323–4, on which see VOLGRAFF 1951, 1–4, whose hypothesis was, however, coldly received by J. and L. Robert (BE 1954, 111 no. 53). However, archagetas is clearly a title in an inscription of Roman date from Rhodes (MAIURI 1925, no. 44: RH(k&).5(U,$?0),0@$(0S$5A,$T8&0C)56a$!&X.%9(.), cf. VOLLGRAFF 1951, 16f.). VOLLGRAFF 1951. JEFFERY 1961a, 144, aptly summarises his paper (tacitly correcting it): “it was also used specifically for the founder of a new cult.”

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should ask ourselves if archagetai means there ‘founders’ of the city or of the royal families, or at least ‘eponymous,’ as a few modern scholars have suggested.86 Of course, we would have to explain why ‘Aristotle’ wrote that archagetai means basileis. The author of the Constitution of the Lakedaimonians, as previously mentioned, had a very precise opinion about the chronology of Lykourgos. He considered him a distant descendent of the Herakleidae. Therefore, he could not have been prepared to give ‘archagetai’ its natural meaning. One could object that, according to Ephoros, in Sparta Eurysthenes and Prokles “were not even regarded as archegetai, an honour which is always paid to founders.”87 Against Hellanikos’ ascription of the institutions of Sparta to Eurysthenes and Prokles, Ephoros remarked that the two royal dynasties were not named after the two oikistai, and he tried to explain why. In fact, eponymous heroes – the tribal heroes in Athens, for example88 – are frequently called archegetai, and oikists are often eponymous. Ephoros therefore seemingly uses here archegetes as ‘eponymous progenitor and founder.’ His point is not that the Spartans do not call Eurysthenes and Prokles archegetai, but that they denied them honours that founders usually receive, paying them to Agis and Euryphon.89 Had Ephoros known of the great rhetra, as he probably did,90 he, too, could not have intended it as a reference to the two oikistai, because of his chronology of Lykourgos as descendant of Prokles (FGrHist 70 F 149.19, 118 and 173). But he was evidently thinking that Eurysthenes and Prokles should have been treated as ‘archagetai.’ The speakers in Xenophon (Hell. 6.3.6 and 6.5.47) who call Herakles and his sons archegetai of the Spartans, give a further, clear hint as to the meaning of archagetai in the rhetra. If we leave the chronology of Lykourgos to the ancient learned disputants and give the term its usual meaning, we must conclude that the rhetra is referring either to the ‘eponymous’ of the two royal families, Agis and Euryphon,91 or to 86

87 88 89

90 91

JEFFERY 1961a, 145–7; ROUSSEL 1976, 243 n. 13; LÉVY 1977, 94f. FORREST 1963, 179, tried to explain archagetai in reference to the foundation of new order and cults by the kings who proposed the rhetra, but SEALEY 1969, 254, declared his solution “not satisfactory”: the word archagetas “should arouse … doubts about authenticity.” Kiechle treated Jeffery’s suggestion with scorn (1963, 149 n. 1 and 158f. with n. 2), but his explanation, that the founders’ charisma still applied to the kings in classical times, does not imply that each couple of kings should be called ‘founders.’ MUSTI 1996, 272–4 stresses the pun between gerontes (old men) and archagetai (older than the old men); the pun is made even stronger if the word archagetai is here used in its normal meaning. Oikists and eponymous: LESCHHORN 1984. FGrHist 70 F 118 ap. Strabo 8.5.5, citing the text of RADT 2003: 'E3,$ !0oCá$!&Xk%9(.:" ,0*)5Ei,.)7$'-3&$-U5),$!-0C6C0(.!)$(0l:$04?)5(.l:". Ar. fr. 135 K.-A.; oracle in Dem. 43.66; Arist. AP 21.6; Polyb. 16.25.9. Cf. e.g., Pelasgos Aesch. Suppl. 251. Ephoros’ testimony gave some trouble to JEFFERY 1961a, 145, who suggested 'E3,$ b0oCá$ à:$â&u.:c as an alternative supplement for !&Xk%9(.:, but the reading is made certain by the Vatican Palimpsest and by paraphrasis in Bv. See again Radt’s edition. See below, n. 110, on Pausanias and the rhetra. JEFFERY 1961a, 145, mainly because of Ephoros 70 F 118, cf. LÉVY 1977, 95.

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the ‘founders,’ the first Herakleid kings, Eurysthenes and Prokles. In spite of Spartan traditions that maintained that Aristodamos was still alive at the time of the conquest of Lakonia,92 the second scenario seems more likely. For the ancients, and what is most relevant, for the Spartans themselves, Sparta was a colonial settlement. Tyrtaios himself, as discussed above, mentioned the foundation legend of Sparta, the return of the Herakleidae.93 Furthermore, the preservation or institutionalisation of the tribes of the Dorian settlers, and the distribution of the people into obai,94 the first gerousia, the creation of a place of assembly, are all parts of what Thucydides (1.18.1) calls (t,$ ?(65),$ (],$ ,@,$ O,0)?0[,(H,$ .o(t,$PH&)],. If obai means villages, as it did in Roman times and as Hesychios seems to confirm, obas obaxanta alludes not only to the people’s distribution into civic subdivisions but to their very settlement in villages.95 While the tribal organisation was perceived as a relic of old times (8>"F55H), any subdivision of the citizen body that was even only partially based on areas of residence could only be perceived as a product of the conquest of Lakonia. Keeping in mind that the reference to the area “between Babyka and Knakion” was a proverbial expression to indicate Sparta (cf. Plut. Pel. 17.13), the rhetra might designate Sparta in general as a place of assembly.96 It is usually supposed that the gerousia and the assembly already existed before the promulgation of the great rhetra,97 but

92

93 94

95

96 97

Hdt. 6.52.1. Clearly such traditions did not yet exist at the time of the rhetra. One has the impression that they originated after the emergence of the story of the division of the southern Peloponnese among the Herakleidae, or at any rate, after the Spartans had to come to terms with such story (which may not be as late as suggested by LURAGHI 2001a. The Spartans could not accept a story according to which Lakonia had been conquered by the Herakleidae when Eurysthenes and Prokles were under age and under the guardianship of Temenos and/or Kresphontes (cf. VANNICELLI 2004, 289f.). MALKIN 1994, 15–45. Tyrt. 1ª G.-P. = 2 W.; cf. e.g., Pind. Isthm. 7.12–15, Thuc. 5.16.3; Pl. Leg. 3.683c–d. In any case, since the actions indicated by the aorist participles are to be performed once and for all, they cannot indicate procedures which activate pre-existing institutions as a preliminary to the meeting of the assembly and therefore are to be repeated periodically. What is being referred to is clearly the creation, or perhaps in the case of the phylai the preservation, of these institutions. The alternative is phrased lucidly, but resolved in favour of the first solution, by LÉVY 1977, 91 and 94. ROUSSEL 1976, 237 thinks of groups analogous to the phratries; cf. LÉVY 1977, 91–4; WELWEI 2004, 64f. The identification of these obai with the villages known from Roman times, Pitane, Mesoa, Limnai, Kynosoura, with the addition of Amyklai, should not be taken for granted, see LUPI 2006, 200–7. An old suggestion: see bibliography in OLIVA 1971, 93 n. 3. An assembly must of course exist, if the rhetra is an enacted law: scholars debate in which manner it was institutionalised: see e.g., THOMMEN 1996, 38–41; WELWEI 1997, 249 suggests that the rhetra orders its deplacement; cf. OLIVA 1971, 91 as an example of the standard opinion. As to the gerousia, see e.g.: “the Gerousia or council of elders advising the king (as in Homer; …) must have been as old as the kingship itself” (CARTLEDGE 1980, 31); “To be sure, there must have been an aboriginal council of elders at Sparta (perhaps similar to the Homeric one) as elsewhere in Greece, but it was the Rhetra which reshaped it not only by

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here modern opinion is in contrast with the plain interpretation of the text as offered by our ancient authorities, according to whom Lykourgos created the gerousia with the rhetra. Modern opinion is no more than an assumption based on the belief that the text represents an authentic archaic enactment. No Spartan assembly shouted its approval of the rhetra. The rhetra is an archaic text, but not a historically approved law. The rhetra was intended to reproduce a presumed founding ordinance that established the entire Spartan politeia, all at one time, at the beginnings of its history. Sparta was born in this way, like Athena from Zeus’ head.98 Note also that the form and content of the rhetra is absolutely unique compared to other archaic legislative documents. Although the last sentence, which begins with “but if,” seems to be part of a written law and thus demonstrates familiarity with archaic legislative practice,99 archaic laws never had such a general and generic content. On the contrary, as Hölkeskamp observed, they were “single enactments, independent, complete and self-contained statutes.”100 I am treading here over old ground. E. Meyer wrote that the rhetra formulates “the existing arrangement” of the whole Spartan constitution, but “it is not the fundament on which that arrangement was built.” He asked: “Is it not clear that the rhetra rests upon that grossly unhistorical theory which pervaded antiquity, the theory that a constitution arises at the lawgiver’s will, conjured up from chaos or the void?”101 However, I am not arguing that the rhetra is a fourth-century forgery, as Meyer claimed.102 L. H. Jeffery, the first scholar, as far as I know, to suggest that archagetai in the rhetra means founders, also supposed that the rhetra was a falsification, but of a different kind. In her opinion, a reformer of the archaic period obtained sanction for this oracle in prose, which in fact he himself forged and presented as an ancient prophecy that had allegedly been rendered to the founder(s). According to Jeffery, the rhetra still documents a broad-ranging reform in the seventh century.103 My opinion is closer to that of E. Lévy and D. Roussel (two other scholars who accept that archagetai means, as it should mean, founders). Lévy states that the first part of the rhetra is a very ancient fictitious charter, founding the state of the Lakedaimonians. But in Lévy’s opinion the rhetra was expanded on two different occasions, the first time with the provision

98 99 100

101 102 103

finally determining its numbers but also by defining its powers” (DAVID 1991, 16). Cf. e.g., WADE-GERY 1943–4, 116; JEFFERY 1976, 118; THOMMEN 1996, 37. It is hard to accept the view that the rhetra regulated only “a limited area of political activity,” “the decision-making process” (CARTLEDGE 1980, 30). A fact observed by GAGARIN 1986, 54 n. 9 and LUTHER 2004, 46. HÖLKESKAMP 1992, 9. Even if one accepts that the law we have functioned in a framework set by other laws, which are not preserved but determined the tasks of the civic magistrates (OSBORNE 1997), the rhetra would still be an unicum. MEYER 1892, 265f. MEYER 1892, 261–9; cf. also SEALEY 1969, 253–7 and 1976, 74–8. JEFFERY 1961a, 145–7; cf. JEFFERY 1976, 117–20 and 249f.

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relative to the assembly and later with the rider.104 I think that the entire rhetra, including the rider, is an archaic fictitious charter. According to Roussel, the rhetra should represent the ideas that the Spartans held at the time of Tyrtaios, or rather before him, regarding the foundation of the city. I agree but find his chronological precision and his conclusion that “without doubt, this idea was not wrong,” too optimistic. As a retrospective reconstruction, the rhetra was part of an intentional elaboration of the Spartan past. This elaboration of the city’s past was widely shared in Spartan society, but we cannot use the rhetra as evidence for what happened at the beginning of Sparta’s political history.105 We are now well aware of the importance that a shared memory of their origins had in the construction of the Greek political communities. Much as we may regard with some scepticism an indiscriminate use of the concept, methodological caution should not prevent us from seeing the most ancient and venerable document of Spartan history as a case of the ‘invention of tradition.’106 Within the category of intentional history, there is room for such documents and for proper appreciation of their historical value. Before moving on to the question of the value of the rhetra for the reconstruction of the history of archaic Sparta, it is necessary to pause one moment to reflect on its nature. Plutarch/’Aristotle’ says that the rhetra was an oracle given to Lykourgos. In all likelihood this was the opinion of the Spartans of the fourth century. What was the opinion of the Spartan who first ‘remembered’ the rhetra and his contemporaries? (I will return later to the problem of who was supposed to have received the rhetra. Now, I am just wondering what kind of document it is meant to be.) Someone has said that the rhetra cannot be considered an oracle, inter alia, because rhetra means “law.”107 It should be added that the rhetra (with its .4$C+; clause) shows the formal character of a law.108 However, it may have always been considered a legislative text based on an oracle, or an oracle that confirmed a law proposal,109 and the very fact of its preservation bears witness to the belief in its

104 LÉVY 1977, 44f.; cf. LÉVY 2003, 27–36 and 204f. 105 1976, 235. See M. Kõiv’s (2003, 194) felicitous formulation: “the rhetra was composed as an act of foundation of the basic structure” of the Spartan polis. However, it seems harder to believe that it was “an orally transmitted recollection of an enactment of the past.” Nor do I share the opinion of LUTHER 2004, 33–5, 42f. and 59, according to whom the greater part of the rhetra is not a law, but a simple and late description of measures taken by Lykourgos upon the indications of the god Apollo. The text is prescriptive: the aorist participles indicate actions to be carried out once only, while the imperative present infinitive concerns actions that must be repeated in the future. 106 On ‘invention of tradition’ at Sparta, see FLOWER 2002. 107 NAFISSI 1991, 71; VAN WEES 1999, 22f. See LUTHER 2004, 31 n. 92 for further bibliography. 108 Cf. above, n. 99. 109 See the discussion in PARKE – WORMELL 1956, I, 6, 90f.; LÉVY 1977, 88f.; WALTER 1993, 159 n. 66; MEYER 2002, 86. Further bibliography is listed there and in LUTHER 2004, 31 n. 92.

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oracular origin, since the preservation is probably due to its recording in the royal archives.110 If we look at the rhetra as a law, it reminds us of the well-known group of false documents from fourth-century Athens111 purporting to document in detail decisions taken by the Athenians in crucial moments of the past, at the time of the Persian Wars. The content of these documents reflected views that were widespread among the Athenians, and was partly based on older traditions (Herodotos), but the documents themselves were cast in the mould of contemporary legislative procedures.112 The decree for the foundation of Cyrene, enclosed in the decree that granted isopoliteia to the Therans, is a similar case.113 Just like the great rhetra, it refers to the foundation of the community, and both the foundation decree, allegedly going back to the seventh century, and the fourth-century decree include explicit references to the Delphic oracle (ll. 24–25, 7–11). A few years ago, J. Davies concluded an essay on these documents by suggesting that “the ‘decree mode’ replaced ‘oracle mode’ as the prime means by which Greek states and communities remembered their past and chartered their present.”114 As shown above, the rhetra has an ambiguous nature, legislative and oracular at the same time, but it draws its authority from its alleged oracular origin. It is worth keeping in mind that Tyrtaios’ Eunomia recalled Theopompos’ and Polydoros’ oracle and/or other oracles in the context of an appeal to obedience.115 The great rhetra should be compared also to oracles embedded in the foundation stories of colonies.116 However, its nature is peculiar, for the god does 110 On the archive of oracles kept by the kings, Hdt. 6.57.4, cf. Plut. Mor. 1116f.; CARLIER 1984, 268f. Since the rhetra was thought to be an oracle given to Lykourgos, one would expect Pausanias to have included it in his pamphlet, cf. TIGERSTEDT 1965–78, I, 54 and 111, 212f.; DAVID 1979, 112; VAN WEES 17; MILLENDER 2001, 128f. The fact that it is in prose and lacks clear moral implications could explain why it was left out of the Constantinian excerpta (contra MEYER 1892, 261f.; KIECHLE 1963, 169). For the reasons outlined above, §3, Gagarin’s thesis that the text of the rhetra was in written form already at the time when the rider was added, whose conditional clause is reminiscent of written laws (GAGARIN 1986, 53f. n. 9), is highly unlikely. Nor do we need to admit that Tyrtaios knew it in this hypothetical written form (as MILLENDER 2001, 127f. does). Being an oracle, the rhetra was not affected by Lykourgos’ ban on written law (Plut. Lyc. 13.1–4). It must have been transcribed early, as many recognise (JEFFERY 1961a, 145f.; THOMMEN 1996, 42f. n. 96; MILLENDER 2001, 127– 9; LIPKA 2002a and 2002b, 24–7). 111 HABICHT 1961. SEG 9.3 112 On these documents, THOMAS 1989, 83–93; DAVIES 1996; MÖLLER 2003.113 = M-L 5; GAWANTKA 1975, 98–111; OSBORNE 1996, 13–15; OSBORNE 1998; NAFISSI 1999, 253. 114 DAVIES 1996, 36. 115 Fr. 1ª.2, 4, 10 G.-P. = 2.2, 4, 10 W. E30-&0ä-7$*.,(3).5.,7$-3)Eu*3E. probably refer to the oracle quoted by Plutarch: s. above, n. 39. 116 On the role of Delphic oracle in foundation tales see GIANGIULIO 2001 and in this volume.

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not sanction the foundation of the city and the claim of the community on its territory, as it typically does in the case of colonies. The Spartans thought big. In classical times the well-ordered political life of the city was perceived, in Sparta and abroad, as the basis of its powerful emergence as a leading state in the Peloponnese or Greece.117 From this point of view, we could envisage the rhetra as an outcome of Spartan military successes and a reification of their political roots. The Spartan political community was so aware of the importance of its political statute and the virtue of its nomoi that it produced a false charter that laid the foundation for both of them. We have seen that it is impossible to prove that Tyrtaios is a terminus ante quem for the rhetra.118 Since the rhetra is not a law, the crucial question of its relationship to Tyrtaios must be expressed in the following terms: were Spartan institutions in Tyrtaios’ time organised as the rhetra ordained? Perhaps yes. Tyrtaios seems to place greater value on the authority of the basileis than the rhetra does, and this has been labelled more Homeric,119 but the difference has also been explained by referring to the different historical context and the different nature of the Eunomia in comparison to the rhetra.120 Tyrtaios knew the tradition on the Herakleidae (hence archagetai), gerousia and the Doric phylae (fr. 10.16 G.–P. = 19.8 W.), and both he and the rhetra date back to a moment when Spartan civic institutions and decision-making procedures could be spoken of without mentioning the ephors. They testify to a certain level of the city’s political development that may have occurred between the second half of the seventh century and the beginning of the sixth century. Although it does not testify to a precise organisational act, the rhetra does reflect the condition of a community that had reached a certain political institutionalisation. When it was composed, citizenship was already bound to hereditary membership in phylai and obai; the basileis enjoyed a solid hereditary status as descendants of the founders. By then, the number of gerontes was well established (a fact that imposed the election of a new member on the death of a geron) and the kings were integrated in the gerousia. Finally, it refers to the relations between the council and the assembly, their respective powers and to the frequency of meetings. The great rhetra reflects the third level of a process that can be divided schematically into four phases: 1. development of the pre-political community; 2. reinforcement of the kingship (basileia); 3. first definition of political institutions (citizenship, assembly and gerousia); 4. ‘sixth-century reform’: maturation of these institutions (rise of the ephorate) and the timocratic definition of the access to citizenship, which in turn affected the dependent classes and communities (Helots and perioikoi).121 117 118 119 120 121

Hdt. 1.65; Thuc. 1.18; Xen. Lac. 1.1f. Cf. PARADISO 1995. See above, §3. VAN WEES 1999, 24 and 2002, 93–5. WHITBY 2002, 9 n. 34; LINK 2003, 149. On the development of archaic Sparta, see NAFISSI 2009.

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5.5. THE CHRONOLOGY OF THE RHETRA AND THE TRADITION ON LYKOURGOS As this contribution approaches its conclusion, it seems appropriate to take up the initial theme again and also add, in light of this, a clarification of the problem of the chronology of the rhetra, which I have regarded so far as roughly contemporary to Tyrtaios’ poetry. There are, I believe, three good reasons that suggest a slightly post-Tyrtaian date for the rhetra. 1. Tyrtaios’ Eunomia was an appeal to authority: abidance by it had lead to success. As an imaginative product of a retrospective view of the Spartan military achievements and their political foundation, the rhetra could well belong to the climate of the decades immediately after the Second Messenian War.122 2. The strict definition of the probouleutic principle in the so-called rider could have been indirectly caused by bitter conflicts within the community that had induced it to make use of the principle. The call for a redistribution of the land during the Messenian War, which Aristotle knew of through Tyrtaios’ Eunomia, could be such a conflict. In the aftermath of the civic strife, the rhetra provided an authoritative charter for this rule, which was probably contested when it was first applied, but eventually became successful.123 3. The rhetra should find a place not only in Spartan archaic history, but also in the history of the tradition on Spartan institutions. As argued above, we should accept Plutarch’s and ‘Aristotle’s’ view that the rhetra was always thought to be or to reflect an oracle. Is it really necessary, moreover, to question their view that this oracle had been given to Lykourgos? The participles in the singular accusative show that the rhetra bears traces of its connection with Lykourgos. It has been assumed that the participles were originally dual accusatives, that the kings were the ones who carried out its provisions, and that the text was revised.124 The supposed original text could have influenced the ideas of Hellanikos (FGrHist 4 F 116) who attributed the creation of the Spartan institutions to Eurysthenes and Prokles. But if this different original text had been known in the fifth century, the consistent agreement, from Herodotos onwards, on the Lykourgan paternity of the gerousia would be puzzling. The hypothesis that the rhetra constitutes an ancient

122 For the chronology, NAFISSI 2009, 120f. 123 I am suggesting an indirect relation to the situation documented by Arist. Pol. 5.1306b36– 1307a2 = fr. 1 W. (for a more direct connection, considering the rhetra a real law, cf. WADEGERY 1943–4, 4; NAFISSI 1991, 79 n. 200; VAN WEES 1999, 2–4 and 25; LINK 2000, 29 n. 107). There is no way to tell whether a probouleutic procedure existed already before these turmoils and risked being ignored, or whether it was a novelty. At any rate, the rhetra formalised and stabilised it. 124 BRINGMANN 1975, 356–62. Cf. e.g., PARKE – WORMELL 1956, I, 90. Recently also DREHER 2006, 55 argues that the text of the rhetra has been modified in order to bring it in line with the new tradition, that saw it as received by Lykourgos.

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testimony to the legend of Lykourgos has the advantage of being the simplest one. It would explain why Xenophon – presumably a very well informed source – placed the lawgiver in the age of the Herakleidae (Xen. Lac. 10.8).125 In that case the rhetra would probably be later than the poet of Eunomia, Tyrtaios, who never mentions Lykourgos.126 Well before Simonides and Herodotos, the great rhetra should be the most ancient testimony to the legend of Lykourgos.127 Whatever it may be, the great rhetra is not a law that was ever approved but rather a retrospective and intentional construct that intended to reproduce the foundation of Sparta. Therefore, it does not mark the beginning of the Spartan constitution, but the beginning of the legend of the Spartan constitution. As such, it remains an extraordinary document for the archaic history of Sparta.

125 As far as I know, this connection has been made only by LÉVY 1977, 95; for a different explanation, which connects Lac. 10.8 to Tyrtaios, see VAN WEES 1999, 13. 126 Cf. above §2, n. 52. Kõiv’s assumption that the rhetra had to fit into the framework of the origins of the city as outlined in Tyrtaios’ Eunomia is probably correct (2003, 186–98). But the space left open to clarification and improvement of knowledge about the past was wider than he allows, not only because Tyrtaios had made no allusion to the rhetra, but also for the possibility afforded by an oral culture. 127 Fr. 123 Page. On the identity of Simonides (the poet or the shadowy fifth century genealogist) see the diverging opinions of PICCIRILLI 1978 and PARADISO 1999. As KÕIV 2003, 162f. notices, the Spartans in Herodotos’ time supposed that the sanctuary of Lykourgos had been established soon after his death; it is improbable that it was founded in recent times. Also the diverging opinions on the origin of his laws suggest a previous knowledge of Lykourgos in Greece. Obviously the antiquity of Lykourgos’ legend does not provide it with a stronger claim of preserving memories of remote times.

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MANFREDINI, M. – PICCIRILLI, L. 1980: (ed.) Plutarco. Le vite di Licurgo e Numa, Milan. MCGLEW, J. F. 1993: Tyranny and Political Culture in Ancient Greece, Ithaca and London. MEIER, M. 1998: Aristokraten und Damoden. Untersuchungen zur inneren Entwicklung Spartas im 7. Jahrhundert v. Chr. und zur politischen Funktion der Dichtung des Tyrtaios, Stuttgart. 2002: Tyrtaios fr. 1B G/P bzw. fr. °14 G/P (= fr. 4 W) und die große Rhetra – kein Zusammenhang?, GFA 5, 65–87. MEYER, ED. 1892: Lykurgos von Sparta, in Id., Forschungen zur alten Geschichte 1, Halle, 211–86. MILLENDER, E.G. 2001: Spartan literacy revisited, ClAnt 20, 121–64.MÖLLER, A. 2003: Monumenti falsi, tradizioni fittizie. Un prolegomenon per una patologia del documento, in A. M. Biraschi – P. Desideri – S. Roda – G. Zecchini (eds.) L’uso dei documenti nella storiografia antica, Perugia, 113–21. MURRAY, O. 1980: Early Greece, London. MUSTI, D. 1996: Regole politiche a Sparta: Tirteo e la Grande Rhetra, RFIC 124, 257–81. NAFISSI, M. 1991: La nascita del kosmos, Naples. 1999: From Sparta to Taras. Nomima, ktiseis and relationships between colony and mother city, in HODKINSON – POWELL 1999, 245–72. 2000: La prospettiva di Pausania sulla storia dell’Elide: la questione pisate, in D. Knoepfler – M. Piérart (eds.) Éditer, traduire, commenter Pausanias en l’an 2000, Rencontre de Neuchâtel et de Fribourg 1998, Neuchâtel – Genève 2001, 301–21. 2009: Sparta, in K. Raaflaub – H. van Wees (eds.) A Companion to Archaic Greece, Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World, Malden, MA & London, 117-37. NIPPEL, W. 1980: Mischverfassungstheorie und Verfassungsrealität in Antike und früher Neuzeit, Stuttgart. OGDEN, D. 1994: Crooked speech: the genesis of the Spartan Rhetra, JHS 114, 85–102. OLIVA, P. 1971: Sparta and her Social Problems, Amsterdam – Prague. OLLIER, F. 1934: La République des Lacédémoniens, Lyon. OSBORNE, R. 1996: Greece in the Making, 1200–479 BC, London – New York. 1997: Law and laws. How do we join up the dots?, in L. G. Mitchell – P. J. Rhodes (eds.) The Development of the Polis in Archaic Greece, London – New York, 74–82. 1998: Early Greek colonization? The nature of Greek settlement in the West, in N. Fisher – H. Van Wees (eds.) Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, London, 251–69. PARADISO, A. 1995: Tempo della tradizione, tempo dello storico: Thuc. I.18 e la storia arcaica spartana, SStor 28, 35–45. 1999: Uno stemma genealogico? Nota a Simonide fr. 628 PMG, RFIC 127, 426–35. 2000: Lycurgue spartiate: analogie, anachronisme et achronie dans la constuction historiographique du passé, in C. Darbo-Peschanski (ed.) Constructions du temps dans le monde grec ancien, Paris, 373–91.

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PARKE, H. W. – WORMELL, D. E. W. 1956: The Delphic Oracle, 2nd ed., Oxford. PAVESE, C. O. 1967: Un’emendazione alla Retra di Licurgo, RFIC 95, 129–33. 1992: La rhetra di Licurgo, RIFC 120, 260–85. PICCIRILLI, L. 1978: Simonide poeta o Simonide genealogista? (Plut. Lyc. 1,8 = Simon. fr. 123 Page), RFIC 106, 272–76. PRATO, C. 1968: (ed.) Tyrtaeus, Rome. RAAFLAUB, K. 2006: Athenian and Spartan eunomia, or: what to do with Solon’s timocracy?, in J. H. Blok – A. P. M. H. Lardinois (eds.) Solon of Athens: New Historical and Philological Approaches, Leiden, 390–428. RADT, S. 2003: (ed.) Strabons Geographika, II, Göttingen. RICHER, N. 1998: Les éphores. Études sur l’histoire et sur l’image de Sparte (VIIIe–IIIe siècles avant Jésus-Christ), Paris. ROUSSEL, D. 1976: Tribu et cité, Paris. RUZÉ, F. 1991: Le conseil et l’assemblée dans la grande rhètra de Sparte, REG 104, 15–30. 1997: Délibération et pouvoir dans la cité grecque de Nestor à Socrate, Paris. STE. CROIX, G. E. M. DE 1972: The Origins of the Peloponnesian War, London. SCHWARTZ, ED. 1903: Diodoros, 38, RE V I, 663–704. SCHWYZER, ED. – DEBRUNNER, A. 1950–1959: Griechische Grammatik, HdbAW II 1.1–3, 2. Ausg., Munich. SEALEY, R. 1969. Probouleusis and the sovereign assembly, CSCA 2, 247–69. 1976: A History of the Greek City States, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London. SORDI, M. 2004: Pausania II e le leggi di Licurgo, in H. Heftner – K. Tomaschitz (eds.) Ad fontes!: Festschrift für Gerhard Dobesch, Wien, 145–50. STARR, CH. G. 1965. The credibility of early Spartan history, Historia 14, 257–72 = in WHITBY 2002, 26–42. STEINMETZ, P. 1969: Das Erwachen des geschichtlichen Bewußtseins in der Polis, in P. Steinmetz (ed.) Politeia und res publica, Beiträge … dem Andenken Rudolph Starks gewidmet, Palingenesia 4, Wiesbaden, 52–78. SZEGEDY-MASZAK, A. 1978: Legends of the Greek lawgivers, GRBS 19, 199–209. THOMAS, R. 1989: Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens, Cambridge. THOMMEN, L. 1996: Lakedaimonion Politeia, Stuttgart. 2003: Sparta. Verfassungs – und Sozialgeschichte einer griechischen Polis, Stuttgart – Weimar.

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TIGERSTEDT, E. N. 1965–78: The Legend of Sparta in Classical Antiquity, I–II & index, Stockholm – Göteborg – Uppsala. TREU, M. 1941: Der Schlußsatz der großen Rhetra, Hermes 76, 22–42. VANNICELLI, P. 2004: Eraclidi e Perseidi, in P. Angeli Bernardini (ed.) La città di Argo. Mito, storia, tradizioni poetiche, Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Urbino 2002, Rome, 279–94. VAN WEES, H. 1999: Tyrtaeus’ Eunomia: nothing to do with the Great Rhetra, in HODKINSON – POWELL 1999, 1–41. 2002: Gute Ordnung ohne Große Rhetra – Noch einmal zu Tyrtaios’ Eunomia, GFA 5, 89– 103. VÉLISSAROPOULOS-KARAKOSTAS, J. 2005: Codex oraux et lois écrites. La grande rhètra et les sources du droit à l’époque archaïque, in P. Sineux (ed.) Le législateur et la loi dans l’Antiquité. Hommage à François Ruzé, Caen, 109–18. VOLLGRAFF, W. 1951: Inhumation en terre sacree dans l’antiquite grecque: a propos d’une inscription d’Argos, Paris. WADE-GERY, H. T. 1943–4: The Spartan rhetra in Plutarch Lykourgos VI, CQ 37, 62–72; CQ 38, 1–9 and 115– 26 = in Id., 1959: Essays in Greek History, Oxford, 37–85. WALTER, U. 1993: An der Polis teilhaben. Bürgerstaat und Zugehörigkeit im Archaischen Griechenland, Historia Einzelschriften 82, Stuttgart. WELWEI, K.-W. 1979: Die spartanische Phylenordnung im Spiegel der Großen Rhetra und des Tyrtaios, Gymnasium 86, 178–96 = in CHRIST 1986, 426–45, with Nachtrag 1983, 446 sg. = in Id. 2000, 42–63. 1997: Apella oder Ekklesia? Zur Bezeichnung der spartanischen Volksversammlung, RhM 140, 243–9 = Id. 2000, 172–9. 2000: Polis und Arché. Kleine Schriften zu Gesellschafts – und Herrschaftsstrukturen in der griechischen Welt, Historia Einzelschriften 146, Stuttgart. 2004: Sparta. Aufstieg und Niedergang einer antiken Großmacht, Stuttgart. WEST, M. L. 1970: rev. C. Prato (ed.) Tyrtaeus, Roma 1968, CR n.s. 20: 149–151. 1974: Studies in Greek Elegy and Iambus, Berlin – New York. WHITBY, M. 2002: (ed.) Sparta. Edinburgh. WILAMOWITZ-MOELLENDORFF, U. VON 1884: Homerische Untersuchungen, Berlin. 1900: Die Textgeschichte der griechischen Lyriker, Berlin.

6. COLLECTIVE IDENTITIES, IMAGINED PAST, AND DELPHI Maurizio Giangiulio A community bound together by imaginative possessions (W. B. Yeats, The Galway Plains, in Essays and Introductions, London 1961 [1989], 213)

The primary purpose of this chapter is to enquire whether the traditions claiming a crucial role for Delphi, and especially for Delphic oracles, in Greek archaic history should be regarded as an integral part of the processes by which Greek political communities intentionally constructed their collective identity and imagined their past. In the first section (1) I briefly discuss to what extent dedicating a monument at Delphi contributes to the self-understanding of the relevant communities. The second section (2) argues that the oracular stories we tend to take as coming from Delphi are to be seen as an integral part of the intentional past constructed and displayed by the communities these stories refer to, and that they originate more from the communities themselves, often within the framework provided by the relations between them and the international shrine, than from Delphi itself. 6.1 When discussions of state dedications at Delphi take into account corporate identity, polis or group identity is often presupposed, and seen as a factual given, or an object, in a sense something one can put on display. Instead, the evidence shows that this type of dedication contributed to shaping, rather than simply to displaying the self-awareness of the relevant community, as the exemplary case of the Athenian dedication for Marathon clearly shows.1 A detailed examination of the evidence of the monuments dedicated in the Delphic sanctuary is out of place here.2 But it may be helpful to discuss the case of the Siphnian thesauros, a magnificent building located at the entrance of the temenos which is the second thesauros built in the sanctuary – the most ancient was notoriously dedicated by Kypselos the Corinthian tyrant – and the earliest on the Greek mainland to be constructed entirely of marble.3 1 2 3

See IOAKIMIDOU 1997; FLASHAR 1996, 63–85; GEHRKE 2003. See JACQUEMIN 1999; PARTIDA 2000. On the Siphnian treasury see DAUX – DE LA COSTE-MESSELIÈRE 1987; RIDGWAY 1965; JACQUEMIN 1999, 352 no. 441; NEER 2001 and 2003. For a perceptive discussion of the literary tradition see now MARI 2005.

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It is worth pointing out that to a Greek polis aiming at presenting itself in a panhellenic sanctuary the dedication of a treasury must have been extremely important.4 By means of it the community’s prosperousness could be asserted, as Pausanias appropriately remarked in discussing the reasons for building a thesauros.5 Moreover, the self-image which the community wanted to promote could be exhibited in a symbolically meaningful way. Every building consecrated by a polis at a panhellenic sanctuary was essential in creating the physical image of the sanctuary itself, and in making the self-presentation of the polis an integral part of it, in a highly visible and permanent way. In addition, the dedicatory inscriptions, the building materials and techniques, and the architectural and sculptural style of the thesauros all played an important role in asserting its local origin,6 so that it became “a little bit of the polis in the heart of a panhellenic sanctuary.”7 Even more importantly, a thesauros was both an anathema in itself, and a store-place for many other anathemata and agalmata.8 Both the thesauros and the other anathemata became the property of the god of the sanctuary, and in this way the religious piety of the community dedicating the building was asserted and displayed. Therefore, one should take the thesauros dedicated by the small Siphnian community blessed by the discovery of mines as aiming at placing the polis at the heart of the panhellenic sanctuary, and at exhibiting a privileged relationship with the oracular shrine. The crucial point is that in the second half of the sixth century a political identity was emerging in the Siphnian community. In fact, in those times the agora and the prytaneion, the main symbolical centres of the entire polis, were decorated in Parian marble,9 and a few decades later a new wall was built on the acropolis.10 The dedication of the thesauros at Delphi added an international dimension to the internal processes by which the local corporate identity was structured, and has to be seen as an integral part of them. But there is a Delphic aspect to the thesauros and consequently to these processes which has to be considered. The east pediment depicts Apollo and Herakles struggling over the tripod and Zeus’ intervention to settle the dispute.11 It is the tripod, then, the oracular symbol of the sanctuary,12 that was on display on the main front of the building, where every pilgrim ascending the sacred way could see it. 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12

On the nature and meaning of the thesauroi see BEHRENS-DU MAIRE 1993. See Paus. 10.11.5; on this point see MARI 2005 and 2006; NEER 2001, 278–9; PARTIDA 2000, 283 ff. A point rightly stressed by MARCONI 2006, 161. NEER 2003, 129. JACQUEMIN 1999, 3–4 and 81–92. See Hdt. 3.57. 3; NEER 2003, 132–3 rightly stresses the point. BROCK – YOUNG 1949, 3–5. On the pediment see RIDGWAY 1965; WATROUS 1982, and the works cited at n. 3. For a survey of the recent interpretations of the struggle see SHAPIRO 1989, 61–4; for the tripod see SAKOWSKI 1997. MÜLLER 1820; WILLEMSEN 1955; AMANDRY 1950, 140–8.

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Moreover, it should be noted that the religious theme of the closeness of Apollo to Zeus is prominent in the architectural sculpture of the treasury. Needless to say it is a theme highly significant to the identity of the sanctuary of Apollo, the prophetic god who discloses to men Zeus’ will.13 In fact, two crucial aspects of the religious culture of Delphi play an important role in the struggle for the tripod, in the psychostasia on the east frieze, and in the gigantomachy on the north frieze, that is to say the privileged relationship between Zeus and Apollo on the one hand, and the power and the justice of Zeus on the other.14 Indeed, the Delphic nature of the treasury has always appeared so striking that its sculptural program has been taken as suggested by the religious bodies of the sanctuary and having nothing to do with Siphnos.15 But in the light of the nature of the treasuries in general this view has to be discarded. We are dealing in fact with a selfrepresentation meant to construct and assert a Delphic corporate identity by appropriating Delphic symbols and themes. In a sense the Siphnian polis identifies itself by recognising itself as Delphic. Although complex processes must have been involved, it is not the sanctuary that plays an active role here, but the local community, and Delphi appears to have been much more a focus of attention and a point of reference than an active force. As to the monuments dedicated at the sanctuary this appears to be reasonably clear. One might wonder now whether one could reach similar conclusions with regard to the oracular stories which are usually taken as bearing witness to the direct involvement of the sanctuary in the history of the archaic communities. 6.2 As regards this type of tradition, notoriously Delphi’s role is often seen as a sanctioning and legitimising one, and this is the reason why Apollo’s sanction is usually seen as vitally important for colonies and crucial both for tyrants and political reformers. Irad Malkin, for instance, has skilfully argued that Delphi ought to be viewed as giving support for social and political change, and that this support “was expressed through a recognition of the changing needs of Greek communities in the archaic period.” According to this view, the fundamental reason why Delphi was able to provide “divine sanction or authorisation for the new social order created by man” is that Delphi had become “the public mediator between whole communities and the gods.”16 One could stress, in addition to that, the ability of divination to facilitate public decisions, to reframe issues at stake, or to 13 14

15 16

See Hymn. Hom. Ap. 132. See also MARCONI 2006, 163–4, although he plays down the importance for the Siphnian polis of a Delphic identity, apparently still influenced by Defradas’ book on the ‘propagande delphique’ (DEFRADAS 1954). See WATROUS 1982; RIDGWAY 1999, 204–5; PARTIDA 2000, 40 and 285; MARCONI 2006, 164. Contra, on adequate grounds, NEER 2003, 147–8 n. 30. MALKIN 1989 (see 151–3 for the quotations).

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allow the communities to construct an interpretation of the present circumstances.17 Nevertheless we are left with the problem of the nature of the narrative accounts of the Delphic involvement in archaic history, especially of those which make use of oracles. The crucial point is that even all these sophisticated views take the oracular stories at face value and as more or less historically true, so that the historian has only to ask either to what extent Delphi had a real influence on the historical events, or what kind of influence it had. However, it would appear that the evidence points to a different conclusion. In fact, on a close reading of the texts these stories can be shown to be cultural artefacts having more to do with the corporate identity of the relevant communities and the image of the past projected by them than with the mere divine sanction of the historical ‘events.’ With these remarks in mind, let us now examine more closely some oracular stories. First of all, the tradition of the foundation of the colonies. Cyrene and Kroton provide us with two significant cases in which, through various narrative devices, the decisive role played by the Delphic oracle is very strongly emphasised: the spontaneous prophecy, the founder’s reluctance, the multiple responses. A representational strategy is at work here, meant to depict the foundation as an event brought about by the oracular god: the origins of the community appear to be a direct expression of the Delphic god’s will.18 In this way Cyrene and Kroton declare a special link with Delphi and represent themselves as standing high in Apollo’s favour. As the dedications at the sanctuary show, a Delphic connection was a matter of the highest importance to a colonial society. Accordingly, the foundation stories are to be seen as traditions crucially important for the community’s identity. By emphasizing the Delphic origins of the community they both claim a special cultural quality for it and construct a fundamental component of its self-understanding and self-awareness. As to the chronology of these stories, it should be noticed that the Delphic tripod plays a crucial symbolic role in the coinage of Kroton from about 530 BCE.19 As Rutter aptly notes, the tripod is to be seen as the “symbol of the prophetic power of Apollo of Delphi, and a clear reference to the role of this god in the foundation of the city.”20 Thus, it clearly declares a special link between Kroton and Delphi, as does the struggle for the tripod on the east pediment of the Siphnian treasury. We cannot help but view the oracular tradition in this context. We are probably dealing with a mid- or late sixth-century tradition, aiming at asserting a Delphic identity for the polis. As for Cyrene, the Delphic aspect of the 17 18 19

20

On the social value of the oracular responses see PARKER 1985; MORGAN 1990, 153–154; BOWDEN 2005. GIANGIULIO 1989, 134–40; MCGLEW 1993, 19–20; CALAME 1996, 133–7, 143–45 and 150– 3; GIANGIULIO 2001, 116–20. For a numismatic overview of the issues of the mint see, most recently, RUTTER 2001, 166– 75 and pls. 35–6. On coin types and polis identity, see now the discussion by J. Skinner in this volume. RUTTER 1997, 29.

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foundation story is probably no later than the first half of the sixth century, but instances in which the Delphic oracles of foundation are considerably later are easy to find. In the case of the oracle for the foundation of Taras, I have given you Satyrion and Tarentum a rich country to dwell in and to be a plague to the Iapygians,21

the way in which natives are alluded to compels us to take the prophecy as presupposing the violent struggles between them and the colonists in the first decades of the fifth century.22 The oracle must have been conceived in those times. In the light of the preceding remarks I would assume that: first, foundation tales are to be taken as traditions which claim an identity for the community in the context of complex processes of collective self-definition and self-assertion; second, the Delphic oracles, in turn, are an integral part of the tradition – in other words, they presuppose it and cannot be understood if we detach them from the narrative in which they are embedded; third, it is implausible to see the foundation oracles we know as the responses given by the Delphic oracle when consulted by the founders; fourth, it is in the light of the relationships between the colonies and Delphi that the oracular traditions we have been discussing so far ought to be viewed. In a sense they are Delphic traditions, that is to say they show many of the features – especially recurrent narrative patterns, strong elements of folktale motifs and alteration for moral ends – figuring in those stories which belong, as O. Murray has persuasively argued, to a narrative tradition in prose based at Delphi.23 But is there any strong reason to believe that the colonial traditions were exclusively shaped by Delphic priests? In fact, one cannot deny that there is an important local aspect to the foundation tales. If it is so, the colonial contexts must have played a role in the origin and transmission of them. On the other hand, given their Delphic features it would not be wise to conceive of them as completely independent from the network of relations existing between the colonies and the sanctuary. Let us now turn to other types of oracular stories. As we shall see, one has to advance similar conclusions. First of all, a couple of Spartan stories. The wellknown story of the transfer of Orestes’ relics to Sparta clearly aims at emphasising the Delphic sanction to it.24 But the oracle about Orestes’ tomb reported by Herodotus, There is a certain place called Tegea in a smooth plain in Arcadia, where two winds puff by the force of fate, and blow is laid, returning blow, and trouble upon trouble. There the life-

21 22 23 24

Antioch. FGrHist 555 F 13 = PARKE – WORMELL 1956, no. 47 = ANDERSEN 1987, no. 22. Hdt. 7.170.3; see DUNBABIN 1948, 149; NENCI 1976; LOMBARDO 1991. MURRAY 2001, 31–4. The best and most sophisticated discussion of the episode is BOEDEKER 1993; see also HUXLEY 1979; SINGOR 1987; MOREAU 1990; VANDIVER 1991, 34–8; MALKIN 1994, 26–9; PRETZLER 1999; WELWEI 2004. On the oracles, see especially OERI 1899, 46–9, CRAHAY 1956, 150 and 153–5, and FONTENROSE 1978, 123–4.

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giving earth keeps under the son of Agamemnon. Fetch him, and you will be the protector of Tegea.25

cannot be taken as a piece of prudent ambiguity to be ascribed to the Delphic priests, as Parke maintained.26 In fact the oracle seems to be derived from a riddle which can be solved only in the context of the story in which it is embedded.27 One should admit, then, that the oracle presupposes the tradition, in other words, that it depends on the tradition itself. Probably the tradition originated in Sparta, although the relationship between Sparta and Delphi must have played a role. Let us now briefly consider the response given by the Pythia to the Spartans at the beginning of the second Persian War that either Sparta would be laid waste or a king would die: But for you, O dwellers in Sparta of the broad lands, either your city, famous and mighty, is sacked by Persian warriors, or, not that, but the guard of Lakedaimon will mourn the death of a king of the kin of Herakles. No strength of bulls or of lions will stop the foe in the onset. For the will of Zeus is with him. I say he will not stay until he has taken and utterly rent up one of these two.28

The tradition, and the oracle embedded in it, was probably circulated at the end of the war, rather than after Leonidas’ death. The story aims at shaping the heroic and sacrificial legend of Leonidas, and its particular purpose is to make clear that “only through the death of Leonidas could Sparta be saved.”29 Based on this, and in the light of the details on the consultation of the oracle by Sparta reported by Herodotus later on,30 we can safely assume that the story is not a “Delphische Fälschung,” as Jacoby put it,31 but belongs to a Spartan tradition originated in Sparta.32 The stories about the end of dynasties of kings and tyrants provide us with other interesting cases, in which the Delphic oracles appear to be dependent on traditions circulated in later times and meant to depict the subsequent political change as foreseen by the gods and even brought about by them. A telling instance is the response given to Arkesilaus III of Cyrene. The kingship would have lasted for no more than eight generations, and as for Arkesilaus, he would have to keep quiet, otherwise he would die.

25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32

Hdt. 1.67.3 = PARKE – WORMELL 1956, no. 33 = ANDERSEN 1987, no. 13. PARKE – WORMELL 1956, I 95. FONTENROSE 1978, 81 and n. 43. Hdt. 7.220.3 = PARKE – WORMELL 1956, no. 100 = ANDERSEN 1987, no. 37. On the text, see PARKE 1949, 139 and ROSSI 1981, 208–9: the verses surely reveal “symptoms of hasty workmanship,” as Parke put it, but from this we should not necessarily infer that an ‘authentic’ response had been extemporised at Delphi, as Rossi unconvincingly does. PARKE – WORMELL 1956, 167. Hdt. 7.239. See JACOBY 1913, 458. On the oracle, see PANITZ 1935, 54; CRAHAY 1956, 309–12; PARKE – WORMELL 1956, 167– 8, and especially ZEILHOFER 1959, 20–2.

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As far as four Battuses and four Arkesilauses, eight generations of men, Loxias grants you to be kings of Cyrene. Farther than that he does not advise you even to attempt to reign. Do, however, return to your native land and remain quiet. But if you shall find the kiln full of jars, do not roast up the jars, but send them down the wind. Yet if you shall roast up the kiln, do not enter the place with water on both sides. Or else you will die and the bull in his pride.33

This is an elaborate prose text still preserving some traces of the original hexameter form, probably based on two original verse oracles, retold and put together in the context of narrative accounts circulated after the fall of the dynasty. Indeed, all the oracles concerning Cyrene’s history incorporated into Herodotus’ work must have been transmitted in the context of the Cyrenean living tradition.34 They seem to have been an integral part of Cyrene’s cultural heritage, directly corresponding to local situations, and some of them show traces of Doric dialect and local idioms, so that they could hardly have been created by Delphic poets.35 As for the response given to Arkesilaus III, I see no reason to maintain – as Parke did – that “when the dynasty fell, Delphi preferred to represent it that the Pythia had foreseen what occurred and given Arkesilaus III a warning which he first forgot and then misunderstood.”36 We are probably dealing with an oracular narrative which conforms to the folktale type of the ‘Jerusalem chamber’ prophecy,37 circulated at Cyrene, among others, in post-Battiad times. When a tradition meant to account for the fall of the kings and to depict the events as predicted by the Delphic god took shape, exactly this kind of oracular tale must have been incorporated into it. The last instance I want to consider here is the story of the rise of Kypselos in Herodotus’ Histories.38 It is a traditional narrative, containing strong elements of folktale and mythological motifs: the telling name of his mother Labda, her lameness,39 her reversal of fortune from marginality to marriage, and from sterility to prodigious pregnancy, the crucial role played by a ‘divine child’ rescued from murder and doomed to be a ruler.40 No one would think of a Herodotean invention, just as no one would in the case of Cyrus the Great.41 But it ought to be noted

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

41

Hdt. 4.163 = PARKE – WORMELL 1956, no. 70; see CRAHAY 1956, 155–16 and 123–6. A point already made by BENEDICT 1871, 35 and MALTEN 1911, 198; see now GIANGIULIO 2001, 125–7. Hdt. 4.155.1, 157.2 and 159.3 = PARKE – WORMELL 1956, nos. 39, 41 and 42; see GIANGIULIO 2001, 130 nn. 53–5. PARKE – WORMELL 1956, 156. On the folkloric motif see FONTENROSE 1978, 58–62. Hdt. 5.92b–e. See VERNANT 1982 and JAMESON 1986. VERNANT 1982; JAMESON 1986; SOURVINOU-INWOOD 1991, 282–3 n. 122; PELLING 1996, 76. On the motif-structure of the story of the rise of Kypselos see especially BAUER 1882, 547 n. 1; ALY 1921, 152–3; DÈLCOURT 1944; BINDER 1964, 150–1; SKRZHINSKAYA 1967; KAZAZIS 1978, 105–8; MURRAY 1980, 142–3. For a more detailed discussion see, most recently, GIANGIULIO 2005, 101–18. For Herodotus drawing on ‘mythologizing’ motifs in constructing his account of the birth and upbringing of Cyrus, see especially GOULD 1989, 32–3.

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that we cannot define it in terms of a “fairy-tale.”42 The birth story of Kypselos is not mere folklore but an oral tradition which granted a new statute to its protagonist in the cultural context of the times. For the same reason, it cannot be taken either as a later aetiological story explaining the rise of Kypselos, or as a ‘rationalistic’ tradition emphasising the pros of the tyranny and tending to political apologia. Let us now look at the first and the second oracle figuring in the story, that are to be seen as an integral part of a representational strategy meant to emphasise Delphic intervention: Eetion, no one honours you, though you are full of honour. Labda conceives, and will bear a rolling stone. It will fall on the absolute rulers, and will exact justice from Corinth. An eagle on the rocks conceives, and will give birth to a lion, strong and flesh-eating. He will bring many low. Mark these things well, Corinthians, who dwelled round fair Peirene and high-browed Corinth.43

In the oracles the images of the fierce lion, the precipitous rock and the violent avenger communicate the same troubling notion, and allude to the new ruler as to a figure of tremendous strength, ambiguously charismatic, glorious and terrible at the same time. Within the cultural context of seventh-century Corinth they could not have been understood but in relation to two passages of the Iliad depicting Hektor as a precipitous rock and a warrior enveloped in furor, ready to kill and similar to Ares or to a relentless fire, or even to a relentless and deadly lion.44 Nevertheless, Hektor is helped by Zeus and even made the object of time and kydos.45 Not dissimilarly from the great warrior hero Kypselos was doomed to be merciless with his enemies but also closest to the gods. He is raised, then, to an almost supernatural dimension, immensely glorious and terrible at the same time. What is at work here is a heroic paradigm determined by an image of tremendous strength. We can point out, then, the creation of a cultural entity, ambiguously charismatic, feared and revered at the same time. More precisely, the implacable and fearsome – yet divinely sanctioned – nature of the tyrant is at stake here. Kypselos’ legend as a whole is to be seen as a meaningful cultural construct which operates by selecting motifs and symbols of both folkloric and near eastern origin pertaining to the sphere of sovereignty, “a genuine orientalizing myth of the exposure of the hero,” as O. Murray puts it.46 What is important here, however, is that Kypselos’ legend, and the image of the tyrant as constructed especially by the oracles, must be taken as intrinsic to an archaic power ideology depicting Apollo’s favour as essential to the new ruler of Corinth. Thus far I have not discussed Delphic oracles as isolated texts, but as prophecies that would be hardly conceivable independently of a complex narrative tra42 43 44 45 46

Pace MCGLEW 1993, 62. Hdt. 5.92b.2–3 = PARKE – WORMELL 1956, nos. 6–7 = ANDERSEN 1987, nos. 5 and 6. See Hom. Il.13.136–42 and 15.592–630. Hom. Il. 15.610–12. MURRAY 2001, 30; see also MURRAY 1980, 143.

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dition. It should perhaps be noted that Parke and Wormell’s magnum opus risks being misleading, because it tends to discourage examining the oracles in their narrative context. Even Fontenrose, who is aware of the fact that many oracles which were allegedly spoken within historical times “are integral constituents of narratives, which, though told as historical, have a legendary character,”47 tends to pay more attention to the oracular response than to the tradition in which it is embedded. I have tried to show that textual evidence itself leads us to take into account the oracular narrative traditions, and not the oracular texts as such. A close reading of this type of narrative suggests that one needs to distance oneself from the assumption that the response simply became incorporated into a traditional narrative. It is not the local tradition that presupposes the oracles, but the oracles that presuppose the tradition and originate in the context of it. As is well known, collective traditions have a tendency to become accommodated to stereotypes and patterns, and to follow a logic of traditional ‘motifs.’ The traditional character of the Greek oracular tales we know from the literary record is beyond any doubt, as is shown by both the repetitiveness of their almost invariable plot structure and the pervasive presence of folkloric and mythological motifs, riddles, proverbs and other typical constituents of traditional tales. Indeed, prophecy is a feature that we know from traditional stories both of folktale type and of ‘mythological’ character. As for the oracles, they should be seen as a particular convention of narrative prophecy-speaking, as one of the many storyteller devices, like omens, dreams and curses, by means of which emphasis is placed on divine revelation and predestination of events. As Jasper Griffin remarked with reference to tragedy, “they establish the actions depicted as significant: not just something that happened, they were predicted, dreaded, evaded, and in the event came ineluctably to pass.”48 More particularly, the Delphic oracles prominently featuring in the collective traditions of the Greek cities must have been taken as reminding us just how important was the divine involvement in local affairs. In this way the historical past of a community could easily be seen as the work of Pythian Apollo himself. The nature of the ‘literary’ oracles at issue reinforces this conclusion. As responses taking the form of predictions, warnings, and commands, often very ambiguously expressed, they differ greatly from ‘historical’ responses giving either a straightforward command or an unambiguous answer to a question about two possible courses of action. Now, as is well known, literary oracles cannot be taken but as post-eventum creations, incorporating some description of what actually happened into the text of the verse oracle. In principle, one might assume that in Delphi someone could elaborate verse oracles “with the benefit of hindsight,”49 and that these texts later became constituents of the collective traditions of the communities who had consulted the oracle. However, this fails to explain the relationship between the oracles and the traditions. In fact, if the oracles presuppose 47 48 49

FONTENROSE 1978, 9. GRIFFIN 2006, 52. BOWDEN 2005, 37.

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the tradition and cannot be understood but in the context of it, one should admit that the Delphic poets would have constructed all the local traditions in which Delphic oracles feature. On the contrary, it is much easier to assume that the oracles originated as constituents of the local traditions at issue, possibly in the context of the network of relations existing between the poleis and Delphi. In fact, there is no reason to think that verse oracles could not have been orally composed everywhere;50 furthermore, traditional riddles, proverbs, sayings, anonymous prophecies, and verse oracles circulated or collected by chresmologoi could have been transformed and/or recycled;51 and even a historical prose oracle could have been made a constituent of an oral narrative tradition and transformed into a verse oracle. Be that as it may, it was the collective traditions that made use of oracles, and not oracles that generated traditions. We do not know if a consultation did take place. In the case of the foundation oracles there are no strong reasons to assume that there had regularly been a consultation. In later times, a consultation probably occurred, but what matters is that the ‘historical’ prose oracle must have been versified, and modified to fit the relevant collective tradition. Indeed, the crucial point is the origin of the oracular traditions. Are we faced with accounts ultimately derived from Delphi? Or is one to suppose that more complex processes are involved? I have offered a discussion – admittedly a very brief one – of some instances in which the local aspect seems to be relevant. And I have tried to show that there are no compelling reasons to assume that Delphi was the source of the oracular tales. The oracular traditions I have been discussing so far appear to have been shaped by the cultural and political needs of the poleis, or of particular circles within them, and it is not by chance that they abound with details of all kinds, and even with linguistic features, which make sense only in a local context. All this makes it plausible to assume that quite a lot of oracular traditions originated from different local contexts, both colonial and metropolitan. Admittedly, instances are to be found in which the tradition ought to be viewed in the light of the relationship between a polis and the panhellenic sanctuary. But there are no strong reasons to believe that the main lines of the traditions at issue necessarily presuppose the skills of the Delphic priests as storytellers. Actually, the oracular tales are an integral part of the imagined past of the relevant communities meant to stress the importance of the bond between them and Delphi, and to claim a special cultural quality for them. As far as the origin and transmission of these tales are concerned, then, the local context must have played an important 50

51

On the oral composition of the Delphic verse responses see MACLEOD 1961; ROSSI 1981; MAURIZIO 1997; BAUMGARTEN 1998, 21–3; BOWDEN 2005, 37. A detailed discussion of how oracles were composed and transmitted is out of place here, especially because an interplay between oral and ‘semi-oral’ composition, written fixation, and manipulation in the context of complex narrative traditions is to be taken into account; suffice it to stress here that what seems to me to be unwarranted is the common assumption that Delphic verse oracles necessarily emanate from Delphi. On the recycling of oracles see ASHERI 1993. On chresmologues and collection of oracles see, most recently, BAUMGARTEN 1998, 38–47 and 60–3; DILLERY 2005.

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role. The content of the oracles, their reference to details of only local significance, and sometimes their linguistic features, encourage the same conclusion. On the other hand, the Delphic traits of the tradition are so marked that we cannot conceive of them as independent from the tight network of cultural and personal relations existing between the poleis and Delphi. It is perhaps within the priestly milieus associated with the civic cults of Apollo that we must look for the custodians and interpreters of the special relationship with Delphi. They may well have played a crucial role in the origin and transmission of the oracular tales. Nevertheless, it would be difficult to maintain that the oracular stories we have been discussing so far do not originate from the communities to which they refer. Far from simply recording Delphic responses or incorporating Delphic traditions, they aim at placing the god of the panhellenic sanctuary at the very heart of the past of the community. From this point of view, the important fact about the traditions which appear closely related to the oracular shrine is that we cannot take for granted their Delphic origin: the crucial historical role played by the sanctuary according to this kind of account seems to be much more something that the Greek communities wanted to believe than the oracular shrine intended to claim. In fact, in the archaic cultural context it appears to have been vitally important for the Mediterranean communities to have Delphi inserted into an intentional elaboration of their own past, so that they could impart a divine dimension to it. The traditions we have been looking at turn out to be powerful tools employed by the communities in the construction of a culturally significant past and in the shaping of their imaginative possessions. Both dedications at the sanctuary and oracular traditions can be regarded as a means for intentionally generating and enhancing identity in the framework of a Mediterranean competition for religious prestige.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY ALY, W. 1921: Volksmärchen, Sagen und Novelle bei Herodot und seiner Zeitgenossen. Eine Untersuchung über die volkstümliche Elemente der altgriechischen Prosaerzählung, Göttingen. AMANDRY, P. 1950: La mantique apollinienne à Delphes, Paris. ANDERSEN, L. 1987: Studies in Oracular Verses: Concordance to Delphic Responses in Hexameter, Copenhagen. ASHERI, D. 1993: Erodoto e Bacide. Considerazioni sulla fede di Erodoto negli oracoli (Hdt. VIII 77), in M. Sordi (ed.) La profezia nel mondo antico, CISA,19, Milano, 63–76. BAUER, AD. 1882: Die Kyros-Sage und Verwandtes, SAWW 100, 495–578. BAUMGARTEN, R. 1998: Heiliges Wort und Heiliges Schrift bei den Griechen. Hieroi Logoi und Verwandte Erscheinungen, Tübingen. BEHRENS-DU MAIRE, A. 1993: Zur Bedeutung griechischer Schatzhäuser, in W. Hoepfner and G. Zimmer (eds.) Die Griechische Polis, Tübingen, 76–81. BENEDICT, F. 1871: De oraculis ab Herodoto commemoratis quaestionum pars prior, Bonn. BINDER, G. 1964: Die Aussetzung des Königskindes. Kyros und Romulus, Meisenheim am Glan. BOEDEKER, D. 1993: Hero cult and politics in Herodotus. The bones of Orestes, in C. Dougherty and L. Kurke (eds.) Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece. Cult, Performance, Politics, Cambridge, 164–77. BOWDEN, H. 2005: Classical Athens and the Delphic Oracle. Divination and Democracy, Cambridge. BROCK, J. H. –YOUNG, G. M. 1949: Excavations on Siphnos, BSA 44, 1–92. CALAME, C. 1996: Mythe et histoire dans l’antiquité grecque: la Création symbolique d’une colonie, Lausanne. CRAHAY, R. 1956: La littérature oraculaire chez Hérodote, Paris. DAUX, G. – DE LA COSTE-MESSELIÈRE, P. 1987: Le trésor de Siphnos. Fouilles de Delphes 2, Paris. DEFRADAS, J. 1954: Les thémes de la propagande delphique, Paris. DÉLCOURT, M. 1944: Oedipe et la légende du conquerant, Liège. DILLERY, J. 2005: S. I. Johnston and P. T. Struck (eds.) Mantikê. Studies in Ancient Divination, Leiden and Boston, 167–231. DUNBABIN, T. J. 1948: The Western Greeks, Oxford. FLASHAR, M. 1996: Die Sieger von Marathon: Zwischen Mythos und Vorbildlichkeit, in M. Flashar, H.-J. Gehrke and E. Heinrich (eds.) Retrospektive: Konzepte von Vergangenheit in der griechisch-

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römischen Antike, Munich, 63–85. FONTENROSE, J. 1978: The Delphic Oracle: Its Responses and Operations, with a Catalogue of Responses, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London. GEHRKE. H.-J. 2003: Marathon: von Helden und Barbaren, in G. Krumeich and S. Brandt (eds.) Schlachtenmythen, Weimar. GIANGIULIO, M. 1989: Ricerche su Crotone arcaica, Pisa. 2001: Constructing the past: colonial traditions and the writing of history. The case of Cyrene, in Luraghi 2001, 116–37. 2005: Tradizione storica e strategie narrative nelle Storie di Erodoto. Il caso del discorso di Socle corinzio, in M. Giangiulio (ed.) Erodoto e il ‘modello erodoteo.’ Formazione e trasmissione delle tradizioni storiche in Grecia, Trento. GOULD, J. 1989: Herodotus, London. GRIFFIN, J. 2006: Herodotus and tragedy, in C. Dewald and J. Marincola (eds.) The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus, Cambridge, 46–59. HUXLEY, G. L. 1979: Bones for Orestes, GRBS 20, 145–8. IOAKIMIDOU, CH. 1997: Die Statuenreihen griechischer Poleis und Bünde aus spätarchaische und klassischer Zeit, Munich. JACOBY, F. 1913: Herodotos, in RE Suppl. 2, 205–520. JACQUEMIN, A. 1999: Offrandes monumentales à Delphes, Paris. JAMESON, M. H. 1986: Labda, Lambda, Labdakos, in M. A. Del Chiaro (ed.) Corinthiaca: Studies in Honor of Darrel A. Amyx, Columbia, MO, 3–11. KAZAZIS, J. N. 1978: Herodotos’ Stories and History: a Proppian Analysis of his Narrative technique, Diss. University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. LOMBARDO, M. 1991: I Messapi. Aspetti della problematica storica, in I Messapi. Atti del XXX Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia (Taranto-Lecce, 4–9 ottobre 1990), Taranto, 35–109. LURAGHI, N. 2001 (ed.) The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford. MACLEOD, W. E. 1961: Oral Bards at Delphi?, TAPA 92, 317–25. MALKIN, I. 1989: Delphi and the founding of social order in archaic Greece, Metis 4.1, 129–53. 1994: Myth and Territory in the Spartan Mediterranean, Cambridge. MALTEN, L. 1911: Kyrene: Sagengeschichtliche und historische Untersuchungen, Berlin. MARCONI, C. 2006: Mito e autorappresentazione nella decorazione figurata dei thesauroí di età arcaica, in Naso 2006, 158–86. MARI, M. 2005: Economy and ethics in the Panhellenic sanctuaries: the exemplary case of the Siphnians in Delphi, in Πρακτικάά    του    Β´  Διέέθνους Σιφνιακού Συµποσίου εἰς  Μνήήµμην    Νικόόλαυ    

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Βερνίίκου-­‐‑Εὐγενίίδη,  Τοµμος  Α´  Αρχαιοι  χρονοι,  Αθηνα, 313–22. 2006: Sulle tracce di antiche ricchezze: la tradizione letteraria sui thesauroí di Delfi e Olimpia, in NASO 2006, 36–70. MAURIZIO, L. 1997: Delphic oracles as oral performance: authenticity and historical evidence, ClAnt 16, 308–35. MCGLEW, J. F. 1993: Tyranny and Political Culture in Ancient Greece, Ithaca and London. MOREAU, A. 1990: Le retour des cendres: Oreste et Thesée, deux cadavres (ou deux mythes?) au service de la propagande politique, in F. Jouan and A. Motte (eds.) Mythe et politique. Actes du colloque de Liège, 14–16 septembre 1989, Paris, 209–18. MORGAN, C. 1990: Athletes and Oracles: the Transformation of Olympia and Delphi in the Eighth Century BC, Cambridge. MÜLLER, K. O. 1820: De tripode Delphico dissertatio. Professionem philosophiae in Academia GeorgiaAugusta extraordinariam in se suscepturus scripsit Carolus Odofredus Mueller, Gottingae. MURRAY, O. 1980: Early Greece, London. 2001: Herodotus and oral history, in LURAGHI 2001, 16–44. NASO, A. 2006: (ed.) Stranieri e non cittadini nei santuari greci. Atti del convegno internazionale, Firenze. NEER, R. T. 2001: Framing the gift: the politics of the Siphnian treasury at Delphi, ClAnt 20, 273–336. 2003: Framing the gift. The Siphnian treasury at Delphi and the politics of architectural sculpture, in C. Dougherty and L. Kurke (eds.) The Cultures within Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 129–49. NENCI, G. 1976: Il barbaros polemos tra Taranto e gli Iapigi e gli anathemata tarentini a Delfi, ASNP, 3d s.,6, 717–38. OERI, A. 1899: De Herodoti fonte Delphico, Basileae. PANITZ, H. 1935: Mythos und Orakel bei Herodotos, Greifswald. PARKE, H. W. 1949: Notes on Delphic oracles, CQ 43, 138–40. PARKE, H. W. – WORMELL, D. E. W. 1956: The Delphic Oracle, Oxford. PARKER, R. C. T. 1985: Greek states and Greek oracles, in P. Cartledge and F. D. Harvey (eds.) Crux: essays presented to G. E. M. de Ste Croix on his 75th birthday, Exeter, 298–326. PARTIDA, E. C. 2000: The Treasuries at Delphi. An architectural Study, Jonsered. PELLING, C. B. R. 1996: The urine and the vine: Astyages’ dream at Herodotus 1.107–08, CQ 46, 68–77. PRETZLER, M. 1999: Myth and history at Tegea: local tradition and community identity, in T. H. Nielsen and J. Roy (eds.) Defining Ancient Arkadia, Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre 6, Copenhagen, 98–128.

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RIDGWAY, B. S. 1965: The east pediment of the Siphnian treasury: a reinterpretation, AJA 69, 1–6. 1999: Prayers in Stone: Greek Architectural Sculpture (ca. 600–100 B.C.E.), Berkeley. ROSSI, L. E. 1981: Gli oracoli come documento di improvvisazione, in C. Brillante, M. Cantilena and C. O. Pavese (eds.) I poemi epici rapsodici non omerici e la tradizione orale, Padova, 203–21. RUTTER, N. K. 1997: The Greek Coinages of Southern Italy and Sicily, London. 2001: (ed.) Historia Nummorum. Italy, London. SAKOWSKI, A. 1997: Darstellungen von Dreifusskesseln in der griechischen Kunst bis zum Beginn der klassichen Zeit, Frankfurt. SHAPIRO, H. A. 1989: Art and Cult under the Tyrants in Athens, Mainz. SINGOR, H. W. 1987: Tegea en het gebeente van Orestes (Hdt. 1, 66–68), Lampas 20, 182–203. SKRZHINSKAYA, M. V. 1967: Fol’klornye motivy v tradicii o korinsfom tirane Kipsele, VDI 3, 65–73. SOURVINOU-INWOOD, C. 1991: Reading Greek Culture. Text and Images, Rituals and Myths, Oxford. VANDIVER, E. 1991: Heroes in Herodotus. The Interaction of Myth and History, Frankfurt am Main, Bern, New York and Paris. VERNANT, J. P. 1982: From Oedipus to Periander: lameness, tyranny, incest in legend and history, Arethusa 15, 19–38. WATROUS, L. V. 1982: The sculptural program of the Siphnian treasury at Delphi, AJA 86, 159–72. WELWEI, K.-W. 2004: Orestes at Sparta: the political significance of the grave of the hero, in T. Figueira (ed.) Spartan Society, Swansea, 219–30. WILLEMSEN, F. 1955: Der delphische Dreifuss, JDAI 70, 85–104. ZEILHOFER, G. 1959: Sparta, Delphoi und die Amphiktyonen im 5. Jahrhundert vor Christus, Erlangen.

7. FISH HEADS AND MUSSEL-SHELLS: VISUALIZING GREEK IDENTITY* Joseph Skinner Coins tell stories. The narrative potential of an image stamped upon a small disk of precious metal may seem insubstantial when compared to that of sculpture or vase painting. Whilst certainly restricted with regards to the amount of information they can effectively convey, coin types were commissioned and executed by agents with a specific purpose in mind: to ‘speak’ to the user and tell stories. These stories range from the depiction of elements of a foundation myth or ‘historical’ event, to more general categories invoking elements of local topography, flora or fauna – an eclecticism matched by early Greek prose-writing from which history proper sprang.1 Whatever their choice of focus, coins and the images they portray provide a material index for the varying bases of Greek identity. Greek coinage is not only the very stuff of intentionality2 but is also arguably unique. It would be hard to think of a body of evidence of comparable range or diversity, both with regards to provenance and content, whose relatively standardised format provides such a ready basis for comparison. What, therefore, can we learn from Greek coinage and does its study have anything to contribute to that of intentional history? The answer is at best tentative, largely reliant upon arguments that many numismatists might regard as tendentious. Consideration of the various mechanisms and processes whereby individual acts of self-definition helped construct a sense of collective, civic identity will be extended to encompass the effects that the wider diffusion of these ‘histories’ may have engendered. Such acts of self-definition did not occur ex nihilo nor were they purely self-referential in nature. A whole raft of evidence can be marshalled to indicate that they were as *

1 2

I would like to offer my warmest thanks to the conference organisers for both the opportunity to attend and, latterly, present at the Intentionale Geschichte Conference. Particular thanks are due also to Dr. A. Meadows and the British Museum’s Department of Coins & Medals for use of the study room (not to mention their unstinting helpfulness and patience!). Different versions of this paper have subsequently been delivered at a SACE Graduate Research Seminar (University of Liverpool) and a conference hosted by University of British Columbia entitled ‘Regionalism & Globalism in Antiquity.’ Whilst the many comments and suggestions kindly offered by those present at these and the Freiburg conference have been hugely beneficial in preparing this paper for publication, I remain solely responsible for any outstanding errors or omissions. MURRAY 2000, 330. For a survey of approaches to narrative in Greek art see STANSBURY O’DONNELL 1999. Intentional history is characterised as a form of social knowledge: individual acts of selfdefinition that provide the basis for constructing a collective imaginaire/sense of identity: GEHRKE 2001, 286. Minting coin was an act of self-definition on behalf of a polis that communicated ‘knowledge’ to an audience of users.

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much a reaction to external influence: a background cacophony of competing claims and alternate identities, each vying for prominence. Did the manner in which these coined identities both met and intermingled affect the way in which the communities they represented understood or interpreted themselves in relation to one another? The question is particularly pertinent during the archaic period when Hellenic/‘Greek’ identity is thought to have been largely “aggregative” in nature: a loose construction of ethnicities derived from a wide range of factors including mythic genealogies, a common language and ethnic name, social structures and cult.3 Was coinage a means by which early polis societies sought to engage with the wider world, a platform for displaying aspects of a community’s identity, contributing in turn to the emergence of a collective imaginaire, namely ‘Greek’ identity? Discussion relating to the ideological scope of ‘Greek coins’ has rarely extended beyond the boundaries of the citizen communities for whom they were struck.4 Questions concerning their reception beyond the confines of the issuing polis remain, therefore, to be considered. What, if any, were the broader implications of carousing satyrs, composite river gods, and careering charioteers being selectively ‘read’ and interpreted by a variety of groups and individuals and how important was this process overall? An attempt to assign coins an active role in spreading notions of a common ‘Greek’ identity is largely dependant upon two lines of argument.5 Firstly, that coins functioned unambiguously as symbols of identity and, secondly, that they circulated freely, albeit according to regional patterns of trade and association. Both arguments are subject to qualification and/or counter-arguments, being the subject of considerable controversy amongst archaeologists, numismatists and historians alike. This paper must therefore address each of these points in turn before embarking upon a more focused discussion of their implications with regards to any wider sense of ‘Greek’ identity, its purported nature and scope. It can certainly be argued that notions of identity and representation are inextricably bound up with both the production and use of coinage. Identifying the mint or issuing authority from which individual coins originated is an essential precursor to judging their intrinsic worth. The function of the device (σῆµμα) stamped upon the coin is arguably to represent the identity of the issuing authority and point of origin.6 This is achieved via a combination of iconography and inscriptions, in a manner both recognisable and intelligible to those handling the coins in everyday transactions. As an effective guarantee of the coin’s weight/bullion value, the σῆµμα therefore enables coinage to operate as a recog3 4

5

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HALL 2002. Discussion surrounding the Athenian standards decree (IG I³ 1453) is largely tangential and rarely concerned with iconography per se. A notable (non-Greek) example are Persian sigloi: CARRADICE 1987 and 1988; ROOT 1989 and 1991. This study is undertaken against the backdrop of a thesis questioning the nature of Greek identity during the archaic and early Classical periods: an exploration of the origins of ethnography and the manner in which foreign peoples were variously depicted. Arist. Pol. 1.1257a. For the link between ‘place’/locality and coinage: ἐπιχώώριον  νόόµμισµμα (Hdt. 3.56.4–7).

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nised medium of exchange. There is widespread evidence from antiquity that the scrutiny of individual coins in order to reveal their identity was explicitly linked to concepts of value and worth. When discussing the ethnicity of Aeschylus’ suppliants, Pelasgos employs terminology commonly associated with the minting of coin: whether in this case the women in question are of Argive race: …for you look more like Libyan women and not at all like locals. And the Nile would nurture such a creature, and a Cyprian stamp (Κύύπριος   χαρακτήήρ) is like to have been struck on female shapes by male craftsmen.7

The use of the noun χαρακτήήρ, typically employed to denote the distinctive mark stamped or engraved upon coins, in the context of a passage in which external appearance and identity are being assessed, is surely indicative of a link between the two.8 The desire to link coinage to questions of identity is not some anachronistic preoccupation derived from modern notions of the nation-state.9 That such a link existed in antiquity has nonetheless been questioned – in particular whether coins “regularly functioned as abstract assertions of identity.” 10 This is due, at least in part, to the perceived reticence of cities such as Kyzikos and Phokaia when it came to adding any form of identifying marks to their electrum coinage. The latter reflects a more general and long running concern amongst numismatists regarding the lack of uniform reverse types amongst the early electrum coinages of Ionia.11 Their obverse types are another matter entirely however. Coins from the two cities are extraordinarily consistent in depicting one (or more) seals, in the case of Phokaia (one of the so-called ‘canting types’) and a tunny fish respectively. These devices seem to function as a form of civic ‘badge,’ appearing even on fractional issues. In the case of Kyzikos, fractions of the electrum stater depict the distinctive tail of the tunny fish or one or more fish heads (the head of a seal was used in a similar fashion on the coins of Phokaia). Such motifs seem, moreover, to have been consistently employed from the very outset, in contrast to cities such as Athens where practice is far more varied. As such, they act as an efficient means 7 8

9

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Aesch. Supp. 279–83; KURKE 1999, 320. Χαρακτήήρ also plays a key role in the tale relayed by Herodotus concerning the recognition of Cyrus by Astyages: an indication of both identity and intrinsic worth: “… and the character of his face was like his own” (ὅ  τε  χαρακτὴρ  τοῦ  προσώώπου  προσφέέρεσθαι  ἐδόόκεε  ἐς   ἑωυτὸν): Hdt. 1.116.2–3; KURKE 1999, 323–4. Similar assertions have been made regarding the discourse surrounding ideas of recognition, genuineness, and quality in Euripides’ Electra. Orestes’ tell-tale scar functions in a manner similar to that of the stamp on a coin: the basis for recognition whereby ‘unique personal identity’ or value is revealed: “Why does he look at me, as if he were examining the clear mark impressed on a silver coin? Is he comparing me to someone?” (τίί   µμ'ʹ   ἐσδέέδορκεν   ὥσπερ   ἀργύύρου   σκοπῶν/λαµμπρὸν   χαρακτῆρ’;  ἢ  προσεικάάζει  µμέέ  τῳ;): Eur. El. 558–9; SEAFORD 2004, 155–6. A topic explored by Benedict Anderson in a study tracing the origins of nationalism to the late 18th century: ANDERSON 1991. In the UK, the vexed question of Britain’s adoption of the single European currency would be the obvious case in point, providing ample opportunity for such (highly emotive) issues to be both explored and debated again – and again. MARTIN 1995, 278. BABELON 1897; GARDNER 1907/8, 111; JENKINS 1990, 17.

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of distinguishing between the coins of different poleis circulating throughout the region. Fig. 1: Kyzikos, stater El., 5th century BCE. Obv: A kneeling archer tests an arrow for straightness; behind, tunny fish. Rev: Quadripartite incuse square (not depicted). BMC Cyzicus 79. Reproduced with kind permission of the Trustees of the British Museum.

Reference to Ionia and the early phases of coinage from the seventh and sixth centuries should not, in any case, be allowed to confuse matters unnecessarily. The precise means by which coinage initially came to be established as a medium of exchange throughout the region has long been controversial. Furthermore, Ionia itself remained something of an anomaly with regards to numismatic practice, maintaining the soon outmoded electrum coinage and weight standard even when they had been superseded by silver issues elsewhere in the Greek world. Even so, coins discovered both at Ephesus and elsewhere in Ionia indicate that coinage and identity may have been linked from the very outset.12 Electrum staters bearing the legend “I am the σῆµμα of Phanes” (or simply “of Phanes”) are a particularly notable example and have provoked lively debate regarding both the identity of the individual concerned and whether he (and others like him) issued coin in either a public or ‘private’ capacity. The role of otherwise enigmatic individuals such as Phanes brings questions of human agency to the fore. The latter is also highly pertinent in the more general context of archaic and classical silver coinage. There is, however, a problem, in that evidence concerning individuals is notoriously hard to come by in this period. Undue preoccupation with such questions should not, however, be allowed to detract from broader issues of reception. Although it is certainly a mistake to overlook such questions altogether, it must ultimately be recognised that establishing exactly which individual or corporate body chose a particular design or type, not to mention their reasons for doing so, may prove impossible.13 Given that we have no way of gauging the proportion of coin ‘users’ privy to such information in the first place, it remains equally possible that they too wallowed in a sate of comparative ignorance and were, for the most part, none the wiser. Interpreting the images on coins is certainly made all the more problematic given the relative ob12

13

Babelon saw the varied reverse types of cities such as Kyzikos as representing the identities of private bankers whose issues preceded those minted on behalf of state or temples authorities (BABELON 1897, 93–134). Cf. CURTIUS 1869. The appearance of Wappenmünzen motifs in areas of Macedonia where important individuals from Athens reportedly had ‘colonial interests’ suggests instances where the boundary between personal and political could in any case become blurred. Their interpretation remains inconclusive however. A recent study on the Achaian cities of Magna Graecia proceeded on the basis that the communities involved made a collective decision to project a very specific message based upon their shared ethnicity – effectively minting their identity (PAPADOPOULOS 2002).

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scurity of these various agents and the agendas to which they operated. It remains unlikely, however, that the choices they made were entirely arbitrary in nature. It could also be maintained that these lost ‘agents,’ Phanes and his ilk were not the sole arbiters of meaning, with the result that their absence or obscurity is not an insurmountable barrier to studying the manner in which the images they generated were subsequently received. Once minted, a far wider audience was at liberty to construct their own readings from the images displayed (although exactly how far the audience of users extended will be discussed below). Far from having a single, correct ‘meaning,’ a coin type could therefore find itself subject to increasingly varied readings the further it travelled from its point of origin. A device representing elements of a specific local or civic identity could thus have been ascribed a whole range of alternate regional, political, cultural, religious or ethnic identities, depending on audience or context.14 Another factor that needs to be taken into account when considering the use of coin vis-à-vis any sense of identity might loosely be termed that of ‘tradition’ or practice.15 Whoever chose the tunny-fish design adorning the staters of Kyzikos, it nonetheless became an established element of the cities’ coinage for as long as it was at liberty to mint independently (a period which far out-stripped both the lifetime of a single individual and the resources of collective memory). Once established as an ‘institution’ such images became primarily self-referential in nature. The question as to whose (personal) identity was originally represented on coins might thus be reduced to one of secondary importance. Validation of a coin depends primarily upon its matching those already in circulation (i.e., possessing a particular legend or motif). The potential impact of the same image being employed, in some cases, for several centuries at a time, subject to only comparatively minor alterations, should not be underestimated – irrespective of authorship.16 It is not, however, merely a question of identifying with a particular image or type. The imagery portrayed often alludes to common elements of experience that might serve as a basis for some form of ‘collective identity’; the annual migration of tuna shoals from the Black Sea into the Mediterranean in the case of Kyzikos. On top of this there is the very experience of using that coinage: engaging with these symbolic projections on a day-to-day basis, ‘reading’ their imagery and extracting meaning. Another argument opposing the notion that coinage and identity were in any way related can be shown to be similarly unconvincing. Possible links between the two have been challenged in the light of a similar ‘reticence’ amongst “the powerful and proud fifth-century tyrants of Sicily [who did] nothing to proclaim their identities as rulers on the coins of their poleis.”17 There is certainly a valid distinction to be made here between individual and ‘collective’ identities but the 14 15 16 17

BUTCHER 2005, 154. BOURDIEU 1990. Mindful of authoritative pronouncements by the likes of Kraay to the effect that “The static nature of Greek coin-types can be exaggerated”: KRAAY 1976, 4. MARTIN 1995, 278 following KRAAY 1976, 205.

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statement maybe says more overall about how little we know about the day-to-day workings of archaic tyrannies. ‘Personal rule’ should not in this context be equated with the flourishing personality cults of the Diadochoi (which were in many ways far less subtle). The extent to which tyrants associated themselves with civic cult or other ‘generic’ types remains unclear and there are many aspects of archaic and classical tyranny which seem, at the time, to have been left intentionally vague and are thus now shrouded in uncertainty.18 The depiction of quadrigae and the, to our eyes, perhaps less glamorous mule carts upon the issues of Syracuse and Rhegion, cannot merely be coincidental, however, and must surely allude to ‘personal’ victories, celebrated in epinician odes and elsewhere.19

Fig. 2: Syracuse, tetradrachm AR c.485-78 BCE. a) Obv: Quadriga r., driven by charioteer; above, Nike flying r. crowning horses. b) Rev: Head of Arethusa; around, four dolphins. Reproduced with kind permission of the Garstang Museum of Archaeology, University of Liverpool. Photograph: M. E. James.

Problems inevitably arise. The conceptual link between coinage and notions of identity does raise certain questions in relation to poleis that lacked either material wherewithal or political will to mint coin. Of the 1,035 poleis catalogued by the Copenhagen Polis Centre only 444 are currently known to have possessed mints, along with a number of supra-polis groups or bodies who periodically exercised their ability to mint coin.20 Many poleis were apparently content instead to produce joint issues with a neighbour, to make use of ‘foreign’ issues already in circulation, or to eschew the medium of coinage altogether.21 Around 100 mints 18

19

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For tyranny in Sicily see LURAGHI 1994: participation in panhellenic games is seen as part of a policy of representation and self-legitimation by the tyrants of Sicily and Magna Graecia. Cf. CURRIE 2005; HORNBLOWER 2004. For tyranny in general see: LEWIS 2006; 2000; MORGAN 2003 (largely athenocentric) and DE LIBERO 1996 (which omits Sicily/Magna Graecia); MCGLEW 1993. For athletics and aristocracy see NICHOLSON 2005. Aristotle (Pol. 5.1314a–b) outlines the means by which a tyrannos could seek to preserve his power. Chief amongst these was to cultivate a reputation for virtue and to exercise prudence and restraint in his handling of state finances. Anaxilas’ victory at Olympia c. 480: Aristotle fr. 585 Gigon; RUTTER 2000. It has been pointed out that the cost of a mule relative to that of a horse would render mule-racing a potentially more prestigious activity than that of horses (Lin Foxhall, pers. comm.). An attempt to appeal to aristocratic values – not least an enthusiasm for chariots and racing – can also be discerned. E.g., the Boeotian Federation and Delphic Amphiktyony: HANSEN – NIELSEN 2004, 148. The poor survival rate of the prime indicators of minting activity (the coins themselves) means that the number quoted by HANSEN et al. will in all likelihood increase in time. It will still fall considerably short of 100% however, given current evidence for the divergent prac-

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are, however, estimated to have been functioning by c. 480 BCE.22 Of these most are associated with the minting of silver coin, a practice rarely attested before 550 BCE but which proliferated rapidly thereafter. Even so, Greek poleis were decidedly erratic in this respect: the decision to mint coin could arise from any number of reasons and its frequency varied enormously.23 The effects of this process were arguably dramatic. The rapid proliferation of coinage generated a barrage of visual and discursive identities, albeit one largely unattested in the written sources. This generated its own problems. Given the volume of material involved it is unsurprising that copying or duplication of imagery occasionally occurred (to be distinguished from outright forgery). Such practices were largely exceptions to a more general rule, however, as attempts were clearly made to distinguish between types depicting similar subject matter: the Athenas adorning the reverses of both Athenian and Corinthian coins, for example.24 Recently published work on Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces provides illuminating insights into current opinion regarding the manner in which such evidence should be interpreted.25 Particulars relating to the Roman empire aside, Coinage and Identity covers a wide range of questions relating to representation and identity, the use of myth-history and the role of civic cult. Both the theoretical underpinnings and a number of themes arising from these studies can usefully be applied to the early phases of ‘Greek’ coinage of the fifth and sixth centuries BCE. Conclusions arising from a study of the conceptual importance of an abstract sense of place in Roman administrative geography, namely how the desire to give an account of a specific location was reflected in numismatic practice, 26 can usefully be compared with work detailing the manner in which poleis such as Selinous and Akragas, incorporated elements of local geography and topography into iconographic programmes representing their respective – civic – identities.27 Interpretation is certainly a complicated business.28 There is a fine and delicate line to be trod between identifying possible readings of a specific image that

22 23

24 25 26 27 28

tices of states such as Sparta, Megara and Epizephyrian Lokroi: HANSEN – NIELSEN 2004, 148. Mixed economies seem to have operated in Megara and Lokroi, the latter having delayed issuing coinage until the fourth century. Martin has emphasised the extent to which Megara in particular, heavily reliant upon overseas trade, made full use of ‘foreign’ coinage (MARTIN 1995, 276–7). KIM 2001, 10–11. In contrast to the relatively limited distribution of early electrum issues from Ionia, HANSEN – NIELSEN 2004, 148–9; MARTIN 1995, 270, 275–6; STARR 1977. MARTIN 1995, 275–8 for federal coinages of Arcadia and Boeotia. In most cases arguments applicable to poleis hold also for federations, ethne. HOWGEGO 1990 for an overview of the factors effecting recovery and documentation of Greek coins, with often detrimental effects for study of coinage overall. RITTER 2002; although see PIRENNE-DELFORGE 1994 for the argument that the Corinthian issues carried images of Aphrodite as opposed to Athena. HOWGEGO et al. 2005. HOWGEGO 2005, 11. RUTTER 2000, 73–84. For general discussion see GOLDHILL – OSBORNE 1994.

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may in some way reflect the way they were ‘read’ or interpreted in antiquity and extrapolating meanings solely derived from modern interests and preconceptions. How did these images function within society? How were they ‘read’ and is the metaphor of reading even appropriate in this context? The power of such imagery undoubtedly resides in its polyvalence: simultaneously capable of symbolising many things to many people. The meaning of any given coin type was always in a state of flux. Largely dependent upon the viewer/context in which it was encountered, it was forever subject to change and thus continuously unfolding. When immersed in its cultural context the device stamped upon a coin, however diminutive it might be in scale, was as much a site for confronting and engaging with a complicated nexus of interests, ideologies, aspirations, cultural stereotypes and political machinations as the most celebrated of vase-paintings or sculptural programmes. Exactly how we interpret the imagery depicted upon coins is a problem that needs to be addressed squarely. There are a number of instances in which coins and the imagery they portray can be said, quite unambiguously, to symbolise collective, political identities. The most straightforward are those of towns subordinate to regional powers such as Kroton and Sybaris, two of Magna Graecia’s leading poleis during the early-mid archaic period. These invariably depict the Krotonate tripod – or Sybarite bull – on the obverse of the coins, with the ‘civic badge’ of the minting community effectively relegated to the reverse.29 Such practice is highly unusual, arguably reflecting a state of affairs whereby the inhabitants of the respective poleis were forced to acknowledge the political and economic preeminence of a polity not their own. Power relationships between individual poleis are likewise reflected in the coinage of Sicily. A particularly notable instance of this phenomenon is the polis of Himera which, following its capture by the tyrant of Akragas, immediately switched from minting reverse types that commonly depicted a hen to the crab of Akragas.30 The transition, matched by other communities that fell under the Akragantine control, was so abrupt that interpreting such imagery as an ideological projection would seem entirely reasonable in this (or any similar) context. The role that coin types played in transforming social relations therefore merits serious consideration. The latter is true not only in the context of interaction between poleis but also with regards to that which occurred between the various ‘Greek’ and indigenous populations.31 There are also the so-called ‘alliance’ coinages; wherein a symbol commonly understood to represent one polis is seemingly incorporated into the design struck by another. The coins of Cumae include an issue, struck in the early fifth century, depicting the blazon of the city (a mussel shell, product of the local lagoons), held 29

30 31

E.g., that of Temesa (a Corinthian helmet). Sybaris itself minted a triobol with a reverse type depicting a Krotonate tripod – presumably at/around the time of her subjection in 510 BCE. It is clearly not enough, in such cases to merely state that “… [a]s products originating in the nomos of the polis, coins naturally carried signs of their origin” (MARTIN 1995, 267). Himera simultaneously adopted to the Attic standard, also employed by Akragas (KRAAY 1976). PAPADOPOULOS 2002; THOMAS 1999.

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in the claw of a crab (a motif commonly associated with Akragas).32 One interpretation of this imagery is that it alludes to an (otherwise unattested) alliance between Cumae and Akragas, perhaps similar to that concluded with Syracuse against their ever-troublesome neighbours the Etruscans. If this were to be the case then the tendency to interpret such devices as representative of individual polis identities seems both credible and justified.33 Similar conclusions have been drawn from a study of the various symbols employed at both the head and/or margins of decrees in which grants of the various honours voted to non-citizens were habitually recorded. The extent to which they functioned as a quasi-logo, representing the identity of the foreigner in question is highlighted, along with the frequency with which such motifs drew their inspiration from coin types themselves.34 Similar conclusions may perhaps be drawn from the otherwise enigmatic issues struck by Kroton depicting the characteristic obverse type of an eagle perched on the muzzle of a stag (hardly a comfortable position for the latter). This is accompanied by another type depicting an eagle perched on a temple pediment, with what appears to be the head or skull of a deer visible on the right hand side. Opinions as to the dating of these issues vary, however, somewhat unhelpfully, from c. 530–430 to 425–350 BCE.35 Stags or deer are a common feature of the coins of Kaulonia, one-time colony of Kroton and ally in the longstanding rivalry with Lokri. Whether this relates in any way to the imagery on the coins remains open to question. It is tempting, however, to link the eagle/stag types to the fifthcentury ‘Italiote League,’ centred upon the cult of Zeus Homarios, of which Kroton was the leading member.36 In spite of the possibility that such imagery might occasionally be misinterpreted, the overall consistency with which particular themes and images were employed strengthens the case for their acting as essentialised abstractions: representing and encapsulating the identities of the groups that employed them.37 It is important to emphasise that these images did not operate in isolation. The fact that many (although by no means all) issues of silver coin emerged with, or 32 33

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“a particularly puzzling group” KRAAY 1976, 178. Cf. RUTTER 1979, 12 and 92; RUTTER 2001, 66. Attempts to use such imagery as the basis for extrapolating the precise nature of the alliance are in all likelihood ill advised. The same motif can be subject to any number of conflicting readings: mutual affection, cooperation, hostility or dominance – all of them hopelessly subjective and bereft of supporting evidence. RITTI 1969. SNG Vol. III 617; RUTTER 2001, 170–1 no. 2146–7, cf. no. 2145 where the eagle stands on a ram’s head. Polyb. 2.39.6. Alternatives include allusions to Kroton’s Olympic victories (RUTTER 2001, 170) or local indigenous populations (see below). See ANDERSON 1991 for discussion. The preponderance of types showing eagles tearing apart a hare and the use of the latter as a blazon for the polis of Rhegion is a case in point as it may be a matter of sheer coincidence. One of the less convincing interpretations for the mule-car of Anaxilas on the coins of Rhegion associates the vehicle with the themes of fecundity and marriage (CALTABIANO 1993, 36).

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rapidly acquired, a genitive ethnic provides additional indication that the intended audience was not restricted merely to ‘insiders.’38 The possessive element of the genitive ethnic ‘of the […] people/polis’ at least anticipates the possibility that people who needed some reminder of this fact might also view the coin. The provision of an ethnic suggests that traders, moneyers, etc., might well be confronted with coins not struck by their polis and that the provision of the label was in some ways necessary to avoid confusion with other ‘foreign’ issues. What would otherwise be the point of labelling coin in circumstances where currency remained strictly within the bounds of the issuing authority? It is possible to view the provision of ethnics as a ‘facilitator’: another means of validation, indicative of a need for some form of textual shorthand that ruled out any ambiguity with regards to interpreting the accompanying imagery.39 The repeated act of conceptualising a community by means of a specific blazon or device, representing values and attributes held in common, was arguably constitutive of a shared sense of identity. 40 This argument is by no means universally accepted however (again in the context of Roman provincial coinage): Symbols of community provide a common link between individuals with different understandings and interests, but do not constitute identity in themselves.41

The attempt to draw a distinction between ‘creating links’ between individuals and the actual process of constructing identities seems, in this context, somewhat difficult to justify. Reference to common aspects of experience is one way of creating collective identities but once instituted, the very practice of using coinage (whether one coinage in particular or just coins in general) can serve as yet another means of defining a common group identity. What is important, however, is to distinguish between the symbols of identity and ideologies of cultural unity and the day-to-day realities of life as portrayed by the archaeological record. The latter rarely conforms to the neat boundaries laid down in the abstract realm of the imagination – the problem of reconciling the two being a perennial problem for cultural historians and archaeologists of this period. The bases for these coined ‘identities’ vary widely. The ‘currency’ of ideas and imagery encompasses a number of overlapping themes: myth-history, geogra38

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MARTIN 1995, 266 for rare instances of the nominative substantive: the anomalous paima of Gortyna, etc. Butcher draws attention to the use of genitive ethnics as a means of marking out different communities as well as more technical differences such as the size and shape of flan, generating “a feeling of distinction among the users” BUTCHER 2005, 145. Bulls from Sybaris versus calfs from Rhegion etc. SEAFORD 2004. The presence of ethnics upon the initial coinages of Magna Graecia has also been seen in some quarters as a direct reflection of the “largely non-hellenic environment” in which they circulated: “affirm[ing] or…project[ing] the ‘Greekness’ of the issuing city” (VOLK 2001, 33). “Once Athenian silver coinage is established as practice, its ongoing production and circulation not only reflect, but in some ways constitute, the community of citizens. Thus, in what we might call the micro-mechanics of ideology, material practices contribute to the civic imaginary, as pure silver coinage helps constitute the “imaginary community” of citizens who use it.” KURKE 1999, 309 following ANDERSON 1991, 12. BUTCHER 2005, 154.

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phy, many, if not all associated with cults celebrating founders and deities, eponymous or otherwise. Attempting to construct a dichotomy between material categorised as being either solely ‘local’ in meaning/origin or ‘panhellenic’ in scope would seem decidedly inadvisable. Visual allusions to the sea (dolphins, hippocamps, tunny, ships, shells, Poseidon) or viticulture (vine leaves, grapes, Dionysius, satyrs, kantharoi) – common aspects of experience for those living alongside, or in close proximity to, the Mediterranean shore – can hardly be said to fall exclusively into either one or the other category. Instead their significance within both local and panhellenic settings coexisted simultaneously side by side – it being impossible to disentangle one from the other with any degree of certainty. The same applies to representations of common cults along with other cultural practices and beliefs considered both quintessentially ‘Greek’ and ‘local.’ In the case of southern Italy, for example, representations of panhellenic deities have usually been identified as occurring only where they possessed a specific, local significance with the result that such imagery is deemed something of a rarity.42 ‘Local’ representations of livestock, barley, tripods and Corinthian helmets are unlikely, however, to have been ‘foreign’ or incomprehensible when viewed by citizens of neighbouring poleis, and those further afield.43 Are these not equally panhellenic? The use of common scripts, albeit with regional variations with regards to individual letter forms, suggests that language may also have come to play a significant role as an expression of a collective identity, although not initially present on the electrum issues of Ionia.44 Canting types in particular make little sense if the audience is not ‘in on the joke,’ capable of making the link between Rhodos and the image of a rose, Selinous and the selinon and so forth. Drawing a direct equation between written language and ethnic/cultural identity has the potential, admittedly, to be problematic and we should be wary of doing so.45 The assumption that both internal and external audiences would nevertheless be culturally conversant is, however, significant. As such, it functions as an important indicator of the capacity that material artefacts, language, and discourse all share to at once generate and sustain a sense of “imagined community.”46 Although the extent to which coinage came to be embedded in social relations within the polis has received considerable attention,47 consideration of its impact 42 43

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RUTTER 2001, 6. Recent work on the Achaian coinage of Magna Graecia has interpreted the collective output of Sybaris, Kroton, Metapontum, Kaulonia and Poseidonia as attempts to fashion an explicitly Achaian identity based upon “prehistoric notions of value and Bronze Age units of measure” (PAPADOPOULOS 2002). Whilst an interesting concept in itself, it seems hard to argue that hecatombs, grain, wrought-ironwork and livestock were categories exclusive to ‘Achaians’ as the value of such objects was surely universally apparent. Cf. WOOLF 1994 and bar ‘σῆµμα of Phanes,’ etc. For regional variations/local dialect see the koppa of both Corinthian pegasids and the coins of Kroton. Likewise the San that took the place of sigma on Achaian issues in southern Italy (JEFFEREY 1990). PAPADOPOULOS 2002; HALL 1997; JONES 1997. ANDERSON 1991. KURKE 1999; VON REDEN 1995.

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outwith this remit has been largely hampered by uncertainties regarding wider patterns of monetary circulation. Whilst raising the possibility of an external audience when discussing the likely sources of inspiration for epinician odes, Rutter’s analysis of Sicilian coin types stops short of considering the wider implications of the (arguably) widespread circulation of such symbols and imagery. The effect of the latter has been to further entrench the view that such issues enjoyed only “discreet patterns of circulation” and were therefore primarily ‘self-referential,’ addressed, as it were, to the ‘home crowd.’48 Patterns of monetary circulation are thus tremendously important. The essential credibility of any attempt to link the rapid proliferation of archaic and early classical ‘coined identities’ with the perceived homogenisation of ‘the same,’ namely ‘Greek’ identity, is entirely dependent upon an ability to demonstrate that such ‘identities’ enjoyed a wide circulation. Patterns of monetary circulation remain the cause of much scholarly disagreement, however, as Burnett and others have argued emphatically against the inter-changeability of foreign issues with local coin within the polis. The range and potential audience of a given coin type has thus been significantly downplayed – most notably in the case of Roman provincial coinage but also by numismatists studying the archaic and early classical periods.49 Literary evidence from authors such as Plato and Xenophon is invariably called upon to illustrate a commonly held assumption that coinage did not circulate as general currency.50 According to this view it is the widespread acceptability of a single coinage that should be regarded as exceptional,51 significantly restricting the ability of coinage to transmit ideas and values. All, however, is not lost, as the evidence upon which such arguments are based is somewhat ambivalent in nature. Highlighting the extent to which the conditions enforced in the Athenian standards decree (IG I³ 1453) proved the exception to an –otherwise general – rule is all very well. It should be remembered, however, that the decree leaves us none the wiser as to whether one or, indeed, a number of coinages had previously been in circulation, referring merely to ‘foreign coinage’ in general (τὸ  νόόµμισµμα  τὸ  ξενικόόν, 14). There is also considerable uncertainty regarding the status of both electrum coinage in general (which

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BUTCHER 2005, 145 and 147. Internal or outward-projecting discourses are viewed as mutually exclusive categories: BUTCHER 2005, 151, 154. Cf. DOUGHERTY 1993; MALKIN 1998. Recent studies emphasising the diversity of cultures within ‘Greek’ culture encourage the supposition that civic ‘community’ may have been far less homogenous than might otherwise be assumed. It seems all the more unlikely, therefore, that coinage was ever conceptualised purely in terms of a unique, internal, audience whose identity existed merely to be ‘affirmed.’ BUTCHER 2005, 147; KRAAY 1964 being a seminal article although in defiance of Arist. Pol. 1257a 180. BURNETT 2005, 175; Xen. Poroi 3.2; Pl. Leg. 5.742. Likewise MARTIN 1995, 271: “most Greek coins did not circulate very far from their originating mint.” It is unlikely that fractional silver and bronze issues strayed beyond the territory of their issuing authority. Cf. RUTTER 2000 for regional circulation throughout poleis of Sicily. Also the Amphictyonic decree establishing the weight of the Attic tetradrachm from the second century BCE (SEG III 729). BURNETT 2005, 175.

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the decree fails to mention entirely)52 and the fate of cities that had supposedly retained their autonomy: were their currencies regarded as legal tender either at home or abroad? In the case of Athens itself there is certainly well attested evidence for quantities of Ionian staters being present within the city during the fifth century.53 Xenophon is, admittedly, quite clear on the fact that merchants were largely compelled to ship a return cargo, as local currency had no circulation in other states. It is, therefore, a great source of pride that the high bullion value for which Athenian owls were famed meant their ‘silver’ was desirable in itself as a commodity and thus a ready source of profit.54 Whilst undoubtedly true, this does not rule out the possibility that foreign coins could be sold, melted down, re-struck, or traded back to their point of origin. The idea that evidence can be found in Plato’s Laws (5.742) proving that local civic issues were useless elsewhere is equally problematic.55 Private citizens are certainly forbidden to possess anything other than money judged legal tender by the polis. The passage provokes immediate questions, however, as to why such laws would be required in the first place and should perhaps be read as representative of practices that did in fact take place but would be outlawed in the idealised situation that Plato envisaged. Unless composed of non-precious materials, a coin’s intrinsic value made it inevitable that it would also possess at least some value elsewhere –even if it had to be melted down or re-struck. It is certainly true that a number of poleis enforced laws regulating the use of imported coin.56 Given the diversity of practice throughout the Greek world however, it seems unlikely that this behaviour was universal, especially in the case of those poleis that do not, as yet, have a mint associated with them. Coinage – or at least a number of recognised coinages – did circulate freely as generally accepted 52 53

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See MELVILLE JONES 1998 for discussion. E.g., Kyzikenes voted and paid to strategoi in the years following 418 BCE (IG I³ 370 and 376). Later evidence includes Dem. In Phormionem 23–5 (914). Cf. allusions to Lampsacene staters (IG I³ 376). GARDNER 1908; WOODWARD 1914. Xen. Poroi 3.2. 3. Pl. Leg. 5.742a–c: “Furthermore, … there follows also a law which forbids any private person to possess any gold or silver, only coin for purposes of such daily exchange as it is almost necessary for craftsmen to make use of, and all who need such things in paying wages to hirelings, whether slaves or immigrants. For these reasons we say that people should possess coined money which is legal tender among themselves, but valueless elsewhere.” Later allusions to a universal hellenic coinage have caused some confusion amongst scholars. Whether the latter represents an idealised currency that Plato dreamt up out of nowhere or a generic reference to silver coinage in general is open to question. The motivations for establishing a monopoly over coinage circulating within a polis have recently been challenged by Osborne in an (as yet) unpublished paper on classical Olbia. A decree dated to around the second to third quarter of the fourth century BCE states that only those agreeing to exchange gold and silver coin for the silver and bronze of the city would be allowed entry to the polis: [B]eing forced to change one’s coinage on entering another city could not but symbolise, and rather powerfully, that one had entered a place under the political control of others… (OSBORNE 2006). Intrinsic value and the possibility of forgery also figure highly as areas of concern – possibly more so: HANSEN – NIELSEN 2004, 148.

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media of exchange. The wide dispersal of owls, pegasids and Aiginetan turtles across the Mediterranean and beyond are all indicative of their functioning as quasi-international coinages. Differences in currency and weight standard are often cited as evidence that coinage was not intended for circulation outside a particular area. Local and ‘particularist’ tendencies would have proved little obstacle, however, to commercial activity as a sophisticated systems of weights and measures had long been established throughout the region.57 Hoard evidence alone offers de facto proof that coinage both travelled and ‘mixed,’ whether as bullion waiting to be converted or for use as currency elsewhere. Regional patterns of circulation can of course be observed – that of the Achaian cities in southern Italy is a notable example. Of the hoards originating in southern Italy the only foreign coins recorded are those of Sicily, Athens and Corinth, with the notable exception of the Taranto hoard (IGCH 1874), dated to c. 490–80 and including 100 coins from mainland Greece and the islands and 13 from Sicily (out of a total of ~ 600 silver coins from about 28–30 different mints). Also notable is the Asyut hoard from Egypt. Dated to c. 475 BCE, it is a rare instance in which coins from Italy and Sicily have been recovered beyond their normal region of circulation. Numbering more than 681 coins, the Asyut hoard (IGCH 1644) encompasses most of the Greek world, from the Black Sea to Kyrene and Cyprus to Sicily. The reaction of many scholars, when confronted by major concentrations of coin in hoards like that from Taranto and Asyut, is to write them off as unrepresentative anomalies. Such arguments have a somewhat hollow ring to them however. Whilst such concentrations may themselves be rare, the idea that marked bullion should travel along the trade routes as far afield as Egypt should certainly be in no way surprising.58 At the risk of constructing arguments from silence it can be argued that “… the apparent failure of some coins to travel widely does not prove that they were not used for trade …” (my emphasis).59 Far from being an anomaly, the Asyut hoard could instead be broadly representative sample of the number and range of coinages in circulation.60 Else57 58

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KIM 2001, 18; OSBORNE 1996, 253–5. PRICE – WAGGONER 1975, 28. It is perhaps helpful that coin hoards do survive in countries such as Egypt where there was no coin minted: foreign issues of any kind were thus retained. The diminished role of the σῆµμα is demonstrated by the numerous notches and punch marks to which the coins were subjected: scrutiny of a different kind, designed to verify bullion value – also practised in the Greek world but to a considerably lesser extent. HOWGEGO 1990, 3. In contrast the Sambiase hoard, the earliest coin hoard in Italy at c. 520 BCE (IGCH 1872) contained only two pegasi, the rest being coins of Sybaris. Coin hoards in Magna Graecia/Sicily show a heavy preference for local coin (IGCH 1876) or those of the same standard (IGCH 1873) (THOMPSON – MØRKHOLM – KRAAY 1973). Even this evidence is suspect however as many of the early finds of coin hoards were poorly documented and can be traced often to only a region or locality. Constructing any kind of argument from such evidence alone is inherently risky however, as under such circumstances it would only take one or two discoveries to skew the evidence entirely, throwing current scholarship into disarray. Both the exact motivations underlying the practice of coin hoarding and the criteria for selection like-

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where, overstrikes provide at least some evidence of the movement of ‘foreign’ coin, although of a somewhat ambivalent nature (the comparative scarcity of such practice would seem to indicate that most foreign coin was systematically melted down to be re-struck as fresh issues).61 The widespread circulation of coined identities during the archaic/early classical periods can best be understood as a complex interchange of knowledge and ideas: histories, stories, peoples and places all variously juxtaposed. Questions of reception inevitably arise. Knowledge of certain non-Greek populations, their customs and peculiarities, seems to have been fairly common currency throughout the Greek world. Wily Phoenicians ply their trade in Homeric epic, Scythianised archers abound on black-figured vases and elaborate aryballoi mimic the physiognomy of African heads. In contrast, both the level of mutual knowledge connecting early poleis and, most importantly, the various means of transmission, remain remarkably ill defined. The diffusion of coinage itself may arguably have contributed to this process. Studies of Sicilian coin types suggest they may have acted as a conduit of information for the interested outsider.62 This approach could now be extended to encompass the various theatres and scenarios in which coins would have been selected, scrutinised and argued over, before being either accepted as valid tender or rejected as ‘different.’ It is said that every picture tells a story. The levels of skill and workmanship with which the die cutters who produced these designs engaged in their task should certainly not be underestimated. In the archaic period this skill is commonly seen as being allowed more freedom of expression before the idea of a ‘stereotypical badge’ became fully established. Whether or not this is the case, the images thus generated can often be interpreted as allusions to stories concerning past events or people. An image of a squatting Silenus (Naxos), Herakles wrestling the lion (Herakleia) or Tarentum’s dolphin rider, not to mention numerous nymphs and (assumed) river gods, invariably evokes some sense a mythohistorical past. Reference to a ‘historic’ event, the rape, say, of a nymph by an amorous Olympian, is usually located at a particular point in space: the spring in which the eponymous nymph resides, the site of a local cult temple, etc. The

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wise remain obscure. This is particularly the case when hoards are deposited in graves etc. Even the chronology is itself unhelpful as coin hoarding does not seem to have become widespread until the fifth century. RUTTER 2001, 5; GARRAFFO 1984. It is generally only those types of a weight standard roughly equivalent to that of the minting polis that are modified in this way (or those that could be trimmed with comparatively little effort). Coins from Sicily (notably Akragas, Gela and Selinous), Kerkyra and Corinthian pegasi were all employed in the coinage of cities such as Kroton, Kaulonia and Metapontum. Highlighting the link between coin types issued by the poleis of Sicily, most notably that of Akragas, and issues of self-representation and identity, Rutter has suggested that Pindar’s Pythian 6.6 and 12.2–3 are unlikely to be based upon autopsy, as they in all likelihood precede the poet’s visit to the city (c. 476) (RUTTER 2000, 75–6; CAREY 1981, 104; cf. Olym. 2.9). Far from being mere artistic hyperbole this represents an attempt to characterise the city in terms of its landscape setting, reflecting forms of thought and analysis present in contemporary ethnographic discourse.

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‘static image’ on a coin can never be entirely divorced, therefore, from popular or narrative traditions, whether providing some sort of aetiological explanation or a more prosaic reference to cult figures or their assorted attributes. As such, they provide an effective basis not only for shaping a collective perception of the (civic) self, but also the manner in which that same self might be read or understood by others. That these ‘narratives’ have tended to focus upon a generic sense of place has long been noted: topography in the case of river gods and nymphs (particularly with reference to Sicily/southern Italy), along with agricultural produce or mineral wealth.63 Whilst not by any means the whole story, such narratives clearly feed into a discourse of identity, constructed with reference to the local/natural environment. The process has been characterised as a form of colonial discourse: ideological projections possessing an active force in ongoing cultural negotiations, in which landscape and indigenous populations are framed within a series of cultural metaphors involving violence, marriage and cultivation.64 Whether or not this colonial paradigm has any bearing beyond the realms of the imagination is currently a moot point. It could be argued, however, that coin types were equally capable of selectively inventing past histories and identities. What, therefore, are these coins saying? Depicting or describing aspects of the local environment, flora or fauna can often send out decidedly mixed messages, indicating a more complicated sense of identity. The coins issued by Cyrene are a case in point. From the very outset (c. 570 BCE), Cyrene minted coin depicting the silphium plant or its attributes (notably the heart-shaped seeds). Silphium, the cash ‘crop’ par excellence of the ancient world, is itself resistant to cultivation and its harvesting was in all likelihood undertaken in association with the indigenous populations.65 This conscious evocation of the, if not barbarian, then at least wild, untamed and uncultivated, is somewhat at odds with normal practice within Greek thought in which the ordered and cultivated are invariably privileged.66 Variant designs include gazelles, griffins, eagles, tortoises, snakes, scorpions, pegasi, dolphins, a lion’s head and that of a man-faced bull – all accompanied by some attribute of silphium (generally on the obverse). Coins minted by the polis also fea63

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PAPADOPOULOS 2002; RUTTER 2001, 2000 and 1979; LACROIX 1965. For the relationship between aetiological myth, ritual and the creation of imagined pasts and identities see KOWALZIG 2007. DOUGHERTY 1993, 7–9. Both the role attributed to cultural poetics and arguments for coins functioning as a means of constructing relations of social dominance rely heavily on a model of colonial foundation/settlement that has in many cases been abandoned as untenable. Colonial discourse theory, although plausible on paper, often runs foul of ‘what happened on the ground’ –as revealed by the archaeology and material evidence. The latter is particularly pertinent in the case of Papadopoulos’ analysis of the Achaian coinages of Magna Graecia: the role of ideology and the economics of colonization in the minting of identity is somewhat qualified if whatever sources of silver available in southern Italy predominantly originate in the mountainous hinterland and are obtained as a result of trade/cooperation with native populations. Theophr. Hist. pl. 9.1.7. Cf. Solon fr. 39; Hdt. 4.169; Hermippos fr. 63; Plin. HN 19.38–46. PURCELL 2003, 15.

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ture the somewhat incongruous figure of Zeus Ammon, horned and enclosed within a circular incuse. Product of a union between the nymph Cyrene and Apollo (although sometimes identified as Apollo Delphinos), Zeus Ammon was hardly a local deity as his celebrated oracle at Siwah was located a considerable distance away in (what would doubtless have been considered) Egypt. It is therefore hard to interpret this as anything other than the opportunistic appropriation of a (somewhat exotic) cult figure for the purposes of self-aggrandisement. It would certainly be inadvisable to underestimate the performative elements underpinning these processes of representation; images crafted with at least half an eye to the audience of users. This heightened sense of audience is perhaps linked to a notion of monumentality (the desire to commemorate personal victories being one that has already been touched upon). The potential link between coinage and physical monuments certainly merits further investigation. Both the depiction of architectural elements (e.g., in the case of Kroton) and the presence of riverine deities are amongst the criteria laid down by Imhoof-Blumer and Gardner in their study of early imperial coinage as grounds for determining whether the images on coins represented existing cult statues. Although the question was subsequently taken up by both Lehmann and Lacroix in the post-war years, encompassing the coinages of the classical (Lehmann) and archaic (Lacroix) periods, their works were organised along similar lines to that of Imhoof-Blumer and Gardner: the recovery of ‘lost statuary’ as opposed to how such images functioned vis-à-vis any sense of local or regional identity.67 The sense of audience alluded to above can arguably be attributed to a selfconscious awareness of the state of ‘inter-connectivity’ linking neighbouring communities and those further afield. The phenomenon of ‘connectivity’ is now held to be a defining attribute of the Mediterranean longue durée. Although criticised for (what was perceived as) the overly systematic analysis of a reified abstraction,68 in which factors such as human agency were effectively relegated to the sidelines, Horden and Purcell’s Corrupting Sea created a fertile intellectual environment in which grand metanarratives concerning the spread of ideas and identities, could be effectively combined with studies emphasising difference and complexity. Both the experience of diaspora and the innovative use of network theory, imported from the social and biological sciences, have subsequently been particularly successful in opening up fresh avenues of inquiry. ‘Distance’ itself is now seen as being instrumental in promoting a sense of common identity and experience, the product of expanded geographical horizons and widespread settlement overseas amongst alien populations and cultures.69 The same might surely be 67 68 69

LEHMANN 1946; LACROIX 1949. For critique of ‘Mediterraneanism’: SHAW 2003; MORRIS 2003; GUILLOT – PTAK 1998; SHAVIT 1994. PURCELL 2003; MALKIN 2003. The sense of common identity best characterised as an “imagined centre” is either sustained or even progressively strengthened as the distances separating different elements of a community increase (MALKIN 2003, 4). The same might be argued, however, with regards to material objects and the images they carry. A coin’s cultural resonance/‘Greekness’ could vary enormously depending on the context in which it was encoun-

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argued, however, with regards to material objects and the images they carry. A coin’s cultural resonance/perceived ‘Greekness’ could vary enormously depending on the context in which it was encountered. If happened upon in one’s hometown, a coin from a neighbouring polis would, for example, be regarded as ‘different’ but would seem far less so if encountered whilst travelling in Egypt or the Levant. The way in which we visualise cultural identities has changed. Stories, histories and identities also form networks; they do not remain static but grow and multiply, continually changing in meaning and significance. This is the fabric of cultural identity, ‘Greek’ as much as any other. Recent studies of Greek identity have been at pains to emphasise the fields of difference that it contained and are often so successful in doing so that the idea of a homogenous Greek identity seems no longer sustainable. This is perhaps to miss the point however: Greeks are different – it is in the manner in which this difference is expressed and articulated that the similarities lie. Coins play a role in the process: material indices of the way in which different communities positioned themselves within the narratives of the past. The collective imaginaire that they helped constitute was not characterised by its homogeneity but likewise by its difference. Viewed in general these self-conscious and intentional projections provoke interesting questions: is their appearance on coins merely coincidental or is it instead part of a wider, historical process? There is some discrepancy, for instance, between the singularly muddled nature of early settlement in regions such as southern Italy/Sicily, as revealed by archaeology, and the standardised, often seemingly formulaic projections of identity relating to foundation myths, etc., of which coinage forms a constituent part. At a time when archaeologists are becoming increasingly sceptical as to the historicity of conventional narratives relating to ‘colonial’ foundation during the archaic period, it is tempting to associate the ‘self-fashioning’ apparent on coinage with a desire to organise and – where necessary – invent a Greek identity/historical past.70 In helping to define the collective identity of a political community, both internally and in relation to those outside, coins, alongside other aspects of custom/nomos, arguably contributed to that same sense of connectedness, now thought to be at the root of any wider sense of ‘Greek’ identity.71 Given the significance of connectedness it would certainly be a mistake to consider coinage in isolation, divorced from other aspects of material culture and practice. Both the ubiquity of pegasids, gorgons, griffins upon gems, coins, and painted wares and the stylistic parallels with which they were depicted are readily apparent.72 This surely is yet another element of a collective imaginaire, suggestive of a form of visual discourse of which we possess only fragments.

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tered. To take an extreme example: a coin from a neighbouring polis would be regarded as ‘different’ when encountered in one’s hometown but would seem far less so if happened upon whilst travelling in Egypt or the Levant. Retrospective legitimation: LACROIX 1965; GIANGIULIO this volume. MALKIN 2003, 67–9. VON REDEN 1995, 178 pl. 1 a–c.

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Consideration of these surviving fragments can yield interesting results. Although stags/deer commonly feature on the coins of Kaulonia they also show considerable prominence in the iconography of Italic tribes indigenous to the region of southern Italy. Recent work has, indeed, highlighted the importance of such imagery within late iron age Italic society.73 The possibility that iconographic programs employed by Greek poleis drew inspiration from, or in other ways referenced stories, themes or motifs popular with local indigenous populations is certainly intriguing. Who is connected to what and what does this tell us about Greek identity? Likewise the discovery of grave-goods from Olbia including necklaces that are themselves decorated with coins; these are rare and tantalizing glimpses of the ways in which coinage could potentially be exploited as a vehicle for constructing personal or group identities. Coinage did not just operate “… as a boundary phenomenon, articulating the border between the citizen community and its others.”74 Instead, the widespread circulation of these symbols, stories and traditions contributed to a widening sense of connectedness and common identity, arrived at thorough confronting difference.75 That this occurred according to regional patterns of trade and association does not detract from the point overall: the exchange of knowledge, images and ideas generated fresh bases for collective self-perception and definition. Visualizing Greek difference might arguably have played an important role in deciding what it meant to be ‘Greek’ in the first place.

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E.g., A stamnos-krater from Santo Mola, near Metaponto, from c. late sixth-early fifth centuries (thought to be of Peucetian origin). One side of the vase depicts a young fawn and the other a stag – both shown in flight. Recent discussion has focused upon the gnomic (Greek) inscription, as possible evidence for the common values and social institutions linking Greek and native elites in S. Italy: sympotic culture amongst hellenized natives, representations of a relationship between erastes and eromenos and even possible Pythagorean associations (SMALL 2005, 267–85; DONVITO 1992; SCARFI 1961). Cf. HERRING – WHITEHOUSE – WILKINS 2000; GERVASIO 1921; MAYER 1914, 277–92. KURKE 1999, 316. Cf. HOWGEGO 2005, 17: “We may at least ponder whether the coins themselves, as a massproduced and circulating medium, handled by everyone, may have had an active role in spreading and fixing notions of identity.”

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BIBLIOGRAPHY ANDERSON, B. 1991: Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism, London. BABELON, E. 1897: Les origines de la monnaie, Paris. BOARDMAN, J. 1968: Archaic Greek Gems. Schools and Artists in the Sixth and Early Fifth centuries BC, London. BOURDIEU, P. 1990: The Logic of Practice, trans. R. Nice, Stanford, CA. BURNETT, A. 2005: The Roman west and the Roman east, in C. Howgego, V. Heuchert and A. Burnett (eds.) Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces, Oxford, 171–81. BUTCHER, K. 2005: Information, legitimation, or self-legitimation? Popular and elite designs on the coin types of Syria, in C. Howgego, V. Heuchert and A. Burnett (eds.) Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces, Oxford, 143–57. CACCAMO CALTABIANO, M. 1993: Messana: con le emissioni di Rhegion dell’età della tirannide, AMGS XIII, Berlin. CALTABIANO, M. C. 1993: La monetazione di Messana, Berlin & New York. CARRADICE, I. 1987: The ‘Regal’ coinage of the Persian Empire, in I. Carradice (ed.) Coinage and Administration in the Athenian and Persian Empires: Proceedings of the Ninth Oxford Symposium on Coinage and Monetary History, BAR 343, 73–109. CARRADICE, I. – PRICE, M. 1988: Coinage in the Greek World, London. CURTIUS, E. 1870: Über den religiösen Character der griechischen Münzen, trans. B. V. Head, Num. Chron. CURRIE, B. 2005: Pindar and the Cult of Heroes, Oxford. DALBY, A. 1993: Silphium and Asafoetida: evidence from Greek and Roman writers, in H. Walker (ed.) Spicing up the Palate: Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery 1992, 67–72. DONVITO, A. 1992: Santo Mola. Un insediamento peuceta inedito in territorio di Gioia, in M. Girardi (ed.) Gioia. Una città nella storia e civiltà di Puglia, vol. 3, Fasano, 23–126. DOUGHERTY, C. 1993: The Poetics of Colonization: From City to Text in Archaic Greece, Oxford. DOUGHERTY, C. – KURKE, L. 2003: The Cultures within Greek Culture. Contact, Conflict, Collaboration, Cambridge. GARDNER, P. 1908: The gold coinage of Asia before Alexander the Great, PBA 3, 107–39. GARRAFFO, S. 1984: Le Riconiazioni in Magna Grecia e in Sicilia, Studi e Materiali di Archeologia Greca 2, Catania. GERVASIO, M. 1921: Bronzi arcaici e ceramica geometrica del Museo di Bari, Bari.

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GOLDHILL, S. – OSBORNE, R 1994: Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge. GORINI, G. 1996: The western Greeks: coinage, in G. Pugliese Carratelli (ed.), The Western Greeks, Milan, 223–32. GUILLOT, C. – LOMBARD, D. – PTAK, R. 1998: (eds.) From the Mediterranean to the China Sea, Wiesbaden. HALL, J. 1997: Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity. Cambridge. 2002: Hellenicity: Between Ethnicity and Culture. Chicago. HALL, S. 1990: The meaning of new times, in D. Morely and K.-H. Chen (eds.) Stuart Hall. Critical Dialogues, London and New York, 223–38. HANSEN, H. M. – NIELSEN, T. H. 2004: An Inventory of the Archaic and Classical Polis, Oxford. HEAD, B. V. 1911: Historia Numorum, London. HERRING, E. – WHITEHOUSE, R. – WILKINS, J. 2000: Wealth, wine and war: some Gravina tombs of the 6th and 5th centuries BC, in D. Ridgeway et al. (eds.) Ancient Italy in its Mediterranean Setting. Studies in Honour of Ellen Macnamara, London, 235–57. HORNBLOWER, S. 2004: Thucydides and Pindar: Historical Narrative and the World of Epinikian Poetry, Oxford. HOWGEGO, C. 1990: Why did ancient states strike coins?, Num. Chron. 150, 1–27. 2005: Coinage and identity in the Roman provinces, in C. Howgego, V. Heuchert and A. Burnett (eds.) Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces, Oxford, 1–19. HOWGEGO, C. – HEUCHERT, V. – BURNETT, A. 2005: (eds.) Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces, Oxford. IMHOOF-BLUMER, F. – GARDNER, P. 1823-1920: Ancient Coins Illustrating Lost Masterpieces of Greek Art: A numismatic commentary on Pausanias, Chicago. JEFFEREY, L. H. 1990: The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece: a Study of the Origins of the Greek Alphabet and its Development from the Eighth to the Fifth Centuries B.C., rev. edn. with suppl. by A. Johnston, Oxford. JENKINS, G. 1990: Ancient Greek Coins, London. JONES, S. 1997: The Archaeology of Ethnicity: Constructing Identities in the Past and Present, London. KIM, H. 2001: Archaic coinage as evidence for the use of money, in A. Meadows and K. Shipton (eds.) Money and Its Uses in the Ancient Greek World, Oxford, 7–23. KOWALZIG, B. 2000: Singing for the Gods: Aetiological Myth, Ritual and Locality in Greek Choral Poetry of the Late Archaic Period, D.Phil., Oxford. 2007: Singing for the Gods: Performance of myth and ritual in archaic and classical Greece, Oxford. KRAAY, C. 1964: Hoards, small change and the origin of coinage, JHS 84, 76–91. 1976: Archaic and Classical Greek Coins, London.

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KURKE, L. 1999: Coins, Bodies, Games, and Gold: The Politics of Meaning in Archaic Greece, Princeton, NJ. LACROIX, L. 1965: Monnaies et colonisation dans l'occident grec, Brussels. LEHMANN, P. 1946: Statues on Coins of Southern Italy and Sicily in the Classical Period, New York. LEWIS, S. 2000: The tyrant’s myth, in C. Smith and J. Serrati (eds.) Sicily from Aeneas to Augustus, Edinburgh, 97-106. 2006: (ed.) Tyrants and Autocrats in the Classical World, Edinburgh. DE LIBERO, L. 1996: Die archaische Tyrannis, Stuttgart. LURAGHI, N. 1994: Tirannidi arcaiche in Sicilia e Magna Grecia. Da Panezio di Leontini alla caduta dei Dinomenidi, Firenze. MALKIN, I. 1998: The Returns of Odysseus: Colonization and Ethnicity, Berkeley. 2003: Networks and the emergence of Greek identity, MHR 18.2, 56–75. MARTIN, T. 1995: Coins, mints, and the polis, in M. H. Hansen (ed.) Sources for the Ancient Greek City State, Symposium August 24–7th, 1994, Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre, vol. 2, Copenhagen, 257–92. MAYER, M. 1914: Apulien vor und während der Hellenisirung mit besonderer Berucksichtigung der Keramik, Leipzig and Berlin. MCGLEW, J. 1993: Tyranny and Political Culture in Ancient Greece, Ithaca. MELVILLE JONES, J. 1998: The value of electrum in Greece and Asia, in R. Ashton and S. Hurter (eds.) Studies in Greek Numismatics in Memory of Martin Jessop Price, London, 259–69. MILLAR, F. 1993: The Roman Near East 31 BC – AD 337, Cambridge, MA, and London. MORGAN, K. 2003: (ed.) Popular Tyranny: Sovereignty and Its Discontents in Ancient Greece, Austin, TX. MORRIS, I. 2003: Mediterraneanization, MHR 18.2, 30–55. MURRAY, O. 2000: History, in J. Brunschwig and G. E. R. Lloyd (eds.) Greek Thought: A Guide to Classical Knowledge, trans. C. Porter, Cambridge, MA, 328–37. NICHOLSON, N. J. 2005: Athletics and Aristocracy in Archaic and Classical Greece, Cambridge. OSBORNE, R. 1996: Greece in the Making: 1200–479 BC, London. 2008: Reciprocal strategies: imperialism, barbarism and trade in archaic and classical Olbia, in P. Guldager Bilde and J. Petersen (eds.) Meetings of Cultures in the Black Sea Region: Between Conflict and Coexistence, Black Sea Studies 8, Åarhus. PAPADOPOULOS, J. K. 2002: Minting identity: coinage, ideology and the economics of colonization in Akhaian Magna Graecia, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 12.1, 21–55. PIRENNE-DELFORGE, V. 1994: L’Aphrodite grecque, Kernos Suppl. 4,

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PRICE, M. – WAGGONER, N. 1975: Archaic Greek Coinage. The Asyut Hoard, London. PURCELL, N. 2003: The boundless sea of unlikeness? On defining the Mediterranean. Mediterranean paradigms and classical antiquity, MHR 18, 9–29. RITTER, S. 2002: Bildkontakte. Götter und Heroen in der Bildsprache griechischer Münzen des 4. Jhs. v.Chr., Berlin. RITTI, T. 1969: Sigli ed emblemi sui decreti onorari greci, MAL 8.14, 261–360. ROOT, M. C. 1989: The Persian archer at Persepolis: aspects of chronology, style, and symbolism, REA 91, 33–50. 1991: From the heart: powerful Persianisms in the art of the Western Empire, in H. SancisiWeerdenberg and A. Kuhrt (eds.) Achaemenid History VI: Asia Minor and Egypt: Old Cultures in a New Empire, Leiden, 1–29. RUTTER, N. 1979: Campanian Coinages 474–380 BC, Edinburgh. 2000: Coin types and identity: Greek cities in Sicily, in C. Smith and J. Serrati (eds.) Sicily from Aeneas to Augustus, Edinburgh, 73–84. 2001: Historia Numorum: Italy, London. SCARFI, B. M. 1961: Gioia del Colle – Scavi nella zona di Monte Sannace. Le tombe rinvenute nel 1957, MonAL 45, cols. 145–332. SEAFORD, R. 2004: Money and the Early Greek Mind: Homer, Philosophy, Tragedy, Cambridge. SELTMAN, C. 1955: Review of Lacroix, L. (1949), Les reproductions de statues sur les monnaies grecques: la statuaire archaique et classique (Liège: Faculté de philosophie et lettres), JHS 75, 180. SHAVIT, Y. 1994: Mediterranean history and the history of the Mediterranean: further reflections, Journal of Mediterranean Studies 4, 313 – 29. SHAW, B. 2003: A peculiar island: Maghrib and Mediterranean. Mediterranean paradigms and classical antiquity, MHR 18.2, 93–125. SMALL, A. 2004: Some Greek inscriptions on native vases from south east Italy, in K. Lomas (ed.) Greek Identity in the Western Mediterranean, Mnemosyne, suppl. 246, 267–85. STANSBURY O’DONNELL, M. 1999: Pictorial Narrative in Ancient Greek Art, Cambridge. STARR, C. 1977: The Economic and Social Growth of Early Greece, 800–500 B.C., New York. THOMAS, N. 1999: The case of the misplaced ponchos: speculations concerning the history of cloth in Polynesia, Journal of Material Culture 4, 5–20. THOMPSON, M. – MØRKHOLM, O. – KRAAY, C. 1973: (eds.) An Inventory of Greek Coin Hoards, New York. VOLK, T. 2001: From Phanes to Pisanello: 2000 years of numismatic Greek, in P. Easterling and C. Handley (eds.) Greek Scripts. An Illustrated Introduction, London. VON REDEN, S. 1995: Exchange in Ancient Greece, London.

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WILL, E. 1955: Réflexions et hypotheses sur les origins du monnayage, RN 7, 9–10. WILLIAMSON, G. 2005: Aspects of identity, in C. Howgego, V. Heuchert and A. Burnett (eds.) Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces, Oxford, 19–29. WOODWARD, A. M. 1914: Notes and queries on Athenian coinage and finance, JHS 34, 276–92. WOOLF, G. 1994: Power and the spread of writing in the West, in A. Bowman and G. Woolf (eds.) Literacy and Power in the Ancient World, Cambridge.

8. MEDIA FOR THESEUS, OR: THE DIFFERENT IMAGES OF THE ATHENIAN POLIS-HERO* Ralf von den Hoff

Greek heroes like Herakles, Achilleus and Theseus were integral parts of what the Greeks regarded as their past. As such, even though not historical figures in the modern sense of the word, they were constituent elements of Greece’s “intentional” and imagined history and cultural memory.1 What was ‘known’ about these heroes was expressed in myths, in traditional stories told about them that took place in the remote past. But these stories did not constitute a set corpus of tales. Rather, the memory expressed in these myths was substantially negotiated through the reshaping of the heroic stories themselves. Greek myths were open to changes and adaptations according to the changing interests of their audiences and of those social agents in charge of retelling these myths. In this sense narrating myths was ‘intentional,’ even though not every change was intentional in the strict sense of the word.2 Greek myths were narrated in oral, written and visual form. In the oral culture of archaic and classical Greece, visual representations of myths – permanent as well as performative ones – played an important role in transmitting and shaping these myths. Thus, constructed, visual images of Greek myths provide a highly important body of evidence from which to understand changes in and negotiations of myth as part of an imagined history. In modern scholarship visual records of archaic and classical Greek mythology are very often taken as a homogeneous corpus of testimonia following identical – that is, visually and artistically defined – rules of iconography based on nar*

1

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Many thanks go to Lin Foxhall and Hans-Joachim Gehrke for inviting me to the conference and for giving me the opportunity to present the following ideas on this occasion, as well as to Alexander Heinemann for open and fruitful discussions about ‘vases’ and images. The chapter is related to another article on Theseus and the Athenian treasury in the forthcoming volume Structure, Image, Ornament. Architectural Sculpture of the Greek World, edited by Peter Schultz and me. GEHRKE 1994, 2001 and 2003 (“intentionale Geschichte”); ASSMANN 1999 (“kulturelles Gedächtnis”). Heroes and heroines: BRELICH 1958; KEARNS 1989; LYONS 1997; MILLER 2000; PIRENNE – DELFORGE 2000. Achilles: KOSSATZ – DEISSMANN 1981; KING 1987; LATACZ 1995. Herakles: BOARDMAN 1990; PADILLA 1998. Theseus: NEILS 1994; WOODFORD 1994; CALAME 1996; see below. Hero cults: FARNELL 1921; LARSON 1995; DEOUDI 1999; HÄGG 1999; BOEHRINGER 2001. Myth: KIRK 1970 and 1974; BURKERT 1979, 1–5 (definition of myths as traditional tales); GRAF 1985, 7–14; ELLINGER 1987; VERNANT 1987; VEYNE 1987; DOWDEN 1992; SAID 1993; BUXTON 1994; HÖLSCHER 1999; GRAF 2000. Ancient term mythos: MEYER 1999. Changing and reshaping myths: KING 1987; VERNANT 1987, 240–1; MEIER 1988; CALAME 1996; SCHEER 1993; LATACZ 1995; PADILLA 1998.

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ratives established by written texts.3 Nevertheless, not only did our written testimonia have different functions, agents and audiences – which produced different narratives – but images also appeared on pottery, as well as in architectural sculpture and statues, votive reliefs, paintings and terracottas. These images had different functions, addressed different audiences and were initiated by different patrons and artists of varied skill. Most of the images on Attic vases, for instance, even though very often exported to Italy,4 were produced for viewing in Athens during symposia, while others were used during funerals or as votives dedicated in sanctuaries.5 On the other hand, the same myths that are displayed on these vases appear in Athenian architectural sculpture, though with completely different functions, in different material and with different modes of reception.6 Hence, material, technique, iconography, style, visibility, function, audience and reception together define different groups of visual images as what we can call visual media. These media regulated visual communication by their specific sets of qualities. It is under these conditions that visual representations of myths were read by and produced meaning for ancient viewers.7 If we take architectural sculpture – that is, reliefs and sculptures in the round adorning temples or other public buildings – as one example of such a visual medium, another crucial point becomes obvious.8 The design of figural architectural sculpture was the result of conventions and of deliberate decisions made by the 3

4

5

6

7 8

Cf. SCHEFOLD 1978; SCHEFOLD – JUNG 1988; SCHEFOLD 1993; SHAPIRO 1994; WOODFORD 2003, and the conception of the Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (with review GIULIANI 1997). GIULIANI 2003 focuses upon techniques of narration, JUNKER 2005 provides an introductory overview. Cf. REUSSER 1995; FLESS 1999; OSBORNE 2002; STEINER 2007, 234–6. For the relation between export interests and images, and for exceptional cases of the designing of images with regard for the wishes of foreign purchasers: SHAPIRO 2000; SCHMIDT 2005, 24. Cf. for ‘Etruscan’ readings of vase-paintings, ISLER-KERENYI 1997 and the discussion between MARCONI 2004 and OSBORNE 2004. A possibly too optimistic view of Attic specifica in vase-painting is proposed by WEBSTER 1972, but cf. also KRON 1988, for ‘deeply’ Attic themes. The different functions of Attic vases have not been studied comprehensively, cf. only: SCHEIBLER 1983, 11–58; SPARKES 1996, 155–67; KREUZER 1998, 32–41; BOARDMAN 2001; MANNACK 2002, 37–52; JUNKER 2002; RATHJE 2002; SCHMIDT 2005, 22–7. For the symposium use of Attic vases: LISSARRAGUE 1987, VIERNEISEL 1990 and recently NEER 2002, 9– 26 and STEINER 2007, 231–64. The vases from the Athenian agora (cf. MOORE 1986; ROTROFF – OAKLEY 1992; MOORE 1997) and from the Athenian acropolis (GRAEF – LANGLOTZ 1925–33) provide a good insight into the choice of themes in Athens herself. For broader surveys of architectural sculpture and/or it elements cf. DEMANGEL 1933; LAPALUS 1947; KÄHLER 1949; DELIVORRIAS 1974; FELTEN 1984; KNELL 1990; CASTRIOTA 1992; BUITRON-OLIVER 1997; RIDGWAY 1999; CLEMENTE 2007. A volume on “Structure, Image, Ornament. Architectural Sculpture in the Greek World,” proceedings of a conference at Athens in 2004, organised by P. Schultz and me, is in preparation for print, see BARRINGER forthcoming, and VON DEN HOFF forthcoming b. More specific questions are addressed by OSBORNE 1994 and 2000. VON HESBERG 2003a, 9–12. For architectural sculpture as a medium of visual communication see VON HESBERG et al. 2003.

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buildings’ patrons and sculptors.9 On the other hand, besides the guiding interests of patrons and sculptors, which are almost always unknown to us, individual readings of such sculptures by their viewers must have been another relevant factor. The Athenian women in Euripides’ Ion (vv. 184–218) are a telling witness of this.10 They enter Apollo’s sanctuary at Delphi and admire the reliefs and pediments of the god’s temple. While doing so, they start talking about the different heroic deeds of Herakles and Perseus depicted high on the temple walls. It is in the middle of this process of viewing that they turn to another image: a gigantomachy. Here, they suddenly focus upon a single figure. They recognise what they call “our goddess,” that is, Athena. Thus, the process of viewing and understanding architectural sculpture, as imagined by Euripides, includes a situation in which the beholders, Athenian women in Delphi, while looking at images of myth adorning a temple, express their cultural identity and personal interests. What is obvious here is that a personal identification with the figures depicted in architectural sculpture must have been another important factor in their reception – though not necessarily a guiding principle for the choice of themes by the temple’s builders. This will be true as well for vase-painting or other media. Hence, even within a single visual medium the discourse of (changing/different) meanings and readings of heroic images is a complex field. It depended not only on the character of the medium, the patrons’ and sculptors’ original ‘intentions,’ the sculptors’ skill, the setting and conventions, but also on the viewers’ cultural disposition, their interests in reception and many other factors, often rather opaque to us. This chapter provides a contribution to understanding this complex discourse. Its purpose is to explore to what extent the design and themes of mythological images in architectural sculpture and vase-painting were distinct from each other, and how their particular character as visual media was related to the function, reception and use of these images – that is, to the interests of the people who were addressed by these images and of those who were addressing others by commissioning works of art that made use of mythological scenes. Did these media employ specific forms of narrating, of creating visual history and ‘spinning time’? And were the ways in which they represented myths related to the identity of patrons and the contexts in which the images were used and seen during the same period of time and within the same historical framework?11 In a limited case study, I will only try to outline the specific iconographic and thematic character of Athenian public architectural sculpture and vase-painting that features one mythological figure, Theseus, in the late sixth through the middle of the fifth century. Theseus became Athens’ polis-hero during the sixth century. He is often present in Athenian architectural sculpture of the period under discussion, and his omni-

9 10

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KNELL 1990, xi; BUITRON-OLIVER 1997, 9; RIDGWAY 1999, 143–219. KOSTER 1976; ZEITLIN 1994; VOGT 1998; RIDGWAY 1999, 9 with n. 24; STANSBURYO‘DONNELL 1999, 63–5; cf. also STEINER 2001, 44–50; VON HESBERG 2003, 112–13 for further examples. Cf. OSBORNE 2000; VON HESBERG et al. 2003.

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presence in Athenian vase-painting of this period is well known.12 Hence, the images of Theseus provide a useful body of evidence with which to compare architectural sculpture and vase-painting, two of the most prominent visual media in archaic and classical Athens, and to clarify differences between these media and their aesthetic conventions.13 The Theseus theme emerges in Athens’ visual culture and specifically in Attic vase-painting in the time of Solon, around 570. From this time on, the slaying of monsters like the Minotaur and the centaurs and (only rarely) the collective rescue of the Athenian children on Crete were the Theseus stories told in images on Attic vases.14 Around 520/10 a new cycle of adventures found its way into Athenian vase-painting: Theseus’ deeds along the road from Troizen to Athens, his slaying of brutal villains like Sinis, Kerkyon, Skiron and Prokrustes (figs. 1–2 and 6), as well as the rape of the Amazon queen Antiope. The introduction of these images – fights against pitiless human robbers and the seizure of a woman as a luxurious and prestigious object – signifies that Theseus, the archaic polis-hero, became a figure within a new construction of identity long before the Persian Wars and not as a result of Athens’ success at Marathon.15 This trend had its heyday in the decade around 500, just after the reforms of Kleisthenes. At this time, we do not find new stories about Theseus, but rather new modes of telling these stories: multiple new and old deeds of Theseus were first arranged together on a single vase as a set of heroic events with the hero appearing up to five times on the same vessel (so-called ‘cycle-vases,’ fig. 2). Both power in fighting human injustice and overwhelming, constant activity, the polypragmosyne of Athens’ most important hero, were now crucial elements of Theseus’ image, and thus of Athenian selfdefinition in this period.16 It was also in the years after Kleisthenes that Theseus first appeared in Athenian architectural sculpture, namely in the metopes of the Athenian treasury in the panhellenic sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi. It is still unclear when exactly between 510 and 490/80 the treasury was built as a collective Athenian dedication to Apollo.17 By now, more and more scholars prefer a date shortly after the battle of 12

13

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15 16 17

WALKER 1995; CALAME 1996; MILLS 1997; LUCE 1998. Surveys of Theseus images: NEILS 1987; SHAPIRO 1989, 145–6; NEILS 1994; WOODFORD 1994; FLASHAR 2003; SERVADEI 2005. This will go beyond the usual comparisons of visual records in order to reconstruct missing parts of sculptured images or to recover references made by the artists, cf. only HOFFELNER 1988; SCHWAB 1989. First Attic Theseus images in the sixth century: SHAPIRO 1989, 143–9; KREUZER 2003; MUTH 2004; KREUZER 2005; HOMME-WÉRY 2006; TORELLI 2007; VON DEN HOFF forthcoming a; see also SHAPIRO 1991. MUTH 2008 was published too late to be considered here New deeds: NEILS 1987; NEILS 1994; VON DEN HOFF 2003; KREUZER 2003; see further bibliography above n. 12. NEER 2002, 154–64; VON DEN HOFF 2002; VON DEN HOFF 2003; for cycle-vases see also below n. 36. For the Athenian Treasury: AUDIAT 1933; DE LA COSTE-MESSELIÈRE 1957; GAUER 1968, 45–65; BOARDMAN 1982, 2–4 and 9–15; FLOREN 1987, 247–50 (with further bibliography); KNELL 1990, 52–63; STEWART 1990, 132 figs. 211–17; BÜSING 1992; BANKEL 1993, 169–

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Marathon in 490, when a victory monument for Marathon was set up in front of the treasury. Nevertheless, there are reliable reasons to separate the building of the

Fig. 1: Theseus and Prokrustes. Attic stamnos (around 490/80 BCE). London, British Museum E 441 (photograph courtesy of the British Museum, London).

treasury from the erection of the Marathon base, and to date the beginning of the works for the treasury in the time before 490, as art historians have argued earlier.18 The Marathon base seems to have been added after 490 in front of the

18

70; BOMMELAER 1993, 133–8 (also for the Marathon monument); RIDGWAY 1993, 343–6; AMANDRY 1998 (also for the Marathon monument); JACQUEMIN 1999, 315–16 no. 077 (Marathon monument) and no. 086 (with further bibliography); RAUSCH 1999, 92–106 and 129–132; RIDGWAY 1999, 88–9; PATRIDA 2000, 48–70; NEER 2004 (with further bibliography); VON DEN HOFF forthcoming b. ALSCHER 1961, 234–6 n. 117; KLEINE 1973, 94–7; see also DINSMOOR 1946 (ornamental decoration before 490), BANKEL 1993, 169–70 (architecture before 490). For the different suggestions regarding the date cf. bibliography in the previous n. and, to take only the German positions: GAUER 1968, 51–65 (after 490); GAUER 1980, 128 (started after 499); BROMMER 1982, 68 with n. 8 (510/00); FLOREN 1987, 247 (around/shortly before 500); MARTINI 1990, 249–50 (shortly before 500); BÜSING 1992 (after 490; painted decoration fin-

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building’s south side in order to change the ‘message’ of the treasury and to make it, indeed, a victory monument for Marathon.19 If this is true, the Athenians started to erect their splendid marble treasury at Delphi in the decade after their revolutionary political reforms under Kleisthenes and after the first great victory of their newly organised hoplite forces in 507/6,20 at a time when they also started to rebuild their Athena temples on the late archaic acropolis at Athens.21

Fig. 2: Theseus and Skiron, Theseus and Kerkyon. Attic ‘cycle’-cup with deeds of Theseus (around 490/80 BCE), London, British Museum E 48 (photograph after Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, Great Britain 17, The British Museum 9, London 1993, pl. 27 b).

Such a date is highly relevant to understanding the sculpture of the treasury, namely its metopes, which focus on Theseus (figs. 3–5) and Herakles.22 As Rich-

19

20

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ished even later); BANKEL 1993, 169–70 (started before 490, finished afterwards); RAUSCH 1999, 129–32 (around 500); BRINKMANN 2002, 354 (after 490); FITTSCHEN 2003 (before 490); VON DEN HOFF forthcoming b (before 490). AMANDRY 1998; BRINKMANN 2002; and NEER 2004 favor a date after 490 also due to a ledge of stones below the treasury’s south wall, on which the Marathon base is situated (AMANDRY 1998, 87 fig. 7; AUDIAT 1930, pls. 15–6; AUDIAT 1933, pls. 1 and 5 [“coupe γ-δ”]; HANSEN 1975, pl. 6). As FITTSCHEN 2003, 13–14, has observed, this ledge can be found also below the other walls of the treasury and thus cannot be taken as decisive argument for the contemporary building of both, cf. VON DEN HOFF forthcoming b. Thus, Pausanias by saying that the treasury was set up “from those spoils taken from the army that landed with Datis at Marathon” (10.11.5) embraced what the Athenians tried to achieve by setting up the Marathon base in front of their older treasury. In addition to the arguments mentioned above, cf. n. 18, the quality of the treasury’s metopes makes it quite improbable to assume that sculptors of such skill have worked in such a latearchaic style between 490 and 480. For building activities on the Acropolis see: KORRES 1993; KORRES 1997, 218–43; cf. HURWIT 1998, 121–36; HOLTZMANN 2003, 82–7. For the metopes see: DE LA COSTE-MESSELIÈRE 1957; RIDGWAY 1977, 236–8; BOARDMAN 1978, 159–60 fig. 213; SCHEFOLD 1978, 165–8; GAUER 1980; BROMMER 1982, 68–9 pls. 1–4 a; DEMARGNE 1984, 1012 no. 596 pl. 762; HOFFELNER 1988; BOARDMAN et al. 1990, 7 no. 1703; KNELL 1990, 52–63; STEWART 1990, 132 figs. 211–17; MARCADÉ – CROISSANT 1991, 57–60; FRONING 1992, 135–8 figs. 6–8; WOODFORD 1992, 576 no. 26 pl. 320; MAAS 1993,

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ard Neer has recently underlined, the Athenian and the panhellenic hero were juxtaposed at Delphi to highlight Athens’ claim of special relationships to both. But if both appear, what were their different roles and how were these roles divided? Four sets of metopes belonging to the Athenian treasury, each with a different mythological theme, are preserved. Herakles and Geryoneus belong to the western rear of the building. The communis opinio arranges Herakles’ other deeds above the north side, Theseus’ deeds (fig. 3) above the south side and both heroes’ (or only Theseus’) amazonomachy above the building’s east side, the side of the treasury’s entrance. Every visitor will see the south side first as he approaches the

treasury from the sanctuary’s entrance. It is here that Athena, Athens’ polisgoddess, appears in the metopes, and this is also the side featuring Theseus’ deeds.23 As far as the arrangement of the other metopes is concerned, in contrast to the communis opinio Klaus Hoffelner has argued that the Herakles metopes belong to the treasury’s east side, while the amazonomachy adorned the north side of the building. This is indeed the most convincing solution given the themes, number and shapes of the metopes.24 This new arrangement is of great relevance: The amazonomachy in the north was only rarely seen by any visitor. Rather it is Herakles, who appears above the building’s entrance (below Athena in the pediment), who is the most prominent part of the treasury, while Theseus is first seen on the south side by visitors approaching from the sanctuary’s entrance. This achieves a more or less fair distribution between the two heroes. The Athenian interest in Theseus, as manifest by his appearance in the treas-

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168–75; NEILS 1994, 928 no. 54 pls. 633–4; STANSBURY-O’DONNELL 1999, 146–9; NEER 2004. Cf. HOFFELNER 1988, 102–8. HOFFELNER 1988; VON DEN HOFF forthcoming b; cf. also RIDGWAY 1999, 88–9. Thus, the (Attic?) amazonomachy is no longer positioned in the middle between Herakles’ and Theseus’ deeds, HOFFELNER 1988, 108–17.

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ury’s metopes (fig. 3), is more precisely defined by the iconography which was chosen for each of his deeds, and by these iconographies’ relationships to other contemporary images of Theseus, namely in Attic vase-painting. Metope 1 depicts Theseus’ fight against Sinis. Theseus is holding the villain’s tree, which he will soon use to hurl the brutal robber through the air. The same typology is common on Attic vases since the late sixth century.25 In addition, metope 3, the wrestling match with Kerkyon, metope 6, the fight with the Marathonian bull, and metope 7, the slaying of the Minotaur, all adopt vase-painting typology of the years around 500.26 In this regard, the metopes follow conventional patterns of representation in both visual media. On the other hand, metope 5 shows Athena in front of Theseus, who raises his right hand in a gesture of prayer. This was an innovative choice, because this scene was as yet unknown on Attic vases. It first appears on the red-figure cup by the Briseis painter (around 480).27 But the calm scene of a meeting of goddess and hero was adopted from Herakles in Attic vase-paintings of the sixth century. For Theseus, the metope of the Athenian treasury is the first example.28 The identities of Theseus’ opponents in metopes 2 and 4 can only be fixed by context and typology. They must be Periphetes and Prokrustes, because the fight against Skiron follows completely different typologies in the years around 500 (cf. fig. 2). Metope 2 (fig. 4) very much resembles a lekythos in Athens that depicts Theseus and Prokrustes (fig. 6).29 Consequently, metope 4 (fig. 5) can only show the last remaining scene in which Theseus slays a villain: 25

26

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28

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Metope 1 (Sinis): HOFFELNER 1988, 78 fig. 1; cf. only NEILS 1994, 926 no. 33 pl. 623; no. 36 pl. 625; 927 no. 44 pl. 627; 927–8 no. 46 pl. 629; 929 nos. 64, 67, 72 pls. 638–9; SERVADEI 2005, 36–8. Metope 3 (Kerkyon): HOFFELNER 1988, 80 fig. 3; cf. NEILS 1994, 923 no. 33 pl. 623; 926 no. 36 pl. 625; no. 39 pl. 626; 927 no. 41 pl. 626; no. 44 pl. 627; 927–8 no. 46 pl. 629; 932 no. 109 pl. 644; SERVADEI 2005, 42–4. Metope 6 (bull): HOFFELNER 1988, 84 fig. 6; cf. NEILS 1994, 926 no. 34 pl. 624; no. 36 pl. 625; 937 no. 198–91 pls. 655–7; SERVADEI 2005, 73–5. Metope 7 (Minotaur): HOFFELNER 1988, 84–6 fig. 7; cf. YOUNG 1972; WOODFORD 1992, 547–81; WOODFORD 1994, 941 no. 238 pl. 661; SZUFNAR 1995; SERVADEI 2005, 100–10; MUTH 2004. Metope 5 (Athena): HOFFELNER 1988, 83 fig. 5. Athena possibly held a helmet in her left hand (KASPER-BUTZ 1990, 178; VON DEN HOFF forthcoming b) as often in vase-paintings of this period, cf. NEILS 1994 nos. 190 and 311; KUNISCH 1974. Rf. cup by the Briseis painter, New York, Metropolitan Mus. 53.11.4; 1970.46: ARV2 406.7; NEILS 1987, 96–7; 161 no. 59 fig. 48; SCHEFOLD – JUNG 1988, 242–3 fig. 293; NEILS 1994, 947 no. 309 pl. 666; SERVADEI 2005, 176–8 fig. 75. BROMMER 1982, 69. For Herakles and Athena: BECKEL 1961, 41–66; MOMMSEN 1989; BOARDMAN et al. 1990, 143–54; KUNISCH 1990. The only similar Theseus scene of this period: NEILS 1987, 74 and157 no. 29; NEILS 1994, 947 no. 308. Metope 2 (Prokrustes): HOFFELNER 1988, 78–80 with n. 10 (further bibliography) fig. 2, comparing the lekythos Athens, National Mus. 515 (here fig. 6): ABV 518; HOFFELNER 1988, 103 fig. 32; NEILS 1994, 929 no. 63; 933 no. 123; cf. also below n. 33; VON DEN HOFF 2001, 83. Usually, at this time, Theseus, fighting Prokrustes, holds the hammer behind his back and grasps the villain’s head, cf. here fig. 1 and NEILS 1994, 926 no. 33 pl. 623; no. 36 pl. 625; 933 nos. 126–8 pl. 646; no. 133 pl. 647; nos. 134, 136, 137, 140 pl. 648; SERVADEI 2005, 44–6.

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the death of Periphetes. This is again astonishing, because Periphetes almost never appears in vase-painting cycles of Theseus’ adventures, and never before around 470/60.30 The reason for this choice seems obvious. According to the myth, it was only against Periphetes that Theseus used a club. The club was best known as Herakles’ weapon.31 Depicting Theseus and Periphetes made the Athenian hero similar to Herakles, his pendant in the treasury’s metopes, as did metope 5 with Theseus and Athena.

Metopes 2 and 4 are unusual in another sense. Even though much is lost of the depicted figures, Theseus’ motion (metope 4) and his preserved shoulder (metope 2) strongly suggest that he was holding his weapon above his head and/or executing a final stroke. Such an attack is only possible if the attacker is fearless of any counter-strike, because the whole right side of his body is defenceless. What we could call a ‘final stroke posture’ is always a risk and, by the same token, a sign of high self-confidence – a signum of the attacker’s invincible tolma, as Andrew Stewart also has argued. It was later adopted for the statue of Harmodios, the tyrant-slayer, in the Athenian agora (fig. 11).32 Around 500 (and even around 490), to depict Theseus in this manner was unusual, though not unknown. The abovementioned lekythos (fig. 6), another lekythos with Theseus and Skiron, and an early red-figure cup are the only examples among more than 20 other images.33

30 31 32 33

Metope 4 (Periphetes?): HOFFELNER 1988, 82–3 fig. 4 (also with further bibliography). Theseus and Periphetes in other images: NEILS 1994, 927 no. 45; 928 no. 55; 929 no. 61. COHEN 1994. STEWART 1985, 63; STEWART 1997, 75; VON DEN HOFF 2001; cf. TAYLOR 1991, for the motif also SHEFTON 1960; SUTER 1975; FEHR 1984, 22; ERMINI 1997. Theseus using a weapon raised above his head in the latest sixth century: lekythos, Berlin, Staatliche Museen 1984.61 (WEHGARTNER 1991, 19–20 pl. 6; NEILS 1994, 931 no. 100).

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Fig. 6: Theseus and Prokrustes, Attic lekythos (around 500/490 BCE). Athens, National Museum Inv. 515 (photograph after Hoffelner 1988, fig. 32)

Hence, although this iconography was known in vase-painting in the years around 500, in this medium it did not have any success. Rather, late archaic and early classical vase-painting favoured other, more archaic qualities of Theseus (figs. 1– 2): not his invincible tolma, but his agonistic qualities in competitive, equal fights, even though his future victory is always made clear.34 Compared to this representation of Theseus in the late sixth century, the way in which Theseus was depicted on metopes 2 and 4 of the Athenian treasury underlined much more strongly his self-confident, bold power – that is, his superiority. Thus, around 500, not only was Theseus’ image in the treasury’s metopes at Delphi designed decisively to establish a firm relationship with Herakles, but the set of sculpture on public display also aimed at depicting a still traditional (as most metopes show), but in some scenes more superior Theseus than owners of Athenian vases were used to seeing. In Delphi, in the years after 507, to express Athenian superiority must have been a priority for the dedicants of the treasury, the Athenian polis itself.35 Another point of difference between the public images of the treasury at Delphi and Attic vase-painting of the same time is important. Theseus cycles – that is, the depiction of multiple deeds of the hero continuously on one vase – were established in Attic vase-painting around 510/500 (fig. 2). In architectural sculpture,

34 35

Lekythos, Athens, National Mus. 515 (above n. 29). Cup, Paris, Louvre G 71 (NEILS 1994, 933 no. 132). See below n. 49. VON DEN HOFF 2001, 82–3; cf. MUTH 2004 for late archaic images of Theseus slaying the Minotaur and their character, though with different focus, cf. also MUTH 2008. The bold, superior engagement characterises Theseus in another public monument of late sixth-century Athenian public sculpture, in a sculpture group with Theseus slaying Prokrustes (?) from the acropolis: NEILS 1987, 45–6, 177 no. S 1 figs. 16–17; NEILS 1994, 934 no. 155; HURWIT 1999, 126 fig. 104. Here, Theseus also fights with a weapon raised above his head.

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the Athenian treasury is an early example of a comparable technique of narrative (fig. 3). But while it was also used for both Herakles and Theseus in Attic architectural sculpture afterwards (witness the Hephaistion metopes disc-ussed below) and for Theseus on Athenian symposium vases (more than 20 examples, mostly cups), there are almost no examples of Herakles cycles in Attic vase-painting (only two kraters, and both by the Kleophrades painter).36 On their symposium vessels, the Athenians seem to have focused more on the multiple activities of their polis-hero than on Herakles’ best-known cycle of deeds. Thus, the Athenian treasury’s metopes, though innovative in certain elements of iconography, at the same time respected Herakles’ traditional panhellenic importance. Furthermore, they presented Herakles in a cycle of deeds, as the Athenians only rarely did on their symposium vessels. The differences of media are obvious. I have mentioned (and argued elsewhere) that in Attic vase-painting Theseus’ final stroke with a weapon high above his head became dominant shortly before the middle of the fifth century, despite a few forerunners around 500. As of around 450, some of Theseus’ deeds have changed typology almost completely, like his victory over Skiron or Prokrustes (fig. 7). Theseus is now able to defeat these villains by confidently using their possessions as weapons in a final blow – and no longer in a truly competitive, equal physical fight like before.37 Hence, the idea of Theseus as an invincible, self-confident victor, cautiously presented in the

Fig. 7: Theseus and Prokrustes, Theseus and Skiron. Attic ‘cycle’-cup with deeds of Theseus (around 440/30 BCE). London, British Museum E 84 (photo, courtesy of the British Museum London).

Athenian treasury half a century before, became dominant in Athenian symposium imagery not before the age of Perikles. It is unclear if this happened as a 36

37

Theseus cycles on Attic vases: BROMMER 1982, 65–8; NEILS 1987, 143–8; SCHEFOLD – JUNG 1988, 236–51; TAYLOR 1991; FRONING 1992 (also for other cycles); NEILS 1994, 926–8 nos. 32–53 pls. 623–32; STANSBURY-O’DONNELL 1999, 149–55; VON DEN HOFF 2002; VON DEN HOFF 2003; WOODFORD 2003, 23–4; SERVADEI 2005, 48–52. Herakles cycles on Attic vases: FRONING 1992, 131–54 figs. 10–15 (rf. crater Malibu, J. P. Getty Museum 84.AE.974); 16– 19 (rf. crater Malibu, J. P. Getty Museum 77.AE.11); BOARDMAN et al. 1990, 7 no. 1702 pl. 9 (ibid. 6 mentions an earlier Corinthian example). VON DEN HOFF 2001; cf. further bibliography above n. 32. Some of the relevant images are listed below in n. 49.

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slow adoption of the public imagery by the vase-painters. But if so, why was this adoption so late? The fact that we know of some rare earlier examples of this iconography on vases (fig. 6) does not support the idea of a slow and late adoption.38 Rather it appears that, in Attic vase-painting around 500, such a self-confident image of Theseus was only one of many experimental solutions for describing the qualities of Athens’ polis-hero in vase-painting, but it was an unsuccessful one. Such an image seems not to have been what the Athenians wanted to look at on vases. Hence, the reason for the failure of this iconography in late sixth-century vase-painting, and for its success in contemporary architectural sculpture may also have been the different character of these visual media. What were the reasons for this variability in talking about Theseus in different visual media? One important difference between vase-painting and architectural sculpture lies in their specific practical function. Most of the Theseus cycles appear on cups and kraters – that is, on symposium vases, which were used (and, due to their size, were only understandable as narratives) in smaller circles of users. Images of architectural (and other public) sculpture were visible abroad in panhellenic sanctuaries, and at Athens to many visitors.39 They not only addressed a much wider Greek and foreign audience but were also designed for public and official commissions. This stands in contrast to the production of vases, which were shaped by individual potters’, painters’ and buyers’ interests. Hence, Attic vases, though often exported to Etruria, are representatives of a visual discourse internal to the polis. It appears that, around 500, this inner-polis discourse included a greater variety of images of Theseus and, as a whole, was more focused on Theseus as a traditional, agonistic fighter, while in public sculpture the Athenians presented a more far-reaching image of their hero’s superiority. Later, around the middle of the fifth century, the inner-polis discourse became dominated by the new idea of Theseus as invincible superhero. On the other hand, the public character of the Athenian treasury could also have led to a different image of Theseus within the panhellenic context that resulted from the setting of the treasury in Delphi. Possibly, this gave reason to focus on Herakles as well, and to introduce and construct Theseus, who was less known to the audience at Delphi, as a hero comparable to the well-known panhellenic Herakles and his highly renowned cycle of deeds. Another Athenian set of metopes featuring Theseus helps to clarify this idea: the metopes of the Hephaisteion on the Kolonos Agoraios, high above the western side of Athens’ political centre, the agora (figs. 8–10).40 It was around 460/50 that 38 39 40

See above n. 35. It would be interesting to ask if the conventions of narration also differed in vase-painting and architectural sculpture, cf. for the vases GIULIANI 2003. For the Hephaisteion and its metopes: SAUER 1899, 155–79 pls. 4–5; DINSMOOR 1941; KÄHLER 1949; LIPPOLD 1950, 158; KOCH 1955 121–5 pls. 24–7; MORGAN 1962; 1963; RIDGWAY 1981, 26–30 figs. 7–10; BROMMER 1982, 69–70 pls. 4b-7; DÖRIG 1985, 74–9; BOARDMAN 1991, 146 fig. 111; NEILS 1987, 126–8; 177 S3 figs. 70–5; HOFFELNER 1988, 111–12 fig. 39; SCHEFOLD – JUNG 1988, 246–50 figs. 299–300; BOARDMAN et al. 1990, 7 no. 1706 pls. 12–13; KNELL 1990, 127–39; WOODFORD 1992, 575 no. 11 pl. 317 (Minotaur);

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the Athenians decided to depict both Theseus and Herakles in the metopes of this prominent public building. Sculptural style and mason marks on the temple’s marble tiles indicate that the roof as well as the earliest metopes were carved during this first phase of construction around 450, although the building was not completed before the later fifth century.41 In Athens after Ephialtes’ reforms, the decision of how to decorate the Hephaisteion as a public temple must have gone through the usual political process, that is, it must have been officially sanctioned by demos and boule and followed by the architects and sculptors, who had to make official reports about their plans and activities.42 Thus, the choice of themes and iconographies in the metopes must reflect majority ideas of this time, even though we do not know if political factions or leaders played a role in this process.43 As on the Athenian treasury, the Athenians claim both the panhellenic hero Herakles and the polis-hero Theseus as their primary heroic examples. What we know about the Marathon painting in the Stoa Poikile, painted only some years before, points in the same direction. Here, Theseus and Herakles appeared together with Athena as heroic supporters of the Athenians.44 The panhellenic connection, so vividly played out in Delphi much earlier, received new interest in fifth-century Athens itself.

Fig. 8: Deeds of Heracles. East metopes 1 – 10 of the Hephaisteion at Athens. Athens, Hephaisteion (drawing after Knell 1990, fig. 198).

41

42 43

44

DELIVORRIAS 1993; NEILS 1994, 928 no. 55 pls. 635–6; CRUCIANI – FIORINI 1998, 79–142 pls. 7–11; REBER 1998; YEROULANOU 1998; see now also BARRINGER forthcoming. For the date cf. DINSMOOR 1941, 152–3; WYATT – EDMONDSON 1984; KOTSIDOU 1995, 93; REBER 1998, 32. YEROULANOU 1998, 404–7 has observed no changes of planning between design of the metopes and architecture of the temple. The exact date 449 for the beginning (DINSMOOR 1941) is dubious; the frieze was carved during the second half of the fifth century. Cf. BURFORD 1969; LAUTER 1974; HIMMELMANN 1979; RIDGWAY 1999, 186–219. The Hephaisteion has often been related to Kimon (see only BOERSMA 1964; CRUCIANI – FIORINI 1998, 109–31), rarely to Perikles (MORGAN 1963, 102–8), but neither can be proved with any certainty. Paus. 1.15.3 (Theseus emerging from the Attic soil, thus demonstrating his direct relationship to Attica). Cf. now STANSBURY-O’DONNELL 2005.

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If we compare the cycle of metopes from the Delphi treasury and the Athenian Hephaisteion it appears that, also in Athens, Herakles occupies the most prominent position above the entrance of the building in the east (fig. 8). But now Herakles has Athena as his companion (metope east 10), and Herakles appears more often (ten metopes, versus eight with Theseus). Metope east 2 provides a further new feature: Herakles and Iolaos together fight the Lernean hydra. This joint action in itself is nothing new, but the protagonists’ parallel motion with at least one of them holding a weapon above his head is unusual – though, of course, well known, since this is the guise of the tyrant-slayers’ statues (fig. 11), which were set up a quarter of a century before the Hephaisteion was built and could be seen opposite the temple’s front, down on the agora.45 In this particular visual context, two heroes, moving and acting like Harmodios and Aristogeiton must have appeared as paradigmatic fighters for democracy. Aristophanes’ Lysistrata (vv. 631–2) is a telling witness of this idea. Here, fighting side by side with Aristogeiton’s statue on the agora (i.e., in the guise of Harmodios) is a definite sign of democratic habit.46 It is interesting that Herakles and Iolaos were depicted in this posture at a time when, in Attic vase-painting, it was Theseus who more often acted as the superior victor in the typical posture of Harmodios (fig. 7). But Theseus usually acts alone. Only in centauromachies and amazonomachies is he a ‘team-player.’ Thus, in his fights against villains, like those depicted on the Hephaisteion metopes, he is less similar to the tyrant-slayers than the ‘democratic’ pair of Herakles and Iolaos.47 Hence, the Hephaisteion metopes demonstrate that, in the middle of the fifth century, in Athenian architectural sculpture Herakles is still the more prominent figure, as he had been in architectural sculpture half a century before. But now, and in Athens, he is related visually and by context to the monument of Athens’ democratic origins. He, if anyone, is constructed as a ‘democratic’ hero.

Fig. 9: Deeds of Theseus. North metopes 4 – 1 of the Hephaisteion at Athens. Athens, Hephaisteion (drawing after Knell 1990, fig. 201).

On the Hephaisteion, Theseus appears only in the eight easternmost metopes on the north (fig. 9) and south side (fig. 10), thus framing his panhellenic companion. All deeds depicted in the Delphi metopes were set on stage again, except for 45 46 47

For the tyrannicides cf. FEHR 1984; STEWART 1990, 135–6 figs. 227–31; STEWART 1997, 69– 75; KRUMEICH 2002, 221–2 and 237–40 (with further bibliography); OENBRINK 2004. Cf. OBER 2003. It is problematic to argue that every single Harmodios posture was meant to define the ‘democratic’ character of the actor (TAYLOR 1991, 36–70).

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the calm scene with Athena, which Herakles has ‘taken over’ (east 10). Most metopes follow well-known traditional patterns of depicting Theseus, which were also typical for the Delphi metopes (fig. 3). Indeed, some images seem to have been modelled with regard to these earlier reliefs, like the Minotaur (south 4, fig. 10), the Periphetes (south 1, fig. 10) or the Prokrustes (north 4, fig. 9) scenes. Only sometimes is Theseus’ superiority made more obvious than in late archaic images; witness Kerkyon (north 3, fig. 9), whom he is about to defeat immediately by throwing him to the ground. This is never shown on Attic vases in a comparable manner.48 But altogether Theseus is not the self-confident, invincible winner

Fig. 10: Deeds of Theseus. South metopes 1 – 4 of the Hephaisteion at Athens. Athens, Hephaisteion (drawing after Knell 1990, fig. 204).

fighting in the above-described new ‘final-blow-posture’ (except for the scene with the sow from Krommyon in metope north 1), which the contemporary vases (fig. 7) and some Delphi metopes (fig. 3) presented. Rather he resembles the sixth-century agonistic fighter (figs. 1–2). The immediate physical contact with his adversaries is a guiding principle of the images. Thus, Theseus’ visual role in architectural sculpture was different in 500 and 450. On the Hephaisteion, the Prokrustes (north 4, fig. 9) and the Periphetes (south 1, fig. 9) scenes are further witness of this. In both cases, the hero does not appear high above his fallen opponent like at Delphi, but acts in rather unusual postures in front of and in direct contact with him. It is certain that his strikes will cause the villain’s defeat, but still the hero appears less ‘invincible’ than in the Harmodios guise. The Skiron (north 2, fig. 9) and the Sinis scene (south 2, fig. 10) provide further evidence. Neither the vase-painting typology of Theseus wielding Skiron’s basin over his head (fig. 7) was adopted nor the aggressive sword-attack against Sinis, both of which were new on Attic vases of this time.49 Instead, Theseus is acting purely by physical force, using his hands to be successful. Rather than his victorious character, his physical power and his skilful agonistic knowledge in fighting are highlighted – like in late archaic vase-painting and very much like Herakles, who also uses physical power in the Hephaisteion scenes. It appears that in the Hephaisteion metopes, Theseus is depicted as a victorious and skilful, but traditionally fighting agonistic hero comparable to Herakles. The idea of his ‘natural’ superiority, as expressed in the ‘final-blow-posture’ in 48 49

Cf. NEILS 1994, 926–8 and 932–3. Skiron: NEILS 1994, 926–32 nos. 33, 36, 44, 97, 101, 102, 104, 106. Sinis: NEILS 1994, 929– 93 nos. 73, 74, 77, 78, 79 (sword above his head), 80. Cf. also the new Prokrustes scenes: VON DEN HOFF 2001, 83 with n. 41.

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contemporary vase-painting is ignored almost completely. Not only did the Theseus image change from Delphi to Athens and from 500 to 450, but the Theseus images also differ in different media of the same date. In the Hephaisteion metopes, the choice could have been partly due to the interest in making Theseus resemble Herakles, who regularly proves his power by his physical engagement. It is in favour of this interpretation that Theseus was very probably using the club against Periphetes in metope 1 of the Hephaisteion’s south side (fig. 10).50 This is similar to the treasury at Delphi. But while the Athenian treasury was innovative insofar as Theseus’ image was at least partly designed in a new, self-confident manner, the Hephaisteion tells another story. Here, his image is retrospective and more cautious. A conventional, agonistic Theseus who fights in the regular manner is set on stage. And while vase-paintings of the same time are featuring an invincible, extremely self-confident Theseus, in the years around 450, the public images of the Hephaisteion present a hero who is working hard for his success.

Fig. 11: Harmodios and Aristogeiton. Attic oinochoe (late fifth century BCE). Boston, Museum of fine Arts 98.936 (photograph after Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 85, 1970, 105 fig. 7).

As far as Herakles, the dominating figure of these metopes, is concerned, another iconographic trend is obvious. In contrast to his image in Attic vasepainting, he always lacks his lion-skin (fig. 8). It is not before the end of his deeds, that is, in the last metope (east 10) in front of Athena, that he has this distinctive attribute.51 His almost naked appearance in the other metopes can also be

50 51

See above n. 40. For the lion skin cf. COHEN 1998.

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observed in the earlier fifth-century Olympia metopes.52 But when directly set beside Theseus in Athens, this also makes him very similar to the young Athenian hero, who is always naked in the metopes of the Hephaisteion. Thus, in the Athenian context, not only does Theseus resemble Herakles, but Herakles is also modelled in the manner of a young Theseus. In the Hephaisteion metopes, both heroes seem to be adjusted to each other. To sum up: It appears that there are, indeed, deep differences between the images of Theseus and Herakles in different visual media and in different periods of Athenian history. In the public realm (figs. 3–5 and 8–10), from the late sixth through the fifth century, the Athenians were consistently interested in keeping alive the panhellenic connection, which Herakles as a topic of architectural sculpture guaranteed. Here, Theseus was introduced as and always remained a sort of ‘new Herakles.’53 This is different from what Attic vase-paintings of the late sixth and fifth century demonstrate. Here, Herakles is slowly losing importance compared to Theseus. This is not to say that the preserved number of images featuring the Attic polis-hero ever reached the quantity of Herakles images. Even here, Herakles remained a central paradigm.54 But in Attic vase-painting, new techniques of narration (‘cycle-vases’) were especially created for Theseus in order to express his constant activity (figs. 2 and 7). This way of talking about the hero was almost never used for Herakles. Juxtapositions of Theseus and Herakles on a single vase are quite rare. Furthermore, on Attic vases Theseus, even though the club could be his attribute, is only rarely fashioned explicitly as a second Herakles, as demonstrated by the lack of vase-paintings showing his club-fight against Periphetes – which, on the other hand, is included in both architectural sculpture complexes discussed here. In Attic vase-painting, the image of Theseus develops almost independently from Herakles. Here, Theseus is an agent of change as an element of a visual debate about Athens’ specific myths and relevant values. Apart from this, chronological differences have become clear. Starting with architectural sculpture, around 500, the Athenian Theseus was presented to a panhellenic audience at Delphi (fig. 3) as a self-confident hero – in contrast to what the majority of contemporary images on Attic vases show (figs. 1–2), where he acts in the role of an agonistic fighter, working hard for his success. In public images of the middle of the fifth century (figs. 9–10), on the other hand – at least in Athens – the Athenians no longer overestimated Theseus’ superiority, as the rather ‘archaic’ Hephaisteion metopes show, even though the idea of depicting Herakles and Theseus as professional victors is more obvious than in late archaic images. In Attic vase-painting of the Periklean period it is almost completely different: Theseus appears as a ‘naturally’ superior hero (fig. 7).

52 53 54

Cf. the metopes from Olympia: BOARDMAN 1990, 7 no. 1705; KNELL 1990, 80–4 figs. 115– 21. The comparisons between Theseus and Herakles remain a literary topos: Plut. Thes. 6.8–9 and 8. Cf. BOARDMAN 1975, 1–2; cf. BAŽANT 1990, figs. 4 and 8. Only for amphorae cf. SCHEIBLER 1987, 89.

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If we question the historic and social relevance of these differences, both the agents who used the different visual media under discussion and the functions and contexts of each medium’s use – historically and practically – must be taken into account. In public sculpture commissioned by the polis of the Athenians, a Herakles-like Theseus was opportune. By using Herakles and Theseus to decorate public Athenian buildings, Athens maintained her status as a deeply (pan)hellenic polis and elevated Theseus to a status equal to Herakles.55 Athens’ prestige was raised. This was one aim of architectural sculpture. But this seems to have been of no specific interest for the Athenian symposium audience, where Theseus himself is a central figure of interest and innovation. Either the agents or the functions of these images must have been different. The treasury at Delphi is a dedication by the Athenian polis. Its self-confident public image of Theseus could have been due to the implicit or explicit interest of the polis in demonstrating Athens’ growing self-confidence after the reforms of Kleisthenes to a broader, panhellenic audience. One could speculate as to whether the shift to a less ‘naturally’ superior – and to a more professionally successful – Theseus 60 years later in architectural sculpture at Athens (but not in vasepainting) also happened with regard to a specific audience, for example out of consideration for foreign visitors in Athens. The tragedies of the later fifth century, another Athenian public medium of storytelling, could provide another facet of this trend, as Sophie Mills has demonstrated.56 It is astonishing that in these tragedies, almost contemporary with or slightly later than the Hephaisteion metopes, Theseus plays the role of a helpful, human king. The fact that this figure is of no interest in vase-painting or public sculpture is certainly due not only to the necessities of tragedy as a genre, but also to the broad audience in the theatre of Dionysos, a group of people who would take the Theseus figure on the stage as a representative of Athens itself even more than his image in architectural sculpture.57 What is clear is that the design of architectural sculpture did not only depend on the actual mentality of its patrons – that is, the polis as a whole – but also on decisive interests in self-representation within specific visual contexts and according to the audience of these public images. In Attic vase-painting, it appears that, at the turn of the century, the new iconography of Theseus, obvious in the Delphi metopes, did not have much success. Images of a self-confident, superior Theseus remained rare (fig. 6) and unsuccessful. The vases were used by a local Athenian audience, even though its social range is unclear. But in the time around 500, the traditionally aristocratic interests of this audience seem to be obvious, because the viewers were still interested in traditional heroic patterns of Theseus’ agonistic behaviour (figs. 1–2). This audience seems to have been more influential for vase-paintings in Athens than for the 55 56 57

SHAPIRO 1989, 149. MILLS 1997. Cf. the recent discussion about the ‘social function’ of Athenian drama: WINKLER – ZEITLIN 1990; GRIFFITH 1995 and 1998; GRIFFIN 1998; GOLDHILL 2000; SEAFORD 2000; RHODES 2003.

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sculptural adornment of the Athenian treasury, which adopted other, innovative ideas. Around the middle of the fifth century, on the other hand, the vase-painters broadly adopted the image of Theseus’ self-confident tolma and superior power (fig. 7). Now, the inner-polis discourse, as reflected in vase-painting, focuses more on heroic self-confidence and less on traditional agonistic values of equal fighting, as on sixth-century vases. It remains an open question as to whether this was due to a broadened, less aristocratic audience than in the late archaic period or to a changed Athenian self-perception. But it happened, while the public sculpture maintained the idea of Theseus as a traditional hero of the Herakles type. It will be clear by now that what one could call the visual discourse about the polis-hero is complex and controversial in Athens. Myth as represented (and negotiated) in visual media did not tell a single “intentional history,” but “intentional histories.” The Athenian polis was the commissioner of public sculpture for a broad audience, the Athenian symposium circles were the patrons and audiences of Attic vase-painting with Theseus and Herakles. Architectural sculpture as public sculpture aimed at presenting widely acceptable images of the hero, understandable to and appreciated by a broad, panhellenic audience and fitting the selfimage of the polis as dedicant of these images. Its aim was a message, often within a panhellenic discourse. Vase images, on the other hand, were not designed as broadly public, let alone political or ideological messages. Rather Attic vasepainting was a medium of debate within the polis and can be used as evidence to understand this debate and its conflicting positions.58 Considering these differences, it would be superficial to talk about the heroic imagery of the sixth and fifth century as a homogeneous corpus of images representing Athens’ memory as reflected in myths. Rather, as we have seen, we have to ask in what sense differences between visual media resulted in different iconographies and modes of narration and vice versa. Theseus and Herakles were different figures when they were looked at on Attic vases by smaller groups of Athenians during symposia and when they were presented by the polis on the public or panhellenic stage in architectural sculpture. If this distinction could be confirmed by further studies, our modes of dealing with visual media as records of Greek ‘intentional history’ would have to be adjusted. Telling stories, or ‘spinning time,’ is different in tragedies and historiography, on vases, in statues and in reliefs, in a sanctuary and high above temple columns. It will only be the entire corpus of these records in all its diversity which provides answers to the question of what members of different Greek poleis considered to be their imagined mythic history and how they remodelled this memory. The rich corpus of images produced in archaic and classical Athens is a revealing record of these diverse remodellings, even though it only rarely provides any clues to clarify which specific social groups and protagonists were engaged in this process.

58

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2001, 84–5.

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FLASHAR, M. et al. 2003: Theseus. Der Held der Athener, exhibition catalogue, Freiburg, Munich. FLESS, F. 2002: Rotfigurige Keramik als Handelsware. Erwerb und Gebrauch attischer Vasen im mediterranen und pontischen Raum während des 4. Jhs. v. Chr., Internationale Archäologie 71, Rahden. FLOREN, J. 1987: Die geometrische und archaische Plastik, Handbuch der Archäologie, Munich. FRONING, H. 1992: La forma rappresentativa ciclica nell’arte classica, in R. Olmos (ed.) Coloquio sobre Teseo y la copa de Aison, Madrid, 131–54. GAUER, W. 1968: Weihgeschenke aus den Perserkriegen, Istanbuler Mitteilungen Suppl. 2, 1968. 1980: Das Athenerschatzhaus und die marathonischen Akrothinia in Delphi, in F. Krinzinger (ed.) Forschungen und Funde. Festschrift für B. Neutsch, Innsbruck, 127–36. GEHRKE, H.-J. 1994: Mythos, Geschichte, Politik. Antik und modern, Saeculum 45, 239–64. 2001: Myth, history and collective identity. Uses of the past in ancient Greece and beyond, in N. Luraghi (ed.) The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford, 286–313. 2003: Was heißt und zu welchem Ende studiert man intentionale Geschichte? Marathon und Troja als fundierende Mythen, in G. Melville – K.-S. Rehberg (eds.) Gründungsmythen, Genealogien, Memorialzeichen. Beiträge zur institutionellen Konstruktion von Kontinuität, Köln, 21–36. GIULIANI, L. 1997: Zur Vollendung des Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, Hephaistos 15, 241–6. 2003: Bild und Mythos. Geschichte der Bilderzählung in der griechischen Kunst, Munich. GOLDHILL, S. 2000: Civic ideology and the problem of difference. The politics of Aeschylean tragedy, once again, JHS 120, 34–57. GRAEF, B. – LANGLOTZ, E. 1925–33: Die antiken Vasen von der Akropolis zu Athen, 2 vols., Berlin. GRAF, F. 1985: Griechische Mythologie, Munich. 2000: Mythos: V. Griechenland, in Der Neue Pauly 8, Stuttgart, 640–6. GRIFFIN, J. 1998: The social function of Attic tragedy, CQ 48, 39–61. GRIFFITH, M. 1995: Brilliant dynasts: power and politics in the Oresteia, ClAnt 14, 62–129. 1998: The king and eye: the rule of the father in Greek tragedy, PCPhS 44, 20–84. HÄGG, R. 1999: Ancient Greek Hero Cult, Stockholm. HANSEN, E. 1975: Atlas, Fouilles de Delphes, Paris. HIMMELMANN, N. 1979: Zur Entlohung künstlerischer Tätigkeit in klassischen Bauinschriften, JDAI 94, 127– 42. HOFFELNER, K. 1988: Die Metopen des Athener-Schatzhauses. Ein neuer Rekonstruktionsversuch, MDAI(A) 103, 77–117.

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HÖLSCHER, T. 1999: Immagini mitologiche e valori sociali nella Grecia arcaica, in F. de Angelis et al. (eds.) Im Spiegel des Mythos. Bilderwelt und Lebenswelt, Wiesbaden, 11–30. HOLTZMANN, B. 2003: L’acropole d’Athènes, Paris. L’HOMME-WÉRY, L.-M. 2006: L’Athènes de Solon sur le vase François, Kernos 19, 267–90. HURWIT, J. M. 1998: The Athenian Acropolis, Cambridge. ISLER-KERENYI, C. 1997: Der François-Krater zwischen Athen und Chiusi, in J. Oakley (ed.) Athenian Potters and Painters. The Conference Proceedings, Oxford, 523–39. JACQUEMIN, A. 1999: Offrandes monumentales à Delphes, Paris. JUNKER, K. 2002: Symposiongeschirr oder Totengefässe? Überlegungen zur Funktion attischer Vasen des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr., AK 45, 3–25. 2005: Griechische Mythenbilder. Einführung in ihre Interpretation, Stuttgart. KÄHLER, H. 1949: Das griechische Metopenbild, Munich. KASPER-BUTZ, I. 1990: Die Göttin Athena im klassischen Athen, Frankfurt am Main. KEARNS, E. 1989: The Heroes of Attica, BICS Suppl. 57, London. KING, K. C. 1987: Achilles. Paradigms of the War Hero from Homer to the Middle Ages, Berkeley. KIRK, G. S. 1970: Myth. Its Meaning and Function in Ancient and Other Cultures, Cambridge. 1974: The Nature of Greek Myths, Harmondsworth. KLEINE, J. 1973: Untersuchungen zur Chronologie der attischen Kunst von Peisistratos bis Themistokles, Istanbuler Mitteilungen Suppl. 8, Tübingen. KNELL, H. 1990: Mythos und Polis. Bildprogramme griechischer Bauskulptur, Darmstadt. KOCH, H. 1955: Studien zum Theseustempel in Athen, Berlin. KORRES, M. 1993: Wilhelm Dörpfelds Forschungen zum Vorparthenon und Parthenon, MDAI(A) 108, 59–78. KORRES, H. 1997: Der Athena-Tempel auf der Akropolis, in W. Hoepfner (ed.) Kult und Kultbauten auf der Akropolis, Berlin, 218–43. KOSSATZ-DEISSMANN, A. 1981: Achilleus, in Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 1, Zurich, 37–200. KOSTER, W. J. 1976: Le temple d’Apollon à Delphes et l’“Ion” d’Euripide, in Festoen opgedragen aan A. N. Zadoks-Josephus Jitta bij haar zeventigste verjaardag, Groningen, 373–82. KOTSIDOU, H. 1995: Zum baugeschichtlichen Hintergrund des Hephaistostempels auf der Athener Agora, Hephaistos 13, 93–108. KREUZER, B. 1998: Die attisch schwarzfigurige Keramik aus dem Heraion von Samos, Samos 22.

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2003: Der Held als Vorbild, in Flashar et al. 2003, 15–16. 2005: Zurück in die Zukunft? „Homerische“ Werte und „solonische Programmatik“ auf dem Kritiaskrater in Florenz, JÖAI 74, 175–224. KRON, U. 1988: Zur Schale des Kodros-Malers in Basel. Eine Interpretatio Attica, in M. Schmidt (ed.) Kanon. Festschrift Ernst Berger zum 60. Geburtstag am 26. Februar 1988 gewidmet, AK Suppl. 15, 291–304. KRUMEICH, R. 2002: Porträts und Historienbilder der klassischen Zeit, in F. Zimmer et al. (eds.) Die griechische Klassik. Idee und Wirklichkeit, exhibition catalogue Berlin, Mainz, 209–40. KUNISCH, N. 1974: Zur helmhaltenden Athena, MDAI(A) 89, 85–104. 1990: Athena und Herakles. Entwicklung bildlicher Mythen im 5. Jh. v. Chr., in G. Binder (ed.) Mythos. Erzählende Weltdeutung im Spannungsfeld von Ritual, Geschichte und Rationalität, Trier, 75–89. LAPALUS, E. 1947: Le fronton sculpté en Grèce des origines à la fin du IV siècle. Étude sur les origines, l’évolution, la technique et les thèmes du décor tympanal, Bibliothèque des écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 165, Paris. LARSON, J. 1995: Greek Heroine Cults, Madison, WI. LATACZ, J. 1995: Achilleus. Wandlungen eines europäischen Heldenbildes, Lectio Teubneriana 3, Stuttgart. LAUTER, H. 1974: Zur gesellschaftlichen Stallung des bildenden Künstlers inb der griechischen Klassik, Erlangen. LIPPOLD, G. 1950: Die griechische Plastik, Munich. LISSARRAGUE, F. 1987: Un flot d’images. Une estétique du banquet grec, Paris. LUCE, J.-M. 1998: Thésée, le syoecisme et l’Agora d’Athènes, RA 3, 3–31. LYONS, D. 1997: Gender and immortality. Heroines in Ancient Greek Myth and Cult, Princeton. MAAS, M. 1993: Das antike Delphi, Darmstadt. MANNACK, T. 2002: Griechische Vasenmalerei, Stuttgart. MARCADÉ, J. – CROISSANT, F. 1991: La sculpture en pierre, in Guide de Delphes. Le musée, Paris, 29–138. MARCONI, C. 2004: Images for a warrior, in C. Marconi (ed.) Greek Vases. Images, Contexts and Controversies. Proceedings of the conference sponsored by the Center for the Ancient Mediterranean at Columbia University, 23–24 March 2002, Leiden, 27–40. 2007: Temple Decoration and Cultural Identity in the Archaic Greek World, Cambridge. MARTINI, W. 1990: Die archaische Plastik der Griechen, Darmstadt. MEIER, C. 1988: Die politische Kunst der griechischen Tragödie, Munich.

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MEYER, M. F. 1999: Zur Bedeutungsgenese der Begriffe ‚Mythos’ und ‚Logos’ in der griechischen Antike, ABG 41, 35–63. MILLER, D. A. 2000: The Epic Hero, Baltimore. MILLS, S. 1997: Theseus, Tragedy and the Athenian Empire, Oxford. MOMMSEN, H. 1989: Zwei schwarzfigurige Amphoren aus Athen, AK 32, 118–46. MOORE, M. B. 1997: Attic Red-figured Pottery, The Athenian Agora 30, Princeton. MOORE, M. B. et al. 1986: Attic Black-figured Pottery, The Athenian Agora 23, Princeton. MORGAN, C. H. 1962: The Sculptures of the Hephaisteion II, Hesperia 31, 211–19. 1963: The Sculptures of the Hephaisteion III, Hesperia 32, 91–108. MUTH, S. 2004: Das Grausen des Minotaurus. Eine Gratwanderung der Monster-Ikonographie in der klassischen Bildkunst Athens, Münchner Jahrbücher für Bildende Kunst 55, 7–31. NEER, R. 2002: Style and Politics in Athenian Vase-painting, Cambridge. 2004: The Athenian Treasury at Delphi and the Material of Politics, ClAnt 63, 63–93. NEILS, J. 1987: The Youthful Deeds of Theseus, Rome. 1994: Theseus, in Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 7, Zurich, 922–51. OBER, J. 2003: Tyrant-killings as therapeutic stasis. A political debate in images and texts, in K. Morgan (ed.) Popular Tyranny. Sovereignty and Its Discontents in Ancient Greece, Austin, TX, 215–50. OENBRINK, W. 2004: Die Tyrannenmörder, in J. Gebauer (ed.) Bildergeschichte. Festschrift für Klaus Stähler, Münster, 373–400. OSBORNE, R. 1994: Framing the centaur. Reading fifth-century architectural sculpture, in S. Goldhill et al. (eds.) Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 52–84. 2000: Archaic and classical Greek temple sculpture and the viewer, in N. H. Rutter (ed.) Word and Image in Ancient Greece, Edinburgh, 228–46. 2000: Why did Athenian pots appeal to the Etruscans?, World Archaeology 33, 277–95. 2004: Images of a warrior, in C. Marconi (ed.) Greek Vases. Images, Contexts and Controversies. Proceedings of the conference sponsored by the Center for the Ancient Mediterranean at Columbia University, 23–24 March 2002, Leiden, 41–54. PADILLA, M. W. 1998: The Myths of Herakles in Ancient Greece, Lanham. PATRIDA, E. C. 2000: The Treasuries at Delphi. An Architectural Study, Jonsered. PIRENNE-DELFORGE, V. 2000: Héros et héroines dans les mythes et les cultes grecs, Liège. RATHJE, A. 2002: Pots for the Living, Pots for the Dead, Copenhagen. RAUSCH, M. 1999: Isonomie in Athen. Veränderungen des öffentlichen Lebens vom Sturz der Tyrannis bis zur zweiten Perserabwehr, Frankfurt am Main.

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REBER, K. 1998: Das Hephaisteion in Athen. Ein Monument für die Demokratie, JDAI 113, 31–48. REUSSER, C. 2002: Vasen für Etrurien. Verbreitung und Funktionen attischer Keramik im Etrurien des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr., Kilchberg. RHODES, P. J. 2003: Nothing to do with democracy. Athenian drama and the polis, JHS 123, 104–19. RIDGWAY, B. S. 1977: The Archaic Style in Greek Sculpture, Princeton. 1981: Fifth Century Styles in Greek Sculpture, Princeton. 1993: The Archaic Style in Greek Sculpture. 2nd edition, Chicago. 1999: Prayers in Stone. Greek Architectural Sculpture (ca. 600–100 B.C.), Berkeley. ROTTROFF, S. – OAKLEY, J. 1992: Debris from a Public Dining Place in the Athenian Agora, Hesperia Suppl. 25, Princeton. SAID, S. 1993: Approches de la mythologie grecque, Paris. SAUER, B. S. 1899: Das sogenannte Theseion, Leipzig. SCHEER, T. S. 1993: Mythische Vorväter. Zur Bedeutung griechischer Heroenmythen im Selbstverständnis kleinasiatischer Städte, Munich. SCHEFOLD, K. 1978: Götter- und Heldensagen der Griechen in der spätarchaischen Kunst, Munich. 1993: Götter- und Heldensagen der Griechen in der früh- und hocharchaischen Kunst, Munich. SCHEFOLD, K – JUNG, F 1988 Die Urkönige: Perseus, Bellerophon, Herakles und Theseus in der klassischen und hellenistischen Kunst, Munich. SCHEIBLER, I. 1983: Griechische Töpferkunst. Herstellung, Handel und Gebrauch der antiken Tongefässe, Munich. 1987: Bild und Gefäß. Zur ikonographischen und funktionalen Bedeutung der attischen Bildfeldamphoren, JDAI 102, 57–118. SCHMIDT, S. 2005: Rhetorische Bilder auf attischen Vasen. Visuelle Kommunikation im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr., Berlin. SCHWAB, K. A. 1988: The Parthenon Metopes and Greek Vase Painting. A Study of Comparison and Influences, Ann Arbor. SEAFORD, R. 2000: The social function of Attic tragedy: A response to Jasper Griffin, CQ 50, 30–44. SERVADEI, C. 2005: La figura di Theseus nella ceramica attica, Bologna. SHAPIRO, H. A. 1989: Art and Cult under the Tyrants in Athens, Mainz. 1991: Theseus: Aspects of the hero in archaic Greece, in D. Buitron-Oliver (ed.) New Perspectives in Early Greek Art, Studies in the History of Art 32, Washington, DC, 123–39. 1994: Myth into Art. Poet and Painter in Classical Greece, London. 2000: Modest athletes and liberated women. Etruscans on Attic black-figure vases, in B. Cohen (ed.) Not the Classical Ideal. Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art, Leiden, 315–37.

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SHEFTON, B. B. 1960: Some iconographic remarks on the tyrannicides, AJA 64, 173–9. SPARKES, B. A. 1996: The Red and the Black. Studies in Greek Pottery, London. STANSBURY-O’DONNELL, M. D. 1999: Pictorial Narrative in Ancient Greek Art, Cambridge. 2005: The painting program in the Stoa Poikile, in J. Barringer (ed.) Periklean Athens and its Legacy. Problems and Perspectives, Austin, TX, 73–87. STEINER, D. Images in Mind. Statues in Archaic and Classical Greek Literature and Thought, Princeton. STEINER, A. 2007: Reading Greek Vases, Cambridge. STEWART, A. 1985: History, myth, and allegory in the program of the temple of Athena Nike at Athens, in H. L. Kessler et al. (eds.) Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Studies in the History of Art 16, Washington, DC, 53–74. 1990: Greek Sculpture. An Exploration, New Haven. 1997: Art, Desire and the Body in Ancient Greece, Cambridge. SUTER, P. 1975: Das Harmodiosmotiv, Basel. SZUFNAR, E. A. 1995: Theseus and Minotaur. A Question of Iconography in Greek Vase-painting, Ann Arbor. TAYLOR, M. W. 1991: The Tyrant Slayers. The Heroic Image in Fifth Century B. C. Athenian Art and Politics. 2nd edn., Salem. TORELLI, M. 2007: Le strategie di Kleitias. Composizione e programma figurativo del vaso François, Milan. VERNANT, J.-P. 1987: Mythos und Gesellschaft im alten Griechenland, Fankfurt. VEYNE, P. 1987: Glaubten die Griechen an ihre Mythen, Frankfurt. VIERNEISEL, K. et al. 1990: (eds.) Kunst der Schale–Kunst des Trinkens, exhibition catalogue Munich, Munich. VOGT, S. 1998: Delphi in der attischen Tragödie, A&A 44, 30–49. VON DEN HOFF, R. 2001: Die Posen des Siegers. Die Konstruktion von Überlegenheit in attischen Theseusbildern des 5. Jhs. v. Chr., in R. von den Hoff et al. (eds.) Konstruktionen von Wirklichkeit. Bilder im Griechenland des 5. und 4. Jhs. v. Chr., Stuttgart, 73–88. 2002: Die Pracht der Schalen und die Tatkraft des Heros. Theseuszyklen auf Symposiongeschirr in Athen, in F. Zimmer et al. (eds.) Die griechische Klassik. Idee oder Wirklichkeit?, exhibition catalogue Berlin, Mainz, 331–7. 2003: Der Tatenzyklus, in Flashar et al. 2003, 17–21. forthcoming a: Theseus, the François vase and Solonian Athens, in H. A. Shapiro (ed.) The François Vase. New Perspectives, Baltimore. 2009: Theseus and the Athenian Treasury in Delphi, in P. Schultz and R. von den Hoff (eds.) Structure, Image, Ornament. Architectural Sculpture of the Greek World, Oxford, 96-104. VON HESBERG, H. 2003: Das griechische Relief als Medium, in von Hesberg et al. 2003, 93–121.

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et al. 2003: (eds.) Medien in der Antike. Kommunikative Qualität und normative Wirkung, ZAKMIRA, Köln. WALKER, H. J. 1995: Theseus and Athens, Oxford. WEBSTER, T. B. L. 1972: Potter and Patron in Classical Athens, London. WEHGARTNER, I. 1991: Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum Deutschland 62, Berlin Antikenmuseum 8, Munich. WINKLER, J. J. – ZEITLIN, F. I. 1990: (eds.) Nothing to Do with Dionysos? Athenian Drama in its Social Context, Princeton. WOODFORD, S. 1992: Minotauros, in Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 6, Zurich, 574–81. 1994: Theseus VIII. Theseus and Minotauros, in Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 7, Zurich, 940–3. 2003: Images of Myths in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge. WYATT, W. F. – EDMONDSON, C. N. 1984: The ceiling of the Hephaisteion, AJA 88, 135–67. YEROULANOU, M. 1998: Metopes and architecture. The Hephaisteion and the Parthenon, ABSA 93, 401–25. YOUNG, E. 1972: The Slaying of the Minotaur, Ann Arbor. ZEITLIN, F. I. 1994: The artful eye: vision, ekphrasis, and spectacle in Euripidean drama, in S. Goldhill and R. Osborne (eds.) Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 138–96.

9. ULTERIOR MOTIVES IN ANCIENT HISTORIOGRAPHY: WHAT EXACTLY, AND WHY? Kurt Raaflaub Carolo W. Fornara septuagenario In recent years, ‘intentional history’ has become an important field of research. One of its protagonists, Hans-Joachim Gehrke, writes: Social knowledge of the past, in other words: what a society knows and holds for true about its past, its ‘intentional history,’ is of fundamental significance for the imaginaire, for the way a society interprets and understands itself, and therefore for its inner coherence and ultimately its collective identity.1

Many kinds of sources, including a great variety of inscriptions, inform us about these aspects. Even some of the extant large and formal historical works that are addressed to a broad readership transcending individual communities offer important insights. For example, Livy, writing after a period of civil wars in which Rome seemed intent on destroying itself, wants his readers to focus on the moral qualities, the virtues, of the ancestors who were responsible for Rome’s rise to greatness, and to use these as examples to imitate.2 Herodotus’ multidimensional narrative of the Persian Wars and their long prehistory, and the ethnographic digressions inserted into it, offer a treasure trove of insights into the self-perception and self-presentation of Hellenes in relation to their various ‘barbarian’ Others, and of various Greek poleis in their competitive relations with each other.3 Here I shall focus on a different dimension of ‘intentional’ history, namely the ‘intentions’ in a literal sense or, as I call it, the ‘ulterior motives’ ancient – that is, Greek and Roman – historians pursued in writing history and in interpreting and shaping the historical past.4 1

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GEHRKE 2001, 286. The lecture underlying this chapter was offered, apart from the conference in Freiburg, at a colloquium in honor of Charles W. Fornara’s 70th birthday at Brown University in November 2006, at Tulane University in March 2007, and at the University of Pennsylvania in September 2007. I thank participants at these events for helpful comments, and Carolyn Dewald and John Marincola for valuable suggestions. I have used the following translations (often slightly modified): Audrey de Sélincourt and John Marincola for Herodotus; Rex Warner for Thucydides; Ian Scott-Kilvert for Polybius; Audrey de Sélincourt for Livy; Michael Grant for Tacitus’ Annals; W. H. Fyfe and D. S. Levene for the latter’s Histories. Livy, praef. 9–10 (at n.75 below). For the former, see HARTOG 1988. I am aware that such intentions ultimately cannot be retrieved with certainty (e.g., RUTLEDGE 1998, 154 n. 1, with ref. to KENNEDY 1992) but still think that much can be gained in exploring them.

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In looking for ‘ulterior motives,’ I recognise that historians pursued their purposes on at least two levels. One, foregrounded, stated explicitly, and in this sense primary, focuses on the History’s topic. Thucydides and Polybius wrote to describe and explain momentous events: the Peloponnesian War and Rome’s rise to world power. Herodotus wanted to ensure that great deeds by Greeks and non-Greeks retained their glory, and especially to explain the Persian Wars.5 I take this type of motives for granted here and focus on a different purpose, located on a deeper or metahistorical level. Ludwig von Ranke famously defined the historian’s task to reconstruct and write history “as it really was” (wie es wirklich gewesen).6 Whatever we think of this today, we generally still feel a strong commitment to the objectivity involved in this claim. But this commitment, we know all too well, constantly clashes with the historian’s inevitable bias, be it personal, cultural, racial, religious, political, ideological, or a combination thereof.7 Ancient historians too regularly proclaimed their commitment to the truth.8 They recognised that the realisation of this commitment faced various obstacles, including the difficulty of establishing reliably what had happened or was thought and said. However they resolved these difficulties, it seems obvious that their concepts of truth or impartiality differed substantially from those we might subscribe to, however limited these might be.9 This offers a first window into my topic, and I approach it through Tacitus.10 Tacitus famously states in the beginning of the Annals (1.1.2–3) his intention of writing sine ira et studio, “without anger and partisanship.” Famous writers have recorded Rome’s early glories and disasters. The Augustan Age, too, had its distinguished historians. But then the rising tide of flattery (adulatio) exercised a deterrent effect. The reigns of Tiberius, Gaius, Claudius, and Nero were described during their lifetimes in fictitious terms (falsae), for fear (metus) of the consequences; whereas the accounts written after their deaths were influenced by still raging hatred (recentibus odiis). So I have decided to say a little about Augustus … and then to go on to the reign of Tiberius and what followed. I shall write without anger and partisanship (sine ira et studio): in my case the customary incentives to these are lacking.

5

6 7 8

9 10

Thuc. 1.1: “Thucydides the Athenian wrote the history of the war fought between Athens and Sparta, beginning the account at the very outbreak of the war, in the belief that it was going to be a great war and more worth writing about than any of those which had taken place in the past.” Polyb. 1.1.5 (at n. 29 below); Hdt. pref. (n. 64 below). FINLEY 1986, ch. 5; see also, e.g., IGGERS 1983, ch. 4; CLARK 2004, ch. 1. On the problem of historical objectivity, see, e.g., KOSELLECK – MOMMSEN – RÜSEN 1977; NOVICK 1988; APPLEBY – HUNT – JACOB 1994, ch. 7. Cicero (De or. 2.62) says it categorically: the first law of history is “not to dare to say anything but the truth,” the second, never “not to dare to say the truth” (ne quid falsi dicere audeat … ne quid veri non audeat) and to avoid partiality (gratia) and malice (simultas). See LEEMAN et al. 1985, 266–7; LUCE 1989; MARINCOLA 2007. See, e.g., FORNARA 1983, 99–120 and 137–41; WHEELDON 1989; MOLES 1993; WISEMAN 1993; GRANT 1995, esp. ch. 5; MARINCOLA 1997, 158–74, esp. 160–1. Tony Woodman (1988, 1998) has done the most to elucidate the aspects I am discussing here; see also VOGT 1936; DIRCKSEN 2007 (with ample bibliography).

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The earlier Histories contain a similar opening statement.11 I quote the crucial final sentence: “Those who lay claim to unbiased trustworthiness (incorrupta fides) must speak of no man with either hatred or affection (neque amore et sine odio).” In blatant contradiction to this claim, in the Annals marks of anger and partisanship seem to be pervasive. To be sure, the Julio-Claudian emperors offered much material for negative reporting. Tacitus’ description of the reigns of Caligula and of the early years of Claudius unfortunately is lost. In the case of Nero’s beginnings, he paid at least some attention to good intentions and positive actions. Still, anticipating the impending turn to the worse, he saw mostly deception and pretence. Since he believed, as many did in antiquity, that human nature was rather fixed if not unchangeable,12 it was logical to think that the emperors’ real characters, even if initially concealed, were bound eventually to break through. This is visible especially in Tacitus’ portrait of the first two emperors. He was aware of positive assessments of Augustus but chose to emphasise the negative ones. Hence in the Annals Augustus is little more than a powermonger who seized supreme power through civil wars, destroyed opposition and republican liberty, seduced all classes into submission by peace, gifts, and privileges, and enslaved the once powerful Roman nobility.13 In the case of Tiberius, Tacitus’ narrative itself reveals the emperor’s efforts to rule responsibly, foster cooperation with the senate, and resist flattery, submission, and sycophancy. But, for reasons we can understand, Tiberius’ last years turned into a bloody and oppressive nightmare. To Tacitus, this was the real Tiberius; as he tries to show time after time, earlier the emperor had merely dissimulated his true nature.14

11

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13 14

Hist. 1.1: “Many historians have dealt with the 820 years of the earlier period …, and the story of the Roman Republic has been told with equal eloquence and independence. After the Battle of Actium, when the interests of peace were served by the centralisation of all authority in the hands of one man, that literary genius fell idle. At the same time truth was shattered under a variety of blows. Initially, it was ignorance of politics which were no longer a citizen’s concerns. Later came the taste for flattery or, conversely, hatred (odium) of the rulers. So between malice on the one side and servility on the other the interests of posterity were neglected. But historians find that flattery soon incurs the stigma of slavishness and earns for them the contempt of their readers, whereas people readily open their ears to slander and envy, since malice gives the false impression of independence ... But those who lay claim to unbiased trustworthiness (incorrupta fides) must speak of no man with either hatred or affection (neque amore et sine odio).” See WOODMAN 1988: 160–7; DAMON 2003, 5 and 78–80. REINHOLD 1985; see WOODMAN 1989 (1998, ch. 9) for discussion of the standard view and an alternative explanation. For the view that ancient beliefs about character were more complex, see GILL 1983, 1988 and 1996. Tac. Ann. 1.2–4 and 9–10. On Tiberius: LEVICK 1999. Tacitus and Tiberius: KLINGNER 1953; SYME 1958, 420–34; WOODMAN 1989; BAAR 1990.

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We moderns are tempted to recognise in these imperial portraits unmistakable examples of historical bias. Tacitus’ narrative permits us to reconstruct a very different image of Tiberius. Hence Tacitus must have written with anger and partisanship. Yet this judgment, I believe, misses the mark. In order to understand Tacitus, we need to explore both the history of his time and the experiences of the Roman elite.15 We need to take the possibility seriously that his purposes in writing history, like those of other ancient historians, differed greatly from ours. In other words, he may have perceived his task as a mission that needs to be translated into terms more immediately resonating with us. Before anything else, we need to figure out the exact meaning of Tacitus’ statement in the Annals.16 Tacitus establishes a stark contrast between republican (including Augustan) and early imperial historiography: in the earlier period, history flourished, practiced by distinguished authors and free to express criticism. Naturally we think of Livy (whom Augustus supposedly teased as a ‘Pompeian’) and Sallust (a fierce detractor of the nobility).17 Later, even the semblance of criticism became impossible because the crime of offending the emperor carried almost certain capital punishment: fear of prosecution suppressed historical honesty. Readers would here remember the historian Cremutius Cordus who had praised Julius Caesar’s assassins, Brutus and Cassius, as the “last of the Romans,” was accused of treason in 25 CE, and driven to suicide, while his books were burned.18 Hence historians writing during the early empire were prevented from reporting the truth. Their successors, driven by memories of oppression and hatred, again failed to be objective. By contrast, Tacitus himself, not having suffered under the emperors whose reigns he covered in the Annals, is free from anger and partisanship: whatever he writes on them is not influenced by personal experiences inflicted or animosities caused by them. One of Cicero’s statements may prove helpful here. Praising, in 46 BCE, Julius Caesar’s surprising pardon of Marcus Claudius Marcellus, the senator 15 16

17 18

On these aspects see RAAFLAUB 2009, 259-67 and, in more detail, SYME 1958; MELLOR 1993; BIRLEY 2000. See MARINCOLA 1999 on the need to read Tacitus’ prefaces in the rhetorical context of a long tradition of historians’ efforts to distinguish themselves from their untrustworthy predecessors and to emulate the great models of their art. On the pervasive influence in Tacitus of rhetorical traditions of dramatisation and embellishment, see WOODMAN 1988, ch. 4. The affinity between history and rhetoric is unquestioned in Cicero’s thought: e.g. De leg. 1.2.5; De orat. 2.53–64; Brut. 11.42; LEEMAN et al. 1985, 248–69. None of this seems to me incompatible with the attempt I undertake here to resolve an apparent conflict between authorial intention and execution by finding more specific substance in at least parts of Tacitus’ prefaces (but see n. 4). On Livy and Augustus, see SYME 1959; DEININGER 1985; on Sallust’s political views, EARL 1961; SYME 1964. Ann. 4.34–5 with CANCIK-LINDEMAIER – CANCIK 1986; MARTIN – WOODMAN 1989, ad loc.; MCHUGH 2004. On opposition to Augustus and in the early principate, see RAAFLAUB 1987a; RAAFLAUB – SAMONS 1990; on treason trials, prosecutors, and informants, BAUMAN 1974; RUTLEDGE 2001.

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urged him to devote all his efforts to re-building the state: even more than his brilliant military exploits, such works of peace would secure for him everlasting fame. Work, I ask you, for a verdict from those judges who are going to judge you many centuries from now. Their decision is likely to be more unbiased than our own, since they will be judging without partisanship or self-interest (sine amore et sine cupiditatibus), without rancor or jealousy (sine odio et sine invidia; Pro Marc. 29).19

Inevitably, that is, those involved in the actual events are influenced by partisan sentiments, such as sympathy, self-interest, hatred, anger, jealousy, and partisanship (amor, cupiditas, odium, ira, invidia, studium). Only those far removed from such immediate involvement are capable of impartial judgment. The historian, then, may criticise and judge, but not out of emotion or for personal reasons, as if he were (still or at all) directly involved in the events he is describing. This explains the slightly different formulation in the Histories as well whose author cannot claim two factors assisting that of the Annals: being separated by a long temporal interval from the emperors in question, and not having been affected personally by their actions. In fact, Tacitus lets Cremutius Cordus say, death places even the most odious person “beyond hatred and partiality.”20 All this helps clarify the issue of objectivity. To the ancients, I suggest, objectivity was not a goal in itself. Historical truth was not to be confused with the historian’s lack of personal engagement. Although, like many of his contemporaries, Tacitus was traumatised by his experiences under Domitian and perhaps suffered from what I would call a “collective guilt syndrome,”21 this, he insists, did not affect his judgment, neither in the Histories nor, especially, in the Annals: he was not driven by hatred or a desire for revenge; his motives were not emotion or partisanship. Tacitus’ objective therefore is truth, but not an impersonal or impassionate truth, not austere objectivity. It is to reveal a truth that is hidden behind ideological façades erected and beautiful words uttered by those in power, a truth that is particularly difficult to perceive under a system that does not allow the open flow of information and the free discussion of ideas.22 His study of the history of the principate has led him to understand that, whatever those in power proclaim, the reality is different. Princeps, the first man, really means 19 20

21 22

See LUCE 1989, 27 with parallel passages. Ann. 4.35.1 (quos mors odio aut gratiae exemisset). Sallust too, retired from politics, feels particularly qualified to write history, since “I was free of the hopes, fears, and partisanship prevailing in public affairs” (mihi a spe metu partibus rei publicae animus liber erat; Cat. 4.2). MELLOR 1993, 8–9; RAAFLAUB 2009, 260-7. Tacitus discusses this in his Dialogus de oratoribus (on which VON FRITZ 1932 is still valuable; see also SYME 1958, 100–11; MAYER 2001); see also Agr. 2; Hist. 1.1 (quoted above): ignorance of politics which were no longer a citizen’s concerns; ibid. at the end (on the reigns of Nerva and Trajan): “It is the rare fortune of these days that a man may think what he likes and say what he thinks.” Dio Cass. 53.19 elaborates on the difficulty of writing history under a regime that suppresses the flow of information.

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autocrat; principate means tyranny; freedom is normally incompatible with autocracy!23 The historian writes without anger or partisanship but with passion and critical insight: he judges history and has a message for his contemporaries – and for all future generations. The ‘ulterior motive’ of Tacitus, the “most manipulative of writers,” as Woodman and Martin call him,24 might then be defined as a desire to unmask ideology, to de-ideologise history, to re-orient the readers’ perspective and to convey to them a deeper, “true reality” and a profoundly “real truth.” He thus teaches his readers to see in history what is not immediately visible but crucially important. His treatment of the trial of Cn. Calpurnius Piso in December 20 CE offers an outstanding example, illuminated as it is now by remarkable epigraphical discoveries, including the senate decree in this matter.25 Famously, it is again Cicero (De or. 2.36) who coins the phrase of historia magistra vitae. This is an impulse, I think, that is profoundly present from the very beginning in the Greek historical project as well. It certainly is one of Thucydides’ major purposes. He exposes the falseness of Athens’ ideology of freedom, particularly when the “tyrant city” (polis tyrannos) uses it to justify the oppression of its former allies. Hence he lets the Athenian representatives say in the ‘Melian Dialogue’: We “will use no fine phrases saying … that we have a right to our empire because we defeated the Persians … – a great mass of words that nobody would believe.”26 Nor does Thucydides spare Sparta. After initially revealing Sparta’s fear of Athens’ growing power as the “truest cause” (or the “cause closest to the truth,” alethestate prophasis) of the war, he shows in detail that its ‘battlecry of freedom,’ the promise to liberate the Hellenes oppressed by Athens, is a mere propaganda tool, useful to attract support in large parts of Hellas but clearly secondary by far to Sparta’s self-interest in protecting its power and control over its allies.27 This prompts a more basic question lurking behind the desire to unmask ideology. It concerns the core of the historian’s entire enterprise: why, and for what purpose, write history at all? This issue is most easily accessible in Polybius.28 He announces in his preface his intention “to discover how and under 23 24 25 26 27

28

Agr. 2–3: “In the first dawn of this blessed age, Nerva harmonised the old discord between autocracy and freedom” (3). WOODMAN – MARTIN 1996, 20. On Germanicus’ death and the trial of Piso: Tac. Ann. 2.41–2, 53–61, 68–83 and 3.1–19; see, e.g., ECK et al. 1996; DAMON – TAKÁCS 1999; ECK 2000 (with earlier bibliography). Thuc. 5.89. On Thucydides’ unmasking of Athenian ideology, see RAAFLAUB 2004, 166– 93. 1.23.6: “The truest but never mentioned cause (alethestaten prophasin, aphanestaten de logoi) I believe to have been the growth of Athenian power, which terrified the Spartans and forced them into war” (trans. Hornblower, mod.); cf. 1.88. “The cause closest to the truth”: suggested by Alan Boegehold (written communication). Sparta’s ‘battlecry of freedom’: 2.8. For the details of the historian’s unmasking of Spartan ideology, see RAAFLAUB 2004, 193–202. On Thucydides see further below at n. 32. On Polybius, see esp. WALBANK 1957, 6–9; MEISTER 1975; SACKS 1981, ch. 4; FORNARA 1983, 112–13; ECKSTEIN 1995, 16–27.

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what type of constitution (genos politeias) the Romans succeeded … in bringing under their rule almost the whole of the inhabited world, an achievement which is without parallel in human history.” After the battle of Cannae, when Roman fortune reached its lowest point, Polybius writes, “through the peculiar virtues of their constitution (politeumatos idiotes) and their ability to keep their heads,” they were still able eventually to defeat the Carthaginians and soon make themselves masters of the whole world.29 He therefore places at this very point a long digression that offers a theoretical discussion of the cycle of constitutions and analyses Rome’s ideal “mixed constitution.” At the beginning of this digression, Polybius repeats his opening statement and elaborates on it: “In all political situations … the principal factor which makes for success or failure is the form of a state’s constitution (systasis politeias); it is from this source, as if from a fountainhead, that all designs and plans of action not only originate but reach their fulfilment.”30 The detailed constitutional analysis he provides “will prove of great service both to students of history and to practical statesmen in the task of reforming or drawing up other constitutions.” Moreover, humankind “possesses no better guide to conduct than the knowledge of the past.” All historians claim “that the study of history is at once an education in the truest sense and a training for a political career.”31 For Polybius, then, history serves a triple function: on a general level, it educates the reader; on a more specific level, it offers an ideal training ground for politicians; even more specifically, it helps them cope, pragmatically, with difficult tasks such as constitutional design or reform. All three functions require that history contain something that can be learned from it (such as models or patterns that transcend the specific or unique and have more general value). The historian’s task is to emphasise such objects of learning; he thus needs to pay particular attention to these more generally valid aspects of history and present them in a way that makes them useful for the readers he envisages. (We should note here that to Greek historians, generally, this object of learning is political, while to their Roman counterparts, as Livy’s preface attests most clearly, it contains a strong moral component.) Thucydides does not specifically address aspiring politicians; his target audience is “all those who want to understand clearly.”32 He includes in his History few and only short digressions (perhaps in reaction to Herodotus’ propensity for them) and none on constitutional analysis. Nor does he emphasise as explicitly as Polybius does the usefulness of history or the importance of consti-

29 30

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Polyb. 1.1.5 and 3.118.9. Polyb. 6.2.3 and 6.2.9–10. Digression on the cycle of constitutions: 6.3–10; Rome’s ideal mixed constitution: 11–18; on the theory of the mixed constitution, see VON FRITZ 1954; NIPPEL 1980; on problems with Polybius’ model: CORNELL 1991; WALBANK 2002, ch. 18. Polyb. 3.118.2 and 1.1.1–2. See also 3.12, 3.31–2 and 12.25a. Thuc. 1.22.4 (quoted below); cf. MARINCOLA 1997, 21.

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tutions in historical causation. Yet he is aware of both.33 His work, not fashioned primarily to please and entertain, is intended to be a ktema es aiei. It will be enough for me if these words of mine are judged useful by those who want to understand clearly the events which happened in the past and which (human nature being what it is) will, at some time or other and in much the same ways, be repeated in the future. My work is not a piece of writing designed to meet the taste of an immediate public, but was done to last for ever (ktema es aiei; 1.22.4).

History, in its Thucydidean version, then, is an “everlasting possession” because it is useful (ophelima), and it is useful because it enables those familiar with it to understand events of the past and thus to cope better with similar events which may be expected to happen in the future.34 In other words, history does not repeat itself precisely but patterns are likely to recur. This in turn is the case because the infinite variety of history contains one stable element: to anthropinon, human nature or the human condition. Because, as the historian emphasises repeatedly,35 this human factor remains identical, people will react in similar ways to similar experiences. The historian’s task, we might say, is comparable to that of a physician or anthropologist: he collects, categorises, analyses, and understands human behaviour and is thus able to anticipate it.36 Nor is typical behaviour limited to individuals. Each community has its own distinctive character and thus acts in specific ways. Even so, and although Athenians and Spartans have diametrically opposed ‘collective characters,’ both can be expected to react similarly to similar challenges.37 This is what imbues history with a certain predictive quality and educational potential. Thucydides is influenced here by medical theory; the concepts just mentioned are particularly prominent in his analysis of socio-political illness in the plague in Athens and civil war in Corcyra.38 The historian develops this useful potential in history by emphasising general patterns and penetrating as deeply as it takes to isolate and expose them. Thucydides certainly does this in the analyses he offers through the speeches.39 33

34 35 36

37 38 39

The significance of constitutions is visible in book 8 on the oligarchy of the 400 and the moderate oligarchy of the 5000 (8.97.2), in the ‘pathology of civil war’ in Corcyra (3.70ff., esp. 82–4: an indictment of the ideological, political, and social abuse of constitutions; see PRICE 2001), and especially in Thucydides’ ongoing analysis of the working of democracy and its impact on political decisions, foreign policy, war, and empire; see POPE 1988; LEPPIN 1999; RAAFLAUB 2006. On the usefulness of history, see recently KALLET 2006. E.g., 1.84.4 and 3.82.2; cf. REINHOLD 1985. Physician and anthropologist: most clearly visible in the description of the plague (2.47– 53) and the “pathology of civil war” in Corcyra (3.81–4); see FINLEY 1942, 68–72; THOMAS 2006b. Distinct character of communities: 1.70–1; similar reactions: 1.76; cf. 5.91 and 105; LUGINBILL 1999. See n. 36; see also THOMAS 2000 and 2006a. On the nature and function of speeches in Thucydides, see, e.g., RUSTEN 1989, 7–17; MORRISON 2006.

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Whether he also shapes his narrative accordingly is likely but difficult to prove.40 For Thucydides informs us of his methodological principles once and for all at the beginning but does not allow us to observe him at work: his narrative is smooth and dense, presenting the results of his analysis but not the process by which he arrived at his interpretation. Hence recent efforts to replace his traditional image as a truthful reporter with that of an artful or even deceitful reporter.41 For further insight into this aspect we turn to Herodotus. He often lets us participate in his decisions about what version of a given story to select. He shares with us what Charles Fornara rightly calls his “philosophy of history”:42 it is necessary to pay attention to small and large cities because what once was big is now small and vice versa; as Croesus reminds Cyrus, “human life is like a revolving wheel and never allows the same people to continue long in prosperity.” Moreover, in his conversation with Croesus Solon stresses the need to wait for a person’s end to judge his happiness and success.43 That these are not just random snippets of wisdom is made clear by Herodotus’ elaborate effort to demonstrate their historical relevance programmatically in book 1 through the rise and fall of the very two rulers to whom wise men had conveyed these insights: Croesus and Cyrus.44 Although writing about the prehistory and history of the Persian Wars, Herodotus indicates through explicit and implicit references to later events (which reach to the very end of the period he witnessed) that he is deeply aware of and concerned about the history of his own time.45 These ‘pointers’ connect past and present and thus alert the historian’s public to look out for such connections elsewhere as well. He enhances this effect by emphasising specific issues and patterns that he can expect to resonate with his audiences because they correspond to important aspects of their own experiences. As an obvious example, we might think of Herodotus’ marked, even extravagant, references to Athens’ merits for the preservation of Greek freedom in the Persian Wars, although in his time this was not a popular topic in most of 40 41 42 43

44 45

On Thucydides’ shaping of history, see now GREENWOOD 2006; see also below at n. 75. Methodological principles: Thuc. 1.21–2. Artful reporter: HUNTER 1973; deceitful reporter: BADIAN 1993. FORNARA 1971b, index s.v. “philosophy of history.” Hdt. 1.5: “I will proceed with my history, telling the story as I go along of small cities of men no less than of great. For most of those which were great once are small today; and those which used to be small were great in my own time. Knowing, therefore, that human prosperity never abides long in the same place, I shall pay attention to both alike.” 1.207 (Croesus to Cyrus): “If you recognise the fact that both you and the troops under your command are merely human, then the first thing I would tell you is that human life is like a revolving wheel and never allows the same people to continue long in prosperity.” 1.32 (Solon to Croesus, summarised): Only the man who was favoured in his life and dies a peaceful death deserves to be called happy. On the programmatic significance of the Croesus story, see RAAFLAUB 2002b, 167–74. Such references are collected in SCHMID-STÄHLIN 1934, 590 n. 9. For those to the time of the Peloponnesian War, see FORNARA 1971a, 32–4 and 1981, 149–51.

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Greece.46 He lets the Athenians not only act according to this principle but also pronounce it in the firmest and most explicit terms, thereby creating an implicit but marked and unavoidable contrast between then and now. It is worth listening to these statements. After the battle of Salamis and Xerxes’ departure, the Persian general Mardonios tries to divide the enemy and win the Athenians over to the Persian side. He offers them pardon for past offences, freedom, a favourable treaty of alliance, and choice Greek territories to rule. The Spartans, greatly alarmed, plead with them not to accept the offer. “It would be an intolerable thing that the Athenians, who in the past have been known so often as liberators, should now be the cause of bringing slavery upon Greece” (8.142). The Athenians respond to the Persian envoys: We know as well as you do that the Persian strength is many times greater than our own… Nevertheless, such is our love of freedom, that we will defend ourselves in whatever way we can. As for making terms with Persia, … we shall never consent… Tell Mardonios, that so long as the sun keeps his present course in the sky, we Athenians will never make peace with Xerxes. On the contrary, we shall oppose him unremittingly… (8.143).

To the Spartan envoys they say: There is not so much gold in the world nor land so fair that we would take it for pay to join the common enemy and bring Greece into subjection. There are many compelling reasons against our doing so, even if we wished: the first and greatest is [I summarise: our obligation to avenge the Persian destruction of our temples]. Again, there is the Greek nation – the community of blood and language, temples and ritual, and our common customs; if Athens were to betray all this, it would not be well done (8.144).

Indeed: it was not well done! The contrast is jarring and deliberate: when Herodotus wrote this, Athens had long come to a (probably informal) agreement with the Persians. Only a few chapters later, Herodotus himself lets the same Athenians mention this possibility, thus raising questions about their earlier statement.47 Moreover, they had created their own empire; the liberator had become an oppressor, the saviour of Greece a tyrant. At the same time, freedom had become a central component of Athens’ imperial ideology. The historian alludes to both aspects.48 Herodotus thus writes about and judges the past from the perspective of the present. He questions and subverts ideology in a way that is not dissimilar from Thucydides, although he does it more implicitly, not explicitly. He achieves 46

47 48

7.139: “At this point I find myself compelled to express an opinion which I know most people will object to; nevertheless, as I believe it to be true, I will not suppress it… One is surely right in saying that Greece was saved by the Athenians… It was the Athenians who, having chosen that Greece should live and preserve her freedom, roused to battle the other Greek states which had not yet submitted. It was the Athenians who – after the gods – drove back the Persian king.” Hdt. 9.11.1–2. On the much debated “Peace of Callias,” see, e.g., MEISTER 1982; FORNARA –SAMONS 1991, 171–5. Some examples in RAAFLAUB 2002b, 167–76.

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similar effects by a variety of other methods. For example, he makes much of a scheme that contrasts rich countries breeding soft men and poor countries producing tough men. This scheme is clearly connected with the rise and fall of empires and thus, although in its immediate context referring to Persia, cannot fail to allude to the rise and potential fall of another empire in Herodotus’ own time.49 Important tools to achieve the effects I mentioned are authorial comments or speeches inserted at crucial moments, and skilful elaboration.50 However detailed Herodotus’ information was, the vast majority of these speeches are undoubtedly his own. Much more than even in the case of Thucydides, here we are justified in assuming invention for the purpose of dramatisation, clarification, interpretation, and the conveying of deeper meaning.51 I suggest that the historian felt equally free to select the elements that would shape his narrative of events in a way that would bring out what he thought needed to be emphasised to produce meaning. Here too, his means were elaboration and even invention. As an example of invention, I think of the work’s final episode: the anecdote about Cyrus’ advice to the Persians not to move from the harsh mountains of their Persian homeland to the fertile plains of countries they had conquered, unless they wanted to incur the risk of becoming soft and eventually losing their empire.52 As Fornara observes, Herodotus turned to invention. He adapted the techniques of the poets in order to give colour and life to an account which by his own choice of subject absolutely required them. History moved to the higher plane of imaginative recreation… As he developed he exploited [these fictional devices] increasingly … in order to make his account not only vivid but also a means for presenting the higher truths that only fiction can convey.53

As an example of massive elaboration I have elsewhere suggested Herodotus’ narrative of Persian imperialism.54 Every king from Cyrus to Xerxes at some point runs into enormous trouble by engaging in an overambitious and basically senseless project of imperial conquest. This project forces him to cross great natural boundaries and obstacles (river, desert, or ocean), penetrate into unfamiliar and hostile territory at the end of the world, and face peoples with strange customs that are inferior in military power but superior in their ability to maximise their resources and use their terrain to their advantage (Massagetai, Ethiopians, Scythians, and Greeks). All these rulers also display ignorance, a lack of interest in understanding their opponents, and simple hybris. As a result, they suffer enormous losses and barely escape with their lives, if at all. Herodo49 50 51 52 53 54

On the connection between a people’s country and character, see THOMAS 2000, 102–34. Authorial comments: DEWALD 1987; on speeches, see LATEINER 1989, 19–26; PELLING 2006. What FORNARA 1971b, 21–3 has written on this is as valid today as it was almost 40 years ago. On the final chapter, see FLOWER – MARINCOLA 2002, ad loc.; DEWALD 1997. FORNARA 1971b, 35–6. RAAFLAUB 1987 and 2002a.

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tus must have superimposed this specific and homogeneous pattern (which is anticipated to some extent in Croesus’ attack against the Persians) upon information that was available about such expeditions (unless these, too, were invented, as perhaps in the case of Cambyses’ plan to conquer Ethiopia). The question then is what prompted Herodotus to engage in such ‘manipulation of history.’ In this particular case, the pattern in question has close analogies with specific aspects of the Athenian attempt in Herodotus’ time to conquer Sicily.55 This is crucial. Herodotus, I suggest, recognised a highly dramatic and problematic issue in the politics of his time. Athens’ ‘imperialist impulse’ had escalated to the point of becoming Mediterranean:56 imperialism gone mad, threatening the entire Greek world as he knew it. He thus decided to describe earlier instances of Persian imperialism in terms that could not fail to make his contemporaries recognise the pattern. Herodotus thus manipulated, even distorted history in order to connect the past with the present, to let past and present interact with each other: the present offered the historian a template for the presentation and interpretation of the past so that the past could become for his audience and readers a means to understand, interpret, and cope with the present. Why, then, was it so important to Herodotus to connect the past with the present? One recent suggestion is that Herodotus explicitly wanted to warn the Athenians.57 At first sight, this seems attractive, given Athenian prominence in the Histories, the historian’s ties to this city, Athens’ meteoric rise to power and wealth, and analogous concerns that are clearly perceptible in various fifthcentury tragedies.58 But Herodotus was no Athenian and presumably did not want to be perceived as one. His outlook is panhellenic, he incorporates Spartan as much as Athenian and other perspectives in his work, and his intended audience, as not least his comment about Athens’ unpopularity reveals, must have been panhellenic as well.59 If he wanted to convey a warning it may have been especially urgent for Athens but was probably directed to any polis that was playing with or engaged in imperial policies. If we assume, as Fornara has suggested, I think rightly, that Herodotus died after 420, he must have been aware of imperial ambitions on the part of Syracuse and Sparta as well.60 More generally, Christian Meier points to an urgent and widespread need that Herodotus wanted to meet, namely to provide orientation to an age that was troubled by rapid change and increasing challenges to traditions and values.61 I 55 56 57 58

59 60 61

RAAFLAUB 2002a, 15–27, based, not least, on strong correspondences between Thucydides’ Sicilian debate (6.8–26) and Herodotus’ debate at Xerxes’ court (7.5–18). Imperialist impulse: EVANS 1991. MOLES 1996; see also STADTER 1992. Tragedy’s concern with Athenian imperialism still awaits a thorough discussion; see, for now, RAAFLAUB 1988, 284–301; ROSENBLOOM 1995. On Herodotus’ ties to Athens: Ostwald 1991; Fowler 2003. See n. 46 above. On Herodotus’ position as an ‘outsider,’ see BOEDEKER 1998. Any polis: HUNTER 1982. Herodotus’ death: FORNARA 1971a and 1981. MEIER 1973 and 1987.

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would like to suggest, even more generally, that by establishing a dialectic connection between past and present the historian intended precisely to make the past meaningful and important to the present, to enable it to speak to his readers. The past, we should remember, remained relevant and was remembered only insofar and as long as it played an important function to the generation that remembered it.62 The Persian Wars were hugely important in various ways to the self-understanding and identity of the Greeks collectively and of many Greek poleis individually.63 These wars had been instrumentalised propagandistically and ideologically in various ways, not only by Athens. Herodotus reacted to such uses or abuses. His immediate purpose, we remember, was to make sure that great deeds, whether of Greeks or non-Greeks, should not disappear from memory, and to explain why west and east got involved in the great conflict that was the Persian Wars.64 In addition, as pointed out earlier, he recognised in history a pattern of rise and fall, and he was deeply aware of the fragility of human success and happiness.65 Hence I would define his ‘ulterior motive’ precisely as a wish to illustrate these aspects in and through history. He interpreted and narrated history in ways that brought to the fore specific patterns which his public could not fail to relate to issues they were witnessing in their own time. Just as the ethnographic digressions served, among other purposes, as a ‘mirror’ for the Greeks that was intended to make them aware of and think about themselves,66 so too the historical narrative was intended, among other purposes, to stimulate the readers to think about such patterns and to understand their significance for themselves and the world in which they lived. Through history, the historian made his public critically aware, he educated them. We already established that Herodotus was addressing a panhellenic public. Was he also thinking of future readers as much as those in his own time? Fornara argues that Herodotus was assuming among his public a great deal of familiarity with specific conditions and events of both the time covered by his Histories and their own time. Without such knowledge, they would have been unable to grasp many of the connections he was working out for them. He therefore must have been addressing mainly and perhaps only a public living in his own present. Hence, in contrast to Thucydides, Herodotus did not offer a ktema es aiei.67 I have been wondering about this. To be sure, future readers would not be able to grasp every fine detail of Herodotus’ argument. But many of his allusions, and especially his larger patterns, I think, did not require inti62 63 64

65 66 67

E.g., PATZEK 1992. See recently JUNG 2006; BRIDGES et al. 2007. Hdt. pref.: “Herodotus of Halicarnassus here displays his inquiry, so that human achievements may not become forgotten in time, and great and marvellous deeds – some displayed by Greeks, some by barbarians – may not be without their glory; and especially to show why the two peoples fought with each other.” See n. 43 above. HARTOG 1988. FORNARA 1971b, ch. 4.

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mate familiarity with details. The examples I mentioned before, and many others, are clearly perceptible even to us; they must have been so no less to Greek readers beyond the end of the fifth century. Moreover, the historian’s emphasis on kleos in the preface indicates that he was thinking of an open-ended future: the immortalisation of great deeds would never be limited to the author’s present generation.68 I suggest, therefore, that, again implicitly, Herodotus, no less than Thucydides, was thinking of his work as a ktema es aiei: any generation could learn the important lessons he wanted them to deduce from history. I end with three questions: who or what inspired Herodotus to pursue such a strong didactic purpose? What gave him the liberty to manipulate history? And what consequences do we draw from all this concerning other ancient historians and our own historical use of their works? My answer to the first question is hardly surprising: Herodotus followed here in the steps of all his predecessors, whether in prose or poetry, who created what we would call performative literature. I am not the only one who has tried to show that a marked strand of didactic purpose and political reflection runs through Homer’s epics (by which Herodotus is influenced in so many ways).69 For Hesiod, Solon, and some other archaic poets this is obvious. Although much debated and often exaggerated, it is in substantial ways true for tragedy as well and, of course, patent in comedy. Recent scholarship has placed Herodotus firmly in the didactic and competitive intellectual climate of his time.70 Even if we had nothing else, Homer’s epics would suffice to suggest that Herodotus, the ‘most Homeric of historians,’ would adopt a similar purpose when composing his monumental ‘prose epic.’71 This suggests at least a partial answer to the second question as well. Homer provided a lively and dramatic model of how to write history. Much of his narrative consists of conversations and speeches – and nobody worried about their authenticity.72 Poets, whether epic, elegiac, or tragic, offered models of how traditional stories could be elaborated upon and changed for greater effect, artistic or political purposes, or to meet the needs of specific audiences and occasions. All this usually concerned what we call myth, but the boundaries between myth and history were blurred, in significant ways myth was history, and the freedom accorded the poet by his mythical themes was easily applied by poets and prose authors to history, especially, but not only, if the latter was ancient and difficult to reconstruct anyway.73 Aeschylus’ Persians shows how his68 69 70 71

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Marincola, written communication. Political reflection in Homer: RAAFLAUB 2000, 26–34 and 2001, 73–89; HAMMER 2002. Herodotus and Homer: STRASBURGER 1972; BOEDEKER 2002; see also MARINCOLA 2006. THOMAS 2000. Tragedy: BOEDEKER – RAAFLAUB 2005. On political thought, see ROWE – SCHOFIELD 2000. See BOEDEKER 2002, 97–109, with reference to a second-century BCE inscription set up in Halicarnassus that celebrates Herodotus as “the pedestrian (i.e., prose) Homer of historiography” (97). On speeches in Homer, see now GRIFFIN 2004. Livy makes this explicit in his preface: praef. 4 and 6–7.

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tory, even of a very recent past, could be moulded, transformed, and complemented by plain fiction, to fit new needs and perspectives and the author’s specific purposes. It thus became ‘intentional history’ in the sense which I mentioned at the beginning. What Herodotus does is therefore less astonishing than it may seem at first. Yet, because it differs so hugely from our own premises, we find it difficult to grasp its consequences for our own reconstruction of archaic Greek history. To put it simply, if we take seriously what we are learning about Herodotus’ ‘professional principles’ we lose as much history of the past – or perhaps rather, we lose as much of our naïve belief in the possibility of using Herodotus as a guide to that past – as we gain in understanding of the mental and intellectual, if not social and political conditions of his time. This conclusion probably goes too far. There can be no doubt that Herodotus contains much authentic information at least about the late archaic period and the Persian Wars.74 Even so, it has become much more difficult to differentiate between authentic and ‘manipulated’ material, and these difficulties increase exponentially for the period before, say, the mid-sixth century. What about Herodotus’ successors? Thucydides and Polybius are more critical, more aware and explicit about their methodology, and thus establish and apply principles that seem to us historically more ‘responsible.’ In their stated criteria about when and how to use speeches, and in their use of documentary material, among other aspects, we see a clear progression that reaches a high point in Polybius. But in their explicit efforts to make history useful for all times or a learning ground for aspiring politicians, they must have faced the same challenges as Herodotus did, and the potential for elaboration, free interpretation, and thus manipulation remained unchanged. Examples are not difficult to find. For instance, many historians would now characterise Thucydides’ portrait of Perikles as highly idealised and, conversely, that of Kleon and his successors as probably far too negative. Both distortions, like the historian’s increasingly critical treatment of the decision-making process in democracy, I suggest, result from his effort to explain the eventual defeat of Athens in the Peloponnesian War by the shortcomings, in his view typical of and inevitable in democracy, of both the sovereign demos and its leaders. Hence he placed his emphasis on the utter failure of Perikles’ successors to come even close to the ideal of a good democratic leader – an ideal he represented as realised in Perikles – and on the progressive deterioration of the demos’ fickle rule that increasingly failed to meet the ideal sketched in the Funeral Oration. The historian thus strayed in both directions far from historical truth or reality.75 Livy freely admits the difficulties he found in reconstructing Rome’s early history and explains his decision to shape his narrative of the beginnings of Rome so as to create ‘exemplary history’:

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For recent discussion, see relevant chapters in BAKKER et al. 2002; FORSDYKE 2006. For discussion and bibliography, see RAAFLAUB 2006.

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KURT A. RAAFLAUB I invite the reader’s attention to the much more serious consideration of the kind of lives our ancestors lived, of who were the men, and what the means both in politics and war by which Rome’s power was first acquired and subsequently expanded; I would then have him trace the process of our moral decline … and the dark dawning of our modern day when we can neither endure our vices nor face the remedies needed to cure them. The study of history is the best medicine for a sick mind; for in history you have a record of the infinite variety of human experience plainly set out for all to see; and in that record you can find for yourself and your country both examples and warnings: fine things to take as models, base things, rotten through and through, to avoid (praef. 9–10).

Recent studies have revealed to what extent Livy writes his history of early Rome as a comment on his own troubled times, and this tendency is by no means limited to the first decade of his work.76 As we saw at the beginning, a marked tendency to didacticism and a deep distrust of ideology characterise Tacitus’ work as well.77 The same is probably true for Sallust. And these are only the best and, presumably, most responsible and critical of ancient historians. The prominence and pervasiveness of the ‘ulterior motives’ I have been exploring force us thoroughly to revise our view of ancient historiography. In our efforts to understand these aspects fully and draw the appropriate conclusions, I think, we are still closer to the beginning than the end. Much work remains to be done, on all the authors I mentioned and on others. But it is worth the effort – and necessary if we do not want to live in a world of illusions.

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See, for example, VON HAEHLING 1989; MILES 1995; FOX 1996; CHAPLIN 2000. It is worth noting here that Syme, the ultimate ‘Tacitean’ (TOHER 2010), was deeply interested in the problem of fictional history: GRIFFIN 2005.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY APPLEBY, J. – HUNT, L. – JACOB, M. 1994: Telling the Truth about History, New York. BAAR, M. 1990: Das Bild des Kaisers Tiberius bei Tacitus, Sueton und Cassius Dio, Stuttgart. BADIAN, E. 1993: Thucydides and the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War: a historian’s brief. In E. Badian, From Plataea to Potidaea: Studies in the History and Historiography of the Pentecontaetia, Baltimore, 125–62. BAKKER, E. J. – DE JONG, I. J. F. – VAN WEES, H. 2002: Brill’s Companion to Herodotus, Leiden. BAUMAN, R. A. 1974: Impietas in Principem: A Study of Treason against the Roman Emperor with a Special Reference to the First Century A.D., Munich. BIRLEY, A. R. 2000: The life and death of Cornelius Tacitus, Historia 49, 230–47. BOEDEKER, D. 1987: (ed.) Herodotus and the Invention of History, Arethusa 20 1998: Presenting the past in fifth-century Athens, in D. Boedeker and K. A. Raaflaub (eds.) Democracy, Empire, and the Arts in Fifth-Century Athens, Cambridge, MA, 185– 202. 2002: Epic heritage and mythical patterns in Herodotus, in Bakker et al. 2002, 97–116. BOEDEKER, D. – RAAFLAUB, K. 2005: Tragedy and City, in R. Bushnell (ed.) A Companion to Tragedy, Malden, MA, and Oxford, 109–27. BRIDGES, E. – HALL, E. – RHODES, P. J. 2007: Cultural Responses to the Persian Wars: Antiquity to the Third Millennium, Oxford. CANCIK-LINDEMAIER, H. – CANCIK, H. 1986: Zensur und Gedächtnis. Zu Tacitus, Annales IV 32–38, AU 29.4, 16–35. CHAPLIN, J. 2000: Livy’s Exemplary History, Oxford. CLARK, E. L. 2004: History, Theory, Text: Historians and the Linguistic Turn, Cambridge, MA. CORNELL, T. J. 1991: Rome: the history of an anachronism, in A. Molho, K. Raaflaub and J. Emlen (eds.) Athens and Rome, Florence and Venice: City-States in Classical Antiquity and Medieval Italy, Ann Arbor and Stuttgart, 53–69. DAMON, C. 2003: Tacitus, Histories, Book I. Cambridge. DAMON, C. – TAKÁCS, S. 1999: (eds.) The Senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre, AJP 120.1. DEININGER, J. 1985: Livius und der Prinzipat, Klio 67, 265–72. DEWALD, C. 1987: Narrative surface and authorial voice in Herodotus’ Histories, in BOEDEKER 1987, 147–70. 1997: Wanton kings, pickled heroes, and gnomic founding fathers: strategies of meaning at the end of Herodotus’s Histories, in D. H. Roberts, F. M. Dunn and D. Fowler (eds.) Classical Closure: Reading the End in Greek and Latin Literature, Princeton, 62–82. DEWALD, C. – MARINCOLA, J. 2006: (eds.) The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus, Cambridge.

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DIRCKSEN, M. 2007: Tacitean ‘truth’: quot homines, tot sententiae, in J. Hilton and A. Gosling (eds.) Alma Parens Originalis? The Receptions of Classical Literature and Thought in Africa, Europe, the United States, and Cuba, Oxford et al., 237–55. EARL, D. C. 1961: The Political Thought of Sallust, Cambridge. ECK, W. 2000: Die Täuschung der Öffentlichkeit – oder: Die ‘Unparteilichkeit’ des Historikers Tacitus, A&A 46, 190–206. ECK, W. – CABALLOS, A. – FERNÁNDEZ, F. 1996: Das senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre. Munich. ECKSTEIN, A. M. 1995: Moral Vision in the Histories of Polybius, Berkeley. EVANS, J. A. S. 1991: The imperialist impulse, in J. A. S. Evans Herodotus, Explorer of the Past: Three Essays, Princeton, 9–40. FINLEY, J. H. 1942: Thucydides, Cambridge, MA. FINLEY, M. I. 1986: Ancient History: Evidence and Models, New York. FLOWER, M. – MARINCOLA, J. 2002: (eds.) Herodotus, Histories Book IX, Cambridge. FORNARA, C. W. 1971a: Evidence for the date of Herodotus’ publication, JHS 91, 25–34. 1971b: Herodotus: An Interpretative Essay, Oxford. 1981: Herodotus’ knowledge of the Archidamian War, Hermes 109, 149–56. 1983: The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome, Berkeley. FORNARA, C. W. – SAMONS, L. J. II 1991: Athens from Cleisthenes to Pericles, Berkeley. FORSDYKE, S. 2006: Herodotus, political history and political thought, in DEWALD – MARINCOLA 2006, 224–41. FOX, M. 1996: Roman Historical Myths: The Regal Period in Augustan Literature, Oxford. FOWLER, R. 2003: Herodotos and Athens, in P. Derow and R. Parker (eds.) Herodotus and His World: Essays from a Conference in Memory of George Forrest, Oxford, 305–18. FRITZ, K. V. 1932: Aufbau und Absicht des Dialogus de oratoribus, RhM 81, 275–300. 1954: The Theory of the Mixed Constitution in Antiquity: A Critical Analysis of Polybius’ Political Ideas, New York. GEHRKE, H.-J. 2001: Myth, history, and collective identity: uses of the past in ancient Greece and beyond, in N. Luraghi (ed.) The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford, 286–313. GILL, C. 1983: The question of character development: Plutarch and Tacitus, CQ 33, 469–87. 1988: Personhood and personality: the four personae theory in Cicero, OSAPh 6, 169–99. 1996: Personality in Greek Epic, Tragedy and Philosophy: The Self in Dialogue, Oxford. GILL, C. – WISEMAN, T. P. 1993: (eds.) Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Austin, TX. GRANT, M. 1995: Greek and Roman Historians: Information and Misinformation, London.

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GREENWOOD, E. 2006: Thucydides and the Shaping of History. London. GRIFFIN, J. 2004: The speeches, in R. Fowler (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Homer, Cambridge, 156–67. GRIFFIN, M. 2005: ‘Lifting the mask’: Syme on fictional history, in R. S. O. Tomlinson (ed.) History and Fiction: Six Essays Celebrating the Centenary of Sir Ronald Syme, London, 16–39. HAEHLING, R. V. 1989: Zeitbezüge des T. Livius in der ersten Dekade seines Geschichtswerkes, Stuttgart. HAMMER, D. 2002: The Iliad as Politics: The Performance of Political Thought, Norman, OK. HARTOG, F. 1988: The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, trans. J. Lloyd, Berkeley. HUNTER, V. J. 1973: Thucydides the Artful Reporter, Toronto. 1982: Past and Process in Herodotus and Thucydides, Princeton. IGGERS, G. G. 1983: The German Conception of History: The National Tradition of Historical Thought from Herder to the Present, Middletown, CT. JUNG, M. 2006: Marathon und Plataiai: Zwei Perserschlachten als “lieux de mémoire” im antiken Griechenland, Göttingen. KALLET, L. 2006: Thucydides’ workshop of history and utility outside the text, in RENGAKOS – TSAKMAKIS 2006, 335–68. KENNEDY, D. F. 1992: ‘Augustan’ and ‘anti-Augustan’: reflections on terms of reference, in A. Powell (ed.) Roman Poetry and Propaganda in the Age of Augustus, Bristol, 26–58. KLINGNER, F. 1953: Tacitus über Augustus und Tiberius. Interpretationen zum Eingang der Annalen. SB Bayr. Ak., phil.-hist. Kl. 1953.7. Munich; repr. in F. Klingner 1964: Studien zur griechischen und römischen Literatur, Zurich, 624–58; also in Pöschl 1969, 496–539. KOSELLECK, R. – MOMMSEN, W. – RÜSEN, J. 1977: Objektivität und Parteilichkeit in der Geschichtswissenschaft, Munich. LATEINER, D. 1989: The Historical Method of Herodotus, Toronto. LEEMAN, A. D. – PINKSTER, H. – NELSON, H. L. W. 1985: M. Tullius Cicero, De Oratore Libri III, Kommentar, II, Heidelberg. LEPPIN, H. 1999: Thukydides und die Verfassung der Polis, Berlin. LEVICK, B. 1999: Tiberius the Politician, rev. edn., London. LUCE, T. J. 1989: Ancient views on the causes of bias in historical writing, CP 84, 16–31. LUGINBILL, R. D. 1999: Thucydides on War and National Character. Boulder, CO. MARINCOLA, J. 1997: Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge. 1999: Tacitus’ prefaces and the decline of imperial historiography, Latomus 58, 391–404. 2006: Herodotus and the poetry of the past, in DEWALD – MARINCOLA 2006, 13–28. 2007: Alētheia, in Lexicon historiographicum Graecum et Latinum 2, Pisa, 7–29.

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MARTIN, R. H. – WOODMAN, A. J. 1989: (eds.) Tacitus, Annals, Book IV, Cambridge. MCHUGH, M. R. 2004: Historiography and freedom of speech: the case of Cremutius Cordus, in I. Sluiter and R. M. Rosen (eds.) Free Speech in Classical Antiquity, Leiden, 391–408. MEIER, C. 1973: Die Entstehung der Historie, in R. Koselleck and W.-D. Stempel (eds.) Geschichte – Ereignis und Erzählung, Munich, 251–305. 1987: Historical answers to historical questions: the origins of history in ancient Greece, in BOEDEKER 1987, 41–57. MEISTER, K. 1975: Historische Kritik bei Polybius, Wiesbaden. 1982: Die Ungeschichtlichkeit des Kalliasfriedens und deren historische Folgen, Wiesbaden. MELLOR, R. 1993: Tacitus, London and New York. MILES, G. 1995: Livy: Reconstructing Early Rome, Ithaca, NY. MOLES, J. L. 1993: Truth and untruth in Herodotus and Thucydides, in GILL – WISEMAN 1993, 88–121. 1996: Herodotus warns the Athenians, Papers of the Leeds International Latin Seminar 9, 259–84. MORRISON, J. V. 2006: Interaction of speech and narrative in Thucydides, in RENGAKOS – TSAKMAKIS 2006, 251–77. NIPPEL, W. 1980: Mischverfassungstheorie und Verfassungsrealität in Antike und früher Neuzeit, Stuttgart. NOVICK, P. 1988: That Noble Dream: The “Objectivity Question” and the American Historical Profession, Cambridge. OSTWALD, M. 1991: Herodotus and Athens, ICS 16, 137–48. PATZEK, B. 1992: Homer und Mykene. Mündliche Dichtung und Geschichtsschreibung, Munich. PELLING, C. 2006: Speech and narrative in the Histories, in DEWALD – MARINCOLA 2006, 103–21. PÖSCHL, V. 1969: (ed.) Tacitus, Darmstadt. POPE, M. 1988: Thucydides and democracy, Historia 37, 176–96. PRICE, J. 2001: Thucydides and Internal War, Cambridge. RAAFLAUB, K. 1987a: Grundzüge, Ziele und Ideen der Opposition gegen die Kaiser im 1. Jh. n. Chr.: Versuch einer Standortbestimmung, in A. Giovannini (ed.) Opposition et résistances à l’empire d’Auguste à Trajan, Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 33, Vandoeuvres-Geneva, 1–55. 1987b: Herodotus, political thought, and the meaning of history, in BOEDEKER 1987, 221– 48. 1988: Politisches Denken im Zeitalter Athens, in I. Fetscher and H. Münkler (eds.) Pipers Handbuch der politischen Ideen, I, Munich, 273–368.

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2000: Poets, lawgivers, and the beginning of political reflection in archaic Greece, in ROWE –SCHOFIELD 2000, 23–59. 2001: Political thought, civic responsibility, and the Greek polis, in J. Arnason and P. Murphy (eds.) Agon, Logos, Polis: The Greek Achievement and Its Aftermath, Stuttgart, 72–117. 2002a: Herodot und Thukydides: Persischer Imperialismus im Lichte der athenischen Sizilienpolitik, in N. Ehrhardt and L.-M. Günther (eds.) Widerstand – Anpassung – Integration: die griechische Staatenwelt und Rom, Festschrift für Jürgen Deininger, Stuttgart, 11– 40. 2002b: Philosophy, science, politics: Herodotus and the intellectual trends of his time, in Bakker et al. 2002, 149–86. 2004: The Discovery of Freedom in Ancient Greece, first Engl. ed., rev. and updated from the German, Chicago. 2006: Thucydides on democracy and oligarchy, in RENGAKOS –TSAKMAKIS 2006, 189– 222. 2009: The truth about tyranny: Tacitus and the historian’s responsibility in early imperial Rome, in G. Malinowski and J. Pigon (eds.) The Children of Herodotus, Cambridge, 25370. RAAFLAUB, K. – SAMONS, L. J. II 1990: Opposition to Augustus, in K. Raaflaub and M. Toher (eds.) Between Republic and Empire: Interpretations of Augustus and His Principate, Berkeley, 417–54. REINHOLD, M. 1985: Human nature as cause in ancient historiography, in J. W. Eadie and J. Ober (eds.) The Craft of the Ancient Historian: Essays in Honor of Chester G. Starr, Lanham, MD, 21–40. RENGAKOS, A. – TSAKMAKIS, A. 2006: (eds.) Brill’s Companion to Thucydides, Leiden. ROSENBLOOM, D. 1995: Myth, history, and hegemony in Aeschylus, in B. Goff (ed.) History, Tragedy, Theory: Dialogues on Athenian Drama, Austin, TX, 91–130. ROWE, C. – SCHOFIELD, M. 2000: (eds.) The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Political Thought, Cambridge. RUSTEN, J. S. 1989: (ed.) Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, Book II, Cambridge. RUTLEDGE, S. H. 1998: Trajan and Tacitus’ audience: reader reception of Annals 1–2, Ramus 27, 141–59. 2001: Imperial Inquisitions: Prosecutors and Informants from Tiberius to Domitian, London. SACKS, K. 1981: Polybius on the Writing of History, Berkeley. SCHMID W. – STÄHLIN, O. 1934: Geschichte der griechischen Literatur, vol. I.2, Munich; repr. 1959. STADTER, P. A. 1992: Herodotus and the Athenian arche, Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, Classe di lettere e filosofia, ser. 3.22, 781–809. STRASBURGER, H. 1972: Homer und die Geschichtsschreibung, SB Heidelberger Ak. der Wiss., phil.-hist. Kl. 1972:1, Heidelberg. SYME, R. 1958: Tacitus, 2 vols., Oxford. 1959: Livy and Augustus, HSCP 64, 27–87. 1964: Sallust, Berkeley; repr. with a new foreword by Ronald Mellor, 2002.

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THOMAS, R. 2000: Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science, and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge. 2006a: The intellectual milieu of Herodotus, in Dewald – Marincola 2006, 60–75. 2006b. Thucydides’ intellectual milieu and the plague, in RENGAKOS – TSAKMAKIS 2006, 87–108. TOHER, M. 2010: Tacitus’ Syme, in A. J. Woodman (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Tacitus, Cambridge, 317-29. VOGT, J. 1936. Tacitus und die Unparteilichkeit des Historikers, Würzburger Studien 9, 1—20; repr. in J. Vogt, 1960: Orbis. Ausgewählte Schriften zur Geschichte des Altertums, Freiburg i. Br., 110–27; also in Pöschl 1969, 39–59. WALBANK, F. W. 1957: A Historical Commentary on Polybius I, Oxford. 2002: Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World: Essays and Reflections, Cambridge. WHEELDON, M. J. 1989: ‘True stories’: the reception of historiography in antiquity, in A. Cameron (ed.) History as Text: The Writing of Ancient History, Chapel Hill, NC, 33–63. WISEMAN, T. P. 1993: Lying historians: seven types of mendacity, in Gill – Wiseman 1993, 122–46. WOODMAN, A. J. 1988: Rhetoric in Classical Historiography: Four Studies, Portland, OR. 1989: Tacitus’ obituary of Tiberius, CQ 39, 197–205; repr. in Woodman 1998, 155–67. 1998: Tacitus Reviewed, Oxford. WOODMAN, A. J. – MARTIN, R. H. 1996: The Annals of Tacitus, Book 3, Edited with a Commentary, Cambridge.

10. TRAGIC MEMORIES OF DIONYSOS Renate Schlesier

In a series of extant Attic tragedies, the theme of memory (and forgetting) is associated with different aspects of the sphere of Dionysos.1 This concerns, for instance, festivals, cult objects, rituals, or particular landscapes and stories connected with this divinity. In this chapter, I want to analyse the kind of intentionality2 which is displayed (and problematised) in the framework of this feature. Some tragic choruses or characters express the wish to concentrate on Dionysiac revels in order to forget war and other miseries, or, on the contrary, seek to refrain completely from Dionysiac attitudes before or after experiencing them. But in the majority of all those cases, these intentions cannot be fulfilled or they lead to a tragic end. On the other hand, the pursuit of a lasting Dionysiac memory or the necessity of recalling it is often equally problematic. The focus of the following remarks thus eventually allows to specify and to test an ongoing conflict of interpretations considering tragedy either as a “Dionysiac occasion”3 or as something that has “nothing to do with Dionysus.”4 By the same token, the investigation will use the example of Dionysiac memory in order to concentrate on the connection between cultic experiences and mythical stories as an object of the tragic questioning of the social and religious order as well as of the will of individuals, be they human or divine. Before starting this investigation, I want to make clear that I am rather skeptical about the conventional definition of myth as a ‘traditional tale.’5 Such a definition, in my view, skips over the fact that the bulk of what scholars normally call Greek myths is narrated by poets (above all Homer, Hesiod and the tragedians). No one can pretend that it is possible to decide to what extent these stories are “traditional” (in the sense of a pre-literary, anonymous, collective memory) and to what extent these stories, or at least elements of them, are the product of poets,6 1 2

3 4 5 6

To my knowledge, this topic has not yet systematically been treated in scholarship. What follows is a prolegomenon to further research. In this chapter, I use the term ‘intentionality’ mainly in two ways: first, to describe speechacts performed by tragic figures and choruses which express intentions, and second, to stress the artistic consciousness of the poets who composed (and problematised) those and other performative features. GOLDHILL 1990, 127; cf. EASTERLING 1997b. SCULLION 2002 and 2005. See BURKERT 1993. A recent example of the widespread scholarly reluctance to face this problem in an analytical way is ANDERSON 2005, 121–2 and passim. For him, myths belong, on the one hand, to the “collective cultural heritage in ancient Greece” and are, on the other, results of “adaptive mythmaking,” especially in tragedy. More illuminating about the complex treatment of myth

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or, as it were, of visual artists. The only thing that we can be sure of is that these stories are presented by the poets as traditional ones, which makes a big difference. This implies that the use of these stories consists of an intentional relation to previous presentations of them (in our tradition, mainly by poets) that had become – by repeated performances and education – something belonging to tradition and to collective memory. I am arguing that what the poets do is to comment on (or even to criticise) these previous presentations, to elaborate on them, to give new variations to them, to put them into a new context, to enlarge or to change them by new inventions (one could even say, to reflect about them and to interpret7 them by poetic means). In short, the poets intended to transform tradition by using and actualising it.8 Therefore, when I talk about tragic memories of Dionysos, I am not talking about myth in the conventional sense, as if it were a stock of fixed and clear-cut entities, but about the poetic use made of Dionysiac memories, in the context of tragedy, as a feature of perspective reflection. And I am presupposing that this happens, as everything in this context, within the control of the playwright. And because of that, it could have very sophisticated implications which blur the differences between past and present. This more general intentionality which seems to characterise the procedures of the tragedians (as of other poets) using stories, points to another kind of intentionality which the Greek poets obviously have developed by these same procedures. They treat myths, or, as I would prefer to say, stories about gods in their relation to other gods or to mortals, as intentional histories.9 In other words, myths are put forward and used by them as intentional histories, as something that really happened in the past, but remains relevant to the present (and perhaps to the future as well). Like any story that is narrated, they serve an actual purpose. Yet the myths are not confined to one single intention or purpose. On the contrary. Numerous examples from literature, visual art, ritual, politics, philosophy and historiography show that they can serve several, at times conflicting, intentions, or even diverse intentions at the same time. One of these intentions concerns memory. A story is told, broadly speaking, so that something shall not be forgotten – an event in the past, a person who once lived, or, for that matter, the name of a god. For according to ancient authors, the

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in tragic plots is BURIAN 1997. On the commemorative function of festivals, rituals and myths cf. in general PARKER 2005, 375–8, with respect to tragedy GOULD 1999. Cf. PARKER 2005, 141 who understands tragedy as something that “seeks to provide an interpretation.” Yet I am rather skeptical about the usefulness of the term “Mythenkorrekturen” suggested by SEIDENSTICKER 2005, although it points to the fact, still often forgotten in scholarship, that the Greek poets, from Homer onwards, should not be simply read as just repeating wellknown myths. But are we really able, as Seidensticker seems to argue, to distinguish a distinctive “Mythenkern” from poetic “corrections of myths”? Therefore, one might prefer to stick to terms like ‘variation’ or ‘transformation,’ which seem sufficiently flexible and, above all, are less ambiguous or normative. Cf. the use of myths and other stories in historiographical contexts, as exemplified in other contributions to this volume.

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vast majority of Greek gods resent nothing more than to stay anonymous. The reason is this: to be invoked by name means, for a divinity, to be venerated, to receive his or her due honour.10 Thus, if mortals fail to invoke a god by name, this can lead to very serious consequences. This is expressed, for instance, by a sentence from the end of Euripides’ Bacchae which is addressed by Dionysos to the surviving members of the royal family (vv. 1377–8)11: καὶ  γὰρ  ἔπασχoν  δεινὰ  πρὸς  ὑµμῶν,   ἀγέέραστον  ἔχων  ὄνοµμ’  ἐν  Θήήβαις. For I was terribly treated by you, when my name went without honour at Thebes.12

Through these words, the god ultimately legitimises his revenge which led to the murder and dismemberment of the king of Thebes, Pentheus, by his mother Agaue in a state of Bacchic frenzy. The tragedy that dramatises this revenge could even be conceived, as a whole, as a tragic memory of Dionysos. In Euripides’ Bacchae, a story is enacted that shall not be forgotten, a story in which the god himself plays simultaneously the role of protagonist and of director. But if the remembering of that story is intentionally put forward here, what is the intention of that remembering? Instead of trying to answer this question here,13 I want to consider some passages in other tragedies, in which tragic characters or choruses commemorate situations in the past connected with Dionysos. These memories are of course interwoven with an always complex story and dramatic plot that I will not be able to treat exhaustively here. But I must again emphasise that the intentions we have first and foremost to deal with are consequently those of the author who composed the drama and chose to introduce those memories into his composition. And it will not come as a surprise that tragic memories of Dionysos can display different kinds of memory and are used by the tragedians to serve several intentions and purposes, as we now will see in more detail. For convenience, the material concerning tragic memories of Dionysos can be organised under three main headings: (1) place; (2) ritual; (3) role-model.

10 11

12 13

For exceptions: see HENRICHS 1991. The manuscripts attribute these lines to Dionysos, cf. DODDS 1960, ad loc. Against the traditional scholarly attribution of these verses to Kadmos, and the corresponding shift to the third person singular (see for instance DIGGLE 1994; SEAFORD 1996a), cf. also BOLLACK – BOLLACK 2005, 94 ad loc. The translations are my own (here and elsewhere). For Euripides’ particular treatment of Dionysos as an exceptional god in the Bacchae, cf. SCHLESIER 2007.

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10.1. PLACE Landscape, in ancient Greek culture in general, is a landscape of memory.14 As for tragedy, it is not rare that in the course of a play, a character or a chorus recalls something that had happened before in the landscape that forms the scene of the actual plot. With respect to Dionysos, the first example to be found in extant Greek drama occurs in the prologue of Aischylos’ Eumenides (vv. 24–6), told by the Pythia. This prologue is presented, from the first verse on, as a prayer15 (euche) to the gods of Delphi.16 Oddly enough, it does not start with the actual master of the oracle, Apollo, but with a short historical account of the goddesses who were his predecessors there, Gaia, Themis and Phoibe, and with a rather detailed story about how Apollo later arrived at Delphi and became the “fourth seer” (mantis) there. The Pythia lays stress upon the fact that these four divinities (all but one of them female) are the first to be addressed in her prayer. Then she adds other divinities also historically relevant to the cults of Delphi, the goddesses Athena and the Nymphs of the Corycian cave. Before ending her prayer with Poseidon and Zeus, however, she doesn’t fail to mention the other main cultic god of Delphi besides Apollo and hence explicitly emphasises that she will not forget Dionysos: Βρόόµμιος  ἔχει  τὸν  χῶρον,  οὐδ’  ἀµμνηµμονῶ,   ἐξ  οὗτε  Βάάκχαις  ἐστρατήήγησεν  θεόός,       λαγὼ  δίίκην  Πενθεῖ  καταρράάψας  µμόόρον·∙ Bromios, whom I forget not, possesses this place, ever since the god led the army of the Bakchai, having stitched a death for Pentheus like that of a hare.17

It should be stressed that apart from the tale of Apollo’s arrival at Delphi, this is, in the course of the Pythia’s prayer, the only narrative told about one of the series of divinities mentioned. But the story connected with Dionysos differs from the other one in an important respect. It points to a bloody event which, according to the Pythia, founded the god’s ownership of the Delphic landscape: the murder of Pentheus by the female attendants of Dionysos who were led by the god himself (here called Bromios, the noisy one). This event, which the Pythia recalls in her prayer, has certainly been dramatised by Aischylos in another (lost) tragedy, and will be the center of the plot of Euripides’ Bacchae. But what has this memory of Dionysos to do with this particular Aischylean tragedy which at first glance has otherwise nothing to do with Dionysos? Most of the commentators are puzzled by this problem and prefer to quickly pass it over. In any case, this passage should 14 15 16

Cf. ALCOCK 1996. See also COLE 2004. This prayer contains no wishes, unlike cultic prayers in general: on those cf. VERSNEL 1981. The Pythia’s narrative in Aischylos about the Delphic gods does not correspond to historical and archaeological evidence, cf. SOURVINOU-INWOOD 1991, 217–43. 17 Cf. the commentary of LLOYD-JONES 1979, much more helpful than, for instance, SOMMERSTEIN 1989.

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not be put aside as a mere Dionysiac metaphor, let alone a self-sufficient mythical digression. It should be taken more seriously, I think, than most interpretations of the play to date have done. Given the subsequent plot and its outcome, it sounds particularly strange that the Pythia does not explicitly designate Apollo to be the owner of the Delphic landscape, but only Dionysos. Is the memory of this god – which the Pythia actually summons as a verbal act of remembrance – really at odds with this tragedy? This is a question which is not yet satisfactorily answered so far,18 and I am afraid cannot be exhaustively answered in this paper either, but it shows at least how intriguing or enigmatic a tragic memory of Dionysos can turn out to be. And this seems equally true for the material classified under the following headings. 10.2. RITUAL The performance of rituals is certainly, in ancient Greek culture, one of the most indispensable individual and collective experiences. Historians of religion have extensively discussed the possible meanings and functions of those rituals. In particular, the relationship to myths has been recognised as an important aspect of rituals, and in the course of former heated debates, scholars adhered either to the theory that myths are later explanations of old rituals or that rituals commemorate an event that is also commemorated in myths.19 Yet I am not concerned with this problem here. I will rather draw attention to the fact that in some tragedies characters point to their own participation in a ritual, as an action accomplished in the past which proves relevant for the present. In the context of my topic, it is significant that such recallings concern mainly the participation in Dionysiac rituals.20 18

19 20

BIERL 1991, 120 points to a connection with the presentation of the Erinyes as mainades later in this play, but then returns to a traditional philological device and refrains from taking Eum. 24–6 seriously: “Trotzdem kann hier noch kaum von einem gezielten Einsatz der Dionysoserwähnung in dramaturgischer Hinsicht gesprochen werden. Hier scheint der Gott wirklich noch eher Schmuck des hochberühmten Handlungsorts Delphi zu sein.” This argument is consistent with the habit of many philologists to consider passages in Greek tragedies that are not easy to comprehend as something decorative or ornamental. – In fact, the later self-presentation of the Erinyes as µμαινάάδες  (v. 500) implies a conception of their male victim as an analogy to Pentheus; yet, in the Eumenides it turns out that Orestes actually could escape this tragic Dionysiac fate, mainly with the help of Apollo. It is not Orestes but the Erinyes who are the tragic protagonists in this play. On the debate cf. BURKERT 1993. Cf. now also PARKER 2005 passim. About the general complexity of the function of rituals in the context of tragic plots cf. the sensitive remarks of EASTERLING 1993 and 1997b; see further KRUMMEN 1998. SCHLESIER 2007 also stresses, against ritualistic or other ideological prejudices, the particularity of the poetic treatments. It seems to me that an attempt to look for a ‘mythical-ritual poetics’ (BIERL 2007) or to identify tragedy with ritual (CSAPO – MILLER 2007), and especially the tragic choruses with ritual choruses (all honouring Dionysos: KOWALZIG 2007), tends to avoid the need to investigate further the textual contexts invented by the poets. In this respect, the criticism

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My example comes from Euripides’ Ion. The scene is again Delphi. A childless king of Athens, Xouthos, has been told by Apollo’s oracle that he already has a son and that the first person he will meet after leaving the inner part of the sanctuary is just this son. He then actually meets Ion, the young servant of the sanctuary, who had been thought to be parentless until this very moment. Ion, however, accepts Xouthos as his true father only after having been informed by the Athenian king that he had long ago come to Delphi to participate in a Dionysiac ritual (vv. 550–4): (I) Πυθίίαν  δ’  ἦλθες  πέέτραν  πρίίν; (I) προξέένων  δ’  ἔν  του  κατέέσχες; (I) ἐθιάάσευσ’  ἢ  πῶς  τάάδ’  αὐδᾶις; (I) ἔµμφρον’  ἢ  κάάτοινον  ὄντα; (I) τοῦτ’  ἐκεῖ  νῦν  ἐσπάάρηµμεν  

(X) ἐς  φανάάς  γε Βακχίίου. (X) ὅς  µμε  Δελφίίσιν  κόόραις (X) Μαινάάσιν  γε  Βακχίίου. (X) Βακχίίου  πρὸς  ἡδοναῖς. (X) ὁ  πόότµμος  σ’  ἐξηῦρεν,         τέέκνον.21

Did you come to the Pythian rock before? Did you stay with one of the proxenoi? introduced you in the thiasos, or how do you call it? Were you in your wits or drunk with wine?

– to the torch festival of Bakchios. – who me, with Delphic girls, – with the maenads of Bakchios. – among the pleasures of Bakchios. – the fate found you out, child.

So there, as it stands, I have been sowed;

This dialogue of course clearly implies that Ion has been generated during a Bacchic ritual to the honour of the raving god Dionysos Bakchios, a ritual in which Delphic maenads participated together with young men such as Xouthos had been.22 This result seems reasonable to both Xouthos and Ion – to Xouthos, because he recalls his sexual and other pleasures at that occasion, and to Ion, who as a servant of Apollo’s Delphic sanctuary seems to be quite familiar with rituals which take place in the realm of the Delphic landscape. The trouble is, however, that Ion is in fact not the fruit of sexual intercourse during a Bacchic ritual, but in reality is the son of Apollo himself who raped his mother before she became the wife of Xouthos. This led historians of religion to much confusion. The passage could have even been used as an alleged proof for the definite absence of sex from Bacchic rituals.23 But as it stands, the passage shows rather the opposite. The en-

21

22 23

of FRIEDRICH 2000, formulated against an overwhelming Dionysiac pattern in tragedy put forward by SEAFORD 1996a, contains a valid argument. The text is DIGGLE’s 1981, with the exception of v. 554, where I keep the transmitted text (Diggle adopts Elmsley’s emendation ἐκεῖν’·∙  ἵν’). In v. 552, ἐθιάάσευσ’ is an emendation of Musgrave for the transmitted ἐθίίασέέ   σ’. In v. 553 the transmitted text is κάάτοικον – corrected by Herwagen and considered nonsense by scholarship so far; but the opposite of ἔµμφρων is not necessarily ‘drunk,’ it could also be ‘mad’: is κάάτοικος used here in the sense of ἄφρων? On this passage and the impact of “Dionysos and his rites” as “an essential part of the plot” of the Ion cf. ZEITLIN 1996, 300 and 289. Cf. my former treatment of this passage in SCHLESIER 2003, 43–6 and, associated to other passages and their interpretations by historians of religion, in SCHLESIER 1993b.

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gendering of children during such rituals is presented as very likely, independently from the fact that Ion, on his part, happens to have been engendered otherwise. The plot of Euripides’ Ion is based on the assumption that Xouthos’ remembering of such a Bacchic ritual including sexual pleasures with maenads is correct – therefore he holds until the very end to the belief that he fathered Ion. It is this confidence that allows Apollo to exclude Xouthos from the secret and to restrict knowledge of the real truth – Apollo being the father of Ion – to his real son as well as to the human and divine females involved in the god’s trick: Ion’s mother, the chorus of her servants, the Pythia and Athena. And one should add that finally it was only with the help of Dionysos that the unveiling of the secret started, bringing to light all the kinship identities of all the persons concerned – in vino veritas.24

10.3. ROLE-MODEL One of the decisive arguments, in my view, in favour of the great impact of the Dionysiac on the majority of extant Greek tragedies is the widespread use of maenads as models for tragic characters or even choruses (and not only as metaphors of behaviour). This is an argument for which I have argued at length elsewhere.25 Here I will concentrate on another aspect, the use of the paradigm of the prototypical enemy of maenadic rituals, Lykourgos, who appears already in the earliest passage in ancient Greek literature in which Dionysos is mentioned by name, that is in the sixth book of Homer’s Iliad (vv. 132–40). This figure, the son of Dryas, and his story are one of the subjects of the fourth stasimon of Sophokles’ Antigone (vv. 955–65).26 ζεύύχθη  δ’  ὀξύύχολος27  παῖς  ὁ  Δρύύαντος,   Ἠδωνῶν  βασιλεύύς,  κερτοµμίίοις  ὀργαῖς   ἐκ  Διονύύσου  πετρώώ-­‐‑   δει  κατάάφαρκτος  ἐν  δεσµμῶι.   οὕτω  τᾶς  µμανίίας  δεινὸν  ἀποστάάζει   ἀνθηρόόν  τε  µμέένος.  κεῖνος  ἐπέέγνω  µμανίίαις   ψαύύων  τὸν  θεὸν  ἐν  κερτοµμίίοις  γλώώσσαις.   παύύεσκε  µμὲν  γὰρ  ἐνθέέους   γυναῖκας  εὔιόόν  τε  πῦρ,   φιλαύύλους  τ’  ἠρέέθιζε  Μούύσας.

24 25 26

27

Cf. SCHLESIER 1994: 142–4. SCHLESIER 1993a. The parallel has been stressed by most commentators, generally without taking into account the fact that there is no ‘rocky prison’ of Lykourgos in Homer. Often, as by KAMERBEEK 1978 ad loc., Ps.-Apollodoros is given as a proof for the alleged mythical tradition of this element; the idea that Sophokles could have invented it ad hoc to fit the parallel with Antigone does not occur to him. ὀξυχόόλως codd., cf. the following note.

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Yoked was the bitterly angry child of Dryas, the king of the Edonians, in mocking wrath he was locked up by Dionysos in a rocky confinement.28 So what distils from madness is the terrible flowering fury. This man recognised the god touching madness 29 through mocking speeches. For he stopped the enthusiastic women and the fire of the cry Euoi, and irritated the Muses who love the flute.

The stasimon in which the chorus brings, as first antistrophe, this Dionysiac memory into view is located immediately after Antigone’s last words before she definitively leaves the scene for the prison cut in the rock where the death is inflicted upon her. During the course of this stasimon, the chorus evokes several stories which are considered by most scholars as parallels mainly to the fate of Antigone. I disagree, however, with the predominant interpretation which gives a consoling30 function to these parallels. I rather suggest that, at least in the case of the Lykourgos story, the chorus remembers it because Antigone herself is to be presented as another Lykourgos (who, by the way, is given here by Sophokles a rocky prison, like Antigone, in order to emphasise the identification between the two). This means that the parallel is not at all consoling but allows the chorus to present the punishment of Antigone as predetermined by the well-known example of the fate of another enemy of Dionysos. 28

29

30

As it becomes clear from my translation, I differ from the scholarly communis opinio (a recent example is BOLLACK – BOLLACK 1999) in connecting κερτοµμίίοις   ὀργαῖς not with Lykourgos, but with Dionysos, as a modal dative. (In v. 955, the manuscripts have unanimously ὀξυχόόλως, as if the bitter anger should also be connected with Dionysos rather than with Lykourgos. KAMERBEEK 1978, ad loc. authoritatively considers this term as “impossible”: “an unsuitable adverb with ζεύύχθη.”) I understand κερτοµμίίοις   γλώώσσαις (v. 962), actually attributed to Lykourgos, not as a slightly varied repetition of κερτοµμίίοις  ὀργαῖς (v. 956), as most philologists do, but I do understand κερτοµμίίοις   ὀργαῖς, mentioned in this text, oddly enough, six verses before, as accompanying Dionysos’ retaliation and sarcastically mirroring Lykourgos’ former mocking of the god (κερτοµμίίοις  γλώώσσαις). The attribution of κερτοµμίίοις  ὀργαῖς to Lykourgos seems to stem from the idea of a parallelism to Euripides’ Pentheus in the Bacchae; thus already WECKLEIN 1874, ad loc. Cf. JEBB 1906, ad loc.: κερτοµμίίοις  ὀργαῖς read as causal dative connected with ζεύύχθη, in the sense of ‘because of his mocking anger, he was yoked by Dionysos,’ as if mocking were his main crime, and not his stopping of the dancing women possessed by the god. GRIFFITH 1999, ad loc. surmises, on the basis of the common reading, that “ὀξύύχολος and ὀργαῖς may call to mind Kreon and Ant. respectively.” Cf. BOLLACK 1999, 124 about this strophe in the fourth stasimon: “la catharsis” of Lykourgos as “contre-exemple de Créon et d’Antigone.” See also below, n. 34. µμανίίαις (v. 960) is the main transmission; some codd. have the gen. sing. µμανίίας. – Another reading of the whole sentence has been suggested to me by Jean Bollack in oral discussion: “This man recognised the god touching him through his own madness in mocking speeches.” Some recent examples: BIERL 1991, 65 and GOULD 1999, 111.

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Yet in which respect could Antigone herself be considered as an enemy of Dionysos?31 The answer, usually not taken into consideration in scholarship, seems to me to have been given from the play’s very beginning. In the parodos (vv. 150–4), the chorus of the Theban elders expresses their wish that now, after the end of the war of the Seven against Thebes, forgetfulness could be installed. And they immediately add that this should be brought about by nightly ritual dances especially in honour of the earth-shaking Dionysos Bakchios who shall be the ruler.32 Yet, as the following events show, Antigone’s stubborn will to pay due memory to her brother and her attempts to bury him made it impossible for these Bacchic rituals to be actually performed (and therefore impossible to assure the forgetfulness connected with them).33 Thus the chorus, by recalling the fate of Lykourgos, can interpret Antigone’s punishment as something fulfilled under Dionysiac auspices. 10.4. CONCLUSION I could have chosen, from the bulk of extant Greek tragedies, a series of other examples for my three headings, and I could have added other headings that equally help to classify the way the tragedians explored Dionysiac memories – for instance, by contrasting the memory of Dionysiac rituals with other comparable, but completely different actions that take place on stage. Here I will now restrict my31

32

33

Most of the time, scholars found this question senseless and therefore did not try to answer it. Therefore they looked for another candidate for the ‘parallel case’ of Lykourgos and find him in Kreon; see already BELLERMANN – WOLFF 1913, ad loc., and especially WINNINGTONINGRAM 1980, 100 who speaks of “a puzzling lack of relevance to Antigone.” This view, anticipated by former commentators, has been widely adopted by later scholars, for instance SEGAL 1981, 182, if they do not take their cue from anti-intellectual generalising prejudices, like DES BOUVRIE 1990, 187: “I think this kind of ode demonstrates the emotional function of tragic choruses, creating an excited atmosphere, rather than encouraging intellectual reasoning.” Another consequence of the impasse provided by an exclusive parallelism between Lykourgos and Kreon is the one of BIERL 1991, 65. He argues: if Kreon corresponds to Lykourgos, than Antigone must evidently correspond to the maenads persecuted by him, notwithstanding of the lack of any basis for this view in the text of this tragedy. Vv. 150–4: ἐκ   µμὲν   δὴ   πολέέµμων   /   τῶν   νῦν   θέέσθε   λησµμοσύύναν,   /   θεῶν   δὲ   ναοὺς   χοροῖς  /  παννύύχοις  πάάντας  ἐπέέλ-­‐‑/θωµμεν,  ὁ  Θήήβας  δ’  ἐλελίί-­‐‑/χθων  Βάάκχιος  ἄρχοι. – Unfortunately, the issue of choral self-referentiality (brought about by HENRICHS 1994/5 and 1996) has encouraged ‘meta-theatrical’ readings (like the one of SOURVINOU-INWOOD 2003, 51) which use to refrain from analysing this ode (and many others) in the context of the composition of the actual tragic plot. Generally about the problem of the representative function of the tragic chorus for the community cf. the debate between GOULD 1996 and GOLDHILL 1996. One could argue that this goes back to Kreon’s prohibition to bury Polyneikes; indirectly, Kreon would therefore follow Lykourgos’ model. But as Sophokles makes clear with the help of the attitude of Ismene, Antigone’s action is by no means the only way to react to Kreon’s prohibition.

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self to some provisional concluding remarks which may sketch a way for further investigations. First, the examples of tragic memories of Dionysos show, in my view, that the Dionysiac seems not to be a marginal or digressive feature, even in tragedies that at first glance have nothing to do with Dionysos. Even such non-Dionysiac tragic characters like Orestes, Ion or Antigone are placed, with the help of Dionysiac memories, under the auspices of Dionysos. This result is not invalidated by the fact that these memories belong to different registers and amount, from a quantitative point of view, only to a few lines of the whole drama. Second, the concrete relationship of these Dionysiac memories to the plot of the respective play is not immediately clear from the surface. In some cases (as particularly in Aischylos’ Eumenides) it seems like a riddle that is not easy to solve. In other cases (as in Sophokles’ Antigone) it demands a deeper investigation of the complex arrangement of the particular plot (not of the myth, as I want to stress again). In a further category of cases (as in Euripides’ Ion) it poses problems concerning the cultural context involved, not the least of them being the methodological problem of reconstructing rituals from poetic texts. Third, the Dionysiac memories point to possible conflicts between different divine powers or religious tendencies, conflicts that are not necessarily resolved or even unambiguously expressed during the plot of the respective tragedy. Yet this shows clearly, once again, that, according to the tragedians, Dionysos is not unconcerned with the outcome of tragic events. He could have an important and sometimes decisive part in them, even when other gods, like in my examples mainly Apollo, seem to be the dominant divine agents, or even when humans, like Orestes or Antigone, situate themselves in a realm which is completely removed from the Dionysiac sphere. Finally, commemorating Dionysiac features in tragedies is an occasion, intentionally chosen and poetically elaborated by the tragedians, to further think about, to think with, and above all, to problematise, in the framework of a Dionysiac perspective, common assumptions about human experiences connected to the divine sphere – assumptions to be found in stories from the past, in rituals performed according to ancestral custom, in decisions made or in information received.34 Such intention linked to dramatised histories precludes the belief in doc-

34

This is to say that I consider the main focus of former discussions about the issue “Everything to do with Dionysos?” (see especially FRIEDRICH 1996 and 2000; SEAFORD 1996b and now 2006) as misleading. Though I am not convinced that there is in tragedy such a Dionysiac pattern as Seaford contends (or the Cambridge Ritualists before him), I would argue that, taking into account the transformation of the traditional and contemporary cultural context by tragic texts, a close reading is able to discover something much less uniform: namely, that a whole range of Dionysiac elements are a favourite feature of the tragic poets, by which they display their intellectual and artistic force in particular ways. And this should not at all be dismissed in principle as something allegedly confined to the theme of destructive madness (and therefore a kind of fashionable Nietzscheanism), as PARKER 2005, 139–40 seems to pre-

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trines about religious or social order, and it also precludes the belief in a clear-cut separation between past and present. It rather has the privilege to open up, as it were, to never-ending reflections (even in much later cultures as our own). For instance, as I wanted to emphasise here, it encourages reflections about the manifold and complex ways in which memories of Dionysos of different kinds could have been used as different performative operators and actualised for different purposes in a particular culture and in a particular religious framework. In fifth-century Athens, this enactment of Dionysiac commemoration took place with the intention to honour this god and to overcome, with respect to tragic texts and performances, the distinction between Dionysos’ past and present, during one of his main festivals and in the theatre located in his sanctuary. Apparently, the problematic nature of these Dionysiac memories or the complications of their intelligibility were not an impediment for doing that. On the contrary.35

35

suppose, or to serve an affirmative political stand, as Seaford would have it. See also SCHLESIER 2007. I am most grateful for the stimulating suggestions received during the discussions after lectures presenting a former version of this paper: first in September 2006 during the Freiburg conference on ‘Intentional History,’ then in Spring 2007 in the Classics seminars of Heinrich von Staden at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, of Sarah Johnston at Columbus, of Susan Cole at Buffalo, and finally, invited by the Alexander Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, at McGill University in Montreal.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY ALCOCK, S. E. 1996: Landscapes of memory and the authority of Pausanias, in J. Bingen (ed.) Pausanias historien [= Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 41], Vandœuvres-Genève, 241–67. ANDERSON, M. J. 2005: Myth, in GREGORY 2005, 121–35. BELLERMANN, L. – WOLFF, G. 1913: (eds.) Sophokles Antigone, für dem Schulgebrauch erklärt von G. Wolff, Siebente Auflage bearbeitet von L. Bellermann, Leipzig – Berlin. BIERL, A. F. H. 1991: Dionysos und die griechische Tragödie. Politische und ‘metatheatralische’ Aspekte im Text [= Classica Monacensia 1], Tübingen. 2007: Literatur und Religion als Rito– und Mythopoetik. Überblicksartikel zu einem neuen Ansatz in der Klassischen Philologie, in BIERL – LÄMMLE – WESSELMANN 2007, 1–76. BIERL, A. F. H. – LÄMMLE, R. – WESSELMANN, K. 2007: (eds.) Literatur und Religion 1. Wege zu einer mythisch-rituellen Poetik bei den Griechen [= MythosEikonPoiesis 1/1], Berlin – New York. BOLLACK, J. 1999: La mort d’Antigone. La tragédie de Créon, Paris. BOLLACK, J. – BOLLACK, M. 1999: Sophocle Antigone, traduit par J. et M. Bollack, Paris. 2005: Euripide Les Bacchantes, traduit par J. et M. Bollack, Paris. BURIAN, P. 1997: Myth into muthos: the shaping of tragic plot, in EASTERLING 1997a, 178–208. BURKERT, W. 1993: Mythos – Begriff, Struktur, Funktionen, in F. Graf (ed.) Mythos in mythenloser Gesellschaft. Das Paradigma Roms [= Colloquium Rauricum 3], Stuttgart – Leipzig, 9–24. COLE, S. G. 2004: Landscapes, Gender, and Ritual Space. The Ancient Greek Experience, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London. CSAPO, E. – MILLER, M. C. 2007: (eds.) The Origins of Theater in Ancient Greece and Beyond. From Ritual to Drama, Cambridge. DES BOUVRIE, S. 1990: Women in Greek Tragedy. An Anthropological Approach [= Symbolae Osloenses Suppl. 27], Oslo. DIGGLE, J. 1981: (ed.) Euripidis Fabulae, Tomus II, Oxford. 1994: (ed.) Euripidis Fabulae, Tomus III, Oxford. DODDS, E. R. 1960: (ed.) Euripides Bacchae, second edition, Oxford. EASTERLING, P. E. 1993: Tragedy and ritual, in R. Scodel (ed.) Theater and Society in the Classical World, Ann Arbor, 7–23. 1997a: (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Greek Tragedy, Cambridge. 1997b: A show for Dionysus, in EASTERLING 1997a, 36–53. FRIEDRICH, R. 1996: Everything to do with Dionysus? Ritualism, the Dionysiac, and the tragic, in SILK 1996, 257–83. 2000: Dionysos among the dons: the new ritualism in Richard Seaford’s commentary on the Bacchae, Arion, Third Series, 7.3, 115–52.

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GOLDHILL, S. 1990: The Great Dionysia and civic ideology, in J. J. Winkler and F. I. Zeitlin (eds.) Nothing to Do with Dionysos? Athenian Drama in Its Social Context, Princeton, NJ, 97–129. 1996: Collectivity and otherness – the authority of the tragic chorus: response to Gould, in SILK 1996, 244–56. GOULD, J. 1996: Tragedy and collective experience, in SILK 1996, 217–43. 1999: Myth, memory, and the chorus: ‘tragic rationality,’ in R. Buxton (ed.) From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought, Oxford, 107–16. GREGORY, J. 2005: (ed.) A Companion to Greek Tragedy, Oxford. GRIFFITH, M. 1999: (ed.) Sophocles, Antigone, Cambridge. HENRICHS, A. 1991: Namenlosigkeit und Euphemismus: Zur Ambivalenz der chthonischen Mächte im attischen Drama, in H. Hofmann and A. Harder (eds.) Fragmenta Dramatica. Beiträge zur Interpretation der griechischen Tragikerfragmente und ihrer Wirkungsgeschichte, Göttingen, 161– 201. 1994/5: ‘Why should I dance?’: choral self-referentiality in Greek tragedy, Arion, Third Series, 3.1, 56–111. 1996: ‘Warum soll ich denn tanzen?’ Dionysisches im Chor der griechischen Tragödie, Stuttgart – Leipzig. KAMERBEEK, J. C. 1978: The Plays of Sophocles. Commentaries, Part III: The Antigone, Leiden. KOWALZIG, B. 2007: ‘And now all the world shall dance!’ (Eur. Bacch. 114): Dionysus’ choroi between drama and ritual, in CSAPO – MILLER 2007, 221–51. KRUMMEN, E. 1998: Ritual und Katastrophe. Rituelle Handlung und Bildersprache bei Sophokles und Euripides, in F. Graf (ed.) Ansichten griechischer Rituale. Geburtstags-Symposium für Walter Burkert, Stuttgart – Leipzig, 296–325. JEBB, R. 1906: (ed.) Sophocles. The Plays and Fragments, Part III: The Antigone, Cambridge. LLOYD-JONES, H. 1979: Aeschylus: Oresteia. Eumenides (‘The Kindly Ones’), translated with notes by H. Lloyd-Jones, London. PARKER, R. 2005: Polytheism and Society in Athens, Oxford. SCHLESIER, R. 1993a: Mixtures of masks: maenads as tragic models, in T. H. Carpenter and C. A. Faraone (eds.) Masks of Dionysus, Ithaca, NY – London, 89–114. 1993b: Mischungen von Bakche und Bakchos. Zur Erotik der Mänaden in der antiken griechischen Tradition, in H. A. Glaser (ed.) Annäherungsversuche. Zur Geschichte und Ästhetik des Erotischen in der Literatur, Bern – Stuttgart – Wien, 7–30. 1994: Pathos und Wahrheit. Zur Rivalität zwischen Tragödie und Philosophie, in J. Huber and A. M. Müller (eds.) ‘Kultur’ und ‘Gemeinsinn’ [= Interventionen 3], Basel – Frankfurt am Main, 127–48. 2003: Was ist Interpretation in den Kulturwissenschaften?, Querelles 8, 29–49. 2007: Der göttliche Sohn einer menschlichen Mutter. Aspekte des Dionysos in der antiken griechischen Tragödie, in BIERL – LÄMMLE – WESSELMANN 2007, 303–34. SCULLION, S. 2002: ‘Nothing to do with Dionysus’: tragedy misconceived as ritual, CQ 52, 102–37.

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2005: Tragedy and religion: the problem of origins, in GREGORY 2005, 23–37. SEAFORD, R. 1996a: (ed.) Euripides Bacchae, Warminster. 1996b: Something to do with Dionysus – tragedy and the Dionysiac: response to Friedrich, in SILK 1996, 284–94. 2006: Dionysos, London – New York. SEGAL, C. 1981: Tragedy and Civilization. An Interpretion of Sophocles, Cambridge, MA – London. SEIDENSTICKER, B. 2005: Mythenkorrekturen in der griechischen Tragödie, in M. Vöhler and B. Seidensticker (eds.) Mythenkorrekturen. Zu einer paradoxalen Form der Mythenrezeption [= Spektrum Literaturwissenschaft/spectrum Literature 3], Berlin – New York, 37–50. SILK, M. S. 1996: (ed.) Tragedy and the Tragic. Greek Theatre and Beyond, Oxford. SOMMERSTEIN, A. H. 1989: (ed.) Aeschylus Eumenides, Cambridge. SOURVINOU-INWOOD, C. 1991: ‘Reading’ Greek Culture: Texts and Images, Rituals and Myths, Oxford. 2003: Tragedy and Athenian Religion, Lanham – Oxford. VERSNEL, H. S. 1981: Religious mentality in ancient prayer, in H. S. Versnel (ed.) Faith, Hope and Worship. Aspects of Religious Mentality in the Ancient World, Leiden, 1–64. WECKLEIN, N. 1874: (ed.) Ausgewählte Tragödien des Sophokles, zum Schulgebrauche mit erklärenden Anmerkungen versehen von N. Wecklein, Bd. 1: Antigone, Munich. WINNINGTON-INGRAM, R. P. 1980: Sophocles: An Interpretation, Cambridge. ZEITLIN, F. I. 1996: Mysteries of identity and designs of the self in Euripides’ Ion, in F. I. Zeitlin, Playing the Other. Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature, Chicago – London, 285–338.

11. CONNECTING WITH THE PAST IN LYKOURGAN ATHENS: AN EPIGRAPHICAL PERSPECTIVE Stephen Lambert The story a historian would tell about the relationship of Lykourgan Athens to the past might run along the following lines.1 Situation: crisis of confidence undermined by failure to stem the Macedonian tide at Chaironeia; reaction: paideutic connection to Athens’ past (that is, a process of intense engagement with the past with a view to improving the present); agents: a group of “conservative” politicians (by ‘conservative’ I mean in this context men with a strong sense of the past and of its potential for informing the present), Lykourgos the most prominent. One result: impetus given to the construction in the western mind of classical Athens as creator of models of behaviour to be emulated as morally exemplary and cultural artefacts to be revered as ‘classics.’ Examples: the heroisation of Perikles2 and the canonisation of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides.3 It has been recognised that the development of a documentary culture has a significant contribution to make to this story. ‘Documents’ of the past were elaborated, manufactured and deployed to serve contemporary purposes, often 1

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I am very grateful to those who contributed to the discussion in Freiburg and particularly to Josine Blok, Nick Fisher, Nino Luraghi and Robin Osborne for comments on drafts. By ‘Lykourgan Athens’ I mean the period between the establishment of the Macedonian hegemony at the battle of Chaironeia in 338 and the failure of the Athenian-led rebellion against Macedon after Alexander’s death (the Lamian War, 323–2). At this time Athens was largely free in the conduct of its domestic affairs, but constrained in its foreign policy (on the constraints from an epigraphical perspective see LAMBERT 2009. The most influential politicians of the period were Lykourgos (until his death in 325) and Demades, who pursued a policy of more active co-operation with the Macedonians. Recent synoptic accounts include: TRACY 1995, 1–51; HABICHT 1997, 6–35; HUMPHREYS 2004. On Demades see BRUN 2000. Lycurg. F 9.2, see further below. Admiration for Perikles was not of course invented by Lykourgos, but Lykourgos’ Perikles is much closer to the Perikles of later tradition (e.g. Plutarch’s Life, note especially the emphasis on the building programme) than the Perikles of Thucydides. Paus. 1.21, 1–3; [Plut.] Lyc. 841f. The emphasis on theatrical culture is reflected in the emergence at this time of a new genre of inscribed decrees: those honouring foreign actors and other foreign contributors to the theatrical life of the city. See LAMBERT 2008. On paideusis as a policy theme at this period see HUMPHREYS 2004, 120–1, rightly emphasising in this context the major reform of the ephebate introduced by Epikrates in or shortly before 334/3. On this reform see also RHODES – OSBORNE 2007, 453; LAMBERT 2002, 122–3. A concern with paideusis (as with many of the phenomena discussed in this paper) was not, of course, wholly new after 338. FISHER 2001, 53–66, for example, persuasively identifies a general anxiety about the moral well-being of the citizens, and the young in particular, as an important factor in the success of Aeschines’ speech Against Timarchos, delivered in 346/5, and as foreshadowing ‘Lykourgan’ policy preoccupations.

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paideutic, a practice which can probably be traced back at least to the constitutional upheavals and associated revision/recreation of the ‘Solonian’ corpus of law at the end of the fifth century, but which reaches a sort of climax in the numerous stories about the past contained in Lykourgos’ speech Against Leokrates, some of them ‘documented’ and all of them designed to impress on the jury, by examples taken from ‘history,’ the rightness of a type of courageous patriotic behaviour and the wrongness of its converse in the context of a speech aiming at the conviction of a man alleged to have fled Attica in the aftermath of the Athenian defeat at Chaironeia.4 Inscriptions have not been neglected in the scholarly literature on this topic. A good example is Rhodes – Osborne 2007, no. 88, an inscription of about this period from the Attic deme Acharnai recording what purports to be the “ancestral oath of the ephebes” and “the oath which the Athenians swore when they were about to fight against the barbarians” (i.e., at Plataia). These are characteristic examples of paideutic deployment of ‘documents.’ The resurrection, elaboration and inscribing of the oath of Plataia in particular demonstrates a remarkable, and quite typical, passion for connecting not just with a generalised past, but with a specific glorious moment; and the commentary of Rhodes – Osborne is full and informative. Undoubtedly much of the original stimulus for anthologising this inscription, however – it was inherited by Rhodes – Osborne from its predecessor volume, Tod 19475 – was that these are both “documents” which also turn up in our literary sources, including Lykourgos’ speech against Leokrates,6 and the focus of attention has therefore been on addressing the questions this raises about the relationship of the literary and epigraphical versions of the texts. In this paper I should like to shift the perspective somewhat: to consider what light inscriptions can cast in their own right on the city’s process of ‘past-re-creation,’ focusing on the inscribed laws and decrees of the Athenian state (i.e., decrees passed by the council and/or assembly and laws passed by the nomothetai) of which, in recent years, I have been preparing a new edition for Inscriptiones Graecae (IG II3 fascicle 2).7 Among other things this will entail reflection on the significance of the physical context in which the inscriptions were placed: on their monumental intentionality. I take as my starting point the inscribed state decree which is, I think, the most eloquent about Lykourgan deployment of the past, IG II2 403 = Lambert 2005, no. 3: .... of the proedroi – of Kerameis was putting to the vote. – son of – of Lakiadai proposed: concerning the report of those who were elected by the People to oversee the repair of the statue of Athena Nike which the Athenians dedicated from the Ambrakiots and (10) the army in Olpai and those who rose against the People of Corcyra and from Anaktorion, the Council

4 5 6 7

Lycurg. 1, delivered in 331/0. Cf. DAVIES 1996. TOD 1947 no. 204. Lycurg. 1.76–8 and 80–2. LAMBERT 2004, 2005, 2006 and 2007a and b contain groundwork for this edition.

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shall decide: ... to bring them before the People .... at the next Assembly and (15) to place this matter on the agenda and to put the opinion of the Council before the People that it seems good to the Council, concerning the sacrifice to the goddess, that the priestess of Athena sacrifice a propitiatory sacrifice (aresterion) on behalf of the People, since the exegete (20) advises it ... money ... of the People shall give ... since the statue-maker ... made [the base?] higher ... (25) .... (30) praise the statue-maker – of Boeotia because ....

Script and orthography suggest the 40s, 30s or 20s of the fourth century, and as we shall see, the measure is definitely ‘Lykourgan’ in character. The proposer, interestingly, is not Lykourgos himself (who was a demesman of Boutadai), but an unidentifiable man from Lakiadai.8 The decree concerns the repair of a statue of Athena Nike, a subject about which a committee of the assembly has made a report to the council. The council in turn has made a proposal to the assembly, which the assembly has agreed. The statue was originally dedicated from spoils of campaigns in western Greece during the Peloponnesian War: from Demosthenes’ victory over a Peloponnesian-Ambrakiot army at Olpai in the winter of 426/5 and from the defeat, in the following summer, of Corcyraean exiles on Mt. Istone by Sophokles and Eurymedon and a successful campaign in alliance with the Akarnanians against Anaktorion. The campaigns are described in detail by Thucydides in books 3 and 4,9 but, while quite possible, it is uncertain whether we should be right to infer a knowledge of Thucydides on the part of the drafter of this decree. Thucydides does not refer to our statue in his account and the wording in ll. 8–12 might have been copied from the original statue base. The first recommendation of the committee seems to have concerned a sacrifice: having consulted an exegete it is recommended that the priestess of Athena10 sacrifice an aresterion, a propitiatory sacrifice following work on sacred property.11 Then we hear something about money – presumably financial provision was made for the sacrifice. The text then becomes largely illegible, but there is enough to see that the statuemaker had apparently made the statue higher (perhaps by increasing the size of

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“Although we tend to speak of the period as ‘the Lycurgan age,’ its reforms were carried through by the energetic cooperation of an appreciable segment of the upper class,” HUMPHREYS 2004, 84. We are not, however, in Augustan Rome, but in fourth-century Athens – Athens of the mature democracy – and it was not a matter of one man leading and the rest of the “upper class” following, but rather a collective movement in which many participated. Cf. BRUN 2005; RHODES forthcoming. It is characteristic of the period that the most prominent Athenian in the epigraphical record, after Lykourgos and Demades, was Phanodemos of Thymaitadai, a man who engaged intensely with the past (author of an Atthis, FGrHist 325) and with religion (e.g., legislator for the Amphiaraia festival, IG VII 4253 = LAMBERT 2004 no. 16, proposer of the only Athenian inscribed decree honouring a divine figure, Amphiaraos, IG VII 4252 = LAMBERT 2004, 107). Cf. LAMBERT 2004, 87. Thuc. 3.85, 106–12 and 114; 4.2–3, 46 and 49. Presumably the priestess of Athena Nike, who was selected by lot from all Athenian women (IG I3 35, 36 and 1330, cf. PARKER 1996, 125–6), rather than the priestess of Athena Polias, who was appointed from the genos Eteoboutadai (Aeschin. 2.147, cf. PARKER 1996, 290–3). Cf. Hesych. s.v. aresasthai; IG II2 204, 58; 1672, 302–3.

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the base) and in ll. 30–1 we see that he was praised for his work and that he was a Boiotian. The project recorded by this inscription undoubtedly resonates with one of Lykourgos’ proud achievements, the replacement of the golden Nikai on the acropolis which had been melted down for coin towards the end of the Peloponnesian War, in 406/5.12 This statue had clearly not been melted down and was perhaps in bronze.13 Pausanias apparently saw another bronze Nike on the acropolis, dedicated to commemorate the Sphakteria campaign of 425.14 It would seem reasonable to suppose that the ‘raising’ of our bronze Nike was a prelude to the more ambitious re-creation of the golden ones, but we cannot date either action precisely. This decree is typical of the way that Lykourgan Athens deployed the past: reaching back at a time of national crisis to connect with a period when the Athenian empire was at its strongest; ‘raising’ literally and doubtless symbolically the goddess of Athena Victory at a time of defeat. If the time-to-connect-with is significant, so is the location of the connection. The cult of Athena Nike was on the acropolis, the bronze statue of Athena Nike to which our inscription refers was on the acropolis and the inscription itself was found on the acropolis and no doubt, like most inscriptions found there, it was also set up there (one imagines next to the repaired statue, though we can not be certain of that). Now one certainly thinks of the Lykourgan period as one of vigorous building activity, much of it associated with institutions characteristic of the fifth century democracy and empire – the theatre of Dionysos, the panathenaic stadium, the Pnyx, the Lyceum, naval buildings in the Piraeus, the temple of Apollo Patroos in the agora,15 and so on – but the acropolis itself does not im-

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[Plut.] Lyc. 852b, cf. Paus. 1.29, 16 (Lykourgos responsible for golden Nikai and kosmos for 100 maidens); IG II2 1493 with LAMBERT 2005, 138–9. One might expect andriantopoios, the term used here, to refer to the maker of a human statue. Agalmatoipoios is normal for a statue of a deity. However, andriantopoios seems also to be used for a worker in metal rather than stone at Arist. Eth. Nic. 1141a 10-11. Paus. 4.36, 6. Whether this Nike and ours were contemporary in origin with the foundation of the temple of Athena Nike is uncertain. IG I3 35 provided for the temple and its priestess. It has conventionally been dated to the 440s but MATTINGLY 2000 and GILL 2001 (cf. SEG L 36) make a case for the 420s, shortly before IG I3 36, of 424/3, which makes detailed provision for the priestess’ salary. The balance of argument now perhaps favours the 420s, but it is doubtful whether our statue is strictly relevant to this debate. It seems that a number of metallic Nikai were dedicated during the Archidamian War; but they were not necessarily connected directly with the foundation of the temple. In general on the sanctuary of Athena Nike see MARK 1993; most recently on the date of IG I3 35, LOUGOVAYA-AST 2006 (favouring the 440s). This, of course, is an instance of monumental connectivity with Athens’ more distant past, celebrating Apollo as father of Ion. Apparently associated with this was the “gilding of the altar of Apollo in the agora” undertaken by Neoptolemos of Melite, for which he was rewarded, on Lykourgos’ proposal, with a statue ([Plut.] Lyc. 843f). Significantly in our context, Neoptolemos was also responsible for restoring the temple of Artemis Aristoboule in Melite

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mediately come to mind as a focus of attention and indeed there seems to be no record of major building works there at this period.16 I wish to suggest, however, that it is, or should be, central to any account of Lykourgan past-connectivity.17 It is mentioned just once by Lykourgos in his surviving speech: fairly near the beginning he presents us with a vivid image of Leokrates fleeing Attica, slaves and mistress in tow, in a boat from the Piraeus. Lykourgos tells us that, as Leokrates slipped out, he “felt no fear as he saw in the distance the acropolis and the temple of Zeus Soter and Athena Soteira which he was betraying.”18 The cult of Zeus Soter and Athena Soteira was one of the most popular in Attica in the Lykourgan period and their sanctuary in the Piraeus the thing most worth seeing in the port in Pausanias’ day.19 Their mention here connects with the soteriological theme which runs through the speech: Leokrates has failed in his duty to save his country; the jury should feel no obligation to save him from the executioner. He has failed to “save” Zeus Soter and Athena Soteira; they can not be expected to save him. But Leokrates has also failed to save the acropolis; and the polis can not be expected to save him. Acropolis = polis. At one level the acropolis was a suitable focus for Lykourgan pastconnectivity because it was the location of the buildings which, more than any other, expressed the imperial self-confidence of fifth-century Athens: Parthenon and Propylaia, Erechtheum and temple of Athena Nike. It was also a place with which Lykourgos himself had a special relationship as member of the Eteoboutadai, the genos which traced its descent from Erechtheus and Boutes and supplied the two most important acropolis priesthoods: the priestess of Athena Polias and the priest of Poseidon Erechtheus. It is not clear whether Lykourgos held the latter priesthood in person, but two of his sons certainly did.20 Erechtheus was the UrAthenian who, in sacrificing his daughter for the good of the city (in myths located on or around the acropolis), provided a model of Athenian patriotic behaviour. Significantly, the story features as one of the examples of such behaviour recounted by Lykourgos in his speech against Leokrates;21 and also significantly, among the few new ‘Lykourgan’ monuments on the acropolis were thrones for the priests of Boutes and Hephaistos, both perhaps also Eteoboutad priesthoods.22

16 17

18 19 20 21 22

founded by Themistokles to commemorate the “good counsel” which won the Persian Wars. See PARKER 1996, 155 and 245–6. HUMPHREYS 2004, 87 and 120–1. See also HINTZEN-BOHLEN 1997. I sketch here an outline approach to “interpreting” the acropolis in Lykourgan Athens. A much fuller account is desirable. For a full account of the acropolis in the period after the death of Alexander see VON DEN HOFF 2003. The acropolis was at the centre of things, but past-connectivity was of course also expressed epigraphically in other locations. The Acharnai stele, RHODES – OSBORNE no. 88, mentioned above, is a good example. Lycurg. 1.17. Paus. 1.1, 3. Cf. PARKER 1996, 238–41; 2005, 466–7. See [Plut.] Lyc. 843e–f (misleadingly translated in the Loeb). Cf. LAMBERT forthcoming. Lyk. 1.98–101. In addition “the priestess of Athena” (apparently Polias) was the subject of a lost speech of Lykourgos (Lycurg. F 6). Thrones: IG II2 4982 (Hephaistos), 5166 (Boutes). Cf. PATON 1927,

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As we can see from the reference to Erechtheus and indeed several other myth-historical paideutic anecdotes in Lykourgos’ speech, variously located in space and time,23 ‘classical’ Athens was by no means the only time-and-place-tobe-connected-with in Lykourgan ideology, but there is confirmation that the period of construction of the major monuments of the acropolis was a focus of attention in a fragment of the speech in which he argued against the proposal to honour his contemporary and political rival, Demades. The context seems to have been a comparison of the modest awards and magnificent achievements of Perikles with the undeserving performance and exaggerated honours claimed by Demades: Perikles, after capturing Samos and Euboea and Aegina, building the Propylaia, the Odeion and the Hekatompedon [all on or around the acropolis], and depositing 10,000 talents of gold 24 on the acropolis, was crowned with an olive wreath.

I should like to reflect a little more on how inscriptions fit into this picture. Inscribed Athenian decrees of this period often have an explicit intentionality: the most common type of decree is honorific and, from the mid-fourth century onwards, they frequently contain wording which expresses the thought: “these honours are awarded and this decree is inscribed to encourage the honorand to continue to behave in ways which favour the city and to encourage others to emulate him in the hope of future honours.” I have briefly treated this type of epigraphic intentionality elsewhere;25 and Nino Luraghi discusses it more fully in his paper in this volume. My interest here is in a somewhat different aspect of epigraphic intentionality, more strongly physical and more specifically located on the acropolis. My suggestion is that inscriptions provide evidence for attention being paid to the [physical] acropolis by the [abstract] polis where, implicitly or explicitly, the paideutic quality of the acropolis’ past seems to be a focus of attention. This is most obvious in the Athena Nike inscription that I have already discussed, but one can identify it in other inscriptions too. I give three further examples. The first does not seem to carry an explicit paideutic intention, but it does show us the acropolis as an explicit focus of the city’s attention at this period. IG II2 333 is our only Attic inscription inscribed with two laws; the second, certainly proposed by Lykourgos, relates to exetasmos, special examinations of valuable objects in temples; the first is more fragmentary. Probably it was also proposed by Lykourgos, but we cannot be certain. The surviving text relates to dedications and

23 24 25

484 with fig. 206; BROMMER 1978, 109 and 251 no. 1 with Taf. 40, 3; HUMPHREYS 2004, 119. Eteoboutad priests: see LAMBERT forthcoming. The gene, with their connotations of “straight descent” from Ur-Athenians (see e.g., Ath. Pol. F 3 and on Hesychius’ description genos ithagenon, commonly applied to his entries for Attic gene, PARKER 1996, 284–5) embodied precisely the sort of connectivity with the past which was emphasised in Lykourgan culture and it is unsurprising that they were a focus of attention at this period (cf. HUMPHREYS 2004, 99–100). It was not only Athens that provided the exempla. On Sparta in Lykourgan ideology see FISHER 2007. Lycurg. F 9.2. LAMBERT 2006, 116–17.

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movement of objects, including processional vessels, on or down from the acropolis, with penalties for breaches imposed on public slaves. It was character-istic of Lykourgan culture that it was focused not only on the macro-scale of things, but on the micro-level as well: not only on big things like temples, but on the smaller objects associated with them.26 The second inscription that I want to mention contains, I think, a clearer acropolis-related paideutic subtext: Rhodes – Osborne no. 81, a law and decree about the Little Panathenaia.27 Again, though not proposed by Lykourgos himself (the proposer was probably the minor politician Aristonikos of Marathon28) it is definitely Lykourgan in character and date. It provides for leasing of land referred to as “New” (Nea) and for the application of the resulting funds for the enhancement of the programme of sacrifices at the festival. It goes without saying that the Panathenaia is the prime festival of Athenianness and entirely appropriate as a focus of attention at a period of civic regeneration. In addition to this festival measure the new panathenaic stadium was one of the major Lykourgan construction projects.29 It is also clear enough that the festival had historic paideutic value, both in the sense that the festival itself had a history associating it with moments of Athenian glory (e.g., the tyrannicide in the sixth century,30 focus for imperial celebration in the fifth31) which were doubtless more or less present to the mind of participants in the 30s and 20s of the fourth century, and in the sense that festival mythology emphasising Athenian-ness – whether to do with Erichthonius and autochthony or Theseus and synoecism –

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Note for example the dermatikon accounts, which detail receipts from the sale of skins of animals from state sacrifices from 334/3–331/0, IG II2 1496; accounts of the making of new processional vessels and golden Nikai, IG II2 1493; LAMBERT 2005, 138–9; accounts of bronze statues and other objects on the acropolis (including bronze stelai), perhaps to be melted down in the context of a kathairesis, IG II2 1498–1501a, HARRIS 1992. All these accounts were set up on the acropolis. = LAMBERT 2005 no. 7. The ‘Little Panathenaia’ was the elements of the festival which recurred every year, in contrast to the ‘Great Panathenaia,’ the enhancements (competitions, etc.) which occurred every four years. See RHODES – OSBORNE 2007, 400. IG II2 351 = RHODES – OSBORNE no. 94 = LAMBERT 2006 no. 42, 15–20; [Plut.] Lyc. 841d. See RHODES – OSBORNE’s note and LAMBERT 2008. Thuc. 6.56–8, another heroic deed referred to by Lykourgos (1.51). It finds an echo in the law of 337/6 condoning the murder of anyone who sought to overthrow the democracy and replace it with a tyranny, RHODES – OSBORNE no. 79 = LAMBERT 2007b no. 14. This law was not set up on the acropolis (one copy was placed in the assembly and one at the entrance to the council-chamber of the Areopagos), but it is replete with points of past-connectivity, with its anxieties about the Areopagos and echoes of earlier Athenian anti-tyranny laws. See RHODES – OSBORNE’s note. E.g., Athenian allies were required to send a “cow and a panoply” and escort them in the procession. IG I3 34, 41–2; 71, 56–8; 46, 15–17; Schol. Ar. Nub. 386; PARKER 1996, 142 and 2005, 254.

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was recalled in the festival rituals.32 But the point I particularly want to emphasise in this context – and it is one that we can fail to register if we conceptualise the construction of the panathenaic stadium outside the city as at the centre of panathenaic attention in the Lykourgan period – is that again the prime focus of these regulations for the Little Panathenaia is the acropolis. Most of the cattle bought with the new money raised from the Nea are to be sacrificed to Athena Polias, the primary goddess of the acropolis, except, the text carefully specifies, for “one, to be selected from the most beautiful of the cows, to be sacrificed to Athena Nike.”33 The resonance with the remaking of the golden Nikai melted down in the Peloponnesian War and the repair of the bronze Nike dedicated in the Peloponnesian War and commemorated in IG II2 403 seems quite clear and that inscription shows us that we are right to interpret this ritual innovation as containing retrospective paideutic intentionality: it is meant to recall to the mind of participants in the ritual – that is to say notionally the entire population of Athens – an Athens in its period of greatest power and victory: the mid-fifth century and the early years of the Peloponnesian War. And we must envisage this not only abstractly/conceptually, but in a monumental context; and not only statically, but dynamically. We need, I suggest, to imagine the gaze of Mr, Miss (even Mrs34) Athenian Citizen, metic and colonist, participant in the Panathenaia in the 320s, shifting from the beautiful cow about to be sacrificed to Athena Nike, to the splendid newly “raised” and restored bronze statue of the goddess dedicated (as IG II2 403 would remind him or her) from the spoils of victories in the Peloponnesian War, to the glistening golden Nikai, symbolising the Athenian capacity to leap back over the military failure of 404 and the more recent failure at Chaironeia to recapture the golden age of the mid-fifth century. And out of the corner of his or her eye, he or she would also perhaps have caught a glimpse of the Parthenon frieze....35 32

33 34

35

Festival founded by Erichthonios (= Erechtheus) son of Hephaistos, symbol of Athenian autochthony and inventor of the chariot. He was recalled by the panathenaic competition involving leaping on and off horses/chariots (apobasis): Hellanikos FGrHist 323A F 2, [Eratosth.] Cat. 13, etc. See PARKER 2005, 254. Founded by Theseus: Paus. 8.2, 1, cf. Istros FGrHist 334 F 4; PARKER 2005, 255. The association with synoecism is perhaps to be connected with the prominence of the city’s subdivisions (demes, etc.) in the festival organisation and in the careful articulation of the different social groups that made up Athenian civic society in the procession (PARKER 2005, 258–9). RHODES – OSBORNE no. 81 B, 20–1. The procession included maiden basket-bearers. Mature/married women were not among the groups who participated formally in the procession, but they were represented strikingly by the leading actors in the ritual, the priestesses of Athena Polias and Athena Nike. It is difficult to say whether they were also present as onlookers/followers of the procession. Cf. JAMESON, 1999; PARKER 2005, 218. If our Citizen were standing in the right place and attending to smaller items as well as the wider scene, he (and/or his wife/daughter?) might also have noticed not only IG II2 403, but a relief commemorating the honorific crown he had recently voted in the assembly for the priestess of Athena Nike and depicting the crowning of the priestess by a Nike held by

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The Lykourgan period was a particularly active one in the sphere of festival reform and enhancement36 and this past-as-paideusis aspect of festivals, their rituals, myths and monuments, should feature prominently in any attempt to explain this activity. The third inscription I wish to mention in this connection belongs in a comparable context: Agora XVI 67 = Lambert 2005, no. 10. It is very fragmentary, but it is definitely Lykourgan in date and we can be fairly confident that it related to the other great Athenian festival of the acropolis, the Dipolieia. This was the premier Athenian festival of Zeus, its centrepiece an ox-killing ritual, the Bouphonia, whose thematic material seems to have been the proper relations of agricultural man to his working animals, and which was so venerable and obscure that it connoted archaism even in the fifth century.37 The past that ‘Lykourgan’ Athenians wish to connect with has a fifth-century focus, but also a focus in the heroic and mythical time: as noted above, Lykourgos mixes anecdotes from both indiscriminately in his oratory. For the purposes of Lykourgan past-connectivity both the (to our minds “real”) fifth century and the (to our minds ‘unreal’) time of myths and heroes are equally valid. I said in relation to IG II2 333 that, as far as the monumental aspects of Lykourgan policy were concerned, it was right to attend to small things as well as big things: that was in relation to dedications, processional vessels and such like. One might add that another class of small object that is relevant in this context is the inscriptions themselves, for their significance lies not only in the policy decisions that they record, but in their very existence, in other words in the fact that a decision was taken to inscribe them. In all three of the cases I have just mentioned, not only does the content of the inscription relate to the acropolis, the inscription was itself set up there. Throughout the classical period (and indeed beyond) the acropolis was overwhelmingly the most common site for the placement of state laws and decrees38 (and it was a very common site for the placement of accounts inscriptions and dedications). By the Lykourgan period the acropolis was home to over two centuries’ worth of inscribed dedications and nearly two centuries’ worth of state decrees inscribed on stone:39 hundreds, perhaps thousands, of inscriptions. An inscription placed on the acropolis in the Lykourgan period resonated architecturally with other acropolis monuments, most of them products of Athens’ fifth-century glory days, even at the level of detail: temples had pedi-

36 37 38 39

Athena, LAWTON no. 164 = LAMBERT 2007b, 130. We do not know whether the decree awarding the crown mentioned her services in relation to the aresterion she sacrificed for the raised statue of Athena Nike or the beautiful cow whose sacrifice she now supervised every year at the Panathenaia; but it is clear enough that, in the Lykourgan period, this priestess was kept busy carrying out the people’s instructions. Cf. LAMBERT 2005, 131; PARKER 1996, 242–55. Ar. Nub. 984. See LIDDEL 2003. See also OSBORNE 1999 and other discussions referred to by LIDDEL n. 3. The earliest inscribed state decree, IG I3 1, perhaps dates to the end of the sixth century.

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ments; so did many inscribed decrees.40 Temples contained and were decorated with figurative sculpture; some inscribed decrees were decorated with figurative reliefs.41 Temples were dedicated to gods; state decrees erected there were commonly headed with the invocation “gods” (theoi), whether or not their content was explicitly religious. Inscriptions set up on the acropolis at this period also resonated with other inscriptions set up there in earlier times. It is not perhaps coincidental that the practice of setting up large numbers of state laws and decrees on the acropolis originated at about the same time as the great fifth- century temples were constructed;42 and that the many account-bearing inscriptions set up on the acropolis in the Lykourgan period jostled, as it were, with the Athenian Tribute Lists. This connecting-with-the-past aspect of inscriptions on the acropolis in a monumental perspective is also a theme which can be traced at the level of the texts. And I do not only mean here that epigraphical language and formulae developed organically over time such that the way things were expressed on Lykourgan inscriptions connects with the way they were expressed on inscriptions of the fifth century, though that is perhaps part of the picture. The connection to the fifth century operates also at the level of the content of the texts. We might take as an example one of the most anthologised inscriptions of this period: the decree of 338/7, Rhodes – Osborne no. 77,43 one of the earliest decrees to be passed after the battle of Chaironeia. It honours Akarnanians who had supported the allies against Philip and came to Athens as exiles in the aftermath of the allied failure. In l. 8 we read that the principal honorands, Phormio and Karphinas of Akarnania, were ancestral friends (patrothen philoi) of the Athenian people, and we learn more about this background in ll. 15–21: Since the Athenian People made Phormio the grandfather of Phormio and Karphinas an Athenian, and his descendants, and the decree which effected this was inscribed on the acropolis, the grant which the People made to their grandfather Phormio shall be valid for Phormio and Karphinas and their descendants.

40 41

42

43

Cf. DAVIES 2005, 294. Relief sculpture on Attic documentary inscriptions is catalogued by LAWTON 1995. In state laws and decrees of this period it appears mainly on decrees honouring foreigners (see LAMBERT 2007a, 129–30). Much remains to be done to elucidate the relationship between text and relief sculpture and the wider environment of the acropolis. On the interplay of text and relief see recently BLANSHARD 2004 (on the law against tyranny, cf. above n. 29) and 2007 (on IG I3 127). Cf. above n. 34. The increase in the numbers of state inscriptions placed on the acropolis from around the mid-fifth century is conventionally linked with increased openness and accountability associated with the radical democracy post-Ephialtes, but I am inclined to think that it has as much to do with the stimulus of a monumental context which was being enhanced by the Periklean building programme. In general the character of the acropolis as sacred space is as important to understanding why inscriptions were placed there as its character as public space (cf. HÖLKESKAMP 1994; HEDRICK 1999; SAMONS 2000, 312–17). = LAMBERT 2006 no. 5.

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One may calculate that Phormio, the grandfather of Phormio and Karphinas, must have been awarded his Athenian citizenship in about 400.44 It would be nice to think, though we cannot be certain, that this was in the aftermath of the Athenian failure to win the Peloponnesian War, an event which recalls the circumstances of Athens post-Chaironeia and has a particular resonance in Lykourgan ideology. In a striking passage of his speech against Leokrates, Lykourgos reflects on the difference between a city which has been totally destroyed, from which there is no recovery, and a city which has been subject to an enslavement from which it may still aspire to set itself free: If one must speak the truth, destruction is the death of a city. This is the greatest proof: a long time ago our city was a slave to tyrants, later to the Thirty when its walls were torn down by the Lakedaimonians. Yet after both of these, we won back our freedom and earned the right 45 to be guardians of Greek prosperity.

Another striking aspect is the name Phormio, borne both by one of the two honorands of 338/7 and by their grandfather. The grandfather was almost certainly named for Phormio the famous Athenian general of the Peloponnesian War, who made an alliance with Akarnania before the war, was much liked there according to Thucydides and was active in western Greece in the 420s:46 in fact precisely the same time and region that was alluded to quite explicitly in the decree about the Athena Nike statue with which I began this paper. As with the activity relating to that statue the past is connected with not only conceptually, but physically and monumentally, for the proposer of our inscription, the wild anti-Macedonian patriot Hegesippos of Sounion, here showing himself as a true ‘Lykourgan,’47 takes the trouble to draw attention to the fact that the “decree which effected this [i.e., the award of citizenship to the first Phormio of Akarnania] was inscribed on the acropolis.” Rhodes – Osborne no. 77 was also set up on the acropolis. So again a conceptual (in this case one might say subliminal) message about how the past may inform the present finds expression in monumental form. We do not know for certain that Rhodes – Osborne no. 77 was set up next to the older inscription, but it would be quite characteristic if it had been (sometimes in this sort of case explicit provision is made for a decree to be placed next to another one, but not here). Our Athenian-on-the-acropolis-looking-at-themonuments would be invited by our inscription to reflect on the Peloponnesian War: the glory days of the 420s and the lessons about failure overcome implicit in the denouement; and all around him (or her) the monuments would be conveying, as it were, the same message. 44 45 46 47

Cf. M. OSBORNE 1981–1983 vol. III-IV T 25. Lycurg. 1.61. Thuc. 2.68, 6–7; 3.7, 1. RHODES – OSBORNE 2007, 382. Also proposer of the emphatically worded (and non-formulaic) decree, IG II2 125 = RHODES – OSBORNE no. 69 (with note p. 349) = LAMBERT 2007b no. 6 and probable author of [Dem.] 7. He was known as “Krobylos” for his ‘past-connective’ habit of wearing his hair in a bun (Aeschin. Tim. 64, with the note of FISHER 2001; Diog. Laert. 3.24, etc.).

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I should like to finish with a wider reflection about epigraphical practice, for looking at inscriptions in the sort of way that I have been attempting here may suggest a possible approach to answering the rather elusive question: why was a particular decree or class of decree of the Athenian council and/or assembly inscribed and not another particular decree or class of decree of those bodies (most decrees, of course, were never inscribed). Part of the answer to this question must, I think, lie in the direction of the decree’s monumental potential: its capacity to convey a strong message qua monument. Honorific decrees are surely the commonest type of inscribed decree because their character as public monuments is intimately connected with their honorific – and hortatory – intentionality.48 This in turn may suggest a partial answer to another intriguing question about the Athenian epigraphical record: why did the Lykourgan period produce so many inscriptions, more than from any other period of comparable length? And why is Lykourgos himself so prominent in them – in the epigraphical record of classical Athens second only to Demades as decree proposer49 and connectable, directly, indirectly or at least ideologically, with much of the rest of the epigraphical output of the period. Several factors must, I think, be relevant. They will include the natural trajectory of the epigraphical habit – a snowball tendency for ever more decrees to be inscribed; and the development of a more literate and bureaucratic administrative culture as the fourth century progressed. But part of the explanation, I suggest, is the character of the Lykourgan period as one which displays a particularly heightened sense of the need for a paideutic engagement with the past and the capacity of inscriptions, particularly (though not only) inscriptions placed on the acropolis, to contribute to the fulfilment of that need at both monumental and textual levels. And why is Lykourgos so prominent in the epigraphical record? Part of the answer must surely again lead us back to the acropolis: as member of the Eteoboutadai with a strong sense of engagement with his religious heritage this, the city’s place of inscriptions, was his spiritual home.

48

49

Thus in IG II2 220 = LAMBERT 2007a no. 66, of 344/3, it is not the awarding of honours to the city of Pellana (which took place the previous year), but specifically the erection of the decree recording their award, that is conceived of as manufacturing the hortatory intention. See LAMBERT 2006, 116. It seems to have been primarily the proposer of a decree who determined whether or not it was to be inscribed (in inscribed decrees a clause providing for inscription was normally included in the record of the proposer’s motion), though he was subject to legal constraints of various kinds, the details of which are largely obscure (see, e.g., LAMBERT 2004, 87 with n. 9).

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BIBLIOGRAPHY BLANSHARD, A. J. L. 2004: Depicting democracy. An exploration of art and text in the law of Eukrates, JHS 124, 1–15. 2007: The problems with honouring Samos: an Athenian document relief and its interpretation, in Z. Newby and R. Leader-Newby (eds.) Art and Inscriptions in the Ancient World, Cambridge, 19–37. BROMMER, F. 1978: Hephaistos, Mainz. BRUN, P. 2000: L’orateur Démade, Bordeaux. 2005: Lycurge d’ Athènes: un législateur?, in P. Sineux (ed.) Le législateur et la loi dans l’antiquité: hommage à F. Ruzé, Caen, 187–200. DAVIES, J. K. 1996: Documents and “documents” in fourth century historiography, in P. Carlier (ed.) Le IVe siècle av. J.-C. Approches historiographiques, Nancy, 29–39. 2005: The origins of the inscribed Greek stela, in P. Bienkowski, C. Mee and E. Slater (eds.) Writing and Ancient Near Eastern Society: Papers in Honour of Alan R. Millard, New York. FISHER, N. R. E. 2001: Aeschines. Against Timarchos, Oxford. 2007: Lykourgos of Athens: Lakonian by name, Lakoniser by policy?, in N. Birgalias, K. Buraselis and P. Cartledge (eds.) The Contribution of Ancient Sparta to Political Thought and Practice, Athens. GILL, D. W. J. 2001: The decrees to build the temple of Athena Nike (IG I3 35), Historia 50, 257–78. GOLDHILL, S. – OSBORNE, R. 1999: (eds.) Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy, Cambridge. HABICHT, C. 1997: Athens from Alexander to Antony, Cambridge, MA. HARRIS, D. 1992: Bronze statues on the Athenian acropolis: the evidence of a Lykourgan inventory, AJA 96, 637–52. HEDRICK, C. 1999: Democracy and the Athenian epigraphical habit, Hesperia 68, 387–439. HINTZEN-BOHLEN, B. 1997: Die Kulturpolitik des Euboulos und des Lykurg, Berlin. HÖLKESKAMP, K.-J. 1994: Tempel, Agora und Alphabet. Die Entstehungsbedingungen von Gesetzgebung in der archaischen Polis, in H. J. Gehrke (ed.), Rechtskodifizierung und soziale Normen im interkulturellen Vergleich, Tübingen, 135–64. HOFF, R. VON DEN 2003: Tradition and innovation; portraits and dedications on the early Hellenistic acropolis, in O. Palagia and S. V. Tracy (eds.) The Macedonians in Athens 322–229 BC, Oxford. HUMPHREYS, S. C. 2004: Lycurgus of Boutadai: an Athenian aristocrat, with Afterword, in S. C. Humphreys, The Strangeness of Gods. Historical Perspectives on the Interpretation of Athenian Religion, Oxford, 77–129. JAMESON, M. H. 1999: The spectacular and the obscure in Athenian religion, in GOLDHILL – OSBORNE, 321– 40.

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LAMBERT, S. D. 2002: Afterwords. 1. IG II2 417, the Eutaxia liturgy and the relief, Lawton no. 150, ZPE 141, 122–3. 2004: Athenian state laws and decrees 352/1–322/1. I Decrees honouring Athenians, ZPE 150, 85–120. 2005: Athenian state laws and decrees 352/1–322/1. II Religious regulations, ZPE 154, 125– 59. 2006: Athenian state laws and decrees 352/1–322/1. III Decrees honouring foreigners A. Citizenship, proxeny and euergesy, ZPE 158, 115–58. 2007a: Athenian state laws and decrees 352/1–322/1. III Decrees honouring foreigners B. Other awards, ZPE 159, 101–54. 2007b: Athenian state laws and decrees 352/1–322/1. IV Treaties and other texts, ZPE 161, 67–100. 2008: Polis and theatre in Lykourgan Athens: the honorific decrees, in A. Matthaiou (ed.) Hieromnemon. Meletes eis mnemen M. H. Jameson, Athens. 2009: Inscribed treaties 350–321: an epigraphical perspective on Athenian foreign policy, in G. Reger, F. X. Ryan and T. Winters (eds.) Studies in Greek Epigraphy in Honor of Stephen V. Tracy. Forthcoming: The priesthoods of the Eteoboutadai. LAWTON, C. 1995: Attic Document Reliefs, Oxford. LIDDEL, P. 2003: The places of publication of Athenian state decrees from the 5th century BC to the 3rd century AD, ZPE 143, 79–93. LOUGOVAYA-AST, J. 2006: Myrrhine, the first priestess of Athena Nike, Phoenix 60, 211–25. MARK, I. S. 1993: The sanctuary of Athena Nike in Athens: architectural stages and chronology, Hesperia suppl. 26. MATTINGLY, H. B. 2000: The Athena Nike dossier: IG I3 35/36 and 64A-B, CQ 50, 604–6. OSBORNE, M. J. 1981–1983: Naturalization in Athens, Brussels. OSBORNE, R. 1999: Inscribing performance, in GOLDHILL – OSBORNE, 341–58. PARKER, R. C. T. 1996: Athenian Religion. A History, Oxford. 2005: Polytheism and Society at Athens, Oxford. PATON, J. M. 1927: (ed.) The Erechtheum, Cambridge, MA. RHODES, P. J. forthcoming: Lycurgan Athens, in volume in honour of Michael Osborne. RHODES, P. J. – OSBORNE, R. 2007: (eds.) Greek Historical Inscriptions 404–323 BC, Oxford (2003, revised paperback edition 2007). SAMONS, L. J. 2000: Empire of the Owl. Athenian Imperial Finance, Stuttgart. TOD, M. N. 1947: Greek Historical Inscriptions vol. II (403–323 BC), Oxford. TRACY, S. V. 1995: Athenian Democracy in Transition, Berkeley.

12. INTENTIONAL HISTORY: ALEXANDER, DEMOSTHENES AND THEBES Ian Worthington Alexander the Great is one of the most difficult figures of antiquity to study because of the nature of our source material.1 The numerous contemporary and nearcontemporary accounts of his reign exist today only in fragments (over 400 of them), which are quoted or paraphrased in the much later secondary sources.2 These begin with Diodorus Siculus in the first century BCE and stretch through Quintus Curtius Rufus, Arrian and Plutarch, to Justin’s epitome of a lost work by Pompeius Trogus, which he made sometime between the second and fourth centuries CE.3 Hence, trying to construct an objective account of Alexander’s reign, not to mention an accurate picture of his aims, motivations, influences, and so on, is next to impossible. We have no way of knowing how critically the secondary sources read the earlier evidence, how accurate are their quotations or paraphrases of it, and what were their own axes that they chose to grind for their contemporary audiences. Thus, some of the primary authors exhibit a bias in favour of Alexander (e.g., Aristobulos, Kallisthenes and Ptolemy) and against him (e.g., Ephippos), while others seem to have exaggerated their own roles in events (e.g., Ptolemy and Nearchos), or be interested more in scandal than veracity (e.g., Kleitarchos): to what extent did the later authors take such biases and embellishments into account? When it comes to inventing history, Alexander is one of the best case studies. To an essentially unromantic writer like his general Ptolemy (as reflected in Arrian, who used Ptolemy for his major source), Alexander is first and foremost a military man; he does have a life outside the army camp, but we do not hear of this often, and it plays less of a role than Alexander the man of action. To Plutarch, in his treatise On the fortune or the virtue of Alexander (if he is the author) Alexander is not only a brilliant general and man of action, but also a man of ideas, a philosophical idealist, who sought to unite the various peoples of his empire into one common race. The author of this work makes it plain that Xerxes had got it wrong by trying to unite Europe and Asia by warfare, but Alexander had got it right by trying to unite the races, which thus made him one of the wise kings (Mor. 329e–f). Of course, Alexander had no such intention of uniting the races;4 1 2

3 4

See further, HAMMOND 1983 for Diodorus, Curtius, and Justin, HAMMOND 1993 for Arrian and Plutarch’s Alexander, BOSWORTH 1988a, BAYNHAM 1998; cf. BAYNHAM 2003, 3–29. They are collected together at FGrHist IIB, 117–53 and IIIB 740–2, and are translated in the first volume of ROBINSON 1953; about a third of the translations are reprinted in WORTHINGTON 2003a. Cf. for example, SYME 1988, 358–71. See for example, BOSWORTH 1980a, 1–21, reprinted in WORTHINGTON 2003a, 208–35.

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Plutarch’s treatise has been the basis of the erroneous theory that Alexander pursued a policy of the unity of mankind, which still surfaces (in books and movies) today. Indeed, a more critical assessment of Alexander reveals anything but a wise king, but one who, inter alia, was paranoid and irrational, influenced by personal reasons, engineered the downfalls of his senior generals, lost touch with his army to the extent that it twice mutinied on him, had pretensions to personal divinity, and destroyed the Macedonian empire.5 Thus, we have very different portrayals of one and the same man. In the present essay, I do not wish to embark on a discussion of the source problems associated with Alexander because enough work has already been done on them, and I have nothing to add. Nor do I want to pick apart every deed of Alexander’s to show whether it was historical or not, and what its implications are for Alexander’s kingship. Instead, I want to focus on an event that is largely glossed over when considering his critical early years as king, and that is the razing of Thebes in 335. This episode has implications for the historical Alexander because, as I shall argue, it was deliberately portrayed by contemporary sources to generate a hostile reaction, not against the king, surprisingly it may seem to us, but against the Athenian orator Demosthenes. However, the secondary sources make Alexander’s motive a personal one so as to influence our attitude to him from almost the time we first meet him as king. In 335, after a second and unsuccessful revolt against Macedonian hegemony, during which the Thebans attempted (equally unsuccessfully) to rouse the Greeks to support them, Alexander gave orders to raze Thebes to the ground. Much of its population was slaughtered, the remainder enslaved, and its treasury was seized.6 It is interesting that in the contemporary accounts of the event, which are oratorical, Alexander’s responsibility is glossed over, and the target of attack is Demosthenes, who allegedly received 300 talents from Darius III to help Thebes: Aeschines, in his prosecution speech in the Crown case of 330 (3.239–40; cf. 133 and 155–6), and Deinarchos, in his prosecution speech in the Harpalos affair of 324/3 (1.18–20 and 24–6). According to Diodorus (17.8.5–6) and Plutarch (Dem. 23.1; cf. [Plut.] Mor. 847c) the Athenians initially, on Demosthenes’ urging, had voted to send arms to the Thebans, but then the assembly switched policy and no active support was given; the people preferred to wait “to see how the war would go” (Diod. 17.8.6; cf. Plut. Dem. 23.2). Thus, our later sources do not connect Demosthenes with the Theban destruction. The matter prompts closer examination. Both the sum of money and Demosthenes’ involvement in the affair are controversial, as I have argued before.7 Deinarchos holds Demosthenes himself responsible for the destruction of Thebes, and accuses him of refusing to pay a bribe 5 6

7

See WORTHINGTON 2003b, citing previous work. Diod. 17.8.3–14, Arr. 1.7.1–8.8, Plut. Alex. 11.10–12; cf. Dem. 23.2, Justin 11.3.8. See further, BOSWORTH 1988b, 32–3 and 194–6, HAMMOND – WALBANK 1988, 56–66, WORTHINGTON 2003b, 58–63 and WORTHINGTON 2003c, 65–86; on the sources, see further, BOSWORTH 1980b, 73–89. WORTHINGTON 1992, 139–43 and 160–70, ad Din. 1.10 and 18–24, respectively.

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of ten talents, demanded by the Arkadian leader Astylos for Arkadian help, although Demosthenes received 300 from the Persian king. Astylos stayed put at the isthmus and without this Arkadian support Thebes fell. Yet at 1.74 Deinarchos attributes Thebes’ destruction to three Theban commanders. As for the 300 talents (Aeschin. 3.239, Din. 1.10 and 18), our non-oratorical writers merely say that Demosthenes received Persian gold to check Macedonian power under both Philip and Alexander: e.g., Plutarch, Demosthenes 14.2 and 20.4–5, [Plutarch], Moralia 848a, Diodorus 17.4.8, Justin 11.2.7. However, it is only the orators, out for Demosthenes’ conviction, who link the receipt of Persian gold with the betrayal of Thebes, and their accounts are inconsistent. Thus, Aeschines 3.239 speaks of the 300 talents as if they were actually shipped to Athens, while Deinarchos 1.10 accuses Demosthenes and others of keeping some of the money (cf. Hyp. 5.17 and 25), but in 1.18 Demosthenes receives all of it. At 1.70 Deinarchos tells us Demosthenes has acquired more than 150 talents in his dealings with the Persian king and with Alexander. This last passage is important for we are told that only part of this sum (that is, less than 150 talents) came from Persia. Thus, we have four differing sums of money allegedly taken by Demosthenes which we can connect to the Theban affair: in Deinarchos, we have part of 300 talents (1.10), 300 talents (1.18), less than 150 talents (1.70), and in Aeschines we have 70 talents (3.239–40). I do not believe that Demosthenes never received a bribe from Persia, however anyone might like to split the fine line of distinction between bribery and the diplomatic receipt of a gift.8 But there is nothing compelling in our non-oratorical sources to indicate he took the enormous sum of 300 talents (or even 70 as at Aeschin. 3.239–40) in 335, and certainly no connection to Thebes’ destruction. This allegation is rhetorical and exaggerated. The Persian money and the betrayal of Thebes were coupled together to form a topos to the discredit of Demosthenes, which was first used by Aeschines in 330 and reused by Deinarchos in 323. This is understandable given the weaknesses of the cases of Aeschines and especially Deinarchos against Demosthenes on both occasions. The destruction of Thebes was clearly catastrophic, and it affected the Greeks greatly, as the language and vivid nature of Arrian 1.9.1–5 reveals. Why, then, did these contemporary orators exploit it against Demosthenes and ignore Alexander, who actually gave the order to raze the city? The king is not even named, and Macedonian involvement is mentioned merely en passant at Deinarchos 1.24: “But thanks to this traitor [Demosthenes] the children and wives of the Thebans were divided among the tents of the barbarians, a neighbouring and allied city has been ripped up from the middle of Greece.” This builds on Aeschines’ imagery at 3.133: “Thebes, our neighbour, has in one day been swept from the midst of Greece.” The later orators seldom make reference to Alexander (by contrast to Philip), and when they do it is factually inaccurate and usually for rhetorical effect.9 Nevertheless, one would expect the Theban catastrophe to deserve more 8 9

See HARVEY 1985, 76–117; cf. ADCOCK – MOSLEY 1974, 164–5. See GUNDERSON 1981, 183–92; cf. for example Din. 1.34: “Is it not necessary for us to raise

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coverage, not least because it happened to a city within Greece and many of the jurors who heard the speeches of Aeschines and Deinarchos would remember it. Here we may bring in the secondary sources, who treat the destruction very differently. Demosthenes’ alleged role in Thebes’ demise falls by the wayside, and the spotlight is shone visibly on Alexander, whose purpose in destroying the city, says Diodorus, was “to present possible rebels among the Greeks with a terrible warning” (17.14.4). He “wanted to frighten the rest of the Greeks into submission by making a terrible example,” says Plutarch, who adds that the king “was also redressing the wrongs done to his allies” (Alex. 11.12), and his action was to cow the Greeks into submission according to Polybius (38.2.12; cf. 4.23.8). In other words, Thebes’ destruction is all Alexander’s doing, but this is quite wrong (see below). Moreover, all of this is a far cry from what the contemporary orators have to say, thus raising several legitimate questions: why do the orators not talk about Alexander’s motive, how correct are the later sources to ascribe to Alexander the motive they did, and what does all of this mean for our evaluation of Alexander? The first question has already been answered. These prosecutors needed to manipulate a reaction among the jurors against Demosthenes that would cause them to find against him. It suited their cases better to distance Alexander from Thebes’ destruction and associate Demosthenes more closely with it (see further below). Seldom has the destruction of a city and the widespread annihilation and enslavement of its people been so cynically exploited for rhetorical effect. Our later sources were unswayed by the rhetoric against Demosthenes and focused firmly on the perpetrator of the deed. The destruction of Thebes came to be a topos that lived well beyond the fourth century BCE,10 for according to the Suda as late as the time of Diocletian the epic poet Soterichus Oasites cited an Alexandriacus, which was “a history of the capture of Thebes by Alexander of Macedonia.”11 But did Alexander have Thebes wiped out merely to send out this terrible warning? I have argued elsewhere that while the destruction would have had this effect, this was not his actual motive.12 He destroyed the city because it had been harbouring a pretender to the Macedonian throne in the shape of Amyntas. He was the heir to the throne in 359, but in that year when his father Perdikkas III died in battle against the Illyrians and Macedonia was faced by several dire external threats, Amyntas was just a minor and the assembly set him aside and acclaimed his uncle Philip (II) as king.13 When Philip was assassinated in 336, chaos broke out for a time (cf. Justin 11.1.1–6), Alexander’s friends armed themselves

10 11 12 13

up another force such as we had in the time of Agis, when all the Spartans had taken the field and the Achaeans and Eleans were sharing in the campaign, as were ten thousand mercenaries, and Alexander, so they said, was in India, and the whole of Greece was bemoaning the current state of affairs because of traitors in each city, and was hoping for some change from the present misfortunes?” (my translation). For some examples, see WORTHINGTON 2003c, 65–7. See now the commentary of SCHUBERT 2007 on Soterichus 641 T1. WORTHINGTON 2003c, 65–86, citing and discussing relevant bibliography. HAMMOND – GRIFFITH 1979, 208–10.

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and were ready for trouble (Arr. 1.25.2), and apparently “all Macedonia was seething with discontent, looking to Amyntas and the sons of Aeropos” ([Plut.] Mor. 327c). Alexander eliminated threats to his position during 336 and 335, and clearly Amyntas was one of them. Inscriptional evidence indicates that the Thebans, who had a long history of interfering in Macedonian domestic politics, were supporting him, hence Alexander moved against the city because of the threat to his kingship. There is a striking parallel in Alexander’s action to that of Philip II’s destruction of Olynthos in 348 for harbouring two of his three stepbrothers, who were also possible claimants to the throne.14 It appears that Philip was challenged by his three stepbrothers (the sons of his father’s previous marriage to Gygaia), when he became king as well.15 At any rate, when he took Olynthos he ordered their executions (Justin 8.3.11). Indeed, the destructions of Olynthos and Thebes are sometimes coupled together in literature as part of the Thebes topos. Thus, for example, Agatharchides of Knidos has this to say (5.21 = FGrHist 142 T 3):16 Because, [Hegesias] says, many statesmen and poets have wondered how a person out of danger could appropriately describe the misfortunes overwhelming some people … Olynthos and Thebes … were plundered by Alexander and Philip and razed to the ground, and the horror of the destruction caused great alarm to many of the Greeks for their all and gave many orators an opportunity to explain in due manner the details of the calamity by their oratory.

Another parallel is that Alexander gave the Thebans the chance to surrender,17 just as Philip had issued an ultimatum to the Olynthians, that either they abandon Olynthos or he abandon Macedonia (Dem. 9.11). It is true that our secondary sources do not talk of Amyntas having political asylum in Thebes, but that means little for they are constructing their narrative to blame Alexander for the city’s destruction, and in this they are technically wrong. In reality, Alexander had with him at Thebes several members of the League of Corinth, the Thespians, Phokians, Plataians, Orchomenians, and “other Boiotians,”18 and it was before these (on behalf of the league) that he brought the matter of the Theban punishment. All of these places had suffered before at Thebes’ hands,19 and so it comes as no surprise that they relished the chance to get their own back. Indeed, Arrian 1.8.8 (from Ptolemy, FGrHist 138 F 3) says that Phokians, Plataians and other Boiotians joined in the slaughter with the Macedonians when the besiegers finally penetrated the city’s walls. They called for The-

14 15 16 17 18 19

Philoc. FGrHist 328 F 50–1 and 156, Diod. 16.53.2–3 and 55.1; cf. Dem. 9.26, and on Olynthos see further, WORTHINGTON 2003c, 83–4. Justin 7.4.5 and 8.3.10. On the stepbrothers, see ELLIS 1973, 350–4. Translation: ROBINSON 1953, ad loc. Arr. 1.7.10, Diod. 17.9.2–4, Plut. Alex. 11.7 (Alexander demanded the surrender of the ringleaders Prothytes and Phoenix), Justin 11.3.6 and 8–10. Diod. 17.13.5; cf. 17.14.2, Arr. 1.8.8, Plut. Alex. 11.11, Justin 11.3.8. Plataia, Thespiai, and Orchomenos had been destroyed by Thebes in the 370s and 360s, but revived by Philip II after Chaeronea; Thebes had been Phokis’ enemy in the Third Sacred War.

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bes’ destruction on the grounds of its medism during the Persian Wars.20 Alexander must have known they would act in this way; still, technically it was the league, and not the king, that voted to destroy Thebes for its medism – not for any personal reason on Alexander’s part. My third question, then, is how does all of this affect our image of Alexander? The impression we get from the secondary sources is that he was cynically hiding behind the League of Corinth to effect Thebes’ destruction out of personal revenge. When Philip II was killed Alexander was quick to put down a revolt of the Greek states and resurrect the League of Corinth, announcing that he would go ahead with his father’s plan to invade Asia.21 He was eager to win military renown for himself, but before he could do so he had to deal with threats from the Triballi and the Illyrians in 335. Then came the news that Thebes had again revolted, forcing him to come to terms with the Illyrians. Hence, Thebes’ revolt not only defied the Macedonian hegemony of Greece but also delayed Alexander, who took all of this personally. Consequently, in destroying Thebes, he was both venting his anger and sending out an ominous message to the Greeks. This personal or emotional angle is not what we would expect in a king and commander, and we see numerous instances of his actions being dictated by personal reasons throughout his reign. With the sources’ portrayal of his destruction of Thebes we cannot help but be critical of him even from the early years of his accession. However, the Thebans’ apparent sheltering of a rival claimant to the throne introduces a different dynamic into the equation, one that better helps us understand Alexander’s motive in razing Thebes, just as his father had destroyed Olynthos for its continued defiance of him and eventually the shelter it afforded to contenders. In the turbulent first months of his reign, indeed well into 335, Alexander fought to establish himself as unrivalled king, and as part of a widesweeping purge against his opponents he took the steps he did against Thebes to protect his position.22 He could not have another city supporting a pretender, especially on the eve of his invasion of Asia, and Thebes’ fate would be an example to other states. We cannot condone what he did, but we can better understand it now. In conclusion, the destruction of Thebes became not only a topos in contemporary and later literature but also, from the way our sources present it, it has implications for the motives and character of Alexander. Aeschines and Deinarchos used the destruction to discredit not Alexander, as we might expect, but Demosthenes, to evoke in the minds of their listeners that he is a traitor to the Greeks, venally interested only in keeping Persian money rather than saving a city and its population, and hence no different from the Macedonians who had enslaved Greece and actually destroyed the city. They therefore rewrote history. Alexander is not mentioned because he does not suit the orators’ cases. If they gave details of his moving against Thebes because of Amyntas, then their audiences would have 20 21 22

Diod. 17.14.1–3, Justin 11.3.8–10; cf. Arr. 1.9.6–9. Diod. 17.3.6–4.9, Arr. 1.1.2–3. See further, BOSWORTH 1988b, 188–92 and WORTHINGTON 2003b, 50–3. See WORTHINGTON 2003b, 44–65, with ELLIS 1971, 15–24 and ELLIS 1982, 69–73.

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known that he would have inflicted a terrible punishment on Thebes, just as his father had done on Olynthos, regardless of what Demosthenes did or did not do. This is probably why the Athenians collectively did not go on to support Thebes, as Diodorus says (see above). Nor did the orators clarify that the decision to destroy Thebes was a league one, for that would also detract from the reaction they wanted to provoke against Demosthenes. The secondary sources have no axes as such to grind about Demosthenes, but they do have about Alexander. With Polybius, for example, as Errington has pointed out, the razing of Thebes is the single most frequent Alexander-theme in his work, and he fitted it into his narrative to suit his own purposes.23 Given the king’s later actions, many of which were motivated by personal reasons, it is possible that the later writers ‘backdated’ this same motive to his destruction of Thebes, and hence the real reason for Thebes’ destruction (Amyntas) was ignored. If true, we have an excellent example of intentional history, not to mention very real grounds for rejecting an allegation against Demosthenes that is far from the true situation.

23

ERRINGTON 1976, 175–6.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY ADCOCK, F. E. – MOSLEY, D. J. 1974: Diplomacy in Ancient Greece, London. BAYNHAM, E. 1998: The Unique History of Quintus Curtius Rufus, Ann Arbor, MI. 2003: The ancient evidence for Alexander the Great, in J. Roisman (ed.) Brill’s Companion to Alexander the Great, Leiden, 3–29. BOSWORTH, A. B. 1980a: Alexander and the Iranians, JHS 100, 1–21. 1980b: A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander 1, Oxford. 1988a: From Arrian to Alexander, Oxford. 1988b: Conquest and Empire, the Reign of Alexander the Great, Cambridge. ELLIS, J. R. 1971: Amyntas Perdikka, Philip II and Alexander the Great, JHS 91, 15–24. 1973: The stepbrothers of Philip II, Historia 22, 350–4. 1982: The first months of Alexander’s reign, in B. Barr-Sharrar and E. N. Borza (eds.) Macedonia and Greece in Late Classical and Early Hellenistic Times, Washington, DC, 69–73. ERRINGTON, R. M. 1976: Alexander in the hellenistic world, in E. Badian (ed.) Alexandre le Grand, Image et Réalité, Fondation Hardt, Entretiens 22, Geneva, 137–79. GUNDERSON, L. L. 1981: Alexander and the Attic orators, in H. J. Dell (ed.) Ancient Macedonian Studies in Honour of C. F. Edson, Institute for Balkan Studies, Thessaloniki, 183–92. HAMMOND, N. G. L. 1983: Three Historians of Alexander the Great, Cambridge. 1993: Sources for Alexander the Great, Cambridge. HAMMOND, N. G. L. – GRIFFITH, G. T. 1979: A History of Macedonia 2, Oxford. HAMMOND, N. G. L. – WALBANK, F. W. 1988: A History of Macedonia 3, Oxford. HARVEY, F. D. 1985: Dona Ferentes: some aspects of bribery in Greek politics, in P. A. Cartledge and F. D. Harvey (eds.) Crux. Essays in Greek History Presented to G. E. M. de Ste. Croix on his 75th Birthday, London, 76–117. ROBINSON, C. A. 1953: The History of Alexander the Great 1, Providence, RI. SCHUBERT, P. 2007: Soterichus 641, Brill’s New Jacoby, Leiden. SYME, R. 1988: The date of Justin and the discovery of Trogus’ Historia, Historia 37, 358–71. WORTHINGTON, I. 1992: A Historical Commentary on Dinarchus. Rhetoric and Conspiracy in Later FourthCentury Athens, Ann Arbor, MI. 2003a: Alexander the Great: A Reader, London. 2003b: Alexander the Great: Man and God, rev. & enl. ed., London. 2003c: Alexander’s destruction of Thebes, in W. Heckel and L. A. Tritle (eds.) Crossroads of History. The Age of Alexander the Great, Claremont, CA, 65–86.

13. THE DEMOS AS NARRATOR: PUBLIC HONOURS AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF FUTURE AND PAST∗ Nino Luraghi

With reference to ancient Greece, the concept of intentional history has been mostly applied to portions of the past that belong to what we would call the mythic age: typically to foundation myths, that describe the origins of the political community, the provenance of its earliest members, and their relationship to other branches of the Greek family. This does not depend on the concept itself, which is perfectly applicable to more recent events, insofar as they assume a meaning that is important for a whole community, but rather on the fact that as far as Greek history is concerned, we are seldom in a condition to tell how any given group of Greeks conceptualised the historical past, and if at all, then only in rather general terms.1 In other words, we cannot tell in any detail how the Peloponnesian War or the Corinthian War figured in the intentional history of – say – the Spartans. A partial exception to this lack of evidence is provided by the corpus of the Athenian orators, where frequent allusions to historical events make it possible to shed some light on the views and assumptions that the speaker anticipated in his audience.2 However, there is another important corpus of documents that can provide evidence on the problem, somewhat less easily accessible than the speeches of the Attic orators, and therefore less usually exploited in this connection: public inscriptions, and especially decrees. Public deliberation was the centre of political life in the world of the polis. Organised in a highly ritualised and almost theatrical fashion, it was clearly a value in itself, as if the process itself were at least as important as its outcome. No wonder, then, that the products of such a process, the decrees of the assembly, should be treated in a most emphatic way. The polis often decided to create a monument to its deliberation, by having a text recording it engraved in stone or bronze and put on display in a conspicuous location in the city, and occasionally even elsewhere – in a panhellenic sanctuary, or in another city, in the case of a decree that involved that city or one of its citizens. These inscribed monuments served a number of different purposes. They could acquire documentary value, so to speak, and come to stand for the decrees themselves, even though their origi-

∗ 1 2

I wish warmly to thank Christian Habicht (Princeton) and Stephen Lambert (Cardiff) for their careful reading of this essay and for many precious suggestions and emendations. On intentional history, see esp. GEHRKE 1994. See the comprehensive treatment of NOUHAUD 1982.

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nals were preserved in an archive.3 More importantly, they expressed the collective will of the political community in a more direct way than any other text that has been preserved from ancient Greece. The kind of evidence that will be discussed in this paper, honorary decrees, offers one of the rare chances of observing the construction of an intentional history of the recent past, and further suggests a number of intriguing avenues of research, concerning especially the relationship of the Greek polis to history – the fact, as Oswyn Murray put it, that history is the myth of the polis. The paper is divided in two parts. The first addresses the function of the decrees as an explicit repository of models for the behaviour of citizens in the future. In this connection, I try to elucidate the workings of the political community as a corporate body that dispenses public honours in exchange for good deeds of various sorts, and the mechanisms of reciprocity that make it desirable for citizens to become involved in this sort of exchange. In the second part, honorary decrees are considered as monumentalised narrative texts, and the possibility is discussed of reading in them a conscious attempt, on the part of the political community, to articulate and transmit a specific authorised version of its past. 13.1. PLOTTING THE FUTURE The practice of honouring publicly citizens and foreigners who had performed specific acts or had been generally helpful or beneficial to the polis was widespread in the Greek world. We are familiar with this custom thanks to the survival of inscriptions on stone comprising the minutes of the relevant decisions by the governing bodies of the city, explaining in more or less detail the merits of the honorand, and detailing the honours he was to be granted.4 Because this practice is better attested from the end of the fourth century onwards, and because both the calibre of the benefactions, especially in economic terms, and to a lesser extent also the level of honours awarded, objectively grew through the last three centuries BCE, the phenomenon, generally seen from the perspective of the benefactor and subsumed under the category of euergetism, has been considered typical of the supposed decadence of the political role of the polis in the hellenistic era. Concentration on the social status of the benefactors has made possible a number of important insights, but it has also obscured some aspects of the phenomenon. First of all, emphasis on the financial side of the benefactions has often diverted attention from worthy deeds of a more political nature. If it is true that there is a difference between using one’s own patrimony to provide food supply for the 3

4

On the documentary value of inscriptions for the Greeks, with specific reference to international treaties, see the path-breaking article of HEUß 1934, 252–7, with the further observations of KLAFFENBACH 1960, 26–42. On Greek archives, see now SICKINGER 1999. The honours granted by Athenian decrees, which represent the largest corpus, are collected in HENRY 1983.

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polis and distinguishing oneself in diplomatic or military activities, the increasing predominance of financial benefactions that can be observed from the second century onwards was largely a function of changes in the international political environment, while in formal terms the symbolic exchange between engagement on behalf of the community and bestowal of honours by the community remained the same from at least the fourth century. And second, a correct understanding of such a symbolic exchange has been impaired by concentration on a period in which the existence of massive economic inequality among the citizens had turned political equality into a largely theoretical construct; such a selective approach created the impression that euergetism should be explained simply as a means of articulating social and political superiority on the part of a ruling elite. Thus, according to Paul Veyne’s influential views, receiving honours was not the real motive of benefaction. On the contrary, the system composed of benefactions and honours made it possible for a group of citizens to separate themselves from the community and to express their superior status. Social distinction and power, not honour, was their goal.5 This distortion of perspective can be corrected if we consider the benefactor from a different angle, looking at how the motivations for his actions are publicly articulated by the community in the decrees. This has been done in a very impressive way by Michael Wörrle (1995). Looking mostly at documents from the second and first centuries BCE, Wörrle has shown how benefactors put their possessions and their very persons on the line in their striving after public honours. Seen from his perspective, benefactors appear as “political masochists” or “polisfanatics,” operating with “restless activism” under a constant condition of stress. They never hesitated to tap their resources in order to make visible their kalokagathia. The political community, called polis or demos, appears as an undifferentiated body, essentially a passive recipient of the benefactions, and at the same time exerts complete and unlimited monopoly of public praise, the resource the benefactors were striving to achieve. Wörrle’s phrasing of the relationship between benefactors and communities is derived directly from the texts of the honorary decrees, and therefore his image of the benefactor under stress certainly reflects ideals of good behaviour rather than adequately describing social realities. However, his approach has the advantage of alerting our attention to the essentially reciprocal nature of the transaction: the benefactor is motivated by the fact that the political community is able to dispense a resource that he desires to acquire. Precisely this aspect of the problem has been acutely investigated by Marc Domingo Gygax in a number of recent contributions. Domingo Gygax has urged for euergetism to be analyzed against the backdrop of gift exchange, stressing especially the reciprocal nature of the practice.6 Seen in this way, the social practice 5 6

VEYNE 1976, 278–80. For critical discussions of Veyne’s approach, see especially GAUTHIER 1985, 7–10 and DOMINGO GYGAX 2006b, 269–71. See especially DOMINGO GYGAX 2003; for the explanatory power of this concept, see also DOMINGO GYGAX 2006a: it was the inherent reciprocity of gift exchange that explains how

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of euergetism can be profitably set in the framework of Bourdieu’s concept of the symbolic capital: Contrary to naively idyllic representations of ‘pre-capitalist’ societies, practice never ceases to conform to economic calculation even when it gives every appearance of disinterestedness by departing from the logic of interested calculations (in the narrower sense) and playing for stakes that are non-material and not easily quantified.7

If it is true that increasing one’s symbolic capital by spending one’s economic capital on behalf of the community was a profitable social transaction, and one that enhanced the status of those who engaged in it, as Paul Veyne would have it, it is also true that the rules of this transaction were set unilaterally by the political community, and the benefactors had to conform their actions creatively to such rules. As Wörrle correctly observes, the homogeneity of the catalogues of deeds and of the judgments of value attached to them shows that, in spite of the intention visibly to display one’s excellence, there was no perceivable willingness to claim superiority.8 The social approval expressed by the honours was the result of fulfilling publicly articulated norms of behaviour. While the honours granted to the benefactors constituted the real counterpart of the benefactions, at a closer look it becomes clear that honorary decrees themselves had a more complex function and addressed their wider audience on a different level. Their very formal development points to the emergence of this function. While in the earliest examples of honorary decrees the good deeds of the benefactor were typically referred to in general terms, while the honours he was granted were described precisely,9 in the course of the fourth century we increasingly meet decrees that mention specific actions performed by the benefactor, and by the third century the description of the praiseworthy behaviour of the benefactor takes up most of the inscription. This shift in emphasis amounts to a change in the message of the honorary decrees, as underlined by another aspect of their development, the introduction of what scholars call the hortatory clause. Starting from the middle of the fourth century, honorary decrees include a formula, typically located between the catalogue of benefactions and the list of the corresponding honours, which explicitly states that, besides rewarding the good deeds themselves, the honours granted are intended to show that the community knows how to reward appropriately its benefactors, so that other people in the future may be

7 8

9

poleis could grant honours in anticipation of benefactions that had not yet happened, in the attempt at putting the prospective benefactor under the obligation to reciprocate that is characteristic of gift exchange. BOURDIEU 1977, 177. As WÖRRLE 1995, 248 aptly puts it, no matter how strong was the impulse to gain visibility by benefaction, no “Aus-der-Reihe-Tanzen” was tolerated. Notice that the conformity to the classical values of the polis is all the more impressive, since Wörrle considers documents from the later part of the hellenistic age, when the power of the polis in international politics has sunk as deep as it ever would. For an example, see IG I3 110 = ML2 90, grant of proxeny to Oiniades of Palaiskiathos, 408/7 BCE.

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encouraged in their turn to perform good deeds for the community.10 In other words, it looks as if the main purpose of fifth century decrees had been to function as a guarantee of the honours granted, while by the third century the decrees themselves offered a gallery of examples for other benefactors to compete with, as emphasised by the hortatory clause. Besides underlining the reciprocal nature of the relationship of benefaction and honours, the hortatory clause shows that, far from being a grudging admission of the superiority of certain citizens and of the dependence of the political community on their support, the bestowal of public honours was a win-win game for the demos, and it was clearly perceived as such. Appropriate expenditure of the resource constituted by public honours, of which the demos had unrestrained monopoly, created a potentially endless chain of benefactions, extending from the past into the future. By painstakingly listing the acts of the benefactors and emphasising the psychological disposition that caused them, the demos reaffirmed its code of values and at the same time set as many examples to serve as standard for the future actions of the citizens. In this sense, it seems profitable to look at the whole transaction, in Wörrle’s terms, as the political community putting pressure on its members: this may not be the whole story, but it certainly is an important part of it, and the really interesting question is, what kind of mentality and what kind of social configuration made this possible.11 Summing up the first part of this contribution, honorary inscriptions, together with the honours bestowed upon the benefactor, served an important hortatory function. By making public both the good deeds performed and the honours that repaid them, the political community created a corpus of examples of good behaviour and encouraged its citizens to follow them. It articulated an ideal image of the good citizen with the goal of perpetuating the species and of encouraging its prospective members to go even beyond the mark set by their predecessors, thereby preserving the social universe of the polis as an arena where individuals strive with all their resources on behalf the community and are rewarded with public honours. Even though the specifics of the symbolic exchange between benefactor and community undeniably take up unprecedented features in the course of the 10 On the growing specificity of the references to the actions of the honorand from the 360s onwards, see WHITEHEAD 1983, 61. On the hortatory clause, see, e.g., WÖRRLE 1995, 241. HENRY 1996 offers a scrutiny of hortatory clauses in Athenian state decrees, where they appear to be common between 350 and 250 BCE. As first attested example of the hortatory clause, ROSEN 1987, 278 points to IG I3 182, proxeny for Phanosthenes and Antiochides, dated between 430 and 405 BCE. It is however a rather peculiar example, non-formulaic, as befits an early occurrence of a practice that has not yet gained general currency. Most of the formulae of disclosure discussed in HEDRICK 1999, 408–24 are actually variants of the hortatory clause; contrary to what Hedrick seems to think (409), their appearance is by no means limited to Athens. 11 Key to this phenomenon is the rise of the civic virtue of philotimia, traceable in the central years of the fourth century. For a short history of this concept, see WHITEHEAD 1983; on the chronology and circumstances of its emergence, see RHODES – OSBORNE 2003, 232–3 (I owe this reference to the courtesy of Stephen Lambert).

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hellenistic period, the underlying structure is deeply rooted in the ideology of the Greek political community. After all, the notion that a good citizen should spare no effort on behalf of his polis can be found articulated in the most striking way in one of the incunabula of polis ideology: You must fix your eyes day by day on the power of Athens, until you become filled with the love of her; and then when all her greatness shall break upon you, you must reflect that it was by courage, sense of duty, and a keen feeling of honour in action that men were enabled to win all this, and that no personal failure in an enterprise could make them consent to deprive their country of their valour, but they laid it at her feet as the most glorious contribution that they could offer. For this offering of their lives made in common by them all they each of them individually received that renown which never grows old. (Thuc. 2.43)

13.2. CONSTRUCTING THE PAST With their explicit projection towards the future, Greek honorary decrees of the hellenistic age represent the most important corpus of evidence for the problem of how the polis imagined and tried to articulate an intentional history extending into the future. However, some of these very long and interesting texts show further peculiarities that have to do with the way they engage with the past. Of course, inscribed versions of honorary decrees, just like many other inscriptions, especially public ones, refer to the past on two levels, on the one hand by pointing to the past actions being rewarded, in what is commonly called the motivation clause, and on the other by offering a more or less detailed report of the assembly transaction that resulted in the grant of the honours. However, the logic of this twofold structure does not explain by itself the use and function of the past in all these texts. While it is clear that the list of the benefactor’s good deeds, besides making sure that he had indeed deserved the honours that had been granted to him,12 served indirectly to create precise parameters for the honours to be granted, and also to set the standard for future benefactors, it is also the case that at least some of the texts include in their motivation clause a remarkable amount of what at first sight seem to be irrelevant background details, that throw no significant light on the social transaction and do not enhance in any way the hortatory function of the decree. In the following, attention will concentrate on a small number of Athenian decrees from the late fourth to the early second centuries, starting with the decrees awarding the highest honours, megistai timai, to Athenian citizens,13 and then extending the observation to include some more Athenian inscriptions of the same period. Even though all the documents that will be considered come from early hellenistic 12 13

This is the sense of the Athenian law mentioned in IG II–III2 1191 = Syll.3 1048, lines 7–10, of 321/20 BCE; see ROSEN 1987, 280. These decrees have been thoroughly investigated by GAUTHIER 1985, esp. 79–92. Among the more recent works, see KRALLI 1999–2000 with further bibliography. For the historical background, see HABICHT 1995 and DREYER 1999, both with extensive references to sources and bibliography.

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Athens, the phenomenon we will be observing was not peculiar to this time and place, for comparable texts come also from other cities and other parts of the hellenistic period.14 As noted above, already in the late fifth century some honorary decrees mention specific actions performed by the benefactor, occasionally referring also to the historical situation in which such deeds had taken place.15 This background information remains however the exception, and seems to have been perceived as such and to have made the inscriptions correspondingly noteworthy.16 Moreover, by and large the historical background, when present at all, is provided in a way that made the specific events referred to recognisable only to the immediate audience of the inscription, i.e., the other citizens. This changes decidedly from the late fourth century, when we find a number of decrees, especially but not only at Athens, in which the specific actions of the honorand are described, sometimes in painstaking detail and with abundant references to a clearly identified historical background, turning the motivation clause of the decree into a full-fledged historical narrative.17 The Athenian megistai timai decrees represent the most striking group of documents of this kind. Until very recently, scholars’ attitude to these texts consisted in mining them for historical information, without devoting much attention to their logic as texts. When the question was raised at all, the documents were seen as the fruit of decadence and – quite literally – short-sightedness. A few quotes from the introduction to the first edition of the decree for Kallias of Sphettos, one of the most spectacular examples of this class, will illustrate the point. According to the editor, Athenian decrees appear to increase in inverse proportion to the decline of the political influence of the city. Praise and rewards grow as the fortunes of the city fall. As for the Kallias decree, “like all the documents of its class, [it] dwells myopically upon the career of a single man.”18 Judgments like this, from scholars whose familiarity with the documents is absolutely beyond question, cannot but raise the doubt that we may be missing something. Without ruling out decadence and short-sightedness as historical factors, it seems legitimate to seek some other sort of explanation for the characteristics of our documents. The expansion of the motivation clause that we observe especially in the megistai timai decrees can tend in principle in two different directions. At the one end of the spectrum, we have documents such as the decree for Kephisodoros, 14 15 16

17

18

My considerations build to a large extent on the path-breaking investigation of ROSEN 1987, a fascinating study that has found surprisingly little resonance so far. ROSEN 1987, 278 mentions only five examples for the fifth century. Cf. the case of the inscription for Epikerdes of Cyrene, IG I3 125, whose unusually detailed description of the benefactor’s deeds made it possible for Demosthenes to use it for his argument in Against Leptines (Dem. 20.41–8). For a particularly striking non-Athenian example, see the decree for Orthagoras from Lycian Araxa, currently dated to the 60s of the second century BCE (SEG 18.570; cf. SEG 19.933 and for the date SEG 43.965). SHEAR 1978, 1.

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from the year 184/3 (ISE 33),19 where the motivation clause runs to 25 lines, but the actions of the honorand are described only typologically, while the specific historical circumstances in which they took place are suppressed: for instance, we learn that Kephisodoros had guided the Athenians towards a course of action that helped them to preserve the loyalty of their friends and to win over more on top of the existing ones (lines 17–19), that he protected his fellow citizens from dangers from without the city (lines 19–21), but neither the friends nor the dangers are spelled out.20 The only specific indication is the archon date of one of his magistracies (lines 13–15), but even that is no real contribution to the historical placement of Kephisodoros’ deeds. A somewhat similar case is represented by the decree for Eurykleides (Syll.3 497), from around 215 BCE, which includes an allusion to alliances with Greek cities and kings propitiated by the honorand (lines 16–17), but also a slightly more explicit reference to the ‘liberation’ of Athens from the Macedonians in 229 BCE.21 Other decrees, while usually including also typological references, mention in a recognisable fashion key historical events that the honorand was involved in. As a major example, right at the beginning of the series, the decree in honour of Lykourgos, proposed by Stratokles of Diomeia in 307/6, included an explicit reference to Lykourgos’ opposition to Alexander and to the Athenians’ unwillingness to deliver the orator when the king asked for it.22 Similarly, the decree for Demosthenes proposed by Demochares in 280/79 ([Plut.] X orat. vit. 850f–851c) refers even more extensively to political events of the third quarter of the fourth century, just as the decrees for the brothers Kallias (SEG 28.60) and Phaidros (IG II–III2 682) and for Philippides of Kephale (IG II– III2 657) and the application on behalf of Demochares of Leukonoe ([Plut.] X orat. vit. 851d–f) all contain many implicit and explicit statements on the history of Athens in the first decades of the third century, often giving even precise archon dates for the events mentioned and never leaving any doubt as to their interpretation. The difference between typological and historical references to the actions of the benefactor invites some reflections. In order to enhance the prestige of the honorand and showcase him as a model for the other citizens to imitate, the 19 20

21 22

For the date of this document, see now SEG 18.570 (I thank Christian Habicht for pointing me to this document). On Kephisodoros activities, see Paus. 1.36.5–6, whose text fills in the blanks in the inscription, as it were; according to HABICHT 1998, 92–4, Pausanias probably derived his information from other inscriptions that stood by Kephisodoros’ statue. On the relationship between the text of the inscription and the passage of Pausanias, see also below. There may be specific reasons for the lack of historical detail in the decree: see GOLAN 2000, 227–8. On this document, see HABICHT 1982, 118–27, esp. 118–19 for the restoration of line 16 and 124–7 for the date. The decree for Lykourgos is preserved both in one (or two) fragmentary inscription(s) and in the ‘documentary appendix’ to the pseudo-Plutarchean Lives of the ten orators; see IG II–III2 457 and 513 and [Plut.] X orat. vit. 852a–e. On the differences between the literary and epigraphic version see FARAGUNA 2003, 487–91 and 2005, 74–5, and CULASSO GASTALDI 2003, 69–72, with full bibliographical references.

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quality of information included in the decree for Kephisodoros was perfectly adequate. Saying exactly who were the new friends acquired by Athens thanks to his activity did not make a difference, the important point being that Kephisodoros had helped his city to acquire new friends, and the same applies to the rest of his catalogue of deeds. From the point of view of the logic of the honorary decree, as we have been observing it so far, it is rather the presence of detailed background information in some of the texts that is odd and needs an explanation. In very general terms, the presence of historical detail and of explicit judgments on events of the past may have to do with the circumstances in which the relevant decrees were passed.23 The honours for Demosthenes were voted in 280/79, in the anti-Macedonian climate that dominated Athens after the liberation from Demetrios in 287 BCE. The description of Demosthenes exiled by the oligarchs because of his steadfast support of liberty and democracy, and finally hunted down in Kalaureia by Antipater’s soldiers, was clearly meant as an approved version of a crucial page of the recent history of the demos of Athens. In the same vein, it is striking how differently the relations between Athens and the Antigonids are depicted in the decrees for Kallias and for his brother Phaidros, the former voted in 270/69 BCE, the latter sometime during the 50s, after Athens had been defeated and conquered by Antigonos Gonatas in the Chremonidean War.24 The differences would strike us even more if some lines from the decree for Phaidros had not been erased at the time of the Second Macedonian War, when Athens was at war with Philip V.25 And of course, the sheer fact that Phaidros, unlike his brother Kallias a friend of the Antigonids, was honoured around 255/4 is significant in itself.26 In sum, those of the megistai timai decrees that do include specific details of historical background are connected to highly controversial moments in Athens’ foreign and domestic politics, and bear in their very texts the traces of such moments.27 In accepting those texts as its own authorised voice, the demos was associating itself to a number of highly charged political statements. It was very much articulating its own intentional history of the decades from the wars against Philip II to the domination of Gonatas.28 But in order adequately to 23 24

25

26 27 28

For a detailed discussion, see KRALLI 1999–2000, 148–59. The precise date of IG II–III2 682, the decree for Phaidros of Sphettos, is debated, but at least there is agreement on the fact that it has to fall in the 50s of the century; for the terms of the problem, see HENRY 1992, who opts for 259/8. As a straightforward example of the divergent political outlooks expressed in these decrees, observe the use of the title ‘king’: in the decree for Kallias, SEG 28.60, Ptolemy is constantly ‘King Ptolemy,’ while Demetrios Poliorketes is just ‘Demetrios,’ as he is in the decree for Philippides of Kephale, IG II–III2 657, where Lysimachos is called ‘King Lysimachos’ but again, Antigonos Gonatas is just ‘Antigonos.’ On the erasure of inscriptions and other memory sanctions against the Antigonids voted by the Athenians in 200 BCE, see now FLOWER 2006, 34–41. See KRALLI 1999–2000, 158–9. On Phaidros’ political orientation, see DREYER 1999, 105–7. For an eloquent example, see the brilliant analysis of the historical narrative in the decree for Lykourgos by CULASSO GASTALDI 2003, 72–81. Cf. the observations of GAUTHIER 1985, 91 and KRALLI 2000, 129.

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understand what the Athenian demos was doing, we need to set these texts into a broader cultural and textual landscape. Creating a memorial of events for the future was of course one of the prime motivations for the production of monumental inscriptions in the Greek world. However, unlike for instance Near Eastern monarchs, the Greek polis never felt the need to have historical narratives set up in a monumental way: apparently the political community did not need this medium to transmit its history. At the same time, our inscriptions clearly show awareness of the potential for monumentalised documents to serve also as records of historical facts beyond those that were crucial to the decision-making process recorded in the inscription. Honorary decrees lent themselves to such a usage, especially after the motivation clause had started to expand and become more comprehensive – which it did for a different set of reasons (see above). Still, using the text of a decree in order to generate an approved version of past events remained a rather exceptional phenomenon, and in some cases at least, a response to particular circumstances. Athens between Chaironeia and the Chremonidean War saw such an amount of political upheaval and so many regime changes, any one of which potentially involved the need to get the record of the recent past straight, i.e., to rewrite history.29 This is certainly part of the reason for the increasing presence of bits of historical narrative in the utterances of the Athenian demos. As a particularly striking illustration, we may consider the honorary stele for Euphron of Sikyon, a valiant ally of Athens in the struggle against Macedon immediately after Alexander’s death. The stele (IG II–III2 448) was set up in 318/17 and includes a posthumous honorary decree from that year and also the decree originally voted in honour of Euphron in 323/2. As we learn from the second decree, the stele that included the first one had been destroyed by the oligarchs, that is, by the government imposed on Athens by the Macedonians after the Lamian War and led by Phokion and Demades.30 The second decree, besides reconfirming the privileges granted to Euphron and his descendants by the previous one, included a more detailed narrative of the same deeds of Euphron’s to which the first decree referred much more laconically, and then an additional narrative of Euphron’s heroic fight against the Macedonians and of his death for the freedom of the Greeks. The demos of Athens was protecting the memory of a benefactor, and at the same time fending off the oligarchs’ attempt at rewriting history.31 In other circum29 30

31

On the turbulent history of the Athenian democracy in the early hellenistic period and its reflexes in ancient historiography, see now the comprehensive contribution of CUNIBERTI 2006. On the decrees for Euphron, see especially CULASSO GASTALDI 2003, 66–8. On the historical background, HABICHT 1995, 47–52. A fragment of the original decree is preserved in IG II– III2 575, see LAMBERT 2006, 122 and n. 24; for a likely parallel case, see ibid., 138–9. In this connection, an intriguing question would be, where was the text of the first decree found? Did the oligarchs destroy the stele but not the archive copy located in the metroon? Of course we cannot exclude with certainty that Euhpron’s descendants preserved a copy of the decree; otherwise, this could be one more case of the Greeks’ tendency to consider as ‘the’ document the inscription rather than the archival copy.

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stances, historical narrative could also be included in a deliberation of the demos for apologetic ends. In a decree in praise of the demos of Mytilene from 368/7 BCE, the demos of Athens voted to include in the stele also its reply to the envoys of Mytilene. This part of the inscription is unfortunately fragmentary, but it is clear that the Athenians in their reply were justifying their rather inconsistent attitude to Sparta in the years after Leuktra.32 As in the case of Euphron, the demos was reacting to the perceived danger that a version of the past that it did not approve of should go unchallenged. Much as they react to very specific circumstances, these inscriptions imply on a more general level a consciousness on the part of the Athenians that the monumentalised text of a decree could (also) serve to stabilise for the future the memory of events – or rather, the demos’ version thereof. This generalised consciousness can be related to an increasing awareness of the value of documents as foundations of a truthful knowledge of the past that can be observed among Greek historians from the fifth century to the fourth. After Herodotus, who occasionally had inscriptions embedded in his narrative, Thucydides started citing longer documents verbatim and using them as evidence, occasionally to contradict local oral tradition.33 His fourth-century successors appear to have made a much more extensive use of inscriptions, especially in relation to the distant past and/or in order to correct their fifth-century predecessors. One would expect the trend to have been particularly strong among local historians,34 but it was clearly not limited to them. It is quite clear that, e.g., Ephoros and Theopompos discussed inscriptions in connection with the history of the Persian Wars,35 and actually at least Ephoros seems to have been the victim of some of the epigraphic forgeries investigated by Christian Habicht.36 Whether those forgeries were to any extent intended from the beginning to deceive historians as well, rather than only a general Athenian audience, is a question we cannot answer, but their emergence clearly reveals alertness to the potential of inscriptions as means of propagating specific views of the past, and of course, implies widespread acceptance of their authoritativeness.37 32

33

34 35 36 37

IG II–III2 107, on which see ROSEN 1987, 282, with further examples. It is noteworthy that in this case, the form of the decree adopted by the demos of Athens made sense only in view of a monumentalised record: the elaborate apology for Athenian politics post 371 would have made no sense as an archival record. On Herodotus and inscriptions, see now CORCELLA 2003 and FABIANI 2003. On the documents reproduced verbatim in Thucydides, BEARZOT 2003, 272–6. For the purpose of the present investigation, it is immaterial whether Thucydides intended to replace the texts of the documents with a summary in the final version of his work (one only wonders if such a thesis is capable of proof at all). On the use of documents by the Atthidographers, see HARDING 1994, 43–7. On the use of documents by Ephoros, see now SCHEPENS 2003, esp. 358. For a discussion of how fourth-century historians dealt with inscriptions, see LURAGHI forthcoming. HABICHT 1961. On Ephoros, see 11. In general, on the problem of false documents in Greek historiography see DAVIES 1996. On the implications of the false documents from the point of view of the spread of literacy and of the authority of the written word, see THOMAS 1989, 86–9.

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The interface between historiography and epigraphy became even more complex and important in the early hellenistic period, when we find a number of scholars producing commented collections of inscriptions, especially Athenian. Among the most prominent, the Macedonian Krateros compiled a selection of Athenian decrees, probably taken both from archive copies and also from actual stelae.38 A collection of Athenian inscriptions, of which nothing appears to have survived, was attributed also to the Athenian Philochoros, the last of the Atthidographers, active in the first decades of the third century.39 Even though none of the references to Krateros’ collection pertains to documents later than the fifth century, decrees from the early third century also found their way into works of historical erudition, as shown in the most compelling way by the decrees for Lykourgos, Demosthenes, and Demochares in pseudo-Plutarch’s Lives of the ten orators.40 One goal of these collections of documents must have been to provide raw material for the historians, and indeed Krateros’ work was used by historians such as Plutarch as a repository of documentary evidence on classical Athenian history.41 As for the early hellenistic period, the dearth of ancient historical narratives makes it difficult to trace the impact of inscriptions, but at least in some passages of Pausanias relating the career of the Athenian Olympiodoros, a former partisan of Demetrios who then became one of the protagonists of the liberation of Athens in 287, we can discern the echo, direct or indirect, of a honorary decree,42 and the same is true of a passage on Lykourgos.43 To sum up, the growth of historical background information within Athenian decrees originated in a cultural context in which the potential usefulness of inscriptions as sources for historical narratives was widely recognised. Even though this was not its primary purpose, the Athenian demos knew, when it decided to monumentalise the text of one of its decisions, that in a sense it was also creating historical evidence that could go beyond the limits of the transaction being documented. Of course, we do not have to assume widespread sophistication among the Athenians in dealing with public documents. Even though the demos was the notional subject of our inscriptions and the texts did indeed bear its seal of approval, we have to keep in mind that they actually originated from a minority of 38

39 40

41 42 43

On Krateros, see now ERDAS 2002. Notice that among the documents he collected there were at least two of the forgeries investigated by HABICHT 1961, the infamous peace of Kallias and the decree against Arthmios of Zeleia; see FGrHist 342 F 13 and 14 and ERDAS 2002, 169– 85. See JACOBY 1954, 375. The four documents preserved in this work are generally thought to come from Caecilius of Kaleakte, but of course, the late-first century BCE scholar must have found them in the work of some predecessor, possibly a periegetic author of the hellenistic age (see JACOBY 1949, 208–9, FARAGUNA 2003, 283–4). Plutarch quotes Krateros three times, FGrHist 342 F 11–13, and may be dependent on him, directly or indirectly, in a number of other places, see ERDAS 2002, 303–4. See HABICHT 1998, 90–2. Against direct use of the inscription by Pausanias, see KRALLI 1999–2000, 137 n. 11. See FARAGUNA 2003, 487 on Paus. 1.29.16.

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highly literate citizens.44 In the case of the honorary decrees, it is clear that in many cases the honours were granted following a detailed request submitted by the benefactor himself, or by somebody else on his behalf in the case of posthumous honours. The texts of the decrees for Demosthenes and Demochares preserved in the Lives of the ten orators are best understood as copies of the applications for posthumous honours submitted by Demochares and by his son Laches respectively.45 Gauthier thinks that in all likelihood the submission of an application by the benefactor was the rule.46 While we cannot tell for sure what the applications behind our decrees looked like and what was their relationship to the text approved by the assembly, the decree for Kephisodoros suggests that at least in his case the application included a detailed list of the good deeds performed by the would-be-honorand.47 It is conceivable, although by no means necessary, that the text of the decree essentially reflected the catalogue submitted by the benefactor, in which case it would have been really the benefactor himself, or whoever submitted the application, who shaped in a decisive way the texts we read. In any case, it is clear that the texts of the decrees originated from the same entourage of politically active citizens who formed the recipients of the honours. This was also the group of people from which the historians came. The two fourth-century Atthidographers Androtion and Phanodemos, contemporaries of Demosthenes, were active in politics and appear themselves as proponents or recipients of decrees.48 Demochares, Demosthenes’ nephew, besides being a prominent politician and the proponent and recipient of megistai timai decrees, was also an author of historiography.49 Finally, Philochoros, the last of the Attidographers and author of a collection of Athenian inscriptions, ended his life executed by order of Antigonos Gonatas, probably after the Chremonidean War, allegedly because he was a partisan of Ptolemy II.50 In light of all this, the notion that some of the megistai timai decrees may reflect a conscious attempt at making history, promoted by a few influential individuals and approved by the whole community, becomes much more palatable. Thinking along these lines, it may be significant that the decree for Kallias explicitly states that one of the goals of the text was to create a hypomnema for the 44 45 46 47

48 49 50

See, e.g., HANSEN 1991, 266–71. See now FARAGUNA 2003, 485–6 with further bibliography. GAUTHIER 1985, 77–8 and 83–8. On a likely exception, the decree for Philippides of Paiania from 293/2 (DINSMOOR 1931, 7–8), see KRALLI 1999–2000, 150 n. 40. One wonders if Kephisodoros’ application may not have been more explicit in spelling out his political activity, along the lines of Paus. 1.36.5–6, in which case one might wonder whether the historical background provided by Pausanias might not derive indirectly from the document of the application, which might conceivably have been stored in an archive and landed in some compilation like the one the applications for Demosthenes and Demochares ultimately come from. But this is speculation. See respectively FGrHist 324 T 4, 5, 7, 12 and 325 T 2, 3, 4. On Phanodemos’ political profile as results from the inscriptions, see LAMBERT 2004, 87. See MARASCO 1984, 87–109. FGrHist 328 T 1. On Philochoros’ biography, see JACOBY 1954, 220–5.

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future of the benefactions of Kallias towards the demos of Athens.51 The rather indefinite word hypomnema is used in Greek to indicate texts that may constitute the raw material for historical narratives.52 Is this what our texts purport to be doing? The point cannot be pressed too far, since hypomnema can actually have a more general meaning of ‘monument’ or ‘memorial,’ and the word does occur with this meaning in other Athenian inscriptions.53 But even without going this far, a close reading of our texts seems to warrant the conclusion that they indeed show the Athenian demos taking up the function of a historical narrator and articulating an intentional history of itself for future generations to learn.

51 52 53

SEG 28.60, line 104; notice that the function of commemorating Kallias’ actions refers specifically to the inscription, not to the other honours granted to him, which included a statue. See, e.g., WALBANK 1967, 279. The notion that the inscription should constitute a hypomnema is articulated fairly often in Athenian inscriptions; HEDRICK 1999, 421–2 and 434 lists 36 examples, starting from the late fourth century, with a peak of density in the second (22 examples). See also the list in HENRY 1996, 116. Most frequently, the inscription is supposed to function as a hypomnema for the honorand of the honours granted to him by the demos (e.g., IG II–III2 908, lines 17–18); in a handful of cases, the inscription is called a hypomnema of the qualities of the honorand (e.g., IG II–III2 677, lines 18–19, probably from the 50s of the third century, unfortunately heavily integrated, and IG II–III2 1223, lines 15–16, a megistai timai decree from the middle of the second century BCE, where the inscription is to serve as a hypomnema both of the kalokagathia of the honorand and of the gratitude of the demos). The Kallias decree seems to be alone in calling itself a hypomnema of the actions performed by the honorand.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY BEARZOT, C. 2003: L’uso dei documenti in Tucidide, in Biraschi et al. 2003, 267–314. BIRASCHI, A. et al. 2003: (eds.) L’uso dei documenti nella storiografia antica. Atti del convegno di Gubbio, 22– 24 maggio 2001, Napoli. BOURDIEU, P. 1977: Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge. CORCELLA, A. 2003: Echi di documenti sulle Guerre Persiane in Erodoto, in Biraschi et al. 2003, 127–49. CULASSO GASTALDI, E. 2003: Eroi della città: Eufrone di Sicione e Licurgo di Atene, in A. Barzanò et al. (eds.) Modelli eroici dall’antichità alla cultura europea, Rome, 65–98. CUNIBERTI, G. 2006: La polis dimezzata. Immagini storiografiche di Atene ellenistica, Alessandria. DAVIES, J. K. 1996: Documents and “documents” in fourth-century historiography, in P. Carlier (ed.) Le IVe siècle av. J.-C. Approches historiographiques, Nancy, 29–39. DINSMOOR, W. B. 1931: The Archons of Athens in the Hellenistic Age, Cambridge, MA. DOMINGO GYGAX, M. 2003: Euergetismus und Gabentausch, Métis n.s. 1, 181–200. 2006a: Contradictions et asymétrie dans l’évergétisme grec: bienfaiteurs étrangers et citoyens entre image et réalité, DHA 32,1, 9–23. 2006b: Les origines de l’évergétisme. Échanges et identités sociales dans la cité grecque, Métis n.s. 4, 269–95. DREYER, B. 1999: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des spätklassischen Athen (322 – ca. 230 v. Chr.), Historia Einzelschrift 137, Stuttgart. ERDAS, D. 2002: (ed.) Cratero il Macedone. Testimonianze e frammenti, Rome. FABIANI, R. 2003: Epigrafi in Erodoto, in Biraschi et al. 2003, 163–85. FARAGUNA, M. 2003: I documenti nelle “Vite dei X oratori” dei Moralia plutarchei, in Biraschi et al. 2003, 481–503. 2005: Scrittura e amministrazione nelle città greche: gli archivi pubblici, QUCC 80, 61–86. FLOWER, H. I. 2006: The Art of Forgetting: Disgrace and Oblivion in Roman Political Culture, Chapel Hill. GAUTHIER, P. 1985: Les cités grecques et leurs bienfaiteurs (IVe-Ier siècle avant J.-C.). Contribution à l’histoire des institutions, BCH, suppl. 12, Paris. GEHRKE, H.-J. 1994: Mythos, Geschichte, Politik – antik und modern, Saeculum 45, 239–64. GOLAN, D. 2000: The Qualified Praise Decree of Kephisodoros and Historiography, ZPE 131, 227–30. HABICHT, C. 1961: Falsche Urkunden zur Geschichte Athens im Zeitalter der Perserkriege, Hermes 89, 1–35. 1982: Studien zur Geschichte Athens in hellenistischer Zeit, Göttingen. 1995: Athen. Die Geschichte der Stadt in hellenistischer Zeit, Munich.

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1998: Pausanias’ Guide to Ancient Greece, 2nd edn., Berkeley. HANSEN, M. H. 1991: The Athenian Democracy in the Age of Demosthenes: Structure, Principles, and Ideology, Oxford. HARDING, P. 1994: Androtion and the Atthis: The Fragments Translated with Introduction and Commentary, Oxford. HEDRICK, C. W., JR. 1999: Democracy and the Athenian epigraphic habit, Hesperia 68, 147–254. HENRY, A. S. 1983: Honours and Privileges in Athenian Decrees: The Principal Formulae of Athenian Honorary Decrees, Hildesheim. 1992: Lyandros of Anaphlystos and the decree for Phaidros of Sphettos, Chiron 22, 25–33. 1996: The hortatory intention in Athenian state decrees, ZPE 112, 105–17. HEUß, A. 1934: Abschluß und Beurkundung des griechischen und römischen Staatsvertrages, Klio 27, 14–53 and 218–57. JACOBY, F. 1949: Atthis: The Local Chronicles of Ancient Athens, Oxford. 1954: Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, III b, Supplement: A Commentary on the Ancient Historians of Athens (323a–334), Leiden. KLAFFENBACH, G. 1960: Bemerkungen zum griechischen Unrkundenwesen, Sitzungsberichte der deutschen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, Klasse für Sprache, Literatur und Kunst, Jahrgang 1960, no. 6. KRALLI, I. 1999–2000: Athens and her leading citizens in the early hellenistic period (338–261 B.C.): the evidence of the decrees awarding the highest honors, Archaiognosia 10, 133–61. 2000: Athens and the hellenistic kings (338–261 B.C.): the language of the decrees, CQ 50, 113–32. LAMBERT, S. 2004: Athenian state laws and decrees, 352/1–322/1: I Decrees honouring Athenians, ZPE 150, 85–120. 2006: Athenian state laws and decrees, 352/1–322/1: III Decrees honouring foreigners A. Citizenship, proxeny and euergesy, ZPE 158, 115–58. LURAGHI, N. Forthcoming: Documenting the past: primary sources in fourth-century historiography, forthcoming in the proceedings of the conference “Greek Historiography of the Fourth-Century: Problems and Perspectives,” Bologna, 12–14/12/2007, ed. by N. Luraghi and R. Vattuone. MARASCO, G. 1984: Democare di Leuconoe. Politica e cultura in Atene fra IV e III sec. A.C., Florence. NOUHAUD, M. 1982: L’utilisation de l’histoire par les orateurs attiques, Paris. RHODES, P. J. – OSBORNE, R. 2003: Greek Historical Inscriptions, 404–323 BC, Oxford. ROSEN, K. 1987: Ehrendekrete, Biographie und Geschichtsschreibung. Zum Wandel der griechischen Polis im frühen Hellenismus, Chiron 17, 277–92. SCHEPENS, G. 2003: L’apport des documents dans la méthode historique d’Éphore, in Biraschi et al. 2003, 333–65.

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SHEAR, T. L., JR. 1978: Kallias of Sphettos and the Revolt of Athens in 286 B.C., Hesperia, suppl. 17, Princeton. SICKINGER, J. P. 1999: Public Records and Archives in Classical Athens, Chapel Hill. THOMAS, R. 1989: Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens, Cambridge. VEYNE, P. 1976: Le pain et le cirque. Sociologie historique d’un pluralisme politique, Paris. WALBANK, F. W. 1967: A Historical Commentary on Polybius, II, Oxford. WHITEHEAD, D. 1983: Competitive outlay and community profit: φιλοτιµία in democratic Athens, C&M 34, 55–74. WÖRRLE, M. 1995: Vom tugendhaften Jüngling zum ‘gestreßten’ Euergeten. Überlegugnen zum Bürgerbild hellenistischer Ehrendekrete, in M. Wörrle and P. Zanker (eds.), Stadtbild und Bürgerbild im Hellenismus. Kolloquium, München, 24. bis 26. Juni 1993. Vestigia 47. Munich, 241–50.

14. GOD AND KING AS SYNOIKISTS: DIVINE DISPOSITION AND MONARCHIC WISHES COMBINED IN THE TRADITIONS OF CITY FOUNDATIONS FOR ALEXANDER’S AND HELLENISTIC TIMES Kostas Buraselis 14.1 The scene is famous: Arrian (3.1.5) tells of how Alexander, during his conquest of Egypt, came to the strip of land between lake Mareotis and the Mediterranean coast, in the area of the Nile delta, and felt the inner impulse, the pothos, to found a city in that highly favourable location. Without delay, he begins planning the city in detail. He personally selects the places where the agora and the various temples of gods he himself has selected – including Greek gods but also Isis – should be laid out. Even the course of the city walls is drawn by him. After thus having defined all the basic features of his foundation, the king sacrifices. Arrian’s words are: καὶ  ἐπὶ  τούύτοις  ἐθύύετο,  καὶ  τὰ  ἱερὰ  καλὰ  ἐφαίίνετο. Fraser carefully translated: “And he made sacrifice for the furtherance of these projects, and the omens appeared good.”1 Epi toutois can be understood here as carrying a double meaning, both purely temporal: “thereafter” as well as final: “for that purpose, for the success of this undertaking.”2 In any case, Alexander’s contemporaries and the later readers of that report must have clearly seen that the king, who, with regard to the foundation, had already arranged everything down to the details, could only expect the divine approbation of his plan. No wonder that it was also promptly delivered by his seers. More precisely, it was clear that the wish and the plan of the king had preceded in an unproblematic way the expression of the gods’ will. Nevertheless, that procedure restricted the role of the gods as established in the tradition of Greek colonisation, where an oracle often appears as the more or less encapsulated form of divine wishes and directives to the departing colonists. Here the gods were able to speak too little and only subsequently.3 Therefore it is not surprising that further reports on the foundation of Alexandria, which can very well also go back to the foundation period, tried to redress 1 2 3

FRASER 1972, I, 3. E.g., LESCHHORN 1984, 205 understands this passage in the former sense. MALKIN 1987, 106–8 rather underrates this aspect in his tendency to recognise only similarities between the foundation processes of Messene (369 BCE) and Alexandria. However, in the former case (as described in detail by Paus. 4.26–7) Epameinondas had already been helped by dreams to locate the site of foundation and the seers had been consulted before the actual detailed planning and preparation of the city began.

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this deficit in divine participation. Arrian himself (3.2.1–2) presents the nucleus of this additional tradition: the demarcation lines for the plan of the city on the ground were drawn with the meal of the provisions borne by Alexander’s soldiers. Aristandros of Telmessos, Alexander’s court seer,4 was able to attribute to this solution of expediency the value of a divine nod: the city should become prosperous, especially “because of the fruits of the earth.” The alphita of the soldiers used to mark the city grid were dexterously interpreted as a positive omen for the opulence of the future city. A slightly diverging version of this story in Strabo (17.1.6) implies a late hellenistic terminus ante quem for its appearance. This basic narrative (exactly as the city plan itself) underwent later a refined elaboration, in which the operation of birds was added as a further dramatic element. In Plutarch (Alex. 26), Curtius (4.8.2), Stephanos of Byzantium (s.v. Ἀλεξάάνδρειαι)5 and the Alexander Romance (1.32.4) we find the enlarged variant where the improvised ground-lines of the city soon become the food of birds. It was only natural to understand the incident as a negative omen (and Alexander himself according to Plutarch saw it exactly in this way): the city plan was nipped in the bud. However, the seers were able perfectly to harmonise royal and divine providence. As Plutarch mentions, they declared the meal eaten up by the birds as a sign not only of the expected opulence of the city but also of its destiny as food supplier of the world: Alexandria should become the nurse of people from everywhere.6 Thus an episode that at first seemed unfavourable was finally turned into a further divine confirmation of the royal founder’s plan. Moreover, Homer, who was deified in hellenistic times (probably also due to Ptolemaic initiative),7 was similarly allowed to participate in the royal decision. In a story found in Plutarch (l.c.)8 and Stephanos of Byzantium (l.c.), probably going at least as far back as Herakleides Lembos (second century BCE), the poet appears to Alexander in a dream and indicates through the quotation of Odyssey 4.354–5 the right position (the area of Pharos) where the king could best found an important Greek city in Egypt. The guidelines of an oracle were here replaced by Alexander’s favourite poet acting as “the wisest architect” in Plutarch’s words.9 The same advice takes on the form of an oracle of Ammon in the Alexander romance (Ps.-Kallisthenes), 1.30. 5.10 The heavenly framework for the foundation of Alexandria was thus completed: not only had the royal plan acquired divine blessing a posteriori, but it had 4 5 6 7 8

9 10

BERVE 1926, II, 62f. no. 117. FRASER 1972, II, 65f. n. 151 supposed Jason as his possible source. Οὐ   µμὴν   ἀλλὰ   καὶ   τῶν   µμάάντεων   θαρρεῖν   παραινούύντων   (πολυαρκεστάάτην   γὰρ   οἰκίίζεσθαι  πόόλιν  ὑπ’  αὐτοῦ,  καὶ  παντοδαπῶν  ἀνθρώώπων  ἐσοµμέένην  τροφόόν)… BURASELIS – ANEZIRI 2004, 180 and 186 no. 333. It is noteworthy that Plutarch specifically makes here Homer’s vision and instructions to the king predate the decision on the place and plan of the city: …καίί  τινα  τόόπον  γνώώµμῃ  τῶν   ἀρχιτεκτόόνων  ὅσον  οὐδέέπω  διεµμετρεῖτο  καὶ  περιέέβαλλεν. Alex. 26: ... εἰπὼν  (sc.  Ἀλέέξανδρος)  ὡς  Ὅµμηρος  ἦν  ἄρα  τάά  τε  ἄλλα  θαυµμαστὸς  καὶ   σοφώώτατος  ἀρχιτέέκτων … Cf. MALKIN 1987, 107.

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also possessed such supernatural guidance from the beginning. Even after Alexander had been long recognised as a god at his foundation in Egypt, and more generally in the hellenistic world, it was still important that his city should not be traced back only to his thinking and planning. The gods could not be deprived of their traditional part in the creation of this city too, and in determining its future destiny, if its citizens were to feel secure about their future.11 14.2 As far as the city-building of the Diadochoi and the Epigonoi is concerned, the relevant sources preserved refer mainly to the Seleukids. The earliest such literary testimonies are to be found in Appian’s Syriake of the first half of the second century CE, which certainly go back, however, to older traditions originating in the hellenistic period. Appian12 mentions there a divine intervention in connection with the foundations of Seleukeia in Pieria and Seleukeia on the Tigris. In the first case Seleukos I received heavenly guidance in his exact choice of place for the Mediterranean Seleukeia through a thunderbolt.13 The basic decision of the king to build a city on the Syrian coast had been already taken but in the selection of the final site he allegedly followed the sign of Zeus. A storm on the seaside is nothing rare, especially at the time of the year to which tradition ascribes the foundation of the city.14 The king and his human advisers will then have declared an occurrence of the typical climatic rhythm in that area to be a favourable divine omen for a foundation site which seemed to them promising anyway. On the other hand, the importance of that element in the tradition and the identity of the city may be seen in the cult of the thunderbolt there, as Appian further reports, and in the use of exactly that symbol on the coins of the city, still continuing in imperial times.15 11

12 13

14

15

Further aspects of sacredness were added to the foundation of Alexandria in later authors (Ps.-Kallisthenes, Julius Valerius) through (a) the related pre-existence at that place of Proteus’ tomb, (b) the legend of the snake killed during the first building works and the consequent creation of the cult of Agathos Daimon in the city. See on these (with quotation of the sources): FRASER 1982, II, 43f. n. 96; LAMBRINUDAKIS 2005, 344f. Syr. 58. BRODERSEN 1989, 163ff. offers a useful commentary. ibid.: Φασὶ  δὲ  αὐτῷ  τὰς  Σελευκείίας  οἰκίίζοντι,  τὴν  µμὲν  ἐπὶ  τῇ  θαλάάσσῃ,  διοσηµμίίαν   ἡγήήσασθαι   κεραυνοῦ,   καὶ   διὰ   τοῦτο   κεραυνὸν   αὐτοῖς   θεὸν   ἔθετο,   καὶ   θρησκεύύουσι  καὶ  ὑµμνοῦσι  καὶ  νῦν  κεραυνόόν. If one may trust the temporal sequence in Malalas – here always cited with page nos. of the Dindorf edition – p. 199.10–15, the foundation of Seleukeia in Pieria ought to have taken place some time before the month Artemisios, always a spring month in Greek calendars (TRÜMPY 1997, 25f.), and few days after the 23rd of the previous month Xanthikos (Xandikos), that is about the beginning of spring. MØRKHOLM, 1991, no 154 with p. 75 (early third century BCE). RPC I.4324 and 4328–9, II.2025 A–B.

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More instructive in respect to the subject here examined is Appian’s more extensive report on the foundation of Seleukeia on the Tigris,16 for two reasons: first as it expresses more distinctly the officially admitted combination of divine and monarchic plans but also because it singularly reveals the instrumental role the indigenous priests could also play in the execution of such a project. Appian’s picture reminds one here first of some traits of the foundation of Alexandria in Arrian: for the king had also in this case planned everything in advance, and his army stood ready to lay the foundations of the new city in accordance with the royal plan. However, it was important for the king to await first (or for the time being) a positive sign of the magi as representatives of local religious rites. The magi seem now to have initially defined the exact time to begin building works but then to have failed to issue the corresponding sign on purpose. For they feared to see such a “counter-fortification” (ἐπιτείίχισµμα) erected in their area, that is mainly the traditional domain of Babylon. This resulted in an awkward ceremonial-political impasse: the soldiers were waiting for the king’s order and Seleukos in his tent for the appearance of the magi as bearers of divine consent. It was a Mesopotamian ‘Gordian knot,’ which would have probably lasted even longer unless the soldiers themselves – too tired of waiting? following a secret order of the king or one of his generals? – had suddenly thought they had actually received the missing signal. Thereupon they began their already planned work, without anyone being able to stop them, and thus soon set magi and king before the fait accompli of the city foundation. The small drama had in this way found an Alexander-like solution without a visible Alexander. Appian further reports that the magi came then to the disquieted king; they confessed their unsuccessful trick but achieved his pardon after a clever display of religious interpretation: both their and the king’s plans had been overtaken by the destiny of the city, determined by the gods. The time of founding the city had simply come; the soldiers were the unconscious executives of a higher programme. Thus Seleukeia on the Tigris was presented not merely as the result of a monarchic initiative: it was declared a part of the divine world order, therefore endowed with a great future. Divine disposition and royal wish found a harmonious synthesis, to the satisfaction of all protagonists involved. 17

16

17

BRODERSEN 1989, 165f. is inclined to doubt en bloc the historicity of Appian’s story because of the mention of the magi (Iranian priests) instead of Chaldaeans and the Herodotean flavour of his narrative. However, a pure invention of his seems also improbable: it looks more likely that he has at least relied on earlier (local?) sources concerning this episode. Previous partial parallels can have no doubt influenced the form but not created the kernel of this tradition. Tac. Ann. 6.42.1 represents a tellingly concise version on the origin of the foundation: Seleukos I is the founder (... conditoris Seleuci). Further on this royal foundation and its Mesopotamian background: BRIANT 1990, 47f.; INVERNIZZI 19962, 235.

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14.3 The foundation of the great rival of Alexandria in Egypt, Antiocheia in Syria, did not fail to obtain a similar divine aureole. The relevant tradition is much later but for that more elaborate. Libanios presents an extensive report of the history of the city in his Antiochikos, written shortly after the middle of the fourth century CE. Here the city acquires a rich, glorious prehistory that goes all the way back to the time of the gods and heroes of Greek mythology, that is, long before the actual foundation by Seleukos. A settlement in the area had allegedly been founded originally by Argives under Triptolemos, who had arrived here in search of Io, loved by Zeus and chased by Hera. The Argives liked the place and founded a city appropriately named Ione. Further settlers supposedly included people from Crete and Cyprus, and even some Heraklids. In some sense concluding this heroic prelude, Alexander (according to Libanios) also visited the same region and founded there, as a first part of a new settlement, a shrine of Zeus Bottiaios and a citadel (Emathia). This obviously mythical phase was then skilfully linked with a similar elaboration of the historical Seleukid foundation. The real data were here again clear. After his participation in the victory of Ipsos (301), Seleukos had become not only the main successor to the Asian dominions of Antigonos Monophthalmos but also the natural heir of the latter’s administrative measures, especially in the heart of his kingdom. Antigonos had already recognised the importance of the region of the lower Orontes, for strategic and other reasons, and he had begun building here his capital, Antigoneia. Seleukos was certainly clever enough not to give up the advantages of a capital city of his own in the same area. However, obvious considerations of prestige forced him to present his own creation as a new foundation,18 and this not only through a change of name. Therefore he moved the site of the planned capital some kilometres away and named it – perhaps demonstrating modesty and piety at the same time – Antiocheia, after his father.19 But here again, the all too obvious motives of the king20 could not be a substitute for a divine legitimisation of the city. Accordingly, Libanios reports that Seleukos had first tried to offer a sacrifice at the Antigonid foundation but, suddenly, while the meat of the sacrificed bull was still burning on the altar, Zeus’ flying companion, an eagle, had snapped the thigh-bones of the victim away and landed with them on the altar of Zeus Bottiaios in the neighbouring area of the city planned by Alexander. Seleukos’ son had followed the course of the eagle on horseback and narrated to his father the incident. The king understood the divine hint conveyed by the moving of the sacrificial offer and in full respect of it built his capital at the place indicated by the god. Thus he was also represented as directly resuming and continuing Alexander’s plans in the area. Libanios’ conclusion deserves to be quoted 18 19 20

Cf. the remark by Libanios, Antioch. 92, on the subsequent demolition of Antigoneia: Ἀντιγονίίαν  δὲ  αὐτὴν  µμὲν  ἠφάάνισεν,  ἀνδρὸς  δυσµμενοῦς  ὑπόόµμνηµμα … On the question of whether Antiocheia has been named after the father or the son of Seleukos I see recently WIEMER 2003, 454 with n. 77, where all relevant sources are collected. Cf. GRAINGER 1990, 56f.

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in full here: “... the highest god became through this oracle our oikistes.”21 Libanios goes then on to relate Seleukos’ personal care for the exact plan and building of his city, the rich means and the method he employed in the process. Nonetheless, the king thus reveres the fundamental divine directive; he is the executor of a higher plan suggestively communicated to him. In this “quasi-official foundation legend”22 of the city the king, the real founder, must content himself with a secondary role. The primary oikist is the god. As H.-U. Wiemer has recently shown, Libanios has here adopted and reproduced a tradition that should go back to the hellenistic period, and partly to its beginnings.23 This reinforces the impression that the real foundation story was very early on wrapped up in the cover of divine blessing. One may even think that the case of Antiocheia set a model in this respect for the later Seleukid foundations in Syria and beyond, as we shall see below. 14.4 The motif of the eagle in the foundation story of Antiocheia arises two centuries later in the work of another Antiochene, Ioannes Malalas, to the value of a topos. In his miscellaneous chronography the legend of the eagle decorates not only the beginning of Antiocheia24 but also that of Seleukeia in Pieria, Laodikeia by the sea and Apameia.25 Malalas’ version of the legend bears unambiguous later traits and puts more emphasis on the role of the divine: the sacrifice here takes place with the express aim to receive a divine hint on the appropriate place for the foundation. In other words, the royal plans include a priori the wish to consult the gods. In the case of Antiocheia, the priest-seer Amphion appears as an influential figure alongside the king. They were both depicted in the act of performing their common oracular rite on a relief set inside one of the city gates.26 Moreover, Malalas generously adds the mythic motif of a primordial ritual intended to ensure the god’s favour for a new foundation: in Antiocheia the virgin Aimathe is sacrificed, in Laodikeia Agaue, and even Alexander is supposed to have sacrificed a girl with the (matching!) name Macedonia at the foundation of his city in Egypt.27 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

Antioch. 88: … ἡµμῖν  ὁ  τῶν  θεῶν  κορυφαῖος  διὰ  τῆς  µμαντείίας  οἰκιστὴς  ἐγίίγνετο. WIEMER 2003, 453 (offiziöse Gründungslegende). ibid., esp. 460–3. Malalas, p. 200, 1–9 (see n. 14). Cf. on this and the following cases CHUVIN 1988 and SARADI 2006, 89–93 (both with further discussion and literature). Malalas, p. 199.4–12, 203.2–8 and 17–20 (see n. 14). Malalas, p. 199.21–2, 200.15–16, 202.19–21 (see n. 14). Malalas, p. 200.15–17, 203.9–10, 192.6–7 (see n. 14). Aimathe is etymologically inspired from the Macedonian geographical term Emathia (Ἠµμαθίία, also Aemathia in Latin sources), which was also the name of the citadel of Antiocheia (see above): CHUVIN 1988, 101. Agaue is the name of Pentheus’ mother: considering the connection of the relevant myth with Macedonia through Euripides’ Bacchae, one might also recognise here a specifically Macedonian

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The figure of Agaue is additionally connected with the element of guaranteeing the security of a city through the establishment of the cult of its Fortune: for the bronze statue of the sacrificed girl, dedicated by the king, was allegedly recognised as the Tyche of Laodikeia.

14.5 The lasting success of the eagle motif as a symbol of heavenly cooperation in the foundation of hellenistic cities is demonstrated not only by its frequent representation on the coins and on a capital of Antiocheia on the Orontes in the Roman imperial period28 – Malalas himself mentions a monument of that “founding eagle” in front of the city walls29 –but also by the influence it has very probably exercised on shaping similar traditions for other monarchic foundations in the hellenistic world. Thus Wolfgang Leschhorn30 has been able to show through a combination of the testimonies of Libanios’ oration Μονῳδίία   ἐπὶ   Νικοµμηδείίᾳ (after the earthquake of 358) and a numismatic series of the same city from late Roman times (from Maximinus Thrax to Gordian III) that there must have been also here a legend of an eagle leading the royal founder. A similar motif can further be found in the coinage of Prusias near Olympos under Geta and Caracalla,31 so that we may also connect this element with the tradition of that city’s foundation by Prusias I. It is reasonable to conclude that either the Bithynian kings themselves or the later local traditions of their foundations have integrated the eagle motif into the ideological elaboration of some Bithynian city foundations, too. 14.6 Another motif of divine guidance in the stories of hellenistic foundations are dreams. We have already seen such a tradition relating to Alexandreia of Egypt. Alexander also received divine inspiration in this form in the case of Smyrna: according to Pausanias (7.5.1–2), the Nemeseis appeared in a dream to Alexander, who was resting near their sanctuary in the neighbourhood of Smyrna, and instructed him to relocate the city to that site. Considering that according to Strabo (14.1.37) the city was actually rebuilt under Antigonos Monophthalmos and Lysimachos, but the archaeological finds prove the existence of a settlement at

28 29 30 31

inspiration. The motif of human sacrifice consecrating a new edifice or city may be partly a Christian attempt to denigrate pagan practices (CHUVIN 1988, 101), but it certainly represents at least late antique beliefs in “a chthonic/autochthonic power involved in the origins of (a) city” (LAMBRINUDAKIS 2005, 345). The evidence is collected in LESCHHORN 1984, 231 (with n. 8). Cf. now also RPC I, p. 607ff. Malalas, p. 202.6–7 (see n. 14). LESCHHORN 1984, 271–4. ibid. 282–4.

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that place already in Alexander’s time,32 one may interpret this dream legend as a later (hellenistic?) effort to trace back the actual re-foundation of the city to Alexander, and thus increase its prestige. In any case, Alexander appeared here already merely as the executer of a divine directive. In Stephanos of Byzantium, s.v. Ἀντιόόχεια,  we find a similarly fundamental role ascribed to a dream of Antiochos I in connection with three Carian cities (Laodikeia, Nysa, Antiocheia). The sleeping king is visited by three female figures – whom he took to be his mother, wife and daughter – and instructed by them to build the respective cities, which he names after them. In the case of Laodikeia, Stephanos s.v. Λαοδίίκεια has a different story. This time, the dream is a proper oracle of Apollo, conveyed to the sleeping king in perfect divine bureaucracy by Hermes, and reporting Zeus’ wish that the city be built. While the first form of the tradition shows the tendency to refer the spiritual inspiration for the king’s building programme to figures of the dynasty itself, the second one testifies again to the unequivocal need to invest the city with a still higher legitimisation. In connection with the founding policy of the Attalids we encounter a further form of divine directive for building a city, which was intended to accentuate even more the role of the deity: the find of a god’s statue. We owe again to Stephanos of Byzantium, s.v. Διονύύσου  πόόλις, the tradition that Dionysoupolis in Phrygia was founded by Attalos and Eumenes (in both cases probably the Second) because a statue of Dionysos had been found in its area.33 We have then here not the compliance with whichever articulation of the divine wish but the god himself becomes in his statuary form something like a foundation stone of the new royal city, without a royal name. The contribution of the monarchic cofounder is as inconspicuous as possible. 14.7 What short conclusions could be drawn from this interpretative overview of the relevant sources?34 First, one may note that already under Alexander, and in an even more recognisable way during the hellenistic period, the actual facts of monarchic foundations were adjusted to the traditional patterns of Greek colonisation. The practically absolute power of each royal founder to act as he wished is in fact indisputable and often reflected in the specific traditions of the founded cities. Who could after all have opposed Alexander’s or Seleukos’ plans? Nevertheless, neither the kings nor the citizens of the new cities have ever renounced the idea of divine participation, variously expressed, in the inauguration of these new civic entities. The component of divine advice (mainly through an oracle)35 or 32 33 34 35

Cf. LESCHHORN 1984, 217f.; COHEN 1995, 181f. Cf. the entry in COHEN 1995, 293–5. Cf. also the still useful collection of such cases by TSCHERIKOWER 1927, 129–32. A well-known example is the aetiological tradition on the origin of the cult of Apollo Smintheus in the Troad and the settlement of the Cretan Trojans (Teukroi) there according to

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even divine guidance for the Greek colonists abided. Exactly as, e.g., not only Battos but also Apollo in the form of a raven, had led the Theraean colonists to Cyrene36 and both the human founder and the god received the official title of archegetes in the new city,37 the (often discreet but invariably decisive) role of the divine co-founder could not be erased from the representation or selfrepresentation of hellenistic foundations.38 This is, of course, especially remarkable if one considers the parallel development of the hellenistic ruler-cult. The deified king has not deprived the gods of their status as higher or fellow-founders of cities. Quite the contrary: he has further sought his legitimisation as founder in his connection with them. One may say that also in this case the hellenistic monarch’s care for preserving the forms of Greek tradition was simultaneously an ideological buttress and a serviceable camouflage of his overriding power.

Strabo 13.1.48. Cf. PRINZ 1979, 62ff.; MALKIN 1987, 17ff. (esp. the conclusions, 88–91, specifying the subordinate role of the founder with respect to Apollo). 36 Callim. Hymn 2, 65–8. 37 See LESCHHORN 1984, 70 and 114; MALKIN 1987, 204–21 (on Battos’ role at Cyrene) and 240–50 (on the various aspects of the title archegetes). Both provide further examples and bibliography. 38 Pindar, Pyth. 5.76, emphasises that at the foundation of Cyrene the forefathers of his contemporary Cyrenaeans had not acted without the gods: οὐ  θεῶν  ἄτερ,  ἀλλὰ  Μοῖράά  τις  ἄγεν. It is noteworthy that Libanios, Antioch. 87, almost at the other end of ancient Greek cultural development, uses almost the same words to describe the foundation of Antiocheia by Seleukos I: … τοῦ  συµμβάάντος (sc. the “eagle miracle”) …δηλοῦντος  ὡς  οὐκ  ἄνευ  θεῶν   ἐδρᾶτο (cf. also ibid., 85: καὶ  γίίγνεται  τὸ  πᾶν  ὑπὸ  θεοῦ). It seems probable that we spot here a constant element of Greek thinking, which more or less imposed its respect to the hellenistic monarchs. In particular, Apollo’s image, usually as indirect founder (through oracular advice and its execution by human founders), or even direct founder (as in the case of Kyzikos), of Greek cities persists and is instructively analysed in imperial times by Aelius Aristides, XXVII.5 (Keil):…   ταῖς   µμὲν   ἄλλαις   πόόλεσιν   ἐξηγητήής   ἐστιν,   τῇ   δὲ   πόόλει   ταύύτῃ  (sc.  τῇ  Κυζίίκῳ)  καὶ  ἀρχηγέέτης.  τὰς  µμὲν  γὰρ  ἄλλας  πόόλεις  διὰ  τῶν  οἰκιστῶν   ᾤκισεν  οὓς  ἀπέέστειλεν  ἑκασταχόόσε,  ταύύτης  δὲ  ἐκ  τοῦ  εὐθέέος  γέέγονεν  οἰκιστήής. It is clear that the more explicit the participation of the god in a city’s foundation, the more secure and glorious its future was considered to be.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY BERVE, H. 1926: Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, I-II, Munich. BRIANT, P. 1990: The Seleucid kingdom, the Achaemenid empire and the history of the Near East in the first millennium BC, in: P. Bilde et al. (eds.) Religion and Religious Practice in the Seleucid Kingdom, Åarhus, 40–65. BRODERSEN, K. 1989: Appians Abriss der Seleukidengeschichte (Syr. 45, 232–70, 369). Text und Kommentar, Munich. BURASELIS, K. – ANEZIRI, S. 2004: Die griechische und hellenistische Apotheose, ThesCRA 2, 158–86. COHEN, G. M. 1995: The Hellenistic Settlements in Europe, the Islands, and Asia Minor, Berkeley. CHUVIN, P. 1988: Les fondations syriennes de Séleucos Nicator dans la chronique de Jean Malalas, in: P.L. Gatier, B. Helly and J.-P. Rey-Cocquais (eds.) Géographie historique au Proche-Orient, Paris, 99–110. FRASER, P. M. 1972: Ptolemaic Alexandria, Oxford. GRAINGER, J. D. 1990: The Cities of Seleukid Syria, Oxford. INVERNIZZI, A. 19962: Seleucia on the Tigris: centre and periphery in Seleucid Asia, in: P. Bilde et al. (eds.) Centre and Periphery in the Hellenistic World, Åarhus, 230–50. LAMBRINUDAKIS, V. 2005: Consecration, foundation rites, ThesCRA 3, 303–46. LESCHHORN, W. 1984: Gründer der Stadt. Studien zu einem politisch-religiösen Phänomen der griechischen Geschichte, Stuttgart. MALKIN, I. 1987: Religion and Colonization in Ancient Greece, Leiden. MØRKHOLM, O. 1991: Early Hellenistic Coinage, Cambridge. PRINZ, F. 1979: Gründungsmythen und Sagenchronologie, Munich. SARADI, H. G. 2006: The Byzantine City in the Sixth Century, Athens. TRÜMPY, C. 1997: Untersuchungen zu den altgriechischen Monatsnamen und Monatsfolgen, Heidelberg. TSCHERIKOWER, V. 1927: Die hellenistischen Städtegründungen von Alexander d. Gr. bis auf die Römerzeit, Leipzig. WIEMER, U. 2003: Vergangenheit und Gegenwart im Antiochikos des Libanios, Klio 85, 442–68.

15. “THEY THAT HELD ARKADIA.” ARKADIAN FOUNDATION MYTHS AS INTENTIONAL HISTORY IN ROMAN IMPERIAL TIMES Tania J. Scheer 15.1. INTRODUCTION Stories about beginnings have a long tradition in Greek culture. Poets and historians, as well as the Greek poleis concerned themselves with the origins of the world, of the gods, of human civilisation and with their own urban origins. The varied nature of Greek polis culture becomes clear when considering the range of stories about beginnings which circulated in the individual poleis. This contribution investigates the use and function of Arkadian foundation myths as intentional history in Roman imperial times.1 Of all the regions of Greece, Arkadia does not exactly appear predestined as a backdrop for stories of colonisation and foundation activity. Already Homer’s characterisation of the Arkadians points in the opposite direction:2 And they that held Arkadia beneath the steep mountain of Kyllene … all these were led by the son of Ancaeus, Lord Agapenor, with 60 ships; and on each ship embarked full many Arkadian warriors well-skilled in fight. For of himself had the king of men, Agamemnon the son of Atreus, given them benched ships wherewith to cross over the wine-dark sea, for with matters of seafaring had they naught to do.

The Arkadians are so strongly characterised as an inland people that Agamemnon has to lend them ships for them to be able to join the expedition to Troy. This image accompanies the Arkadians into imperial times. Plutarch describes the Arkadian general Philopoimen accidentally choosing a leaking ship because of his inexperience at sea and only narrowly avoiding sinking.3 Arkadians, as the archetypal Greek mountain dwellers, have the reputation of being a people unfamiliar with seafaring, a cultural technique central to colonisation efforts. They do not own ships, nor do they know how to use them. In addition, Arkadians are said to have a particularly strong connection with their land: they have always lived in Arkadia. 4 Against this background, the information which the periegete Pausanias gives us is rather surprising: in his description of Arkadia, written in imperial times, he tells us of a number of colonisation expeditions, which are supposed to have departed from Arkadia. In imperial times it was reported that Arkadian oikists and 1 2 3 4

On the concept of “intentional history,” cf. GEHRKE 1994; GEHRKE 2001. Hom. Il. 2.603–14; see also Paus. 8.1.3. Plut. Phil. 14.3. Hdt. 2.171; Hdt. 8.73; Thuc. 1.2.9.

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their crews had reached and settled in Italy and Rome, Phrygia, Bithynia and Teuthrania, Crete, Cyprus and the Black Sea.5 At this point, the question as to the importance of such traditions for the historical discourse of the imperial period arises. Who claims to be of Arkadian descent in the second century, and by what means? What intention can lie behind emphasising Arkadian origins in one’s early history at this time? Or is it predominantly the Arkadians themselves who emphasise such traditions in the imperial period? Are we dealing with literary, purely antiquarian constructs of the past or are such traditions echoed outside of the rooms of the scholars of antiquity? Are they intentional history in the sense that one can ascribe a political aim to them, and, if so, do they meet with agreement? Or – and this would touch on a different level altogether – are we dealing with reliable historical reports of earlier colonisation expeditions, real historical memories, which were maintained from Mycenaean times into the imperial period and which we too should take seriously?

15.2. REPORTS OF ARKADIAN FOUNDATIONS AS HISTORICALLY RELIABLE EVIDENCE? Pausanias’ presentation of the examples, eight in total, makes it clear that the expeditions are predominantly anchored in mythical pre-history. In this context, the Arkadians are even promoted to the rank of inventors of colonisation as such! In the third generation after the arrival of people in Arkadia, the Arkadian hero Oinotros, youngest son of Lykaon, asks his brother Nyktimos for money and travels to Italy by boat. “Calculating precisely, nobody, not even barbarians, reached a foreign land before Oinotros.”6 Pausanias does not appear to have a problem with the fact that this contradicts the concept of the development of Arkadian civilisation which he presents elsewhere: Arkadians in this distant pre-historical period may not yet have any agricultural skills and may live off acorns, but money has supposedly been invented, and travelling to Italy by boat is not a fundamental, but merely a financial problem for Oinotros, in contrast to his Homeric relative Agapenor.7 Further examples of Arkadian foundation traditions are set a considerable amount of time before the Trojan War. In the fourth generation since the rule of kings in Arkadia began – Zeus’ son Arkas being king – Kydon, Archedios, and Gortys, sons of Tegeates, emigrate voluntarily to Crete. The towns Kydonia, Archedion, and Gortys are said to be named after them.8 In the seventh genera5 6 7 8

The mythic kinship between Arkadia and Magnesia on the Maiander is not mentioned by Pausanias: cf. IvM 38 = KERN 1900; CURTY 1995, 120–1; ROY 2003, 123–30. Paus. 8.3.5. On agriculture Paus. 8.4.1; on the hellenistic idea of Athena as the inventor of the first boat for Iason: cf. Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.18; Apollod. Bibl. 1.110. Paus. 8.53.4. On the Arkadian king list, cf. Paus. 8.6.1. HILLER VON GAERTRINGEN 1927, 1– 13.

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tion, according to Pausanias’ dating, Auge, the king’s daughter, comes from Tegea and ends up in Teuthrania, that is, in that region of Asia Minor which is otherwise called Mysia. Her son Telephos and his Arkadian companions also settle there.9 In the ninth generation, Arkadia, too, is included in the nostoi of the warriors of the Trojan War. Given the unfamiliarity of the leader of the Arkadian contingent, Agapenor, with seafaring, it is only logical that he should be no luckier than the other Greeks on their way home. The boats which the Arkadians borrowed from Agamemnon are washed ashore in Cyprus and Agapenor does not return to Arkadia.10 A further case of supposed Arkadian colonisation must be located chronologically before Aeneas’ arrival in Italy, although it cannot be pinpointed exactly in Pausanias’ mythical chronology, because no Arkadian king is directly involved. The case in question is Euander’s emigration. Once again Arkadians reach Italy, this time at a significantly later date than the journey of afore-mentioned Oinotros. Pausanias tells us that Euander is the son of a nymph and Hermes.11 According to Pausanias, Euander was sent out from Arkadian Pallantion in order to found a colony and founded Palation on the Tiber, the settlement which preceded Rome.12 Pausanias does not give us a precise date for when in the course of time people are supposed to have set off from Mantineia to Bithynia13 or from Azania to Phrygia.14 Only one of the traditions of Arkadian colonisation mentioned by Pausanias takes us into historical times. In the fourth century BCE the inhabitants of the Arkadian town Trapezos are said to have emigrated to the Black Sea in order to avoid the synoikism of Megalopolis. In the Black Sea, they are supposedly received as “citizens of their mother city” by the town of Trapezos.15 The background to this friendly reception, however, leads back into Arkadia’s mythic early past after all: the Pontic Trapezenes clearly recognise the Arkadians as relatives – they are related through Trapezeus, son of Lykaon and eponymous founder of the Arkadian town. He is now clearly also claimed as the eponymous hero for the Pontic Trapezos. In none of the cases mentioned is the claim made that “they that held Arkadia” were involved in the founding of colonies as part of the main Greek colonisation wave during the archaic period. If Pausanias knew of such traditions, he obviously did not consider them worth mentioning. When Arkadians are in-

9 10 11 12

13 14

15

Paus. 8.4.9; cf. Paus. 7.47.4. Paus. 8.5.2. Paus. 8.43.1. Arrival of Euander 60 years before the Trojan War: Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.31–3 and 40; Fabius Pictor Fr. 1 Peter; Cato Orig. Fr. 19 Peter; Verg. Aen. 8.51–4. GRUEN 1992, 30 and 60; SCHEER 1998, 204; MAVROGIANNIS 2003, 111; HALL 2005, 259. Paus. 8.9.7. Paus. 8.4.3 and 10.32.3; HILLER VON GAERTRINGEN 1927, 7 assumes postulated emigration during the time of Azan, but already notes that the “flimsy etymology” should not be considered older than the imperial period. Paus. 8.27.5.

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volved in making foundation history, they are said to have done this in, or with explicit reference to, mythical pre-historical times. The methodological problems of modern attempts to translate mythological traditions into history in the modern sense, and the questionability of results obtained in this way have been highlighted time and again.16 This is true also in the case of the present examples of supposed Arkadian colonisation in the ‘mythical past,’ which cannot simply be interpreted as witnesses of Arkadian colonisation activity in Mycenaean times, as was done frequently in older scholarship.17 Archaeological findings do not give any indications of this either in the cases mentioned here. Rather, a high degree of intentionality is inherent in the examples. They must be considered as traditions of their own times, whose antiquity, reception and intention may differ from case to case, but which were all known in imperial times and which appeared important enough to Pausanias to be taken up and transmitted as part of his description and characterisation of Arkadia. 15.3. ARKADIAN FOUNDATION TRADITIONS: ANTIQUARIAN CONSTRUCTS OR INTENTIONAL HISTORY? Thus, the question of whether the foundation expeditions recorded by Pausanias are historically true is not central here. Rather, what seems to be of greater interest here is why Pausanias reports them, where he obtains his information and whether his interest is representative of and specific to his time. What makes these tales topical in imperial times? What wider effect did such traditions have and how can we determine whether the stories of Arkadian beginnings possessed any meaning which went beyond purely antiquarian constructs of the past? Who told these stories? And for whom? Were the tales of Arkadian colonisation important to Arkadians or for those who were colonised overseas? Or for both? Did people believe they were true? Did those who told the stories consider themselves to be “creators of meaning” – and how might we find proof of this in the sources, which, on the whole, are scant? The findings which are presented here show the range of possibilities as well as the problems which our sources present. Two main categories can be discerned: on the one hand, we have cases for which evidence is found only in literary sources, on the other hand, we have foundation traditions which are witnessed locally by mnemata, memorials, in imperial times. The story of the emigration of the inhabitants of Trapezos in Arkadia to their ‘relatives’ in Arkadia on the Black Sea belongs to the first category. In this case, Pausanias is our only witness and he does not cite the source of his informa-

16

17

SCHEER 1993, 53ff. and 95ff.; PATZEK 1992, 42 and passim; STRUBBE 1984/6, 261 n. 41; MOMIGLIANO 1984, 437–62; ROBERT 1981, 355 n. 61; recently MAVROGIANNIS 2003, 87f.; KÜHR 2006, 30f. SCHACHERMEYR 1983; THRAEMER 1888; HESSELMEYER 1885.

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tion.18 In other cases, a particular Arkadian foundation tradition is also only preserved in literary form, but it can be found not only in Pausanias, but also in much older supraregional literary sources. This is the case, for example, for the history of Oinotros’ migration to Italy. This is already found in Pherekydes and was thus known in the fifth century BCE and was still current in imperial times.19 Due to the lack of relevant evidence we cannot, however, show how and if those affected by this story reacted to it. It may have been flattering for the Arkadians to have invented colonisation; for the Italic people it was less flattering when their prehistory was described as completely backward in these traditions: why should an Italic town want to remind anyone of this?20 The second group of examples, traditions evidenced by mnemata, yields more results for the question of the intention of Arkadian foundation traditions in imperial times. In these cases, graves or other relics of heroes who were supposedly involved are shown locally. Cults are traced back to foundation expeditions; inscriptions, coins and pictorial representations commemorate the corresponding tradition locally. It must be noted, however, that the mnemata themselves are often transmitted to us in literary form. Here, too, Pausanias is on the whole the most important witness. His description of a mnema can serve as evidence that it either still existed in imperial times or that it was at least remembered as significant. In several cases of Arkadian foundation traditions, there is evidence of mnemata for both sides: at the Arkadian point of origin and at the destination of the colonisation expedition.21 In this case, the significance of the tradition, its active reception on both sides, that of ‘founders’ and ‘founded,’ is methodologically secured. When evidence is found only for one side, either in Arkadia or at the ‘destination,’ random transmission may of course have had a part to play.22

18

19

20

21 22

It is possible that Pausanias, or his source, are developing the similarity of name into an apparently consistent story. On the other hand, one has to expect ancient transmission to be coincidental in nature. Cf. SCHEER 2009. For the tragedians (Soph. fr. 598 Radt), Oinotria is the Italic western coast. In the fifth century, Pherekydes is the first to connect Oinotria with the Italians and with the Arkadians at the same time: Pherec. FGrHist 3 F 156; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.13.2, with the clear intention to integrate, wants to make it clear that the aborigines of Italy were descendents of the Oinotreans – that is, Greeks. In memory of their old homecountry Arkadia, they erected their settlements in the mountains: “for the love of mountains is characteristic of Arkadians.” On the emergence of the Greek idea of early Arkadian colonists in Italy, cf. MAVROGIANNIS 2003, 88; most recently HALL 2005, 266. On the Oinotreans’ low cultural status as nomads whom Italus had to teach about agriculture, etc., cf. also Arist. Pol. 7.9.2f., 1329b 8–19. Recently, HALL 2005, 270 has claimed that the “rediscovery of the aborigines’ Arkadian roots” is largely an invention of Dionysios of Halikarnassos. Cf. Pausanias’ reports on the connections between Pallantion and Rome, Mantineia and Bithynia, Tegea and Teuthrania. Non-literary evidence for the traditions of a connection between Tegea and Paphos in terms of foundation is only found at the place of origin. Cf. also Hdt. 7.90; ROY 1987, 192ff. The arrival of the Arkadian emigrants from Azania in Phrygian Aizanoi is only remembered at the ‘place of destination.’

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However, mutual acceptance of a tradition or even its automatic reception and staging cannot be assumed from the start. This is illustrated particularly well by Pausanias’ example which connects Arkadia and Crete: the Cretan cities of Kydonia, Archedion and Gortys, which was important in imperial times, are supposed to have been named after the sons of Tegeates, that is, Kydon, Archedios and Gortys. This, according to Pausanias, is the legend of the Tegeans. The Cretans, however, are said not to accept this foundation story and to trace their towns back to much more important characters, representatives of Crete in panhellenic mythology: Minos and Rhadamantys. The divergence in the traditions is occasion for Pausanias to comment that the traditions of the Greeks usually do differ, in their genealogies too.23 The Cretans’ rejection of the Arkadian foundation claim, however, does not apparently affect the continued existence of the Arkadian tradition which Pausanias encounters locally. The periegete himself does not make any judgement concerning the traditions’ credibility. He places the different traditions side-by-side and states that this is not the only instance of such contradictions. Both variants appear potentially credible. However, they only create meaning for one side and, in this case, do not result in a supraregional bond between Tegea and Crete. However, already the fact of repeated local testimony of Arkadian foundation traditions makes it clear that the stories of beginnings are not just products of a hellenistic urge to systematise or the results of scholarly zeal in imperial times which had no real audience. In various cases, these traditions were demonstrably staged through mnemata at the foci of urban communities which were involved, and they had their place in the public’s interest as part of urban memorial culture.

15.4. DIFFERENT WAYS OF STAGING ARKADIAN DESCENT IN IMPERIAL TIMES: TEGEA AND TEUTHRANIA, MANTINEIA AND BITHYNIA This staging of Arkadian foundation traditions will be outlined by two examples. In both cases, the significance of the tradition in imperial times is evidenced by non-literary sources for both sides – founders and founded. 15.4.1. Tegea and Mysia/Teuthrania: the panhellenic myth as a basis of intentional history In his description of Tegea and its surroundings, Pausanias repeatedly returns to the story which is the basis of the supposed colonisation of the region of Mysia/Teuthrania by Arkadians – one generation before the Trojan War. The mythological tale of Herakles, Auge and Telephos was known to all educated

23

Paus. 8.53.2. Cf. SCHEER 2009.

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people in imperial times.24 The Tegean princess Auge, daughter of Aleos and priestess of Athena, becomes pregnant by Herakles. Her father’s anger is directed at his daughter and her child Telephos. Mother and child are abandoned and miraculously saved. It is not surprising that Pausanias knows all the details of this prominent story which was told in different variations from the epic cycle to the works of the tragedians and right until the time of the imperial rhetoricians.25 Pausanias is able to name the local Tegean divergences precisely and can place the local mnemata accordingly. To the visitor, imperial Tegea appears almost as a stage, above all, for the first half of the mythological tale: Pausanias sees the temple of Athena Alea, founded by Auge’s father Aleos. This is where Auge served Athena as a virgin priestess.26 North of the temple, Pausanias is shown the well at which Herakles raped Auge.27 Another station in the city area was the shrine of Eileithyia where Auge fell to her knees and gave birth to her child Telephos.28 Outside the town, in the Parthenian Mountains, the Tegeans of imperial times show Pausanias Telephos’ temenos. This is where Telephos was supposed to have been exposed as a child and nursed by a hind.29 The abandoned Telephos and his mother eventually reached Asia Minor, and this was the continuation of the mythical tale. In Teuthrania, which, according to Pausanias, is the old name for Pergamon,30 Telephos becomes king and his country is later attacked by the Greeks who have got lost on their way to Troy. The Tegeans also referred to this, in this case demonstrably already in late classical times: on the pediment of the Athena Alea temple from the fourth century Pausanias sees the Telephos myth’s decisive episode, set in Asia Minor, namely Telephos’ fight against Achilles – in the run-up to the Trojan War.31 Pausanias, himself from Asia Minor, also knows the mnemata on the other side of the sea: in Teuthrania, especially in Pergamon, and he mentions them in his work. Since the late third century, the Attalids of Pergamon had claimed the Telephos myth for themselves.32 Interestingly, Pausanias mentions neither the 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

32

Cf. SCHEER 1993, 71ff.; BAUCHHENß-THÜRRIEDL 1971. SCHEER 1993, 71–87. Paus. 8.4.7. Paus. 8.47.4. On the well, see also OSTBY 1994, 90. On the large amount of local information in Pausanias’ description of Tegea, see also PRETZLER 2000, 90. Paus. 8.48.7. Paus. 8.48.7 and 54.6. Paus. 1.4.5. Paus. 8.45.7; Herakles and Telephos on the western pediment of the temple: DUGAS – BERCHMANS – CLEMMENSEN 1924, 88ff. On the architrave-inscriptions, which transmit the names of Aὔγα,   A[λεος],   Τήήλεφος and the Καφεῖδαι, cf. also DUGAS – BERCHMANS – CLEMMENSEN 1924, 36 and 104. On the sculpture STEWART 1977, 80ff. There is no evidence for Hesselmeyer’s old idea that Athena of Pergamon is a branch of Athena Alea of Tegea: SCHEER 1993, 109. Significantly, however, the Pergamenian decree of isopoliteia from the year 159 BCE claims that Auge founded the Pergamenian shrine of Athena: IvPerg I 156 = FRÄNKEL 1905; SCHEER 1993, 146; CURTY 1995, 86–7; PRETZLER 1999, 92. SCHEER 1993, 127f.; KOSMETATOU 1995, 136.

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great altar of Pergamon, nor the Telephos frieze which the Attalids had put up there. For Pausanias, the most important mnema is Auge’s Pergamene grave, an earthen mound, which was evidently still visible and identifiable in imperial times, topped by a bronze statue of a woman.33 Pausanias says of the Pergamenes: “They claim to be Arkadian themselves, descendants of those who came to Asia with Telephos.”34 In Pergamon of imperial times – centuries after the end of the Attalid dynasty which had promoted Telephos as mythical leading figure – this foundation story is still a prime example of intentional history. In hellenistic times, it had been important above all for the royal house and its international positioning.35 In imperial times, it gains a new frame of reference in the bitter competition between cities for prestige and it affects the Pergamenes as a community.36 When Apollo of Gryneion mentions the offspring of Telephos in an inscribed oracle of imperial times, he means all the Pergamenes, and not an individual royal household.37 During the principate, the claim of descent from Arkadians goes beyond the town of Pergamon: the entire landscape of Mysia cultivated the connection with the story of Telephos. Strabo explicitly ascribes rule over Mysia to Telephos.38 In accordance with the written tradition, the other poleis in Mysia also place themselves directly within the tradition of an Arkadian past. Under the empire, in the time of Marcus Aurelius, the city fathers of the Mysian port Elaia have the Larnax, the box in which the abandoned Arkadian princess Auge is supposed to have been washed ashore, minted on their coins.39 The local dignitaries of Germe in the Kaikos valley decide to promote the motif of Telephos and the hind during the time of the Severans.40 15.4.2. Mantineia and Bithynia: scope for intentional history in a mythological vacuum “And the Bithynians,” writes Pausanias, “are originally Arkadians and Mantineians.”41 While the myth of Telephos was connected primarily with the Arkadian polis Tegea, traditions about Arkadian foundation expeditions in Asia Minor also circulated in Tegea’s neighbour and most important rival, Mantineia. In contrast to Tegea, the Mantineians and Bithynians could not connect to an old, famous 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Paus. 8.4.9. Paus. 1.4.5. SCHEER 1993, 110ff; Gruen 2000, 22f.; SCHEER 2003, 220; KOSMETATOU 2003, 167. On this subject, see also KAMPMANN 1998, 375–9; KAMPMANN 1996; MAGIE 1950, 638. FRAENKEL 1905, 239; SCHEER 1993, 151; see also Anth. Plan. 16.91 with ROBERT 1984, 7– 18. Strab. 12.8.4. SCHEER 1993, 150; BAUCHHENSS-THÜRRIEDL 1986: s.v. Auge, no. 26. SCHEER 1993, 150; ROBERT 19622, no. 3, pl. 4.; EHLING 2001, 135 nos. 141, 157; especially 91. Paus. 8.9.7.

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mythological tale known to all educated people. Nevertheless, Pausanias clearly does not doubt the Arkadian-Bithynian connections. He says (in the normal present tense): the Bithynians are (and not “they want to be” or “they are said to be”) Arkadians. In this case, it is above all specific local traditions which will have convinced Pausanias, along with their connection to mnemata which were known in imperial times or had only recently been produced. The connection with Antinoos, the emperor Hadrian’s favourite, is pivotal in the staging of these family- and foundation-ties in imperial times. Pausanias tells us that first of all Hadrian gave the town Mantineia its old name back after it had been called Antigoneia since hellenistic times.42 In addition, he had a temple built for Antinoos in Mantineia. The worship of Antinoos strongly influences the atmosphere of the town during imperial times.43 Pausanias sees statues of Antinoos and paintings which represent him as Dionysos in the gymnasium. A mystery cult is performed and games are held on a regular basis for Antinoos.44 To what extent, however, is the worship of Antinoos which was brought about by the emperor evidence for the presence of Arkadian-Bithynian foundation legends – and to what extent is it evidence for any significance that may have been attached to these legends by the Arkadian side? The inhabitants of Mantineia knew as well as we do today that the real Antinoos was born in Bithynia.45 The buildings mentioned by Pausanias have not yet been archaeologically identified.46 By a stroke of luck an independent record survives from Mantineia which confirms Pausanias’ report: a wealthy benefactor, Eurykles Herklanos, donates a stoa whose dedication has survived: to the θεòς   ἐπιχώώριος Antinoos.47 The use of this title for Antinoos can only mean that, in Mantineia, he, although born in Bithynia, was considered a native, and that the relationship with Bithynia was not only accepted but actively highlighted.48 Interestingly, the Mantineians supplied their relative from Bithynion with features of Dionysos – this is suggested by the portrait mentioned by Pausanias and by his information that a telete, that is, a celebration of a mystery cult, was put on for Antinoos.49 The landscape of Bithynia was, according to

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43 44 45 46 47

48 49

Paus. 8.8.12. On the break in the tradition of Mantineia because of its destruction in the year 221 BCE.: BÖLTE 1930, 1316 and 1329; this break in tradition is put in perspective, for example, by KOPP 1992, 97. On the cult of Antinoos in Mantineia: JOST 1985, 128. Paus. 8.10.1. Paus. 8.9.7; Cass. Dio 69.11.2. The epigram IG V 2, 312 for a young, deceased person might, however, come from the Antinoos’ shrine: JOST 1985, 128; ROBERT 1980, 135. IG V 2, 281, Syll.3 841: “Eurykles Herklanos built with his own funds the stoa with the hexedrae for the city of the Mantineians and for the theos epichorios Antinoos”; cf. also TSIOLIS 2002, 92–3; ALCOCK 1993, 186f. The order of the tribes of the new Egyptian foundation of Antinoopolis shows that Hadrian himself valued Antinoos’ Bithynian-Arkadian connections: among the demes of the tribe of Oseirantinoeioi names such as Bithynieus, Hermaieus, Kleitorios, Parrhasios are found: MEYER 1991, 216; QUAß 1982, 188–213. On the ascription of the coins to Mantineia, see JOST 1985, 129. On Antinoos’ Dionysian characteristics, cf. also TSIOLIS 2002, 94.

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Greek notions, connected to Dionysos especially: as a child, Dionysos was supposed to have been raised by nymphs in Nysa.50 How does this compare to the staging of the Arkadian kinship overseas in Bithynia? The precise mythological construction of the connection to Arkadia is not known.51 Near Antinoos’ place of birth, Bithynion, however, there was apparently a place whose name was distinctly similar: it was called Mantinion. It is not clear whether this is Antinoos’ exact place of birth – the same goes for the derivation of the place-name, which might also point to the location of a µμαντεῖον, an oracle.52 Similarities of names were a popular argument in imperial times when one wanted to create a connection with a comparatively prominent Arkadian town (in other cases, too, Pausanias calls on them or at least considers them convincing arguments) – one need only think of the supposed family relationship between the Arkadian and the Pontic Trapezenes. While the intentional ‘use’ of the place Mantinion can only be deduced, other indications are more concrete: in imperial times, the polis of Bithynion, which called itself Klaudiu Polis since the times of the emperor Claudius, minted coins with the image of Antinoos.53 The representation of Antinoos on these coins shows us that the connection with Arkadia was also sought after by the Bithynian side. While the Arkadian town Mantineia emphasised the Bithynian features of the θεòς   ἐπιχώώριος   Antinoos by making him similar to Dionysos, the Bithynians highlighted his Arkadian identity: the reverses of the coins show Antinoos as Pan or Hermes.54 Both deities were not just associated with shepherds and herds in general, but were considered throughout the Greek world to be the main Arkadian gods.55 Another indication suggests the emphasis of mythological connections between Bithynion and Mantineia in imperial times. The town of Mantineia, Pausanias tells us, does not stand in its original place, the spot where, long ago, Mantineus, son of Lykaon, acted as founder.56 Rather, it was not until later that it was founded in its present location by a heroine, who was led to this spot by a snake. Pausanias mentions the foundress’ name: Antinoe.57 Accordingly, it can hardly be coincidence that, amongst the images on the coins from Klaudiu Polis, the old Bithynion, we also find an image, so far unidentified, of a girl with a giant

50 51

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WEISER 1986, 155: “Die größte Bedeutung sahen die Einwohner Bithynions jedoch in Bildern aus dem Kreis von Dionysos, Pan, Hermes und Antinoos...”; cf. also WEIß 1984, 182. There is no evidence at all for the idea supported by BECKER-BERTAU 1986, 1 that Bithynion or Mantinion were founded by Hellenistic mercenaries from Mantineia. Such a tradition would hardly have caused Pausanias to comment that “the Bithynians,” that is, the inhabitants of an entire region, were “originally” Arkadians. ROBERT 1980, 138ff.; STRUBBE 1984/6, 265 n. 68; WEIß 1984, 195. BIRLEY 1997, 179f.: the name Mantinion in the Life of St. Anthousa: DELEHAYE 1902, 848, 27 July; cf. also Analecta Bollandiana 30, 1911, 393–427 ed. P. Peeters: here the lake itself is called Mantineion. WEISER 1986, 155; BRANDIS 1897, 511. Hermes Nomios: ROBERT 1980, 134 and 140; WEISER 1996, 155; TSIOLIS 2002, 95. BORGEAUD 1988; JOST 1985, 441ff. Paus. 8.8.4; cf. FOUGERES 1898, 315; HODKINSON – HODKINSON 1981, 252ff. Paus. 8.8.4.

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snake.58 It stands to reason that this female figure is the foundress Antinoe. According to the Arkadian genealogy with which Pausanias presents us, Antinoe, who otherwise plays no role in Greek mythology, was a niece of Telephos’ mother Auge.59 She was, therefore, of Arkadian royal descent. It cannot be ascertained whether Antinoe was “discovered” only in imperial times or whether she already had her place in the local legends of Mantineia.60 The staging of Arkadian foundation tales in imperial times raises two main questions which are to be discussed below. What kind of people wanted to be of Arkadian descent in imperial times and why did they consider Arkadia a particularly attractive option as a country of origin?

15.5. CONTENDERS FOR ARKADIAN DESCENT OR: WHO WANTED TO BE ARKADIAN IN IMPERIAL TIMES? Staying with the examples just outlined, why did Mysians and Bithynians of the imperial period want to be descended from Arkadians? If one considers the reputation which some regions and population groups had with the Greeks and Romans, one begins to understand the efforts of many towns and areas to reaccentuate traditional external ascriptions. In the case of the Mysians and the Bithynians it was already proverbially difficult for ancient authors to mark them off geographically and “ethnologically.”61 Skylax tells us that Bithynia was once inhabited by Mysians.62 According to Herodotus, Bithynians are Thracians who emigrated.63 In addition, one also located the Phrygians in the areas in question. The population groups in these areas overlapped, according to the assessment of Strabo, who, as so often, follows Homer in observing that it is a difficult task to demarcate “precisely here the Mysian, there the Phrygian land.”64 Given that defining the areas alone posed such difficulties, one need not wonder that the resident population groups were not strictly divided by ancient authors either. Dionysios of Halikarnassos also confirms that some peoples were known by the same name: “for instance, Trojans and Phrygians, who lived close to one another.

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61 62 63 64

WROTH 1899, 120 no. 15, pl. 26 illustration 7 (Iulia Paula) = WADDINGTON – BABELON – REINACH 1925, 277 no. 61, pl. 43 illustration 13 (Paris). Antinoe as a mythical figure: LYONS 1997, 31. In Pausanias’ text, the heroine is called Antinoe in the context of the foundation story 8.8.4, in the description of the grave, the Periegete calls her Autonoe (Paus. 8.9.5; thus already FOUGÈRES 1898, 316); this might be the trace of the modification of the foundation story, which Hiller has also assumed, during the time of Hadrian: HILLER VON GAERTRINGEN 1927, 9. The identical nature of the name would then have been rediscovered. KOPP 1992, 106 also considers a date in the time of Hadrian a possibility. Dionys. Per. 809; cf. also Strab. 12.4.4. Skylax FGrHist 709 F11 = Strab. 12.4.8. Hdt. 7.75 and passim; BRANDIS 1897, 510ff.; thus also STROBEL 1997, 698. Strab. 12.8.2.

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Actually many thought that these two peoples were in fact only one, different in name but not in reality.”65 Accordingly, the inhabitants of these areas are in danger of becoming the victims of indiscriminate generalising assessments. These are usually not particularly flattering. The topos of the slavish, cowardly character of the Phrygians, Mysians and Carians can be found as early as the Old Comedy,66 and it was clearly still influential in imperial times. All cultural assiduousness and foundation activity of the Pergamene kings was not enough to dispel such prejudices. Strabo considers bands of robbers and despots as typical occurrences in the area surrounding Mysian Olympos.67 When Cicero wants to convey his low opinion, he uses a proverb which was already known to Plato: ultimus Mysorum, “the last of the Mysians.”68 The long tradition and the continued influence of such ascriptions are proven by a comment of Dio of Prusa. In his speech to the Rhodians, he notes that most Greeks are no longer worthy of their glorious past 69 According to Dio, they are despised more than the Phrygians and the Thracians. Only buildings bear witness to the greatness of Hellas, but those that rule it are not even worthy of being called “descendents of the Mysians.” In imperial times, such characterisations become particularly highly charged. The specifically imperial frame of reference can be outlined by three key themes: competition between cities, Second Sophistic and Panhellenion. Mythical foundation stories, their systematisation and on occasion their political utilisation, had played a role already in hellenistic times and earlier.70 The combination of political impotence and economic flowering in the second century CE, however, gave the cities of the Greek East hitherto unknown freedom to concentrate on their rivalries.71 Which was the first, the largest, the oldest city in a province?72 Who could boast of the greatest cultural services to mankind? The categories of the debate concerning urban primacy were influenced by thought patterns of the Second Sophistic, whose representatives cultivated the claim to absolute cultural dominance of Attic Greekness.73 In this context, Athens headed the contest unchallenged and was the one with whom one tried to find a connection and which one tried to imitate.74 Many cities have individual achieve-

65 66 67 68

69 70 71 72 73 74

Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.29.1. Ar. Av. 761ff and 1244. Strab. 12.8.8. Pl. Tht. 209 Μυσῶν   τòν   ἔσχατον; Cic. Flac. 27: Quid in Graeco sermone tam tritum et celebratum quam si quis despicatui ducitur ut “Mysorum ultimus” esse dicatur? Cf. also SPAWFORTH 2001, 376. Dio Chrys. Or. 31.158f. and 160. SCHEER 1993, 340f. CURTY 1999, 167–94. KAMPMANN 1998, 373–93; WEIß 1984, 193f.; MERKELBACH 1978, 287–96. Compare, for example, Aristid. Or. 23.15. On competition for antiquity see ROBERT 1977, 115–16. ROBERT 1975, 169; ROBERT 19622, 315f. On the problems surrounding the term, cf. GOLDHILL 2001, 14. Aristid. Panath. 334: “For no one would be proud to have Pella... as his country; ... in the case of cities, those which have been actually founded from here and by you would… boast

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ments which strengthen their case. The city of Athens, however, combines all such elements: mythic greatness, great historical and cultural deeds, finally precedence in artistic and literary work. In Hadrian’s Panhellenion proof of Greek descent appears to have been a central element. To be considered the very last of the Mysians or the despised Thacians really hit hard at this time. 15.6. WHY ARKADIA? PHRYGIANS, MYSIANS AND BITHYNIANS AS “THEY THAT HELD ARKADIA” Against this background, however, the question arises as to why Phrygians, Mysians and Bithynians did not seek to connect themselves to Athens straight away, but held onto tales of Arkadian descent. After all, the traditions were not historically true in either case. Where, then, was Arkadia’s place in the mythological and cultural system of reference in imperial times?75 What associations did the connection with Arkadia’s towns, heroes and landscapes create that made Phrygians, Mysians and Bithynians, amongst others, want to belong to Arkadia’s people? Why did the emperor Hadrian localise the ancestors of his favourite, Antinoos, in Arkadia? For the Greeks and the inhabitants of Asia Minor Arkadia was not the country of melancholy longing – an idea very familiar to the modern age since Jacopo Sannazaro’s renaissance novel Arcadia – a country bathed in golden light, filled with shepherds’ songs and impoverished but noble aristocrats, a country which one remembers as that of a long lost golden age.76 In Greek tradition, Arkadia at best presents itself in an ambivalent way: the Azanian ills, the Ἀζανíα  κακάά, are proverbial.77 Hostile Azania in the northwest of the landscape can be taken as representative of all of Arkadia:78 In this Arkadia, there is no murmuring Zephyr; instead, icy winds blow through infertile, arid mountains.79 Its inhabitants are conditioned by this climate: mountain people with a rough disposition, potentially violent, or at least not of particularly sophisticated customs.80 This view can still be found in the writings of authors of the imperial period: for example when Athenaios includes the tradition of the Arkadian delegation at the court of Anti-

75

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that they descend from you... and the others go about seeking somehow to trace themselves back to you.” On this matter, cf. SAÏD 2001, 275–99. Although Arkadia only formed a political unity for a very short period of its history, it was, nonetheless, considered one region by contemporaries. The criteria for this were not political, but cultural and geographic: NIELSEN 1999, 16–79. SCHMIDT 1975, 36–57; TÖNS 1977, 143f.; on this problem, compare also JENKYNS 1989, 26– 39. Diogenian. 1.24; Zenob. 2.54; Apost. I 54. TAUSEND 1999, 343. Cf. Hom. Il. 2.606; see also ἀζαλέέος: dry, arid; BORGEAUD 1988, 14. Polyb. 4.21.

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gonos Gonatas. The Arkadians go completely wild because of a performance of Thessalian female dancers.81 Ever since the poet Asios, the Greeks know that the Arkadians live in their country as autochthonous people, brought forth by the earth and the oak trees themselves, at a time when the moon did not yet shine.82 At this time, most of the Olympian gods have not yet been born.83 The fight between gods and giants is said to have taken place in their country.84 Dio’s description from the imperial period, in which he aims to present a Euboic family of farmers and shepherds as particularly primitive, reminds us of early times in Arkadia, when people lived in huts of tree branches and wore clothes made of leather rather than wool.85 Arkadians are famous as “acorn-eaters” right into imperial times; the first to teach them agriculture was their king, Arkas.86 And, as becomes clear from Pausanias’ testimony, one can still not be certain in imperial times whether Arkadians have left the stage of cannibalism behind completely, or whether, in sacrificing to Zeus, they reenact the deed of their progenitor Lykaon, who, back in his day, tried to sacrifice a human baby to the gods and was turned into a wolf as punishment.87 Our sources repeatedly stress the fragility of civilisation in Arkadia.88 Pausanias tells us about an oracle, which a delegation from Phigalia is supposed to have received from the Pythia in Delphi in the fifth century, when they consulted her about the cause of a famine. The answer given was that the cult of Black Demeter had been neglected.89 Pythia addresses the Phigalians as “acorn-eating, Azanian Arkadians,” whom Demeter had deprived of the gifts of earlier times – bread and wine. Particularly illuminating, however, is the threat which follows: “Soon will she make you eat each other and devour the children / if you do not placate her wrath with offerings from all of you.” Regardless of the oracle’s historicity,90 its complete rendering by Pausanias is evidence of the external ascriptions to which the Arkadians were still subject in imperial times: at risk of falling back into the state of the early period of civilisation, that of hunters and gatherers or even cannibals.91 Following on from this, the question of what reasons cities in Asia Minor can have for trying to create a connection with Arkadia and the Arkadians arises with renewed emphasis. This is where the ambivalence of the discourse about Arkadia becomes apparent: the list of Arkadian characteristics outlined above can also be 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91

Ath. 13.607 c–d. On autochthonism, see Asios in Paus. 8.1.4; before the moon: Hippys of Rhegion (FGrHistist 554 F 7) as first witness; still familiar to Steph. Byz. s.v. Ἀρκαδíα; BORGEAUD 1988: 8. For example, the father of the gods, Zeus: Callim. Hymn. I. 10ff.; Paus. 8.36.2. Local tradition in Paus. 8.29.1–3. Arkadian tree huts and leather clothing: Paus. 8.1.5 with a specific reference to Euboia; Dio Chrys. Or. 7. Acorn eaters: Hdt. 1.66; Plut. Cor. 2; Paus. 8.1.4; Ael. VH 3.39; agriculture: Paus. 8.4.1. Paus. 8.2.6. Polyb. 4.20f. Paus. 8.42.6. On this matter, cf. PARKE – WORMELL 1956, 323f. BORGEAUD 1988, 16f.

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understood in a positive way by the Phrygians, Mysians and Bithynians: already Homer extolled the Arkadians’ fighting prowess. This physical strength results from autochthonism.92 In addition, this autochthonism makes the Arkadians unbeatable when competing for the status of being the oldest. Even the Athenians, also autochthonous, can, at best, draw level with the Arkadians in this respect. The Arkadians’ antiquity is also the reason for their special and old-fashioned piety.93 Finally, antiquity and the Arkadians’ uninterrupted presence in the country lead to it being possible to ascribe various cultural inventions to them. The Proselenoi, who lived in darkness before the creation of the moon, are, then, also the same people whose god Pan introduces the observation of the moon, that is, astronomy.94 The world owes decisive, independent steps in civilisation to the Arkadians – as we are told by Pausanias: the Arkadians invent the polis. Lykosura, Lykaon’s residence, is the oldest town in the world.95 And in the first generation of human habitation on the Peloponnese, the kings of the Arkadians prove themselves to be culture heroes, who form the beginnings of human civilisation. From the tree hut to the polis, from leather clothes to wool – only when it comes to agriculture do the “acorn-eaters” apparently draw the shorter straw compared to the Athenians and their bringer of grain Triptolemos.96 When the newborn Hermes invents the lyre on the mountain Kyllene in the Homeric hymn,97 the Arkadians are in no way inferior: central elements of ancient musical practice are supposed to have been invented by them, and the role of music in their society is considered exceptional.98

15.7. BECOMING ARKADIAN. HOW? The reference to Arkadia, then, could be potentially effective in the competition for prestige between the towns of the imperial period. But was it pure coincidence that Phrygians, Mysians and Bithynians chose Arkadian descent, and was there any chance that this choice might be ‘believed’ and that it might, accordingly, give a sense of meaning and identity to the communities involved? In principle, the mythical past of the Greeks provided many possible points of connection. There was no central institution which monitored the stories and divided local variants and preferences into ‘true’ or ‘false.’99 Certain traditions, however, had greater weight than others: an arbitrary foundation story from heroic 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99

Hom. Il. 2.604; Xen. Hell. 7.1.23. For piety as an important element of Arkadian self-description, cf. Polyb. 4.20. On interest in the old-fashioned elements of Arkadian religion in imperial times, cf. Paus. 8.42.11. Schol. Lycoph. Alex. 482. Paus. 8.2.1. Paus. 8.1.5 and 8.4.1. Hymn. Hom. Merc. 25ff. Music in society: Polyb. 4.20. SCHEER 1993, 337.

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times which completely contradicted Homeric epic, for example, missed the chance of taking advantage of this epic’s prestige. Accordingly, it could not be what those involved wanted. Stories about origins had no effect if they could not convince people that they were based on old tradition. Accordingly, we are not talking about cynical ‘arbitrary forgeries.’ Educated citicizens studied the past and its witnesses, ‘discovered’ hitherto lost material, gave new emphases to familiar material and made connections between structural similarities. The general interest in mythological tales was great – and not restricted to the east, as the relevant reports, for example those about the emperor Tiberius, show.100 Local scholars cared for the history of their native area and highlighted, above all, its place in mythical prehistory, accentuated and combined local traditions with the famous traditions of epic and tragedy. Using the example of Lykaonia, Peter Weiß has shown that such traditions did not arise from an anonymous background, but rather that, in imperial times, individual mythological specialists, through their renown, influenced what cities thought about their own history.101 It was their intention to secure as high a rank as possible on the ladder of urban prestige for their own polis or area. We are not sufficiently familiar with the details of this process, but it has been possible to show that a veritable genre of local historical studies developed whose discoveries spread into the urban public sphere, were actively taken up by individual cities and could be publicised in the form of mnemata.102 Accordingly, Phrygians, Mysians and Bithynians were not conscious forgers of history, but inhabitants of cities in Asia Minor in imperial times who recognised themselves as descendents of the Arkadians. The most important point of connection was the element of very great age. The Greeks had for a long time associated old age with the afore-mentioned landscapes of western Asia Minor. Herodotus reports that the Egyptians and Phrygians competed with regard to their age and that the Phrygians won.103 The frequently used image is that of the Phrygians as the oldest of mankind.104 The Deukalionian flood is supposed to have taken place in Phrygia, the first humans created,105 and Bithynia’s old name ‘Kronia’ also points to an age-old past before the birth of Zeus.106 This birth is not just said to have taken place in Crete or Arkadia; corresponding claims also appear to have existed in Phrygia/Teuthrania.107 The existence of age-old royal dynasties in these regions was also general knowledge.108 100 Tiberius as a specialist on myths: Suet. Tib. 70.3. 101 WEIß 1990, 228f. and 234. Cf. SWAIN 1996, 77, who emphasises the popularity of local history in the Second Sophistic. 102 WEIß 1984, 184; STRUBBE 1984/6, 253–304 and 284ff. 103 Hdt. 2.2; cf. also Ar. Nub. 398 with DOVER 1968, 152. 104 Paus. 1.14.2; Apul. Met. 11.5. WEIß 1990, 227; DREWS 1993, 16. 105 Hermogenes fr. 2 = FGrHistist 795, cf. Steph. Byz. s.v. Iκóνιον. 106 Pliny HN 5.143. 107 Callim. Hymn 1. 10ff.; Pergamon: CIG 3538; FRAENKEL 1905, 239; SCHEER 1993, 151; cf. the goat which suckles the child Zeus on the coins of Aizanoi in Phrygia: AULOCK 1979, 85; ROBERT 1981, 331–60. The Lykaonians based their claims on family relationship with the Arkadian Lykaon, STRUBBE 1984/6, 260 n. 39, WEISS 1990. 108 Hermogenes FGrHistist 795 F 2.

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The venerable age of the Phrygians and also their royal blood had, however, a decided disadvantage in the context of competition with Greek cities: people and royal dynasty remain classed with the barbarians.109 Typically for the Second Sophistic and apparently also for the Hadrianic Panhellenion, however, is the special importance that is accorded to Greek descent.110 Access to Greekness, as recent research has shown, was not only a matter of Greek education. Excellent Greek education contributed to the admission into the circle of the Greeks, but this was only really possible if education was strengthened by genealogical connections.111 It was entirely possible that the Greekness of questionable members of the Greek cultural world had been obscured in between times; overly close proximity to barbarians, for example, might have barbarised the language.112 Renewed care of Greek education can, however, produce a local renaissance of all things Greek. The attempt to appear educated in the Greek way becomes apparent in Bithynion, Antinoos’ hometown, when, for example, two sons praise their father in an epitaph for simultaneously having been farmer and judge and having engaged in agriculture “as Hesiod taught him,”113 or when a woman from Bithynion is called Aelia Sappho, but her family, to judge by the evidence of the inscription, cannot decline her name properly.114 In order for the efforts of cities and individuals, however, to receive general recognition, it was necessary to emphasise an original genealogical affiliation. That is to say that the Phrygians’, Mysians’ and Bithynians’ dilemma can only be solved by their recognising themselves in and making themselves part of Arkadian prehistory: they retain the topos of being descended from the earliest humans, but they transfer this tradition implying barbarianism to the Greek sphere and thus make it possible for each polis to emphasise the Greek elements of its past and present. As far as the examples considered here are concerned, one must record the different approaches to the shaping of intentional history: in Mysia/Teuthrania, it was done by reaccentuating a famous story known since Homer, which, after the end of the Attalid dynasty, every small Mysian town could appropriate by localising narrative elements within their own area. Neighbouring Bithynia lacked such a famous prehistory. At best, one could assume that, in their search for Auge, Telephos and his companions had also come through this landscape and had accordingly founded settlements. This is likely to have been the starting point from which Bithynian local historians proceeded. They may have read confirmation of this into, for example, Strabo’s statements that Bithynia was once inhabited by Mysians.115 Accordingly, the rules were less rigid in such a case and there was Paus. 1.14.2; Menander Rhetor 1.353f. SPAWFORTH 1999, 344; JONES 1996, 41; SWAIN 1996, 75; TSIOLIS 2002, 93. SAÏD 2001, 285f. Isoc. Euagoras 20–1 and 47; SAÏD 2001, 291; on the old-fashioned demeanour of the Borysthenites: Dio Chrys. Or. 36.17; cf. also the barbarised form of Greek that Arrian notices in the inscriptions of pontic Trapezos: Arrian Periegesis Pontou Euxeinou 2. 113 BECKER-BERTAU 1986, 81 no. 75. 114 BECKER-BERTAU 1986, 83 no. 86. 115 Skylax FGrHist 709 F11 = Strab. 12.4.8. 109 110 111 112

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more leeway. It was no problem to find agreement that Telephos’ company had travelled through the area, as this was entirely within the ‘logic’ of the narrative. The only thing left to do for interested Bithynians was to recognise the traces of these Arkadians in their own region. In such a case, similarities of names (Mantineion/Mantineia) or features of the landscape were particularly fruitful starting points in imperial times.116

15.8. BEING ARKADIAN IN ROMAN IMPERIAL TIMES The connection with the Arkadians, however, also had other significant advantages in the context of imperial competition between cities over and above the mere proof of Greek descent: it constituted independent prestige. The family tree of the Arkadians, as it has often been observed, stands alone. The genealogy of the eponymous Greek tribal heroes Doros, Aiolos and Ion is irrelevant for Arkadia.117 Pelasgos, Lykaon and their descendents represent old age, deeds which advanced civilisation and warlike bravery in their own right without it being necessary to seek a connection with the famous competitors, neither with the Athenians nor with the Spartans. For the cities of Asia Minor in Bithynia, Phrygia and Mysia this is of significance in imperial times, given that the Ionian neighbours, concerned with differentiating themselves from others, liked to boast of their Athenian relations.118 This can be shown tangibly in second-century CE Pergamon. Not only Pausanias considers the claim of the Mysians’ Arkadian descent worth mentioning. In the eastern part of the Roman empire, it had a firm place in day-to-day political debates. Its intention becomes clear, for example, in the speech On concord, delivered by Aelius Aristides in Pergamon before the koinon of the province of Asia, which reflects urban rivalries and the way in which they were supported with historical arguments.119 Ephesos and Smyrna are able to lay claim to preeminence in the province because of their urban advantages and because of their common descent from Athens.120 As an argument in favour of Pergamon, the speaker says it is to be praised because of its long tradition as a colony of those who came from Arkadia with Telephos.121 116 117 118 119

Cf. SWAIN 1996, 77 on the significance of etymology in the local erudition of imperial times. PRINZ 1979, 356; SPAWFORTH 1999, 51; HALL 2005, 263. Aristid. Panath. 334. Aristid. Or. 23. On the dating (3 January 167 CE) and on the occasion of the speech, cf. BEHR 1981, 365. 120 Aristid. Or. 23.26: “Indeed two of these cities are colonies of one and the same city, Athens, which no one, I would think, would be ashamed to call an ornament of the whole Greek race. But this city here can make a boast similar to Athens itself in respect to its generation to aboriginal men and heroes, but if not, than a similar boast to these cities. For its colonists are descended from aboriginal Arkadians, so that from this case it is reasonable for you to have recognised one another as friends and to have paid each other appropriate honours.” 121 Aristid. Or. 23.15.

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And finally, in imperial times Arkadian descent creates a close family relationship with Rome.122 It was mentioned above that two waves of Arkadian emigrants supposedly reached Italy and that the Roman founder hero Aeneas was supposed to have met the Arkadian Euander on the Palatine hill. So if the connection with Athens was denied, Rome, the imperial city, was a promising alternative as a family relative. This was not just an advantage for those areas which wanted to have been settled by Arkadians, as, for example, Phrygia, Mysia and Bithynia, but in the imperial period the connection with Rome could also have a positive effect for the Arkadians themselves.123 The cases discussed here are concrete examples of this. The specific patronage of Mantineia by the emperor Hadrian was the result of the supposed colonisation of Bithynia by the Arkadians. Following the Arkadian-Roman track, the philhellenic Hadrian was able to regard himself as Greek.124 If one emphasised Antinoos’ descent from the Arkadian woman Antinoe, then the former was not an obscure descendent of an anonymous group of emigrants from Mantineia, but instead he came from the best and oldest family there was, from the dynasty of the mythical Arkadian kings. He was connected to the foundress of the city and, at the same time, related to the Romans and thus to the emperor. Hadrian’s conviction of having found, in Mantineia, the true home of his friend, who at that point had already been made a god, is likely to have been strengthened by the fact that Antinoos’ city of origin had already distinguished itself through particularly friendly relations with Rome in earlier times and that it had already stood on the right side at Actium.125 When it comes to enjoying Hadrian’s favour, Mantineia, as mother city of the Bithynians, had overtaken its constant rival Tegea and the latter’s famous Telephos.126 In the end, however, neither Tegea nor Mantineia won the competition for the most glorious past, from which one could profit. Hadrian’s successor Antoninus Pius bestowed his favour on the entirely insignificant Arkadian settlement of Pallantion: it received the desirable status of a civitas libera et immunis.127 The reason for this distinction, unique in all of Arkadia, must have been the tradition about Pallantion as Rome’s Arkadian mother city.128 According to Pausanias, who describes the temple and statues for the heroes Euander and Pallas, it is because of

122 ERSKINE 2001, 144f.; MAVROGIANNIS 2003, 90f.; HALL 2005. 123 Strabo’s characterisation of Arkadia (8.1.8) as a largely desolate landscape does not hold true at all for the early empire. On the discussion of the decline, cf. ALCOCK 1993, 24ff. 124 In the same way, it was obvious that Hadrian would finance the rebuilding of the legendary shrine of Poseidon Hippios of Mantineia (Paus. 8.10.2): according to tradition current in Rome, the Roman consualia were derived from this Arkadian cult: Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.33.1. Cf. MAVROGIANNIS 2003, 114. 125 Paus. 8.9.6. 126 In spite of the fact that Tegean can stand for Arkadian as such in Roman poets: Ov. Fast. 1.445. 127 Paus. 8 43.1; ALCOCK 1993, 164. 128 Origins of Euander in Pallantion: Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.31–3; his worship in Rome: Dion Hal. 1.32.1; MAVROGIANNIS 2003, 113.

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this merit that a gentler Daimon took care of Pallantion already in much earlier times.129 15.9. INTENTIONAL HISTORY: ARKADIAN FOUNDATION TRADITIONS IN IMPERIAL TIMES The purpose of this article has been to show that the significance of Arkadian foundation traditions did not lie in their actual historicity and importance. In the course of history, the Arkadians had not made their name as born oikists and colonisers. Those who demonstrate Arkadian descent in imperial times do not do this by referring to a bunch of mercenaries who settled in the late classical or in the hellenistic period. Those who turn Arkadia’s history into their own take the mythical heroes of that region as a starting point and create connections with the time of those heroes and not with what would be, according to our understanding, a “real” historical phase in Arkadia’s history. With the first signs of the Second Sophistic, a re-accentuated Arkadian past – on a Homeric basis already useful in the hellenistic period, as the example of the Attalids of Pergamon shows – gains significance in imperial times. The idea of Arkadia as a bucolic region is of no importance in this context. Arkadian past becomes intentional history if it is necessary or simply desirable for cities, tribes and landscapes to find distinguishing features of Greekness. This can happen in different ways in imperial times: in a literary fashion if cities commission antiquarian literature or if epideictic speeches gain currency – far beyond the individual cities. The intention can also find expression in the context of the finding and care of mnemata, relics or monuments which bear witness to the past. In imperial times, having an Arkadian past does not mean living behind the times or perhaps even being cannibals. The advantages of infinite age, ancestors who have furthered civilisation, an independent genealogical tradition which can compete with Athens and Sparta, and not least a family relationship with Rome can be derived from Arkadian prehistory for those involved. This is no antiquarian game but a form of political communication typical of the imperial period. It is no surprise that the Arkadians who remained in their country did not jealously guard their network of connections and family relationships but instead generously accepted the Bithynian boy Antinoos into their own royal dynasty and even worshipped him as θεòς  ἐπιχώώριος. The intentional shaping and new accentuation of one’s own past proves to be of use for all sides, at the latest when Roman emperors pay with endowments, privileges and honours for being allowed to belong to “those that held Arkadia”.

129 Paus. 8.44.5 and 8.27.7.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY ALCOCK, S. E. 1993: Graecia Capta. The Landscapes of Roman Greece, Cambridge. AULOCK, H. von 1979: Zur Münzprägung von Aizanoi, in R. Naumann (ed.) Der Zeustempel von Aizanoi, Berlin, 82–94. BAUCHHENß-THÜRRIEDL, Ch. 1971: Der Mythos von Telephos in der antiken Bildkunst, Würzburg. BAUCHHENSS-THÜRRIEDL, Ch. 1986: LIMC 3,1, s.v. Auge, no. 26, 45–51. BECKER-BERTAU, F. 1986: Die Inschriften von Klaudiu Polis, Bonn. BEHR, Charles A. 1981: P. Aelius Aristides. The Complete Works, vol. 2. Orations XVII–LIII. BIRLEY, A. 1997: Hadrian, the Restless Emperor, London. BÖLTE, F. 1930: RE 14,2, s.v. Mantineia, 1290–344. BORGEAUD, Ph. 1988: The Cult of Pan in Ancient Greece, Chicago. BRANDIS, C. G. 1897: RE III,1, 1897, s.v. Bithynia 507–39. DELEHAYE, H. 1902: Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae, Brussels. DOVER, K. J. 1968: Aristophanes’ Clouds, Oxford. DREWS, R. 1993: Myths of Midas and the Phrygian Migration from Europe, Klio 75, 9–26. DUGAS, Ch. – BERCHMANS, J. – CLEMMENSEN, M. 1924: Le sanctuaire d’Aléa Athéna au IVe siècle, Paris. CURTY, O. 1995 : Les parentés légendaires entre cités grecques, Geneva. 1999: Le parenté légendaire à l’époque hellénistique. Précisions méthodologiques, Kernos 12, 167–94. EHLING, K. 2001: Die Münzprägung der mysischen Stadt Germe in der römischen Kaiserzeit, Bonn. ERSKINE, A. 2001: Troy between Greece and Rome, Oxford. FOUGÈRES, G. 1898: Mantinée et l’Arcadie Orientale, Paris. FRAENKEL, M. 1905: Die Inschriften von Pergamon, Berlin. GEHRKE, H.-J. 1994: Mythos, Geschichte, Politik – antik und modern, Saeculum 45, 239– 64. 2001: Myth, history, and collective identity, in N. Luraghi (ed.) The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford, 286–313. GOLDHILL, S. 2001: Introduction. Setting an agenda, in S. Goldhill (ed.) Being Greek under Rome. Cultural Identity, The Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire, Cambridge, 1–25. GRUEN, E. S. 1992: Culture and National Identity in Republican Rome, Ithaca, NY.

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2000: Culture as policy: the Attalids of Pergamon, in N. T. de Grummond and B. S. Ridgway (eds.) From Pergamon to Sperlonga. Sculpture and Context, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London, 17–31. HALL, J. M. 2005: Arcades his oris: Greek projections on the Italian ethnoscape? in E. S. Gruen (ed.) Cultural Borrowings and Ethnic Appropriations in Antiquity, Stuttgart, 259–84. HESSELMEYER, E. 1885: Die Ursprünge der Stadt Pergamon in Kleinasien, Tübingen. HILLER VON GAERTRINGEN, F. 1927: Pausanias’ arkadische Königsliste, Klio 21, 1–13. HODKINSON H. – HODKINSON S. 1981: Mantineia and the Mantinike. Settlement and society in a Greek polis, BSA 76, 239– 96. JENKYNS, R. 1989: Virgil and Arcadia, JRS 79, 26–39. JONES, C. P. 1996: The Panhellenion, Chiron 26, 29–56. JOST, M. 1985: Sanctuaires et cultes d’Arcadie, Paris. KAMPMANN, U. 1996: Die Homonoia-Verbindungen der Stadt Pergamon oder der Versuch einer kleinasiatischen Stadt unter römischer Herrschaft eigenständige Politik zu betreiben, Saarbrücken. 1998: Homonoia politics in Asia Minor: the example of Pergamon, in H. Koester (ed.) Pergamon, Citadel of the Gods. Archaeological Record, Literary Description, and Religious Development, Harrisburg, 373–93. KERN, O. 1900: Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Mäander, Berlin. KOPP, M. 1992: Mythische Genealogie und politische Identität. Studien zur Entwicklung des Mythos für die Entwicklung arkadischer Staaten, Diss. Freiburg. KOSMETATOU, E., 1995: The legend of the hero Pergamus, AncSoc 26, 133–44. 2003: The Attalids of Pergamon, in A. Erskine (ed.) A Companion to the Hellenistic World, Oxford, 159–73. KÜHR, A. 2006: Als Kadmos nach Boiotien kam. Polis und Ethnos im Spiegel thebanischer Gründungsmythen, Stuttgart. LYONS, D. 1997: Gender and Immortality. Heroines in Ancient Greek Cult and Myth, Princeton. MAGIE, D. 1950: Roman Rule in Asia Minor, Princeton. MAVROGIANNIS, Th. 2003: Aeneas und Euander. Mythische Vergangenheit und Politik im Rom vom 6. Jh. v. Chr. bis zur Zeit des Augustus, Neapel. MERKELBACH, R. 1978: Der Rangstreit der Städte Asiens, ZPE 32, 287–96. MEYER, H. 1991: Antinoos. Die archäologischen Denkmäler unter Einbeziehung des numismatischen und epigraphischen Materials sowie der literarischen Nachrichten. Ein Beitrag zur Kunst- und Kulturgeschichte der Hadrianisch-Frühantoninischen Zeit, Munich. MOMIGLIANO, A. 1984: How to reconcile Greeks and Trojans, in Terzo contributo alla storia degli studi classici

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e del mondo antico, Rome, 437–62. NIELSEN, Th. H. 2000: The concept of Arcadia – the people, their land and their organisation, in Th. H. Nielsen – J. Roy (eds.) Defining Ancient Arcadia, Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre vol. 6, Kopenhagen, 16–79. OSTBY, E. et.al. 1994: The Sanctuary of Athena Alea at Tegea. First Preliminary Report (1990–92) OAth. 20, 89–141. PARKE, H. W. – WORMELL, D. E. W. 1956: The Delphic Oracle I. Oxford. PATZEK, B. 1992: Homer und Mykene. Mündliche Dichtung und Geschichtsschreibung, Munich. PRETZLER, M. 2000: Myth and history at Tegea – local tradition and community identity, in Th. H. Nielsen – J. Roy (eds.) Defining Ancient Arcadia, Acts of the Kopenhagen Polis Centre vol 6, Kopenhagen, 89–129. PRINZ, E. 1979: Gründungsmythen und Sagenchronologie, Munich. QUAß, F. 1982: Zur politischen Tätigkeit der munizipalen Aristokratie des Griechischen Ostens, Historia 31, 188–213. ROBERT, L. 19622 : Villes d’Asie Mineure, Paris. 1975: Nonnos et les monnaies d’Akmonia de Phrygie, JS 1975 153–75. 1977: Documents d’Asie Mineure, BCH 101, 43–132. 1980: A travers l’Asie Mineure. Poètes et Prosateurs, Monnaies Grecques, Voyageurs et Géographie, Paris. 1981: Fleuves et cultes d’Aizanoi, BCH 105, 331–60. 1984: Héraklès à Pergane et une épigramme de l’Anthologie XVI 91, RPh 58, 7–18. ROY, J. 1987: Pausanias 8.5,2–3 and 8.53,7: Laodice descendant of Agapenor; Tegea and Cyprus, AC 56, 192–200. 2003: “The Arkadians” in Inschriften von Magnesia 38, ZPE 145, 123–30. SAÏD, S. 2001: The discourse of identity in Greek rhetoric from Isocrates to Aristides, in I. Malkin (ed.) Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity. Center for Hellenic Studies Colloquia, 5. Cambridge, MA, 275–99. SCHACHERMEYR, F. 1983: Die griechische Rückerinnerung im Lichte neuerer Forschungen, Wien. SCHEER, T. S. 1993: Mythische Vorväter. Zur Bedeutung griechischer Heroenmythen im Selbstverständnis kleinasiatischer Städte, Munich. 1998: DNP 4 Sp. 204, s.v. Euandros (1). 2003: The past in a hellenistic present: myth and local tradition, in A. Erskine (ed.) A Companion to the Hellenistic World, Oxford 216–31. 2009: Ways of Becoming Arcadian: Arcadian foundation Myths in the Mediterranean, in: E. Gruen (ed.) Identity and the People of the Mediterranean. SCHMIDT, E.A. 1975: Arkadien. Abendland und Antike, A&A 21, 36–57. SPAWFORTH, A. 1999: The Panhellenion again, Chiron 29, 339–52.

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2001: Shades of Greekness: a Lydian case study, in Irad Malkin (ed.) Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity. Center for Hellenic Studies Colloquia, 5, Cambridge, MA, 375–400. STEWART, A. F. 1977: Skopas of Paros, Park Ridge, NJ STROBEL, K. 1997: DNP 2 698–700, Sp. 698, s.v. Bithynia. STRUBBE, J. H. M. 1984/6: Gründer kleinasiatischer Städte. Fiktion und Realität, AncSoc 15–17, 253–304. SWAIN, S: 1996: Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism and Power in the Greek World A.D. 50– 250, Oxford. TAUSEND, K. 1999: Heiligtümer und Kulte Nordostarkadiens, in K. Tausend (ed.) Pheneos und Lousoi. Untersuchungen zu Geschichte und Topographie Nordostarkadiens, Frankfurt am Main, 343–69. THRAEMER, E. 1888: Pergamos, Leipzig. TÖNS, U. 1977: Sannazaros Arcadia. Wirkung und Wandlung der vergilischen Ekloge, A&A 23, 143– 61. TSIOLIS, V. 2002: Mantineia-Antigoneia. Aspectos Históricos de una Ciudad Arcadia, Toledo. WADDINGTON, W. – BABELON, E. – REINACH, T. 1925: Recueil general des monnaies grecques d’Asie Mineure, Paris. WEISER, W. 1986: Zur Münzprägung in Bithynion, in F. Becker-Bertau, Die Inschriften von Klaudiu Polis. Mit einem Anhang von Wolfram Weiser, Bonn. WEIß, P. 1984: Lebendiger Mythos. Gründerheroen und städtische Gründungstraditionen im griechisch römischen Osten, WJA 10, 179–208. 1990: Mythen, Dichter und Münzen von Lykaonien, Chiron 20, 220–37. WROTH, W. 1899: British Museum. Catalogue of Greek Coins. Catalogue of the Greek Coins of Pontus, Paphlagonia, Bithynia and the Kingdom of Bosporus, London.

16. ETHNOGRAPHY OF THE NOMADS AND ‘BARBARIAN’ HISTORY IN HAN CHINA Nicola Di Cosmo To speak of “intentional history” means also, perhaps, to investigate the process by which the historian brings within the ‘fold’ of history a given subject – whatever ‘history’ may mean within the particular cultural tradition to which the historian belongs. This process can be called the ‘historicisation’ of a subject.1 In particular, we are concerned here with how the history of ‘others’ entered Chinese historiography. Posing this question means also asking what historical method was applied to the understanding of the past and present of peoples whose history was perceived as separate from that of the community, culture, or ‘nation’ to which the historian referred as his own. Assessing the conscious positioning of an ancient historian as an outsider to the history that he was recording may not be a smooth operation, as undoubtedly that positioning is not set in stone, and varies together with the nature of the ‘other’ in question. Some ‘others’ are more different than others. Issues germane to this point have been debated in the course of recent controversies about the nature of Jordanes’ Gothic history, and, more generally, about the question of ‘ethnogenesis’ in late antique historiography.2 Yet, those remote records are still the best conduit that we possess to reach back into otherwise wholly unknowable – save perhaps for the increasingly useful but still hazardous archaeological evidence – corners of human history. Studying such records may also, as has been elegantly argued, shed light on the intellectual tenets, worldviews, and self-representation of the historian’s society. The study of the ancient interactions between China and the steppe nomads depends essentially on written records. The idea that these peoples also had a history, and that their history, albeit constructed in relation to China, had an independent ‘identity’ and therefore requires the historian’s attention, blossoms for the first time with the full dignity of a historical narrative in the Shiji (Records of the Historian, c. 100 BCE) by Sima Qian (145?–86? BCE). Hence, any study in the creation of an ethnography and history of foreign peoples in early Chinese historiography must take the Shiji (Records of the Historian, c. 100 BCE) by Sima Qian (145?–86? BCE) as a key turning point. While there are plenty of references to the Chinese states’ dealings with peoples perceived as foreign or alien in pre-imperial sources, no specific historical account devoted to them exists before Sima Qian

1 2

I use this term in the same sense as J. G. A. Pocock’s “historisation”; see POCOCK 2005, 4. There is a huge bibliography on this topic. Essential contributions that attempt a synthesis of the different positions on this issue are included in GILLETT 2002. See in particular the essay by POHL.

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wrote his Records.3 In part this is the result of the structure of the Shiji itself, as Sima Qian reconfigured historical research and knowledge in entirely new forms.4 In the process, together with a new conceptualisation of the history of the Han empire, and of the political and cultural traditions of the Hua-Xia people that we today recognise as a unified history of ancient China, the relationship between Han and the non-Han peoples came into sharper relief. While still a relatively young field of study, a number of scholars have published on the question of the perception and representation of cultural differences between ‘Chinese’ and ‘barbarians’ in early China, pointing out key aspects of philosophical approaches, and political discourses.5 Archaeology has injected into these debates ideas and hypotheses about cultural and economic exchange that have helped better to define the nature of the relations beyond philosophical and political pronouncements. The purpose of my discussion of early Chinese historiography of nomads is to isolate what I regard as significant aspects of their historicisation. Whether such an inquiry can be profitably used for a comparative approach to Greco-Roman and Chinese historiography is an important question that must be, however, left for a future study. I shall limit my remarks here to saying that a comparative framework has to embrace issues relevant not just to the representation of alien cultures, but rather to the basic principles relative to the genesis of the actual histories of alien peoples within a given ancient historiographical tradition. In other words, it may be useful to define a space that, in both the Chinese and the European traditions, can be found between a use of history that tends to concentrate on how to qualify ‘alterity,’ and a use of history that points, rather, in the direction of what has been called ‘ethnogenesis,’ or ‘origin story’ of a given people. In the space between these two concepts, one in which a certain cultural tradition defines the other in relation mainly to itself, the other in which the historical construction is allegedly based on kernels of oral traditions and autochthonous knowledge, we may find the way to advance a discussion that has weighty implications. These have been broached already in the aforementioned debates on the ‘ethnogenesis’ and identity of ‘European’ barbarians in late antique historiography. But there are also emerging questions, thus far not well investigated, regarding the ‘sense of the past’ of ‘barbarians’ and how these records contributed to the formation of historical consciousnesses among them. The history of the ‘imperial nomads’ of the eastern marches or Eurasia, which was first conceived as a unified whole by Joseph de Guignes, is especially and critically in need of this type of

3 4

5

The most useful and reliable introduction to Han historiography is still HULSEWÉ 1961. See also NG – WANG 2005, 53–78. In addition to the classic work by CHAVANNES 1895–1905 and WATSON 1958, among several new studies of the Shiji a notable one is DURRANT 1995. Four volumes have also appeared of a new English translation of the Shiji, planned in nine volumes, under the general editorship of NIENHAUSER. The first and in many ways still excellent translation of several chapters of the Shiji, recently republished as a revised edition is WATSON 1993. An excellent overview is provided in PINES 2005, 59–102.

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historiographical exploration. In chapter 110 of the Shiji,6 dedicated to the Xiongnu (Asiatic Huns), Sima Qian produced the first full-blown history of a nomadic empire, and of a people that has been taken to epitomise the antithesis of the Chinese civilisation.7 In the context of the historicisation of the Xiongnu, three areas seem to me especially relevant to our discussion. First, Sima Qian’s creation of a ‘cultural genealogy’ established several motives why the Xiongnu were given a separate historical account. Second, ethnographic knowledge was introduced in a systematic manner, an operation that directly relates to the sources tapped for knowledge on Xiongnu history and society and to the organisation of this knowledge. Moreover, we need to assess pre-existing notions of ‘barbarism’ and ‘alterity’ that entered the narration, and what elements of the Xiongnu narrative can be traced back to older conceptions that framed the Han approach to foreign cultures. The Xiongnu chapter belongs to the liezhuan (“arrayed traditions”) section of the Shiji.8 While most of the 70 liezhuan chapters of the Shiji (out of a total of 130) are devoted to historical figures, and indeed present themselves as ‘biographic’ accounts, other chapters are dedicated either to foreign peoples and lands, or to classes of peoples, such as “moneylenders” and “knights-errant.” It is apparent that these chapters are not ‘biographies,’ but collective accounts of remarkable, exemplary, or notorious peoples whose deeds were deemed worthy of transmission. There is surely nothing casual in Sima Qian’s placement of the accounts of foreign peoples in this particular section of the Shiji, removed from the chapters that provide the history of royal house (the ben ji, or “basic records”) and of the aristocratic families (the shi jia, or “hereditary houses”). Instead, foreign peoples are mentioned towards the end of the “arrayed traditions,” together with famous generals and ministers known for their service in the military and in particular for their participation in foreign wars. One important aspect of the organisation of the Shiji is that information relative to a given subject, person, or event is distributed across a number of chapters regardless of whether the same subject re6

7

8

The full translation of this chapter is available in WATSON 1993, 2, 129–86. I have also consulted with profit the manuscript translation prepared by E. Giele for NIENHAUSER forthcoming. A basic history of the Xiongnu, based on Han textual sources, can be found in YÜ 1986, 383–405 and 1990, 118–49. An extensive discussion of this text as well as archaeological research on the Xiongnu can be found in DI COSMO 2002, 161–311. For a discussion on the relationship between the Xiongnu account in the Shiji and in the Hanshu (discussed below) see HONEY 1999. The claim presented in this article that the Hanshu text on the Xiongnu (Chapters 94A and 94B) is closer to the original Shiji text than the text actually included in the Shiji (Chapter 110) on account of later interpolations needs to be taken into consideration in the analysis of a few controversial points. However, neither Honey nor others question that Sima Qian was the first to write a Xiongnu monograph. The point that Han Chinese and Xiongnu nomads represented opposite civilisations and “alternative lifestyles” is a common trope. For a recent reiteration of this notion see CHANG 2007, 159. On the translation “arrayed tradition” which I prefer to any other, see the explanation in DURRANT 1995, xix–xx.

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ceives a dedicated chapter. Hence, we find several mentions of foreign peoples such as the Xiongnu in chapters other than that specifically assigned to them. Nonetheless, the existence of a chapter on the Xiongnu means that they are seen as an especially important topic, and gives chronological coherence and structure to otherwise scattered tidbits of information. There are no examples of monographic studies of foreign peoples before Sima Qian, and even within the Shiji there are no foreign peoples that attain quite the same status as the Xiongnu, even though several chapters are dedicated to external regions and peoples, most significantly Chapter 123 on the oases, statelets, and nomadic tribes of the “Western Regions.”9 While the chapter on the Xiongnu inaugurates a self-consciously new style of ethnographic history, it does so by conforming in format to other “arrayed traditions.” Sima Qian did not invent a special form of ‘ethnographic account’ but rather expanded the realm of historical inquiry by including foreigners. The innovative, even revolutionary aspect of his work consists in the historical method he applied to the investigation of the Xiongnu, once they came to be regarded as a historical phenomenon worthy of having its own dedicated account. How and where Sima Qian collected relevant material and how he ‘rationalised’ the phenomenon in terms of his macro-scheme of Chinese history is where we can locate the most ‘intentional’ of his construction of the Xiongnu ‘alien’ history. Hence, primary questions are: What are the ‘traditions’ relevant to Xiongnu history that the historian assembled? How did he collect them? And how did he “array” them into a coherent historical account? Before we move to tackle such questions, we need to look at whatever model or information may have been available to Sima Qian, and at the general structure of the chapter itself. That is, we need to discuss a famously thorny issue: the position of ‘barbarians’ in early China. Notwithstanding the popular application of the term ‘barbarian’ to foreigners, it is a fact that every time we meet the term ‘barbarian’ as a translation of a Chinese term we face something of a misnomer, and one that is potentially seriously misleading. The concept of ‘barbarian’ in Chinese is not expressed through a single word but rather by summoning one of various ethnonyms used to indicate foreign people in historical sources, not unlike, in a sense, our current use of the word ‘vandal.’ It is as if the Greeks, not having invented a collective word for ‘barbarian,’ used a variety of ethnonyms, such as Persian, Scythian, or Egyptian, to express a concept that had generic implications of cultural, linguistic, and other differences. It is I think beyond doubt that every term used in the Springs and Autumns (770–485 BCE) or Warring States (485–221 BCE) periods to express the concept of an alien people or culture must have been originally an ethnonym of one kind or another. What is confusing is to what extent a certain term may be (a) a pure ethnonym, which indicated only a specific people; (b) an ethnic name used pars 9

For a study of the Western Regions under the Han see HULSEWÉ – LOEWE 1979. See also DI COSMO 2000.

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pro toto to indicate an ethnic or regional ‘type’ (nomads, or people living in the south, or descendants of people living in a certain region); (c) a term that having lost any ethnic designation was used just to indicate foreign peoples in general, often in a pejorative abstract sense. By metonymy or synecdoche, these names would then be associated with or taken as a component of a larger entity, the uncivilised world. It would be banal to point out that the Chinese could not have had a notion of civilisation without its opposite number, but it is still remarkable that the concept of barbarism remains linguistically fragmented into so many terms: Yi, Rong, Di, Man, Mo, Hu and their several variations: the Nine Yi and the Four Yi, the Red Di and the White Di, the Mountain Rong and the “Dog” Rong, the Eastern Hu and the Forest Hu. In the early records common words used for foreign peoples in any sense can amount to more than two dozen, although in later records those that tend to be used with an abstract or generic meaning are fewer. Often, but possibly not always, when two such ethnonyms are joined in a binomial compound they appear to stand for a more abstract meaning of alien or barbarian people, but the level of abstraction is not always clear, as over time the four main (but by no means the only) words used to indicate foreigners, di, rong, man, and yi, were also ascribed directional values. Hence man generally stood for the ‘barbarians’ of the south and yi for eastern ‘barbarians.’ Yet if the two terms were joined binomially as man-yi they could indicate barbarians of the west and east, or perhaps stand for foreigners in general, or perhaps designate a special category of foreigners, distinct from others but not otherwise identifiable. The four terms could also be joined with one another in various combinations, such as man-yi, rong-di and yi-di. We assume that these terms are to a certain degree interchangeable, but there are surely hues of meaning that elude us, since a purely random use is doubtful given that they, taken individually, did not extend to the same exact semantic range. While it is fairly clear that the concept of a foreigner as a cultural alien and also as a political and military adversary develops around a cluster of words that over time lost their original ethnic meaning to acquire a metaphoric abstract one, a metonymic element may have continued to exist for some time. For instance words such as hu can be said to be the self-designation of a specific people, or at the same time a generic term used by the Chinese for a nomadic ethnic type. Words for specific foreigners and generic ‘alien peoples’ that, when translated as ‘barbarians,’ inevitably lose much of the meanings originally spanned by each one of these terms. With that caveat, it must be said that at times it is inevitable and even desirable to use the term “barbarian.”10 In pre-Han texts an explicit line of demarcation is drawn between Chinese as a whole and non-Chinese as another but less focalised whole, which can be discerned along pre-eminently ethical and cultural lines. In the Gongyang commentary to the Chunqiu (Springs and Autumns) we find, for instance:

10

See, for instance, PINES 2005, 61 n. 8.

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The Chunqiu treats its state [i.e., Lu] as internal, and all the Xia as external; it [also] treats all the Xia [states] as internal and all the Yi and Di as external. The true king’s desire is to unify the universe [lit. “All under Heaven”]. Why should he then use the words ‘internal’ and ‘external’? It means that he begins with those who are near.”11

These foreign and alien entities, the Di and Yi, are, in an ethnographic or historical sense, disembodied. The emergence of an abstract discussion of barbarians in pre-Han China occurs at a time of fierce internal competition among Chinese states, and of expansion into areas inhabited by unassimilated peoples. The condemnation of foreign habits and customs, once taken in its political context, reveals strong ‘imperialist’ undertones, translated often in a language that stresses the ‘convertibility’ of such barbarians to the ways of the Central States. They can be conquered because they are likely to accept and convert to the cultural norms prevailing in ‘China.’ When ethnographic tidbits emerge, with brief references to ‘barbarian’ customs, this is usually to make a philosophical point that does not concern the foreigners themselves, but serves for instance to emphasise the need for proper rituals, or the reasons used by a given ruler to introduce innovations. A classical example of this is the passage in the Zhanguo ce (Intrigues of the Warring States) in which King Wuling (r. 325–299 BCE) of the state of Zhao argues for the adoption of cavalry and nomadic (“hu”) clothing. This is one case in which I believe the term hu is not used as a generic term for ‘barbarian’ but with specific reference to the steppe nomads.12 The passage, however, includes also references to other foreigners, those of Ouyue who cut their hair and tattoo their bodies, not to mention fastening their garments on the left, an impropriety with which many ‘barbarians’ are charged. The passage also mentions peoples from the “Great Wu” (whether they can be recognised as ‘barbarians’ or not is an open question) who had odd habits such as blackening their teeth, scarring their foreheads and wearing strange caps. All these mixed references are summoned to make a general point: the wise king knows how to “change with the times.” Ethnographic elements we may find in sources before the Shiji are, then, found in contexts to which they are at best peripheral, and reduced to grist for political and philosophical mills. Thus, it seems that a discourse on ‘barbarians’ in pre-imperial China, on their habits, their possibility to be converted to Chinese ways, and innate difference, developed as a political argument, philosophical reflection, or even cultural pathology, but not as a form of historical inquiry. This situation changed radically with Sima Qian’s compilation of chapters on foreign peoples and lands, and it changed forever. In the Xiongnu chapter it is clear that we are discussing a specific people, and that cultural reflections are linked to the need to explain a phenomenon that has actual historical valence, imposing itself upon the consciousness of the Han with the same urgency with which Herodotus’ Greeks perceived the Persians. The objective was to take what was known of the history (“traditions”) of this people and to arrange it into a coherent 11 12

Slightly modified citation from PINES 2005, 83; Gongyang zhuan 19 (Cheng 15), 2297. DI COSMO 2002, 134–8; PINES 2005, 78.

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account. Was this an innocent or mechanical operation? Of course not, but the intentions of the historian, as far as we are able to detect them, are to be considered on two planes. One is surely his own intellectual vantage point as member of an intellectual elite steeped in Han culture and the philosophical views and literary conventions of his own time. Sima Qian, as is well known, was not averse to expressing his own opinions, and such ‘judgments’ are believed to have been proffered in both implicit and explicit ways. Yet no claims have been made, either in antiquity or in modern times, that he would make stories out of whole cloth. In this, a basic difference can be discerned between the reception of Herodotus, accused at times of being a fabulist and a liar, and that of Sima Qian.13 The second plane is the broader scope of his work as a historian, and the method that he applied to the object of his investigation. This is a method based on the presentation of a given person, event, or story by assembling the broadest range of available sources. Some of them are still extant, some are lost, and some are just not known. This method has the advantage of constructing a history that has a rigor and integrity of its own, and can be appreciated regardless of whether the historian has injected into it his own particular political preferences or cultural biases. The issue raised by his method is rather how Sima Qian collected his data and bridged the conceptual gap between inchoate and often legendary notions of a remote world of nomads roaming at the edges of the sinitic world and the actual history of a specific people. The Xiongnu are not mistaken for generic barbarians nor are they located simply at the far side of a moral spectrum in which the Chinese are supposedly occupying the other end. The Xiongnu are given an identity made of different layers of knowledge, some inherited but mostly never recorded before. The ethnographic inquiry that is part of this chapter includes detailed descriptions of their customs, social and military institutions, economic activities, and legal system. Most of the account, naturally, concerns the history of relations between the Xiongnu and Han China as rival empires. I shall discuss here three aspects that in my view are especially relevant to Sima Qian’s strategy of constructing a Xiongnu history. These are, in short: the ‘genealogy’ of the Xiongnu as a people, their ethnography (customs, language, lifestyle), and finally the declared and explicit motivations that inform Sima Qian’s narrative. Pointing to Sima Qian’s motives leads inevitably to a comparison with the ideological stance of his successor historian, Ban Gu. A comparison between the two highlights the existence of different degrees of proximity between the historian and the object of his investigation, and of different strategies of mediation of the space between the two. The higher density of statements and accounts that appear to originate from or refer directly to the history of the ‘barbarian’ in question bespeaks of a search for contents that is descriptive and ethnographic in nature. Contrariwise, the marked reliance on cultural forms that emanate from existing stereotypes and cultural paradigms of representation embedded in the intellectual milieu of the historian himself tends to widen the distance be13

On Herodotus’s reputation, see, for instance, EVANS 1968.

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tween the historical narrative and its object. Both elements exist in traditional Chinese historiography, and what this study suggests in the conclusion is that the history of the Xiongnu as established by Han historians may have formed the basis for the emergence of a historical discourse among the northern nomads. Sima Qian presents the Xiongnu from the very first sentence as having been closely connected to China, through their progenitor, from the dawn of history. A relationship between Han and Xiongnu is thus established in a forceful way, namely, through a kinship that is as remote as it is legendary. A mythical ancestor of the Xiongnu, named Chunwei, is indicated as a person related by blood to the royal clan of the Xia dynasty. The origin of this legend cannot be established as we do not have any other form of corroboration. The purpose of it, however, can be manifold. For instance, we may conceive of it as a device to bring the Xiongnu into the ‘fold’ of Chinese history by establishing a beginning of their history that was traceable to a very remote antiquity. Or, the ancestry legend may give the history of the Xiongnu a certain added gravity. Whatever the prime source of the legend, in light of what we see as Sima Qian’s own stated motivations (which I shall discuss below) the most likely explanation for its inclusion is Sima Qian’s idea that the relations between China and the nomads (Han and Xiongnu) constituted a ‘pattern’ according to which they appear to be the two extremities of a pendulum-like historical motion. That remote relationship creates a fulcrum that gives unity to such a pattern. In a subsequent section, based on identifiable historical sources, Sima Qian lists a series of names of ancient non-Chinese peoples understood to be all somehow related to the Xiongnu. A long commentarial tradition assumes that at least some of these names (Hunyu, Xianyun, Xunyu) were etymologically akin to the name “Xiongnu.”14 The problem is that non-etymologically related names, such as the Rong, Quan Rong, Rong-Di, Mo and others are also taken to be the ancestors of the Xiongnu, and listed in a series of episodes that contributed to the formation of the ‘pre-Xiongnu’ history of the Xiongnu. Some commentators have taken the use of ‘archaising’ names to be an attempt by Sima Qian to make the Xiongnu – doubtless an entirely new historical phenomenon as a unified steppe empire – into something familiar.15 These were people who had existed for a long time, that the Chinese had confronted before, and whose threat to China was old and, therefore, not particularly threatening. The reductio ad notum was meant to neutralise the psychological impact produced by the scary occurrence of a nomadic empire, and make its military power appear less menacing. Sima Qian attempted a reconstruction of a Xiongnu past by first identifying the Xiongnu as another version of the “northern barbarians” of old, and then summarising the past deeds of these peoples on the basis of available Chinese sources, mainly the Chunqiu, the Zuozhuan, the Guoyu, and the Zhanguo ce.16 But 14 15 16

See the discussion in PRŮŠEK 1971, 18–26; see also the study in PULLEYBLANK 1983. MAENCHEN-HELFEN 1961. On authorship and textual history of these texts see the relevant entries in LOEWE 1993.

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it is important not to dismiss the novelty of the construct. The criteria used by Sima Qian to select the ‘barbarians’ reputed to be Xiongnu predecessors were based on: (1) a generic assonance in the name, (2) the geographic location of these peoples (the north) and (3) an implicit cultural affinity based on their warlike behaviour. Prima facie, should we be tempted to ask ourselves whether the Xiongnu might have recognised in this genealogy a history that they could claim as their own, our curiosity would seem at the very least unproductive, given the firm Chinese textual basis, and the absence of any Xiongnu ‘input’ that might provide additional information. Yet the question is not entirely facetious. If there is no evidence to show that the Xiongnu recognised in terms such as Rong and Di their ancestors, then the conclusion is that the history of the Xiongnu written by Sima Qian for all practical purposes becomes the point of origin of the history of the northern nomads for both Chinese and nomads. Later nomads, for instance during the Tang dynasty, made explicit mention of a Xiongnu ‘precedent’ as part of a history to which they felt a close affinity if not direct kinship. A statement that can be regarded as ‘diagnostic’ with respect to the Xiongnu sense of their own history appears at the very beginning of the chapter: From Chunwei to Touman for over a thousand years, whether at times numerous, or at other times small in numbers, [the Xiongnu] have been split and scattered and have been divided. So it was as time went on, and their genealogical traditions (shi zhuan) could not be obtained and put in order. However when it came to Modun the Xiongnu were extremely strong and numerous, fully subjugated the northern barbarians (yi), and in the south became an enemy state of China. Only then could their genealogical traditions and the titles of the 17 state officials be obtained and recorded.

The history of the Xiongnu as a people begins with Touman, father of the founder of the Xiongnu state and empire Modun. Because the Xiongnu were a confederation of sundry peoples and tribes, it is entirely possible that their beginning as an ‘imperial’ nomadic state was marked by the creation of the foundation myth, taken by Sima Qian as the ascertainable starting point of their history. In this sense, we may recall the use of the term origo in Latin sources, as beginning and history.18 This consideration introduces us to a question foreshadowed in our previous point on the ‘sources’ used by Sima Qian, namely, where does the account of the foundation myth of the Xiongnu empire come from? This question relates closely to a larger one: is there a specific Xiongnu voice, in the form of oral accounts, legends, speeches or other material recorded directly or indirectly by Sima Qian? For the time being, I shall limit this question to the analysis of the story of the rise of Modun and of its attendant legendary or epic elements. In a nutshell, the story recounts the adventures of Modun, who as a boy was feared by his father (then a tribal leader) and sent as a hostage to another tribe. In order to have the boy and possible future challenger eliminated, the father attacked the tribe, sure that they would take their revenge by killing his hostage son. The son, however, 17 18

Shiji, 2890. Cf. WOLFRAM 1994.

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was a clever boy, and managed to escape and come back home. In a few years he formed his own military bodyguard, trained to blind obedience, in preparation to overthrow his father. To accomplish his ‘coup’ he conditioned his soldiers by first ordering them to shoot his favourite horse, and killing those who refused to obey. Then he asked them to shoot his favourite wife, again executing those who hesitated. When he ordered the remaining warriors to shoot his own father no one failed to release his arrows. This account seems on the surface quite different from the songs of heroic gesta as they appear in the Chinese tradition, where such feats are found in lyrical hymns and poems, often in the words of the hero himself.19 It has also been noted that early Chinese historiography, and especially the Shiji, lacks the epic elements common in ancient Western historiography.20 The story of Modun, on the other hand, diverges substantially from more common narrative schemes of heroic feats in the Shiji and contemporary Han works, which carry strong ethical and lyrical elements. There is nothing here that lends itself to a moralistic interpretation, as the story is one of betrayal, revenge, and definitely ‘unfilial’ behaviour, for which the hero is rewarded! However, in structure and content the tale shows a close resemblance to the foundation myths of other ‘steppe empires’ created to the north of China, including the Türk, Mongol and Manchu. In these stories the founderto-be is identified as someone either of supernatural birth or “born with a heavenly destiny,” who has to go through a series of tests as a young man before achieving military pre-eminence and establishing a new social order that allows him to impose his ‘supratribal’ authority.21 In the case of Modun the tests have to do first of all with his survival as a boy, then with his revenge against his father, and finally with his struggle against other tribes. One might object that producing a portrait of the Xiongnu leader that was not particularly endearing (uxoricide and parricide being particularly worthy of censure) could mean that the story was concocted in a Chinese cultural milieu to make the Xiongnu chieftain appear as a true-to-form, dyed-in-the-wool barbarian. In the realm of hypotheses, this could certainly be the case, but if we compare the rise of Modun with the story of, for instance, Chinggis Khan’s rise to power, we see that an autochthonous origin is not only plausible, but more persuasive than a Chinese one. The “Secret History of the Mongols,” an authentically Mongolian literary document based on oral precedents, contains a number of unpalatable episodes relative to the rise of Chinggis Khan, such as allowing his wife to be abducted by his enemies or killing in cold blood his own half-brother.22 If we take this as a valid analogy for the Xiongnu foundation myth, one that has greater weight than the attribution of unstated prejudices to Sima Qian, then we can postulate that the legend came from

19 20 21 22

KERN 2005, 65. PRŮŠEK 1963. See also SHANKMAN –DURRANT 2000, 104–5. On the concept of supratribal leadership cf. FLETCHER 1986. See DE RACHEWILTZ 2004.

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the Xiongnu through oral transmission, and was collected by Sima Qian from a contemporary source. It is not impossible, however, that the creation of the legend itself, which has to be placed after the time when the events narrated occurred (between 220 and 209 BCE), was immune from influences circulating in a Chinese milieu. For instance, the story of the bodyguard training has some similarity with the story of Sunzi’s attempt to train a king’s concubines as bodyguards.23 Sunzi wanted to execute those who did not obey his orders, or responded to his threats with impertinent giggles, but the king prevented him from going ahead with such extreme measures. Whether one could see a similarity in the kind of discipline imposed in this type of training, such a similarity does not constitute an element strong enough to establish the Xiongnu story as a calque or as an adapted version of the Chinese story. The most likely solution is that, no matter how it came into existence, the legend became the Xiongnu royal clan’s foundation myth, and as such it must have been known to the Xiongnu in oral form. The appearance of this story in Sima Qian’s work should not give rise to concerns about proper transmission, given that only about 60 years separated those events from Sima Qian’s own birth, and it is unlikely that the narration underwent much modification during this short time. Moreover, contacts with Xiongnu people were sufficiently frequent at every level that we do not need to unduly stretch our imagination to assume that Sima Qian could rely on several ‘informants’ such as the ‘assistant’ of the explorer Zhang Qian, a Xiongnu by the name of Kan Fu, or the Xiongnu nobleman Jin Midi, who lived as a hostage at the Han court and whose short biography can be found in the Hanshu.24 Still, it is true that Sima Qian does not inform us on how he obtained knowledge of the legend. Unlike Herodotus’ Histories, in which stories regarding foreign peoples are introduced by attributing them to the peoples themselves (and whether the source was real or fictitious is irrelevant here), Sima Qian does not ‘interrogate’ the Xiongnu.25 As he says in the sentence quoted above, it is because the Xiongnu have become united and strong, and therefore have established a royal lineage, that their traditions have become known to the Chinese. He reports Modun’s foundation story as yet another “tradition” that he has collected, and the source might well be the Xiongnu themselves. The implication is that we probably see here one of the very few examples of an Inner Asian ‘tradition’ that is reported in the Shiji. The ethnographic inquiry into the Xiongnu, our second theme of ‘intentionality,’ is subject to the same complications that we have seen in the ‘genealogical’ 23 24 25

SAWYER 1993, 151–3. Hanshu 68, 2959–67. The question of barbarian speech in Herodotus is discussed in MUNSON 2005. The treatment of the Xiongnu language by Sima Qian, which I discuss briefly below, is more terse and sparse than in Herodotus, although it is clear, as in the case of Herodotus (MUNSON 2005, 3– 4) that the barbarians with whom the Chinese interacted did not speak Chinese, even though language barriers were regularly overcome.

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account. We find here elements adapted from a Chinese literary tradition, elements that cannot but come from direct sources such as informants or Sima Qian’s own observation, and elements of comparison between Han and Xiongnu that reflect sensibilities that Sima Qian shared with a broader Han intelligentsia. The collective result of these elements is an ethnographic picture that makes the Xiongnu into full-blooded historical agents, not just or simply into a negative ‘mirror’ of Chinese virtues. The same picture shows them as members of a ‘barbarian’ universe that continues to constitute a moral alter ego to the Han, but the ‘negativity’ represented by the Xiongnu customs is now based on descriptive and empirically documented data whose collection precedes the intellectual act of comparing and upon which the logic of cultural contrast is built. In other words, the description of the Xiongnu does not emerge from what is missing in their culture from a Han viewpoint, or on the basis of pre-existing assumptions of what barbarians should look like. It is built on the basis of what they actually do. Were this not the case, it would be impossible to explain the extent and the depth of information amassed in this chapter. Especially relevant for us is the detailed description of the nomadic lifestyle. The pastoral economy in which the Xiongnu, like all steppe nomads, engaged, is described in terms that are taken today as simple tropes, such as the passage which says that “they move about according to the availability of water and pasture, have no walled towns or fixed residences, nor any agricultural activities, but each of them has a portion of land.”26 But, in Sima Qian’s time, there was no such conventional way of referring to nomads. Sima Qian’s description provides the first written indication that the Chinese understood the seasonal regularity of the movement of herds of the nomadic economy. Moreover, the list of animals used by the Xiongnu is also quite specific, and includes a series of names of equines whose technical meaning eludes us but indicates the extent of Sima Qian’s zoological knowledge.27 The list conforms to the five classes of domestic animals that traditionally form the wealth of steppe pastoralism: horses, cows, sheep, goats, and camels. The phrase “each of them has a portion of land” presents also a point of interest. We do not know whether the reference to land rights applies here to individual nomads or to families and clans. It can be interpreted, however, as meaning that the Xiongnu recognised certain individual or family rights over the use of pastures, even though the land was not fenced and could not be purchased or sold. This description is perfectly consistent with the lineage-based customary land rights that existed in traditional pastoral societies. The actuality and accuracy of these few sentences, confirmed by anthropological and historical research, implies a gigantic leap in the historian’s ability to relate to foreign peoples. Not only there is no comparable example in Chinese texts prior to Sima Qian, but it would be dif-

26 27

Shiji, 110, 2879; cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 129. On these animals see EGAMI 1951.

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ficult to find a similar level of technical precision even in Greek and Roman historiography. More direct observations relate to military training, the nomads’ way of fighting, state rituals and sacrifices, and Xiongnu technical terms. The Xiongnu military superiority, at least in the use of cavalry, was evident to all Chinese, such as the statesman Chao Cuo.28 But whereas Chao Cuo and other theorists were interested in finding ways to counter the Xiongnu on the battlefield, Sima Qian appears to be more interested in finding the reasons for their strength, as we can see from this statement: As children they are able to ride sheep, and can shoot birds and mice with bow and arrow. As they grow a little older, they can shoot foxes and hares, which they use for food. Thus as adults they are strong enough to bend a bow, and all can serve as cavalry soldiers. It is their custom to make their living in times of peace by herding the domestic animals and hunting the wild ones, but in critical situations everyone practices military skills in order to set off on 29 raids. This is their inborn nature.

It was truly their way of life, intimately connected with animals, whether they rode, herded, or hunted them, that produced exceptional mounted warriors. The expression “this is their inborn nature” (qi tian xing ye) can be related to the preimperial debates on the “changeability” of foreign peoples. The Xiongnu, if they were so different by “inborn nature” were not going to be changed, but this consideration is not stated as a primary concern by Sima Qian.30 The context in which it is made explains why they appear to be different, rather than why they cannot be changed. The nomads were not endowed with special powers, but followed what was to them a natural behaviour, born out of their lifestyle and life necessities. Sima Qian brings their superior military skills onto a plane of rational understanding by clarifying, step by step, the essence of nomadic military training, and how this was the result of a different, but nonetheless ‘natural,’ process due to the specifics of their society and economy. Riding and shooting were, we might say, second nature to them. On more specialised military matters, such as armament and tactics, the narrative is matter-of-fact: “they use bows and arrows as their long-range weapons, and swords and spears as their short-range weapons.”31 Yet there are passages reminiscent of older tropes. At the beginning of a [military] enterprise, they observe the stars and the moon; if the moon is rising they attack, if it is waning they retreat… They are skilled in the use of troops that lure the enemy into an ambush. As they see the enemy they look for booty, [behaving] like a flock 28 29 30

31

For a translation of Chao Cuo’s memorial and comments on its military implications see NEEDHAM et al. 1994, 123–5. Shiji 110, 2879; cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 129 I would like to thank Prof. Paul Goldin for allowing me to see an unpublished essay of his on this topic. While I hold a somewhat different view, I find Prof. Goldin’s discussion on the ‘nature’ of the Xiongnu (and other barbarians) insightful and provocative, especially from a philosophical standpoint. Shiji 110, 2879.

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of birds. When they meet with hardship and defeat, they disintegrate and scatter like clouds. Those who bring back from battle the body of a dead [Xiongnu] gain complete possession of 32 the dead man’s household and properties.

The analogy with beasts and birds ultimately goes back to the pre-Han classics, and here we find again a link with the Rong and Di peoples. These archaising references were probably common in Sima Qian’s age. In the memorial presented by Zhufu Yan to the emperor Wudi, for instance, it is said that the minister Li Si reprimanded Qin Shi Huangdi for invading the nomadic territories in the Ordos because “the Xiongnu have no fixed cities or forts and no stores of provisions or grain. They move from place to place like flocks of birds and are just as difficult to catch and control.”33 The same memorial also reported that: “it is the nature of the Xiongnu to swarm together like so many beasts, and to disperse again like a flock of birds. Trying to catch them is like grabbing a shadow.”34 Similarly redolent of older tropes is Sima Qian’s description of the nomads’ behaviour in battle: During a battle, if this is going well for them, they will advance, otherwise they will retreat. They do not regard running away as something shameful; they only care about li (profit) and 35 do not know of li (propriety) and yi (righteousness)… When they fight in battle, those who have cut [enemy] heads or captured prisoners are presented with a cup of wine, and all the booty they have taken is also given to them; the people 36 they capture are made into slaves. Therefore, in battle each man pursues his own gain.

The Xiongnu behaviour has parallels, for instance, in the Zuozhuan statement that the Di are not ashamed of running away.37 As shameful and reprehensible as such a conduct undoubtedly was in Chinese eyes, and although the emphasis on greediness is directly related to an inherited cliché, the description appears to convey more a prejudice of Sima Qian’s own age than a ‘classical’ influence. Or, rather, we may speak of a manner of representation that reflected contemporary Han sensibilities about the Xiongnu, engendered by, rather than being derived from, a sense of indebtedness to or dependency upon classical stereotypes. The Xiongnu had rules of war different from those of the Han, and Sima Qian’s reproach can be compared to the sentiments of blame or even horror expressed by Greeks and Romans when describing the fighting methods of the steppe nomads or other culturally different enemies.38 Yet in classical descriptions of alien ways of warfare the moral condemnation is not there to deny the reality of it, but rather to underscore its cultural distance.39 Hence, there is in Sima Qian a balance in moral 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Shiji 110, 2892; cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 137 Shiji 112, 2954; cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 194. Shiji 112, 2955 cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 195. Shiji 110, 2879; cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 129. Shiji 110, 2892; cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 137. Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhu, 1, 322. SINOR 1978. A good example of this is the description of the “Scythians” (that is, nomadic warriors) in Maurice’s Strategikon, where it is said that “[t]hey are very superstitious, treacherous, foul, faithless, possessed by an insatiate desire for riches.” See DENNIS 1984, 116.

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judgments that is allowed by his independent and highly personal moral standpoint. He can criticise Han and Xiongnu ways based on the knowledge and experience he has of both societies, and which he conveys with an unmistakable ring of authenticity. More information is provided on state rituals and sacrifices, whose description is, on the surface, completely ‘value free.’ At dawn the chanyu leaves his camp and makes obeisance to the sun as it rises, and in the evening he makes a similar obeisance to the moon... When they sit the place of honour is on the left side, toward the north. The wu and ji days [i.e., the fifth and sixth of the ten-day week] are their favourite ones... Every year in the first month the important people hold a restricted meeting at the chanyu’s court, and perform sacrifices. In the fifth month they have a large gathering at Longcheng, where they sacrifice to the ancestors, Heaven and Earth, and to their divinities. In autumn, when the horses are fat, they hold a large meeting in which they 40 41 encircle a forest (dai lin) and calculate the number of people and livestock.

In many ways, these rituals are reminiscent of Chinese ceremonies.42 The Xiongnu used a calendar based on the ten heavenly stems; they worshipped Heaven, the ancestors, and their deities on the wu (fifth stem) and ji (sixth stem) days.43 The similarities raise the question of whether the Xiongnu were borrowing from the Chinese tradition of rulership, thus acquiring Han symbols of sovereignty into their political and religious system, such as the calendar.44 Did Sima Qian imply that the Xiongnu were in some ways being ‘sinicised’ by conforming to rituals of sovereignty that had currency among the Han? Whether this passage could be read in such a way can only be speculated upon, but in any case it remains remarkably free from moral judgments, and some form of cultural subordination, if intended, is not made explicit. Finally, the Shiji reports an unprecedented number of Xiongnu words. To be sure, these are relatively few, and do not provide conclusive evidence of the type of language actually spoken by the nomads.45 Nonetheless, incorporating Xiongnu words represents a new level of sophistication that dwarfs any linguistic information in works prior to the Shiji. Sima Qian reports words that belong to different classes. Titles are the most common, such as “queen” (yanzhi) or the various “kings” at the court of the

40 41 42 43 44 45

Shiji 110, 2893. Shiji 110, 2892; cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 137. On the religion of the Xiongnu, see XIE 1971. Information on the rituals and sacrifices mentioned in the foregoing passages is also summarised in DE CRESPIGNY 1984, 507–8 n. 15. On this see CHEN 1989, 62–70. On the development and use of the calendar among ancient Turco-Mongol peoples, see BAZIN 1991. The possible etymology of Xiongnu words is discussed in the following works: BENZING 1985; PULLEYBLANK 1962; DOERFER 1973; MAENCHEN-HELFEN 1973, 372–3; PRITSAK 1976; BAILEY 1985, 25–41.

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chanyu [the “emperor”].46 The most numerous are ‘cultural’ words, that is, terms specific to a given culture that do not have an exact homologue in the language of reference. Hence, we find a number of words that clearly refer to the Xiongnu material culture: “boot” (suoduo), “wagon” (fenwen), “bag” or “basket” (jiadou), “dagger” (jinglu), “tent” or “yurt” (qionglu), fermented milk or “kumiss” (luo), another type of fermented mare’s milk called tihu, “dried curd” (mili), and “fat” or “butter” (su). Again, recording these words reflects a degree of attention towards the ‘cultural phenomenon’ of the Xiongnu that renders their history all the more compelling. The alienness of the foreigners is demonstrated not by stressing their uncouthness or condemning their lack of civility (defined in Chinese terms) but by probing deeper into nomadic customs. The resulting comparison between the two civilisations does not have a foregone conclusion. One of the most intriguing passages is Sima Qian’s description of Xiongnu laws and society in general. Xiongnu society appeared, when compared to the status-conscious Chinese, as a remarkably egalitarian one, with but little difference between common people and “aristocracy.” The bulk of the information on laws comes to use in the form of a speech that Sima Qian attributed to the most famous defector to the Xiongnu, the eunuch-diplomat Zhonghang Shuo. While this person was known in Han society as an infamous turncoat and advocate for the Xiongnu, it is possible that the lengthy speech may have also been a disguise to present Sima Qian’s own feelings and ideas.47 Regardless of whose ideas are reflected here, there is again a level of technical information that, judged on its own merits, adds important knowledge to our understanding of the Xiongnu. One sentence states: According to their [i.e., the Xiongnu] laws, those who draw the sword one foot [out of the scabbard] are sentenced to death; those who steal lose their properties; those guilty of minor offences are flogged, those guilty of major ones are sentenced to death. The longest period in jail does not exceed ten days; the imprisoned men in the whole country are very few.48

The speech also states that “they have no written language, and customary laws are only verbal.” This simple, harsh but fair, and above all egalitarian and free existence compared favourably to the fastnesses of Han society and the draconian laws implemented under Han Wudi. I have suggested elsewhere that it is possible to detect a silent contrast with the Han legal system, openly criticised by Sima Qian in chapter 122.49

46

47 48 49

The word wang, usually translated as “king,” was a common one in Han society and indicated a variety of peoples, including the zhu-hou-wang, the sons of the emperor, probably better translated as “princes,” and other nobles. An insightful extended study of the speech by Zhonghang Shuo, which however does not query the text from a perspective similar to mine is to be found in SCHABERG 1999. Shiji 110, 2879; cf. WATSON 1993, 2, 137. DI COSMO 2002, 274–6.

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A deeper reflection about the positive sides of a nomadic society is found in Zhonghang Shuo’s point-by-point rebuttal of the alleged superiority of Chinese ways. Here too a moral or philosophical point, such as the defence of alien ways as those that best fit the alien society in question, are not ‘empty rhetoric’ but based on a description of such ways that at the same time imports actual knowledge into Chinese society. Some of these are well known, such as the system of levirate according to which widows were married to the former husband’s brother.50 Zhonghang’s defence of Xiongnu customs, then, is based on the demonstration that it makes sense for them to have rituals and customs so utterly different from the Han ones, and therefore cannot be regarded ipso facto as barbaric and inferior. The rejection of Han claims of superiority is based on an argument fairly common in Chinese political thought. Associated most closely with the school of thought of Mozi, the argument essentially denies that certain rituals should be inherently superior to others, and speaks for the relative validity of all rituals within the bounds of the society from which they emanate.51 While Zhonghang Shuo (or Sima Qian) was providing rhetorical ‘ammunition’ to the Xiongnu to counteract Han diplomatic claims, his exhortation to resist the corrupting influence of Chinese material goods is couched in terms that do not appear to belong to the Han debate. Instead, this is a topos that can be found in the debates within the body politic of a number of Inner Asian dynasties. It is a portion of the nomadic tribal elite, typically, that fears the mollification of the ‘martial spirit’ of their people by luxury and (in some cases) religion and strives to preserve the ancestral virtues. Examples of such political rifts can be seen in the Orkhon inscriptions of the early Turks, in the struggle between Khitan emperors and their tribal constituencies, in the court debates of the Jin (Jurchen) dynasty, in the civil war among Mongols between Qubilai Khan and his brother Arig Böke, just to mention a few. It is, in other words, more likely that Zhonghang Shuo’s speech may reflect an actual concern held by a faction of Xiongnu leaders who opposed the ‘conversion’ to a ‘lifestyle’ felt to be antithetic to their true nature. When Zhonghang says, “Now, the chanyu [the Xiongnu emperor] changes the custom and is fond of things from the Han,”52 he appears to be taking part in an inter-Xiongnu debate and to be voicing the concerns of a Xiongnu party that chastised a real or perceived cultural transformation. This forces us to consider this part of the speech as a window on Xiongnu political debates and internal conflicts within their political elite, which could hardly have been invented by Sima Qian. Let us now move to our last question, namely, the reasons why Sima Qian decided to write an account of the Xiongnu, explained in his own terms. Within the structure of the Records the explicit voice of the historian is preserved in the brief passages at the end of each chapter, introduced by the formula “His Honour the 50 51 52

The spread of levirate among Inner Asian nomads, while it was certainly practiced, remains a controversial issue; WITTFOGEL – FENG 1949, 201 and 211. See for example PINES 2005, 75–9. Pines offers an especially articulate discussion of views of “barbarians” in texts of the Warring States period. Shiji 110, 2899.

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Grand Scribe says.” In the Xiongnu chapter this is especially long, and it is worth quoting it in full: When Confucius wrote the Chunqiu he explained the events of the time between [Dukes] Yin and Huan, but when he reached the periods of [Dukes] Ding and Ai his writing was obscure. When he made the texts related to his own time and there was nothing to praise, it was [all] terms of taboo and avoidance. What ordinary people say about the Xiongnu suffers from their going after temporary influence and devoting themselves to flattering until their advice is accepted, so as to serve their biased opinions – do not consult those. Military commanders and leaders rely on China being large and big, and behave impetuously. The Ruler of all people takes advantage of it to make policy decisions. Therefore, the established merit is not profound. Although [the mythic emperor] Yao was worthy, the work that he undertook did not succeed, only when he obtained the help of Yu, were the Nine Provinces made peaceful. Moreover, if someone wishes to undertake the government of a sage, [success] lies solely in choosing and employing military and civil leaders! It lies solely in choosing and employing 53 military and civil leaders!

A second passage is found in the ‘table of contents’ in chapter 130, where we read: From the time of the Three Dynasties the Xiongnu caused worry and harm to China. Wishing to know about their times of strength and weakness, and when preparations for defence or for punitive expeditions could be made, I wrote the ‘Arrayed Traditions of the Xiongnu,’ the fif54 tieth [of the Arrayed Traditions].

In these two passages the historian expresses his opinions. The first has been interpreted as a hidden reference to the perils of speaking openly about matters of political import that referred to one’s own time. Given that Sima Qian suffered his humiliating punishment (castration) for his refusal to condemn a general who had defected to the Xiongnu, it is entirely possible that he was lamenting here the impossibility of doing the historian’s job properly and without risk of retaliation. The reference to Confucius, who insisted so much on the need for the historian to represent the truth free from political pressure, reinforces this interpretation. But it does not say much about the Xiongnu per se, except for hinting at this as a most politically sensitive issue. The short but less cryptic line of the second passage assumes again the Xiongnu to be part of a long line of fiendish foes but, interestingly, it says that Sima Qian (or perhaps the Han, the Chinese text is unclear on this point) aimed to understand the cycles of greatness and weakness of the nomads in order to protect themselves against them or, conversely, attack and subdue them. This confirms our previous interpretation that the Xiongnu are understood by Sima Qian not just as another culture, or as the moral negative image of China, but as a historical phenomenon that merited study because it had risen to represent a part of the history of China itself. Likewise, to understand the treatment of the Xiongnu simply as a critique of an emperor and a society from which the historian felt alienated 53 54

Shiji 110, 2919. Shiji 130, 3317.

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would miss the essential point of what the nomads represented in the larger scheme of Chinese and universal history. The Shiji, as we know, became the model for the subsequent dynastic histories, the first of which was the Hanshu (History of the Former Han Dynasty) by Ban Gu (32–92 CE). A comparison between the two accounts, however superficial, is illuminating as we attempt to assess the extent to which Sima Qian’s historical model affected the historiography of the nomads in subsequent histories. The Hanshu chapter repeats virtually verbatim Sima Qian’s account of the Xiongnu and provides a supplementary narrative that takes it to the end of the Western (Former) Han dynasty. Ban Gu concentrates more on political and military relations between Han and Xiongnu, ending his account in 25 CE. In the “appreciation” or “encomium” (zan), that is, a series of personal remarks appended at the end of the chapter, Ban Gu explains his position. This text reveals fully the deep conceptual and political chasm between the two historians. What matters most to Ban Gu is the politics of foreign relations, and in particular the methods that should be adopted by Han rulers and statesmen to deal with the Xiongnu. Ban Gu is far readier than Sima Qian to draw a sharp line between Xiongnu and Han and to explain the relationship between them in terms of an absolute and unbridgeable moral gap, which at the same time compounds and derives from geographical, cultural and historical differences. It is worth quoting the passage in full: When the kings of old measured the land, they placed the aristocratic domains in the centre, divided [the land] into nine provinces, arranged five districts, [fixed] the tribute of [each] land according to its products, and regulated the inside and outside. For some [lands] they adopted penal codes and governments, for others they called for the virtues of civilisation. This is because their power on the far and the near was different. Therefore the Chunqiu considers those who are inside the Xia and those who are outside the Yi and Di. The people of the Yi and Di are greedy and love gain; their hair is loose and they fold garments on the left; their faces are human but their hearts are beastly; with respect to the central States their ceremonial clothes are distinct, they have different customs, and their drinks and foods are not the same; their tongues cannot be understood. They dwell far away, in the cold, bare lands of the north, driving their herds before them in pursuit of pasture, and hunting with the bow and arrow in order to sustain themselves. They are separated [from us] by mountains and valleys, cut off by the desert. By these means did Heaven and Earth divide inner from outer. The Sage Kings treated them like birds and beasts, neither concluding treaties and oaths with them, nor going forth and attacking them. To conclude an alliance with them is to waste gifts and suffer deception. To attack them is to exhaust our armies and provoke raids. Their land cannot be cultivated so as to produce food; their people cannot be made subjects and tamed. For these reasons they are kept outside and not taken in, they are kept distant and not accepted as kin. Official exhortations do not reach their people; the official calendar is not observed in their land. When they come to court, we must admonish them and oversee their behaviour. When they draw away from us, we must be prepared and on our guard against them. If they are moved to admire righteousness and wish to present tribute to us, then we shall receive them with the appropriate rites. We must keep them under loose rein and not cut them off, allowing any

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wrongdoing to come from them. This is the constant way of the Sage Kings for regulating the 55 Man and the Yi.

Ban Gu makes the point that the Xiongnu are just like all other barbarians; they cannot be educated or civilised as they represent an utterly different human universe with which any compromise is futile, and contact is best avoided. Only when the barbarians draw close to China and come to submit are the Chinese to engage them with the proper rites and in a manner befitting their superior culture. Ban Gu’s position cannot be fully appreciated without reference to historical events that happened towards the end of the dynasty, around 60 BCE, about a quarter century after Sima Qian’s own life. At this time an internal war caused the Xiongnu to split into two separate and hostile forces. The southern Xiongnu, under Huhanye chanyu, chose to submit to the Han emperor, and were subsidised by the Han government through the “tribute” system. The northern Xiongnu, under Zhizhi chanyu, chose to stay independent and were eventually defeated by Chinese military forces. Zhizhi and Huhanye came to represent, in later times, two different types of Xiongnu, or steppe-nomads, who embodied two different types of engagements with China, one peaceful, the other violent (see also below). Ban Gu proposed that China reward the submissive and punish the rebellious, while at the same time remaining diffident of their intentions and ready to defend itself at any time as even the tame ones could easily revolt. Ban Gu’s interest is not ethnographic but political, his approach appears to be dominated by the desire not to understand the Xiongnu but to seek a way in which they could be neutralised as a threat. Sima Qian was not interested in whether the barbarians could be ‘changed.’ They probably were not changeable, but that mattered less to him than what made them into what they were. By documenting their way of life as well as their political and social organization, and of course their interaction with China, Sima Qian hoped to find the ‘patterns’ or laws of their behaviour. He probably appeared to his fellow Han scholars and statesmen a philobarbaros of sorts, who did not show much closeness to the philosophical tradition that stressed differences between barbarians and Chinese, while he appeared to defend the right of foreigners to keep to their own social customs. Even when sentiments of dislike for the Xiongnu emerge in Sima Qian’s account, as in the remark that in battle the Xiongnu act in egoistic pursuit of individual gain, these comments are left floating on an otherwise culture-neutral surface, they are not developed into a political doctrine that exploited a sense of unbridgeable cultural difference as a rationale for military action. For Ban Gu, instead, all that mattered was the unabashed affirmation of Chinese cultural superiority, which had to be put into practice by a show of military superiority that forced the barbarian to concede defeat and surrender or be destroyed. Ban Gu praised Han Wudi for having adopted military means to deal with the Xiongnu from a position of strength and thus make them bow to China’s 55

Hanshu 94B, 3834.

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might. Where Sima Qian was driven by an intellectual search to penetrate Xiongnu history and beliefs, avowedly in order to know what made the Xiongnu strong or weak, Ban Gu is only interested in how to deal with them politically and strategically. Hence, Ban Gu derails Sima Qian’s intention to provide an account of a foreign culture based on their own “traditions” and re-states both a belief in Chinese superiority and a disinterest (and distaste) for the culture of other peoples. He has nothing new to learn about the Xiongnu because the past records provide all that one needs to know about them. In line with this ideological approach, Ban Gu strives to demonstrate, however, that the lessons of the past are applicable to the present. He finds in the notions of the “good barbarian” (to be educated and transformed) and of the “bad barbarian” (to be subjugated by force) a fitting representation of the two Xiongnu leaders who had dominated the political scene in the latter part of the Western Han dynasty. Huhanye is the barbarian who can be “tamed,” Zhizhi is the barbarian who stays defiant and has to be “smitten.” The application of archaic models to historical figures who lived only a couple of generations before Ban Gu’s writing provided a further rationalisation of the link between past and present and resolved the ominous notion of a Xiongnu cyclical rise to power presented by Sima Qian. If, like yin and yang, an alternation in pre-eminence between Han and Xiongnu was the way that capital-‘H’ History worked, this required that the Han emperor come to terms, at times, with a greater power, and accept equal or inferior status. Ban Gu thought that it was sufficient to be able to recognise the good and the bad barbarians in order to maintain a steady state of Chinese superiority, by rewarding the compliant and punishing the recalcitrant. He did not realise what Sima Qian had seen far more clearly, namely, that there were cycles in nomadic politics during which steppe nomads managed to form a tremendous unified challenge to China. What Ban Gu did not (and probably could not) change was that the ‘barbarians’ had, with Sima Qian, acquired a rightful place in Chinese historiography; nor could he truly alter the manner in which the history of foreign people was written, hence he also included ethnographic, political, and anecdotal information. As we mentioned above, among the main elements of Sima Qian’s ‘ethnographic’ method are the creation of ‘ethnogenealogies’ of specific foreign peoples, the description of their land and customs, and the attention to their political and military institutions. These elements were preserved and formed a model that later historians adopted, in both official and unofficial historiography. Chinese historiography became, then, also the repository of Xiongnu history and culture, a well of information from where later nomads could draw historical precedents in which they could identify themselves, and that therefore nomadic empire builders could appropriate for internal and especially external political consumption. Such a hypothesis awaits demonstration and requires more extensive research into the history of later Turco-Mongol “steppe” empires than this essay allows, but a few examples can be cited to show the direction in which it points us. A “Xiongnu” topos can be seen at almost every turn when northern peoples came to occupy a position of power against China, founded their own dynasties, invaded China or entertained diplomatic relations with Chinese empe-

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rors.56 For instance, the Tang dynasty’s northern foes, Turks and Uighurs, were often compared with Xiongnu leaders, and the discussions of foreign policy based on historical precedents. A Tang statesman explicitly referred to the late Western Han Xiongnu leaders Zhizhi and Huhanye and to their fate, adding: “The Four Yi [barbarians] and hundred Man [barbarians] should use this as a mirror [to correct their behaviour].”57 It is intriguing to find that historical precedents were not simply to be a “mirror” for Chinese intellectuals and statesmen to determine what to do in the present. They could also be used to educate the barbarians and make them realise the right course of action. Chinese historiography was to be used not just by the Chinese, but also by those foreigners who might be improved by exposure to the knowledge it preserved. Inner Asian leaders, however, showed ingenuity and creativity in manipulating China’s historical record. For instance, the Kirghiz leaders of the Later Tang dynasty (an Inner Asian nomadic state based in northern Mongolia, 923-936 CE) claimed descent from the Han general Li Ling (d. 74 BCE), the Chinese general that Sima Qian had defended from the accusation of cowardliness and treachery who had spent the last 20 years of his life among the Xiongnu. Given that the surname of the Tang imperial house was Li, this meant that the Kirghiz kaghan was a blood relative of the Chinese emperor.58 The implications on the diplomatic side were clear: they were both of the same stock and any attempt by the Tang court to assert themselves as superior to the Kirghiz had to take that into account. In this reasoning one can detect the influence of Sima Qian’s architecture of Xiongnu history, which established a genealogical link between the House of Xia and the mythical progenitor of the Xiongnu. After the Han all major dynasties of northern non-Han origin were entitled to their own dynastic history like legitimate ‘Chinese’ dynasties even though culturally alien. The last dynasty, the Qing, was founded by the Manchus, a people whose political claims as legitimate rulers of China and construction of a system of government able to rule China were inspired largely by the precedents established by earlier ‘barbarian’ dynasties and transmitted through China’s official historiography. The translation into Manchu of the dynastic histories of the Liao, Jin and Yuan dynasties, respectively founded by the Khitan, Jurchen and Mongol peoples, was an unmistakable act of deference to a historiography that could be claimed on both sides of the ‘great wall’ and functioned as a repository of ‘national’ histories beyond the confines of China.59

* 56 57 58 59

*

*

On topoi related to nomads and to the Xiongnu in particular see DROMPP 1987; HONEY 1990. DROMPP 2005, 285. Xin Tang Thu 217b, 6147. On this issue see ELLIOTT 2005, 48-59..

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Why did Sima Qian strive to provide an accurate description of the Xiongnu, enriched by knowledge that could have only come from close observation of their habits and society? The answer to this question, possibly, lies in the quality of Sima Qian’s ‘alterity.’ He attempted to ‘explain’ and rationalise the Xiongnu as a phenomenon fully consistent with Chinese ‘universal’ history by linking them with archaic ‘barbarians.’ At the same time, he brought into his narrative, implicitly, traditions that emanated from the Xiongnu themselves. His account goes beyond the history of the relations between Han and Xiongnu and of the way in which the Chinese were attempting to rationalise a political and military threat. Sima Qian’s inclusion of foreign peoples in the grand scheme of the Shiji transformed the ways in which Chinese historians construed their relationship with alien peoples and with the steppe nomads in particular. On the one hand, we can say that the monograph of the Xiongnu simply introduced into Chinese historiography a manner of ethnographic enquiry justified by the prominence achieved by the Xiongnu during the Han dynasty. On another level, it validated their historical prominence by inscribing the phenomenon of the northern barbarians in a cyclical notion of history in which northern (nomads) and southern (Chinese) peoples were destined to achieve alternate moments of greatness. The purpose of Sima Qian’s study was to make sense of this “cosmic” and universal truth as one of the great themes of Chinese history, not to civilise or otherwise change the barbarians but to understand the universal laws that determined their participation in the events of history. For Ban Gu the history of the Xiongnu was meant to confirm ancient views about ‘barbarians,’ transmitted by the oldest authorities. Through a process of synthesis and amalgamation of pre-Han theories about both the “changeability” of the barbarians by exposure to adequate education, and the ontological incompatibility between barbarians and Chinese, he created the dual paradigm of the bad and good Xiongnu, the die-hard enemy and the one that could be tamed (or at least corrupted). Still, Ban Gu does not seem to entertain any illusion that barbarians could be permanently changed. Their nature was such that they could always revert to their old unpalatable ways and therefore China had to be constantly on guard against them. In Ban Gu there is no desire nor need to penetrate further into the culture of these people or to understand their social and political systems. The two modes of historical representation of foreigners, one that we may call ‘ethnographic’ the other ‘culturalist’ – I am ambivalent about these terms but they occur in the sinological literature – form the two dominant modes in which accounts of foreign peoples appear in Chinese historiography. Later accounts both in structure and content are inspired by these earlier models, partly because they constitute the historiographic orthodoxy, partly because they allowed sufficient latitude to include a variety of points of view without veering away too much from the original model. These narrative accounts, however, also contained materials into which foreigners could tap to produce their own ‘national’ or dynastic history, or to manipulate the historical record to their own advantage. While preserving also their

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own ethnic identity, empire builders such as Turks, Khitans, Jurchens, Mongols and Manchus recognised a historical kinship with other non-Chinese Inner Asian empires, and used the fictive genealogies and cultural models found in Chinese histories to bolster their claims to imperial dignity. Chinese historio-graphy became a powerful means to transmit an imperial tradition, going back to the Xiongnu, that competed militarily, politically, and culturally with China until 1911.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY BAILEY, H. 1985: Indo-Scythian Studies. Khotanese Texts VII, Cambridge. BAZIN, L. 1991: Les Systemes Chronologiques dans le Monde Turc Ancien, Budapest. BENZING, J. 1959: Das Hunnische, Donaubolgarische und Wolgabulgarische,’ Philologiae Turcicae Fundamenta 1. Wiesbaden, 685–95. CHANG, C.-S. 2007: The Rise of the Chinese Empire. Vol. 1: Nation, State, and Imperialism in Early China, ca. 1600 B.C. – A.D. 8, Ann Arbor, MI. CHAVANNES, E. 1895–1905: Les mémoires historiques de Se-ma Ts’ien, 5 vols, Paris. CHEN, C.-L. 1989: Chinese symbolism among the Huns, in K. Sagaster (ed.) Religious and Lay Symbolism in The Altaic World and Other Papers, Wiesbaden. 62-70. DE CRESPIGNY, R. 1984: Northern Frontier: The Policies and Strategies of the Later Han Empire, Canberra. DE RACHEWILTZ, I. 2004: The Secret History of the Mongols, 2 vols. Leiden. DENNIS, G. T. 1984: (trans.) Maurice’s Strategikon: Handbook of Byzantine Military Strategy, Philadelphia, PA. DI COSMO, N. 2000: Ancient city-states of the Tarim basin, in M. H. Hansen (ed.) A Comparative Study of Thirty City-State Cultures, Copenhagen, 393–407. 2002: Ancient China and Its Enemies, Cambridge. DOERFER, G. 1973: Zur Sprache der Hunnen, Central Asiatic Journal 17.1, 1–50. DROMPP, M. R. 1987: The Xiongnu topos in the T’ang response to the collapse of the Uighur steppe empire, Central and Inner Asian Studies 1, 1–46. 2005: Tang China and the Collapse of the Uighur Empire: A Documentary History, Leiden. DURRANT, S. 1995: The Cloudy Mirror: Tension and Conflicts in the Writings of Sima Qian, Albany, NY. EGAMI. N. 1951: The K’uai-t’i 駃騠, the T’ao-yü 騊駼, and the Tan-hsi 驒騱, the strange domestic animals of the Hsiung-nu 匈奴, Memoirs of the Research Department of the Toyo Bunko 13, 87–123. ELLIOTT, M. C. 2005: Whose empire shall it be? Manchu figurations of historical process in the early seventeenth century, in L. A. Struve (ed.) Time, Temporality, and Imperial Transition: East Asia From Ming to Qing, Honolulu. 32-72. EVANS, J. A. S. 1968: Father of history or father of lies: The reputation of Herodotus, CJ 64.1, 11–17. FLETCHER, J. JR. 1986: The Mongols: Ecological and social perspectives, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 46, 11–50. GILLETT, A. 2002: (ed.) On Barbarian Identity: Critical Approaches to Ethnicity in the Early Middle Ages, Brepols.

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HONEY, D. B. 1990: History and historiography on the sixteen states: Some T’ang topoi on the nomads, Journal of Asian History 24, 161–217. 1999: The Han-shu, manuscript evidence, and the textual criticism of the Shih-shi: The case of the Xiongnu lieh-chuan, Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 21, 67–97. HULSEWÉ, A. F. P. 1961: Notes on the historiography of the Han Period, in W. G. Beasley and E. G. Pulleyblank (eds.) Historians of China and Japan, New York, 31–43. HULSEWÉ, A. F. P. – LOEWE, M. A. N. 1979: China in Central Asia: The Early Stage, 125 B.C. – A.D. 23. An Annotated Translation of Chapters 61 and 96 of the History of the Former Han Dynasty, Leiden. KERN, M. 2005: Poetry and religion: The representation of ‘truth’ in early Chinese historiography, in H. Schmidt-Glintzer, A. Mittag and J. Rüsen (eds.) Historical Truth, Historical Criticism, and Ideology, Leiden. LOEWE, M. 1993: (ed.) Early Chinese Text: A Bibliographical Guide, Berkeley. MAENCHEN-HELFEN, O. 1961: Archaistic names of the Xiongnu, Central Asiatic Journal 6, 249–61. 1973: The World of the Huns, Berkeley. MUNSON, R. V. 2005: Black Doves Speak: Herodotus and the Languages of the Barbarians, Washington, DC. NEEDHAM, J. et al. 1994: (eds.) Science and Civilization in China; Vol. 5: Chemistry and Chemical Technology, Part 6: Military Technology. Missiles and Sieges, Cambridge. NG, O.-C. –WANG, Q. E. 2005: Mirroring the Past: The Writing and Use of History in Imperial China, Honolulu. NIENHAUSER, W. H., JR. 1995–forthcoming: (ed.) The Grand Scribe’s Records, 9 vols., Bloomington, IN. PINES, Y. 2005: Beasts of humans: Pre-imperial origins of the ‘Sino-Barbarian’ dichotomy,’ in R. Amitai and M. Biran (eds.) Mongols, Turks and Others: Eurasian Nomads and the Sedentary World, Leiden, 59–102. POCOCK, J. G. A. 2005: Barbarism and Religion, vol. 4., Cambridge. POHL, W. 2002: Ethnicity, theory, and tradition: a response, in Gillet 2002, 221–39. PRITSAK, O. 1976: The Xiongnu word for ‘stone,’ Tractata Altaica, 479–85. PRŮŠEK, J. 1963: History and epics in China and in the West, Diogenes 42, 20–43. 1971: Chinese Statelets and the Northern Barbarians in the Period 1400–300 B.C., Dordrecht. PULLEYBLANK, E. G. 1962: The Xiongnu language, Asia Major, n. s. 9, 239–65. 1983: The Chinese and their neighbors in prehistoric and early historic times, in D. N. Keightley (ed.) The Origins of Chinese Civilization, Berkeley, 411–66. SAWYER, R. D. 1993: The Seven Military Classics of Ancient China, Boulder, CO. SCHABERG, D. 1999: Travel, geography, and the imperial imagination in fifth-century Athens and Han China, Comparative Literature 51.2, 152–91.

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17. BEYOND INTENTIONAL HISTORY: A PHENOMENOLOGICAL MODEL OF THE IDEA OF HISTORY Jonas Grethlein Among the merits of the concept of intentional history two stand out: first, it draws our attention to a society’s assumptions about its past. The positivist question of what actually took place is replaced by the investigation of the beliefs that members of a society hold about their past. Second, intentional history directs the focus on the socio-political function of memory. Wenskus elaborates on the important role that constructions of the past played in the emergence of Germanic tribes during the age of migration, and Gehrke demonstrates the fertility of this method for the ancient Greeks, who in various media and genres reshaped time and again their myths in accordance with present needs.1 The functionalist approach aligns the model of intentional history with a number of other concepts such as kulturelles Gedächtnis, lieux de mémoire, invented traditions, imagined communities and, at a more theoretical level, Rüsen’s Historik.2 All of them emphasise that various representations of the past, ranging from monuments to narrative accounts, serve crucial functions for groups, namely to create identities and to give guidance. In this chapter, I try to go beyond functionalism and suggest an approach that takes its cue from the tradition of phenomenology and hermeneutics. A look at the non-intentional side of memory can enhance the examination of intentional history. We remember the past not only in order to derive identity and to gain guidance from it, but because we are temporal beings. Before we use the past, we experience time and have to cope with our temporality. From a Heideggerian perspective, the “vulgar time” of history is embedded in the level of historicity which itself rests on the ground of temporality.3 I believe that starting with temporality not only uncovers the deeper level of memory which has been buried by functionalist approaches, but also allows us to understand better the manifold ways in which the past can be used. The turn to temporality may look rather abstract to most historians, but it will yield a typology with which we can classify acts of memory (1). An application of this typology to a passage from the Iliad will illustrate its heuristic value (2). My conclusion will comprise a suggestive juxtaposition of the heroes’ mode of memory with modern notions of history (3). 1 2

3

WENSKUS 1961; GEHRKE 1994 and 2001. On “kulturelles Gedächtnis,” see ASSMANN 1992; on “lieux de mémoire,” see NORA 1984– 1992; on “invented traditions,” see HOBSBAWM – RANGER 1983; on “imagined communities,” see ANDERSON 1991; for Rüsen’s “Historik,” see RÜSEN 1983, 1986 and 1989. HEIDEGGER 198615, 376.

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17.1. THE IDEA OF HISTORY I start with the thesis that the temporality of human life is basically defined by contingency, which tradition defines as quod nec est impossibile nec necessarium. Logically and ontologically, contingency denotes what is possible, but not necessary.4 Contingency is most often understood as being identical with chance. However, in his investigation of the relation between history and practical philosophy, Bubner harks back to Aristotle’s reflections which embed chance in a theory of action.5 Contingency, Bubner shows, is the frame for both chance and action. Human life unfolds in a realm that is defined by action as well as by chance. Both determine each other: where there is action, there is also chance. Inversely, only chance makes action possible. We thus have two sides of contingency. I suggest they be called ‘contingency of action’ and ‘contingency of chance.’6 Contingency as the frame of human life allows us to act, but also threatens our plans through chance, under which I subsume all ruptures beyond our power, be they man-made or not. It therefore results in the tension between expectation and experience in our consciousness. On the basis of previous experiences, expectations about the future are formed and guide our actions. If the outcome of our actions corresponds with our plans, our expectations are fulfilled. They are disappointed, however, if something beyond our power upsets our plans. In both cases, the new experience, as built on the old expectation, is the basis on which further expectations are formed.7 Thus, contingency inscribes itself into the human consciousness in the form of the dynamic interplay of expectations and experiences. Koselleck points out their social character: Erfahrung ist gegenwärtige Vergangenheit, deren Ereignisse einverleibt worden sind und erinnert werden können. Sowohl rationale Verarbeitung wie unbewußte Verhaltensweisen, die

4

5 6

7

The term contingency stems from the translation of endechomenon from Aristotle’s logic by Boethius, who seems to follow Marius Victorinus. Thus, contingency is a specifically Christian term, cf. BLUMENBERG 1959. For more on the relevance of contingency in very different discourses, see POSER 1990 and DEUSER 1990. For more on recent debates, see Neue Hefte für Philosophie 24/25, 1985: Kontingenz; MAKROPOULOS 1997, 7–32; V. GRAEVENITZ – MARQUARD 1998a. TROELTSCH 1913 is still a most valuable study. BUBNER 1984. MARQUARD 1986 (cf. V. GRAEVENITZ – MARQUARD 1998b, xiv) makes a similar distinction in juxtaposing “Beliebigkeitskontingenz/ Beliebigkeitszufälligkeit” with “Schicksalskontingenz/ Schicksalszufälligkeit.” On the one hand, Marquard argues, we can do and choose things; on the other, we are affected by events that are beyond our control. However, “Schicksalskontingenz” is not a very fortunate coinage, as it brings the ambiguous notion of Schicksal into play. A similar approach to contingency from a sociological perspective can be found in Makropoulos’ analysis of the modern age as an epoch with a very strong awareness of contingency. Makropoulos points out the same two aspects (1998, 60 and 1997, 14–16) and emphasises that contingency is not a “factum brutum,” but is constructed differently in different cultures (1997, 16–18). LIEBSCH 1996, 32–41 adds the observation that experiences make us reshape our expectations in our memory.

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nicht oder nicht mehr im Wissen präsent sein müssen, schließen sich in der Erfahrung zusammen. Ferner ist in der je eigenen Erfahrung, durch Generationen oder Institutionen vermittelt, immer fremde Erfahrung enthalten und aufgehoben. In diesem Sinne wurde ja auch die Historie seit alters her als Kunde von fremder Erfahrung begriffen. Ähnliches läßt sich von der Erwartung sagen: auch sie ist personengebunden und interpersonal zugleich, auch Erwartung vollzieht sich im Heute, ist vergegenwärtigte Zukunft, sie zielt auf das NochNicht, auf das nicht Erfahrene, auf das nur Erschließbare. Hoffnung und Furcht, Wunsch und Wille, die Sorge, aber auch rationale Analyse, rezeptive Schau oder Neugierde gehen in die Erwartung ein, indem sie diese konstituieren...8

Furthermore, Koselleck argues that the tension between expectations and experiences constitutes historical time. The “space of experiences” (Erfahrungsraum) and the “horizon of expectations” (Erwartungshorizont) can therefore be seen as anthropological categories: drawing on a Kantian frame, Koselleck speaks of a “transcendental determination of history” (transzendentale Bestimmung der Geschichte).9 Despite the categorical difference between a “Fundamentalontologie” and these historical-anthropological reflections, Koselleck’s analysis is indebted to Heidegger’s concept of Dasein in Sein und Zeit.10 According to Heidegger, history is embedded in historicity and temporality. Koselleck, too, sees historical time as being founded in temporality: “Sie [the categories of experience and expectation] verweisen auf die Zeitlichkeit des Menschen und damit, wenn man so will metahistorisch, auf die Zeitlichkeit der Geschichte.”11 The definition of historical time and humanity’s orientation to the future can be traced back to Heidegger’s thesis that historicity springs from the future, since the temporality of Dasein manifests itself in Sorge and Sein zum Tode.12 Thus, Koselleck’s model can be 8

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KOSELLECK 1979, 354f. The tension between expectation and experience is already reflected upon by Augustine in Conf. 11. For more on the similarities to Koselleck, see RICOEUR 2004, 459. Moreover, Husserl’s analysis of the temporal structure of the intentional life focuses on the tension between expectation and experience. Yet, due to the phenomenological approach, particular givens are left aside. LIEBSCH 1996, however, makes an interesting attempt to show that the “innere Zeitbewußtsein” derives from historical experiences (57, cf. 44). KOSELLECK 1979, 349–75, quote on 352f.; see also RICOEUR 2004, 472. The relation between Koselleck’s approach and Sein und Zeit has already been pointed out by CARR 1987, 198: “In thus moving from individual to social temporality Koselleck actually goes beyond Heidegger, since the latter remained concerned with the individual; even his concept of historicity dealt primarily with the role of the social part in the life of the individual.” However, it is important to note that Heidegger does not focus on the individual, but on Dasein. Sein und Zeit does not develop an anthropology, but a “Fundamental-ontologie.” Moreover, contrary to what Carr says, Koselleck explicitly mentions Heidegger. Cf. KOSELLECK 1979, 355 n. 4, where Koselleck himself notes the categorical difference from Heidegger’s approach. In another paper (2000), Koselleck elaborates on the question of what relevance Heidegger’s “Fundamentalontologie” can have for a Historik. KOSELLECK 1979, 354. HEIDEGGER 198615, 386. However, it should be pointed out that the term expectation, which Koselleck uses for man’s relation to the future, carries a specific meaning in Heidegger. He deems it “uneigentlich” and contrasts it with “vorlaufen” (198615, 337). For more on the relevance of expectation, see also PICHT 1993, 317.

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seen as an attempt to transfer the analysis of temporality from the level of “Fundamentalontologie” to historical anthropology. While Koselleck’s model can be fruitfully compared with Heidegger’s concept of time in Sein und Zeit, it is based on historical research, namely the examination of the new temporality that emerged in the modern age. Koselleck points out that the acceleration of changes starting in the second half of the eighteenth century CE led to a new relation between experiences and expectations: in earlier times, the horizon of expectations was created by the space of experience; one expected things similar to one’s own experiences. Around 1800, however, the horizon of expectations and the space of experiences disintegrated.13 Due to radical changes, experiences transcended the horizon of expectations. Consequently, the future could not be extrapolated from the past anymore, but instead turned into an open space.14 Since the notion of development made qualitative differences between times more visible, history lost its role as magistra vitae.15 Instead, history was now perceived as a process with its own dynamic. This view found expression in the new terms “new time” (Neuzeit) and “history” (Geschichte) as singular nouns, signifying both a process and its narrative account.16 Due to this background, Koselleck focuses on experiences that transcend expectations. However, experiences can also disappoint expectations. This is at the core of Gadamer’s definition of experience. In looking to Aristotle, Gadamer emphasises the negative character of experiences.17 Real experiences refute previous expectations. Though negative, experiences prove productive insofar as they lead to a new view of something. Following Hegel’s view, Gadamer sees the productivity of experience as a dialectic process, a “reversal of consciousness” (Umkehrung des Bewußtseins).18 He points out the historical character of this process. It takes place in time, and, what is more, humans become aware of their historicity by experiencing their finiteness: Eigentliche Erfahrung ist diejenige, in der sich der Mensch seiner Endlichkeit bewußt wird [...] Der in der Geschichte Stehende und Handelnde macht vielmehr ständig die Erfahrung, daß nichts wiederkehrt. Anerkennen dessen, was ist, meint hier nicht: Erkennen dessen, was einmal da ist, sondern Einsicht in die Grenzen, innerhalb deren Zukunft für Erwartung und Planung noch offen ist – oder noch grundsätzlicher, daß alle Erwartung und Planung endli-

13 14 15

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KOSELLECK 1979, 356f. KOSELLECK 1979, 17–37. KOSELLECK 1979, 38–66; see also LÜBBE 1977, 269–74. Groundbreaking as Koselleck’s analysis is, it can be criticised at different levels. For instance, SCHINKEL 2005 shows that Koselleck’s distinction between the categories of expectation and experience and particular expectations and experiences is not always sharp. And of course, exemplary conclusions from the past have lost some of their plausibility, but the topos of historia magistra vitae was and is still in use, even in academic historiography. See KOSELLECK 1979 and 1975, 647–91. GADAMER 1986, 346–84. GADAMER 1986, 360.

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cher Wesen eine endliche und begrenzte ist. Eigentliche Erfahrung ist somit Erfahrung der eigenen Geschichtlichkeit.19

Gadamer focuses on the tension between experiences and expectations and aligns them in a different way than Koselleck. If we leave aside the discrepancy between philosophical reflection and historical analysis, we can note that, whereas in Gadamer’s theory expectations are bound to be disappointed, Koselleck deals with experiences that surpass expectations in a positive way. The structural negativity of experience, which becomes an experience of the freedom to shape the world in the historian’s analysis, is defined as experience of finiteness in the philosopher’s model. Both modes of experience are relevant and can be traced back to the two aspects of contingency that I have pointed out. Gadamer’s concept is based on the contingency of chance: contingency makes its force felt in the disappointment of expectations. On the other hand, in the new alignment of experiences and expectations in the modern age, which is examined by Koselleck, the contingency of action comes to the fore: the future opens as a space full of new possibilities. Chance upsets human expectations and thereby undermines further plans and challenges identities. On what basis can the future be assessed if previous expectations have been thwarted by experiences? How can identities be stable if the past reveals that we are merely toys in the hands of chance? Therefore, strong attempts must be made to bridge the gap between past expectations and experiences in order to be able to project new expectations onto the future. Three commemorative strategies serve this goal: to start with, past and present can be linked by traditions.20 Traditions establish the continuity that rules out the perilous force of chance and makes the space of experiences and the horizon of expectations match. Furthermore, the wings of chance can be clipped by regularity. Here, it is not the assumption of a continuum, but of recurrent patterns or even underlying laws that create the stability necessary for identities and actions. The third strategy relies on the construction of developments. Developments are more dynamic than continuities and regularities and allow for change, but nonetheless the very direction of a development dissolves the unpredictability of chance. If we add the acceptance of chance as a fourth option, we have four different modes of coping with contingency: the temporal unfolding of human life can be seen under the auspices of chance, continuity, regularity or development. Need19 20

GADAMER 1986, 363. The following typology is indebted to Rüsen’s fourfold agenda of modes of historical narrative (1982). By and large, the notions of continuity, regularity and development correspond with his traditional, exemplary and genetic modes. However, I cannot see how the critical mode establishes a mode of historical narrative. It merely serves as a transition between the other modes. On the other hand, my fourth way of dealing with temporality, the acceptance of contingency, has no place in Rüsen’s scheme. This is due to a fundamental difference: while Rüsen pursues a functionalist view and argues that memory must overcome chance in order to make action possible, in my phenomenological approach the experience of time precedes the use of history. Thus, memory can note chance without necessarily overcoming it.

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less to say, these four modes rarely occur in pure form, but are often entangled with one another. Beyond the division into chance and attempts to overcome chance, some unions are more common than others. The notions of continuity and regularity often reinforce each other; the idea of development, on the other hand, does not really square with either of them. The particular arrangement of the four commemorative modes characterises the ‘idea of history’ that underlies an act of memory.21 I have claimed that examining the temporal foundation of memory is not a philosophical finger exercise, but provides us with categories that shed new light on the function of acts of memory. The four modes of coping with contingency are congenial to different uses of the past. Traditions, which rest on continuity, are often constructed to create identities. Whether ‘invented’ or not, the continuity with the past defines and legitimises the present. The notion of regularity, on the other hand, is applied in exempla, which juxtapose the present with a past precedent and use the parallels to give guidance in the here and now. Developments challenge continuities, but their dynamism lends itself to define identities as the product of historical processes. At the same time, developments call into question an exemplary view of the past. The changes that come with the development impede a direct juxtaposition of different times and make it difficult to derive conclusions from the past for the present. While the notions of continuity, regularity and development enable us to use the past in different ways, chance destabilises and alerts us to the fact that representations of the past are not necessarily serving a function. Contingency

Contingency of chance

Contingency of action

Horizon of expectations – space of experience Emphasis on chance

Tradition

Exemplum

Development

21

I choose ‘idea of history’ despite its prominent use by COLLINGWOOD 1956 since it is suited best to cover a wide range of attitudes to the past. ‘Historical awareness’ implies an evolutionist tack, as there are different degrees of awareness. ‘Historical thinking’ presupposes a theoretical reflection that does not apply to all forms of memories. ‘Idea’ is a rather broad denominator that implies neither an evolution nor a theoretical reflection. Cf. the reflections on various German terms by GOETZ 1999, 18–25.

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17.2. THE HEROIC IDEA OF HISTORY (Il. 6.119–236) Historians harbour strong reservations about the philosophy of history, and with good reason. Many philosophical speculations are rather aloof and have little bearing on a historian’s actual work. Yet, I hope that the matrix for classifying uses of the past justifies the brief engagement with philosophical discussions of time. In the remainder of this chapter, I will sketch an application of my typology as proof of its heuristic value. I have chosen a passage from the Iliad: the encounter of Diomedes and Glaukos in Iliad 6.22 This episode is well suited for my interest because it contains different uses of the past. Moreover, it reveals en miniature essential features of the Greek idea of history and allows us to juxtapose them – most perfunctorily – with modern concepts of history (3). In Iliad 6.119–236, the Greek hero Diomedes encounters a hero in golden armour whom he claims never to have seen before. He addresses him and asks him whether he is a mortal or a god. In his speech, Diomedes justifies this question by telling the story of Lykourgos (6.123–43). Lykourgos chased the god Dionysos who fled into the sea to the saving bosom of the goddess Thetis. Diomedes adds that Lykourgos thereby aroused the enmity of the gods and did not fare well afterwards. Thus, Diomedes concludes, he would not fight a god. Obviously, the story of Lykourgos serves as an exemplum. The past event and the present situation are juxtaposed with each other, with the past providing orientation for the present. The assumption of regularity brings together the space of experiences and the horizon of expectations: it lets Diomedes form his expectation, that it is better not to fight a god, against the background of past experiences, the fate of Lykourgos. In his reply, Glaukos gives his genealogy (6.145–211). Genealogies establish traditions.23 Like exempla, traditions close the gap between the space of experiences and the horizon of expectations, albeit not through regularity, but through continuity. The juxtaposition of the Lykourgos-paradigm and Glaukos’ genealogy illustrates a further difference between exempla and traditions: while exempla offer guidance for actions in particular situations, traditions establish identities. Diomedes mentions Lykourgos to explain why he would not fight a god. And genealogies are unfolded to underscore a claim to have a certain status. Glaukos’ genealogy, however, is very complex. It significantly deviates from other epic genealogies. I would like to argue that Glaukos’ account of his family’s past is a subversion of genealogies. This brings us to a third mode for remembering the past, besides exempla and traditions. While even in short genealogies divine origin figures prominently, in Glaukos’ long genealogy, it is only implied in the patronymic of his grandfather, Aiolides, “son of Aiolos.” Most heroes stress 22 23

For a full discussion of the Diomedes-Glaukos scene, see GRETHLEIN 2006b, 42–115. For more on genealogies in the Iliad, see Lang 1994; on genealogies in general, see LEGENDRE 1985 and HECK – JAHN 2000. LOWENTHAL 1985, 61 points out that genealogies establish continuities. ZERUBAVEL 2003, 62 emphasises their legitimising function.

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divine benevolence; Glaukos, on the other hand, reports that Bellerophon, who used to be dear to the gods, became their enemy. The rupture is sudden, and no reason is given, 6.200–2: But after Bellerophon was hated by all the immortals, he wandered alone about the plain of Aleios, eating his heart out, skulking aside from the trodden track of humanity.24

Glaukos adds the deaths of Bellerophon’s children. It is already unusual that death is mentioned in a genealogy at all, but Glaukos pushes it even further by citing the wrath of Apollo and Artemis as the cause of their deaths. The fickleness of human life comes to the fore when Isandros dies in a fight against the Solymns whom his father had previously defeated. A number of scholars claim that there is a tension between the genealogy and the simile of the leaves with which Glaukos begins his speech.25 From the angle I am taking here, the opposite becomes evident: the simile is the metaphorical expression of the special features of the genealogy.26 Glaukos says in 6.145–9: High-hearted son of Tydeus, why ask of my family? As is the race of leaves, so is that of humanity. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the live timber burgeons with leaves again in the season of spring returning. So one part of man’s race will grow, while another dies.

The growing and dying of leaves is a natural process; it symbolises the general transitory nature of human life. But the wind that carries away the leaves sets a different tone. Winds are unpredictable; it cannot be foreseen when they come, where they go and when they fade away. In the simile of the leaves, the winds signify the unpredictability of the future. They correspond to the capriciousness of life, which has manifested itself so devastatingly in Bellerophon’s career. Both the simile of the leaves and Glaukos’ genealogy underline that human life depends on forces which man cannot control. They focus on the dangerous force of chance that runs against the plans of men. As the genealogy shows, chance undermines the continuity on which traditions rest. Chance also questions the idea of regularity that underlies the application of exempla. Where chance rules, identities and actions start to crumble. The further development of this scene makes it clear that, conversely, tradition and exempla are an attempt to ban and vanquish the force of chance. When Glaukos has finished his speech, Diomedes rejoices and tells his opponent that they are joined together by hospitality (6.215–31). His grandfather Oineus was the host of Bellerophon. He still keeps at home the golden cup which Bellerophon gave to Oineus as a gift in exchange for a shiny crimson belt.27 Diomedes and 24 25 26 27

The translations are taken from LATTIMORE 1951. See, for example, LYNN-GEORGE 1988, 101f.; GOLDHILL 1991, 77f.; SUSANETTI 1999, 101f. See GRETHLEIN 2006a, where I also argue for a new understanding of the grammar in the simile. On material objects as bearers of memory in Homer, see GRETHLEIN 2008.

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Glaukos decide not to fight each other, but to exchange gifts themselves (6.232– 36). Here, the traditional as well as the exemplary view of the past are at work. The hospitality is a tradition. Its continuity is embodied in the gifts which have been passed down from generation to generation.28 The tradition reaches not only from the past to the present, but also embraces the future, as Diomedes’ reflection on visits to come shows. An exemplum is embedded in this tradition: Glaukos and Diomedes follow their grandfathers’ example with their gift exchange. The repetition is marked: just as Bellerophon gave a golden cup to Oineus, now his grandson is giving his golden armour to Oineus’ grandson. Tradition and exemplum reinforce each other: the exemplum gains special weight by being part of a tradition; on the other hand, the tradition finds expression in the exemplum. There is a tension between this turn of the scene and Glaukos’ speech, which has emphasised the perilous force of chance. Without warning, Bellerophon fell victim to the gods’ capriciousness. The unpredictability of life undermines the continuity of traditions and the regularity of exempla. After this, Glaukos and Diomedes look at the past as a tradition again and orient their actions according to a past exemplum. Significantly, the discovery of the guest-friendship prevents a duel with the possible consequence of a death. This tension highlights the relation of traditions and exempla to chance in general: traditions ban the danger of chance through the idea of continuity. Where the present and the future follow the lines of the past, chance does not affect human plans anymore. Exempla have the same effect: by drawing conclusions from a similar situation in the past, the present and future become predictable. Chance, on the other hand, questions continuities and regularities and thereby undermines identities and actions. Let me sum up this reading of the encounter of Diomedes and Glaukos in Iliad 6. The heroes remember the past either as exemplum, tradition, or as dominated by chance. Chance figures very prominently and is perceived as a threatening force. Time and again, plans and expectations are overturned by the unexpected. Traditions and exempla, however, overcome the insecurity of chance. Exempla directly juxtapose past events with the present in order to provide orientation for present actions. Traditions also make the future predictable. They create a continuity which reaches from the past to the future. Thus, we can conclude that the heroes’ idea of history balances the strong force of chance with continuities and regularities.

28

Deborah Boedeker suggests to me that the famous narratorial comment on the exchange of the armours, namely that Zeus deprived Glaukos of his wits so that he gave his golden armour in exchange for one made of bronze (6.234–36), sheds ironical light on the exemplary use of the past.

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17.3. ANCIENT AND MODERN IDEAS OF HISTORY This application of my model of the idea of history is rather schematic, and it would be interesting to take into account further passages.29 Nonetheless, I believe that the Glaukos and Diomedes scene reveals features that are characteristic not only of memory in epic poetry, but also of memory in ancient Greece in general. Of course, it would be highly questionable to speak of the idea of history in ancient Greece. A perfunctory look at different times and genres suffices to alert us to the fact that important differences existed. Yet, it is striking that chance figures prominently in many other accounts of the past such as tragedy or the works of Herodotus and Thucydides.30 At the same time funeral speeches or epinicean poems also refer to the past through traditions or exempla. The ‘idea of history’ should therefore be used only in the plural, but nevertheless the different ideas of history in Greek literature seem to rest on a common ground that is rather different from what we find in historical narratives from other epochs. Instead of elaborating on ancient ideas of history, I will expound on my thesis by a provocative jump through the ages, juxtaposing it with another generalisation.31 Around 1800, a new understanding of history emerged. As Koselleck has shown, the horizon of expectations was transcended by experiences.32 Not only did experiences not disappoint expectations, they superseded them. The future was welcomed as a horizon full of opportunities. History was first seen as progress, then it was constructed as an organic development.33 A consequence of this new view was a criticism of traditions and exempla: The dynamic process of developments questions the simple continuity of traditions. It also leads to an awareness of the autonomy of historical times and undermines the possibility of exempla. If every time and situation is unique, there is no point in making a direct juxtaposition of present with past.34 Again, it is problematic to speak of the modern idea of history, and Koselleck’s account leaves out many aspects;35 but I am convinced that Koselleck has pointed out a 29 30 31 32 33

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For a full analysis of the idea of history in the Iliad, see GRETHLEIN 2006b. For more on Herodotus, cf. e.g. REGENBOGEN 1930; IMMERWAHR 1966; HARRISON 2000; on Thucydides, cf. CORNFORD 1907; STAHL 2003. In GRETHLEIN (forthcoming), I compare more specifically the exemplary use of the past in Herodotus and Thucydides with the modern skepticism towards exempla. Cf. KOSELLECK 1979. The contribution of the enlightenment to the rise of modern historical thinking is heavily disputed. BÖDEKER et al. 1986 and BLANKE 1991, for example, emphasise the role of late enlightenment thinkers, whereas NIPPERDEY 1976, 59–73 and MUHLACK 1991 focus more on the rupture aroused by the Historical School. Cf. KOSELLECK 1979, 38–66. See also LÜBBE 1977, 269–74; LOWENTHAL 1985, 364f. In an unpublished paper with the title “Constructing Antiquity and Modernity in the 18th century. Alterity, Proximity, Polarity, Immanency,” Kostas Vlassopoulos elaborates on different strategies of linking antiquity to modernity in Koselleck’s “Sattelzeit.” I would argue that “alterity” is not only the most prominent strategy, but also a mode of linking past and present that does not play a major role in ancient Greece.

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crucial change. I would even argue that the new perception of time that Koselleck sketches is still at the core of our historical thinking. Despite attempts to invoke the ‘post-histoire’36 or to figure out a new “régime d’historicité,”37 we still move within the boundaries of historicism and envisage history primarily as a development.38 As perfunctory and rough as this survey may be, I hope that the juxtaposition of the heroic with the historicist idea of history illustrates the heuristic value of the matrix I have outlined: while historicism criticises traditions and exempla and looks at history as a development, the heroes view the past primarily as exempla and traditions, but the idea of development is missing. This difference can be traced back to the perception of contingency. According to the philosophical tradition, contingency is what is neither impossible nor necessary. Contingency can be experienced in two ways: either it is seen as the basis for the freedom of action, or it is the restriction of this freedom by chance. The Homeric idea of history is centred on this second aspect, the perilous force of chance. In contrast, at the beginning of the modern age, freedom of action was at the core of experience. It is significant that whereas Koselleck’s focus on the contingency of action is due to his work on the modern age, Gadamer, who emphasises the contingency of chance, invokes Aristotle. The strong perception of chance found in the epics leads to the construction of exempla and traditions, which close the gap between expectation and experience and thus enable the heroes to make plans and act. The modern focus on the contingency of action, on the other hand, makes the construction of dynamic processes and developments possible. Hence, continuities and regularities are questioned, but the freedom to act is maintained. Instead of the arbitrariness of chance, developments have a direction. Again, this opposition is exaggerated and of course there are instances in ancient literature, such as Kulturentstehungslehren, which view history as a development.39 Furthermore, neither traditions nor exempla have vanished in the modern age.40 Yet, this should not prevent us from noting different tendencies. The 36 37 38 39 40

See, most prominently, FUKUYAMA 1992. For a survey of different approaches, see STEENBLOCK 1994. HARTOG 2003 argues that the events in 1989 have led to a new “régime d’historicité” which he calls “présentisme.” This argument is made with force by OEXLE 1996. See also STEENBLOCK 1991; SCHOLZ 1997. See for example EDELSTEIN 1967; DODDS 1973; MEIER 1990, 186–221; UTZINGER 2003, 97– 229. The use of traditions is illustrated by the “heritage crusade” which, according to LOWENTHAL 1996, has enwrapped our time. In a study of memory in modern Kalymnos (Greece) Sutton 1998, 119–48 emphasises the prominence of an exemplary view of the past. An interesting case mentioned by CRANE 1998 reveals that the exemplary mode of memory can be found even in modern academia: at the beginning of World War I, a reading of Thucydides’ Melian Dialogue was staged at the University of Toronto, with the Athenians as Germans, the British as Spartans and the Belgians as Melians.

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idea of development was not discovered in the early modern age, but it was not until then that it was established as a major template for narratives of the past. By the same token, traditions and exempla have lost their prominence as primary modes for engaging with history. The comparison that I have outlined here undermines a widespread thesis about contingency.41 It is often claimed that there is an increase of contingency in history. Some scholars go even so far as to argue that contingency was alien to antiquity.42 This view rests on a questionable definition of contingency and a narrow basis of ancient sources, mostly Aristotle. My analysis suggests that there is not an increase of contingency, but rather a shift in the perception of different aspects in antiquity and the modern age. Let me close with a critical self-reflection. I have first proposed a phenomenological concept of the idea of history. Then, I have applied this concept to a scene in the Iliad. In the end, I have presented a very perfunctory juxtaposition of the heroic with the historicist ideas of history. It is now time to point out that my approach is itself the result of a particular idea of history. It clearly bears the imprint of historicism. The distinction of different ideas of history is due to the assumption that epochs are different from each other. In the heroes’ world where past and present are simply juxtaposed with each other, the notion of different ideas of history could not emerge.

41 42

I develop this argument more fully in GRETHLEIN 2006b, 97–105. See, for example, RÜSEN 1994, 351f.; v. GRAEVENITZ – MARQUARD 1998b, xii; WETZ 1997, 22. For a more differentiated view, see MAKROPOULOS 1997, 22.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY ANDERSON, B. 1991: Imagined Communities, London. ASSMANN, J. 1992: Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen, Munich. BLANKE, H. W. 1991: Historiographiegeschichte als Historik, Stuttgart. BLUMENBERG, H. 1959: Kontingenz, in Die Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, third edition, III, 1793f. BÖDEKER, H. E. et al. 1986: Aufklärung und Geschichte. Studien zur deutschen Geschichtswissenschaft im 18. Jh., Göttingen. BUBNER, R. 1984: Geschichtsprozesse und Handlungsnormen. Untersuchungen zur praktischen Philosophie, Frankfurt. CARR, D. 1987: Review: R. Koselleck, Futures past. On the semantics of historical time, History and Theory 26, 197–204. COLLINGWOOD, R. G. 1956: The Idea of History, Oxford. CORNFORD, F. M. 1907: Thucydides Mythistoricus, London. CRANE, G. 1998: Thucydides and the Ancient Simplicity, Berkeley. DEUSER, H. 1990: Kontingenz. II. Theologisch, in Theologische Realenzyklopädie 19, 551–9. DODDS, E. R. 1977: The Ancient Concept of Progress, Oxford. EDELSTEIN, L. 1967: The Idea of Progress in Classical Antiquity, Baltimore. FUKUYAMA, F. 1992: The End of History and the Last Man, New York. GADAMER, H.-G. 1986: Wahrheit und Methode. Grundzüge einer philosophischen Hermenutik, Tübingen. GEHRKE, H.-J. 1994: Mythos, Geschichte, Politik – antik und modern, Saeculum 45, 239–64. 2001: Myth, history, and collective identity. Uses of the past in ancient Greece and beyond, in N. Luraghi (ed.), The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford, 286–313. GOETZ, H.-W. 1999: Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsbewußtsein im hohen Mittelalter, Berlin. GOLDHILL, S. 1991: The Poet’s Voice. Essays on Poetics and Greek Literature, Cambridge. V. GRAEVENITZ, G. – MARQUARD, O. 1998a: (eds.) Kontingenz, Munich. 1998b: Vorwort, in V. GRAEVENITZ – MARQUARD 1998a Kontingenz, Munich, xi-xvi. GRETHLEIN, J. 2005: Gefahren des λόόγος. Thukydides’ Historien und die Grabrede des Perikles, Klio 87, 41–71. 2006a: Individuelle Identität und Conditio Humana. Die Bedeutung und Funktion von γενεήή   im Blättergleichnis in Il. 6, 146–149, Philologus 150, 3–13.

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2006b: Das Geschichtsbild der Ilias. Eine Untersuchung aus phänomenologischer und narratologischer Perspektive. Göttingen. 2006c: The manifold uses of the epic past. The embassy scene in Hdt. 7.153–163, AJP 127, 485–509. 2008: Memory and material objects in the Iliad and the Odyssey, JHS 128, 27-51. forthcoming: “Historia Magistra Vitae” in Herodotus and Thucydides? The exemplary use of the past and ancient and modern temporalities, in Lianeri (ed.) Ancient History and Western Historical Thought. The Construction of Classical Time(s), Cambridge. HARRISON, T. 2000: Divinity and History. The Religion of Herodotus, Oxford. HARTOG, F. 2003: Régimes d’historicité. Présentisme et expérience du temps, Paris. HECK, K. – JAHN, B. 2000: (eds.) Genealogie als Denkform in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit, Tübingen. HEIDEGGER, M. 198615: Sein und Zeit, Tübingen. HOBSBAWM, E. – RANGER, T. 1983: The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge. IMMERWAHR, H. R. 1966: Form and Thought in Herodotus, Cleveland, OH. KOSELLECK, R. 1975: Geschichte, Historie. V. Die Herausbildung des modernen Geschichtsbegriffs, Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe II, 647–91. 1979: Vergangene Zukunft. Zur Semantik geschichtlicher Zeiten, Frankfurt. LATTIMORE, R. 1951: The Iliad of Homer, Chicago. LEGENDRE, P. 1985: L’inestimable objet de la transmission. Essai sur le principe généalogique en Occident, Paris. LIEBSCH, B. 1996: Geschichte im Zeichen des Abschieds, Munich. LOWENTHAL, D. 1985: The Past is a Foreign Country, Cambridge. 1996: Possessed by the Past. The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History, New York. LÜBBE, H. 1977: Geschichtsbegriff und Geschichtsinteresse. Analytik und Pragmatik der Historie, Basel. LYNN-GEORGE, M. 1988: Epos. Word, Narrative and the Iliad, Houndmills. MAKROPOULOS, M. 1997: Modernität und Kontingenz, Munich. 1998: Modernität als Kontingenzkultur. Konturen eines Konzepts, in GRAEVENITZ – MARQUARD 1998a, 55–79. MARQUARD, O. 1986: Apologie des Zufälligen. Philosophische Überlegungen zum Menschen, in O. Marquard, Apologie des Zufälligen. Philosophische Studien, Stuttgart, 117–39. MEIER, C. 1990: The Greek Discovery of Politics, Cambridge, MA. MUHLACK, U. 1991: Geschichtswissenschaft im Humanismus und in der Aufklärung. Die Vorgeschichte des Historismus, Munich. NIPPERDEY, T. 1976: Historismus und Historismuskritik heute, in Gesellschaft, Kultur, Theorie. Gesammelte

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Aufsätze zur neueren Geschichte, Göttingen, 59–73. NORA, P. 1984–1992: Les lieux de mémoire, Paris. OEXLE, O. G. 1996: Meineckes Historismus. Über Kontext und Folgen einer Definition, in O. G. Oexle – J. Rüsen (eds.), Historismus in den Kulturwissenschaften. Geschichtskonzepte, historische Einschätzungen, Grundlagenprobleme, Cologne, 139–99. PICHT, G. 1993: Geschichte und Gegenwart. Vorlesungen zur Philosophie der Geschichte, Stuttgart. POSER, H. 1990: Kontingenz. I. Philosophisch, in Theologische Realenzyklopädie 19, 544–51. REGENBOGEN, O. 1930: Herodot und sein Werk. Ein Versuch, Die Antike 6, 202–48. RICOEUR, P. 1949: Husserl et le sens de l’histoire, Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale 54, 280–316. 2004: Memory, History, Forgetting, Chicago. RÜSEN, J. 1982: Die vier Typen des historischen Erzählens, in R. Koselleck et al. (eds.), Formen der Geschichtsschreibung, Munich, 514–605. 1983: Grundzüge einer Historik. I: Historische Vernunft, Göttingen. 1986: Grundzüge einer Historik. II: Rekonstruktion der Vergangenheit, Göttingen. 1989: Grundzüge einer Historik. III: Lebendige Geschichte. Formen und Funktionen des historischen Wissens, Göttingen. SCHINKEL, A. 2005: Imagination as a category of history. an essay concerning Koselleck’s concepts of Erfahrungsraum and Erwartungshorizont, History and Theory 44, 42–54. SCHOLTZ, G. 1997: (ed.) Historismus am Ende des 20. Jh. Eine internationale Diskussion, Berlin. STAHL, H.-P. 2003: Thucydides. Man’s Place in History, Swansea. STEENBLOCK, V. 1991: Transformationen des Historismus, Munich. 1992/1993: Historische Vernunft – Geschichte als Wissenschaft und als orientierende Sinnbildung. Zum Abschluß von Jörn Rüsens dreibändiger ‘Historik’, Dilthey-Jahrbuch für Philosophie und Geschichte der Geisteswissenschaften 8, 367–80. 1994: Das ‘Ende der Geschichte’. Zur Karriere von Begriff und Denkvorstellung im 20. Jh., Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte 37, 333–51. SUSANETTI, D. 1999: Foglie caduche e fragili genealogie, Prometheus 25, 97–116. SUTTON, D. E. 1998: Memories Cast in Stone. The Relevance of the Past in Everyday Life, Oxford. TROELTSCH, E. 1913: Die Bedeutung des Begriffs der Kontingenz, in Gesammelte Schriften II, Tübingen, 769–78. UTZINGER, C. 2003: Periphrades Aner. Untersuchungen zum ersten Stasimon der Sophokleischen “Antigone” und zu den antiken Kulturentstehungstheorien, Göttingen. WENSKUS, R. 1961: Stammesbildung und Verfassung. Das Werden der frühmittelalterlichen gentes, Cologne.

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WETZ, F. J. 1998: Kontingenz der Welt – ein Anachronismus?, in GRAEVENITZ – MARQUARD 1998a, 81– 106. ZERUBAVEL, E. 2003: Time Maps. Collective Memory and the Social Shape of the Past, Chicago.

18. CONSTRUCTING ANTIQUITY AND MODERNITY IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY: DISTANTIATION, ALTERITY, PROXIMITY, IMMANENCY Kostas Vlassopoulos History, the study of the past, has two sides to it: one is the recent past, contemporary history, what the Germans call Zeitgeschichte. The history of the distant past is a much more demanding task. The big temporal gap between past and present necessitates to a much greater extent the construction of a binary subject: the present of the narration and the past of the narrative; the ‘we’ of the present narrator and the ‘they’ of the past subjects of the narrative. The writing of the history of the distant past necessitates therefore the simultaneous construction of a concept of antiquity (the past, our ancestors) and of modernity (we, the present). In a way, our modern conceptions of antiquity and modernity were formulated during the eighteenth century, as I will try to show.1 This makes it all the more important to look at the diverse ways in which the relationship between antiquity and modernity was constructed. I want to offer four different modes of constructing the relationship between antiquity and modernity, or past and present: distantiation, proximity, alterity and immanency. By distantiation, I understand an approach that conceives antiquity and modernity as two homogeneous and distinct wholes, emphasises the great differences between them and poses an insuperable gap between the one and the other. This approach is one of the chief discoveries of the eighteenth century in the field of historical research; according to this mode, modernity is not only more developed and advanced than antiquity, but has also managed to leave behind a number of negative and degrading aspects that were primary characteristics of antiquity. In other words, the model of distantiation makes the past irrelevant for the present. By alterity I understand an approach that views antiquity and modernity again as homogeneous and distinct wholes, which differ between themselves. But in contrast to the mode of distantiation, it is this very difference that makes antiquity relevant to modernity by revealing practices, institutions and forms of expression and feeling that have been lost in modernity. The mode of proximity argues against an insuperable gap and irreconcilable differences between antiquity and modernity; it also refuses to accept that modernity and antiquity are homogeneous and distinct wholes. Antiquity is relevant to modernity precisely because some ancients and some moderns share common characteristics and agendas. The relevance in this mode is created by similarity, and not by difference.

1

See under ‘Modern’ in BRUNNER – CONZE – KOSELLECK 1978.

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Finally, a last mode to appear during the eighteenth century is that of immanency:2 Greek antiquity is not a culture of the past to be compared with that of modern western Europe, but is still alive and present in the Greek landscape and among modern Greeks. In this mode, ancient Greece is not so much a metahistorical and metageographical construction, but is located in a specific place and a specific people. I want to emphasise that these four modes are not necessarily coherent models and are not necessarily exclusive of each other: rather, they are attitudes, heuristic ways of constructing the relationship between past and present.

18.1. DISTANTIATION The eighteenth century marked a watershed in the perception of antiquity in one important respect: the creation of a big and unbridgeable historical gap between antiquity and modernity. Ever since the renaissance differences between ancient and modern societies were often noted and taken into account; but they did not seem important enough to merit a wholesale division between antiquity and modernity. One example will suffice to show the prevailing attitudes. Late in the sixteenth century the great scholar Justus Lipsius published a commentary on Polybius along with a study of the Roman army.3 Polybius’ description of the organisation of the Roman army seemed to Lipsius to provide a valid model of how to solve the military problems of his day; Roman discipline, logistics, tactics and encampments could be profitably exploited by modern strategists. One of Lipsius’ students, Prince Maurice of Nassau took Lipsius’ advice far too literally: he even made his soldiers practice with Roman shields. Lipsius knew that there were modern weapons that did not exist in ancient times and could point out that the modern value of the Roman example did not lie in their shields, but rather in the tactics and discipline.4 But the example shows that although there existed obvious differences between the ancient world and contemporary society, there was no sense of an insuperable gap between them. The situation started to change at the end of the seventeenth century, with the famous Querelle des anciens et des modernes. A number of French intellectuals, impressed by the achievements of their culture and society came to argue that the moderns had actually surpassed the ancients in the arts, the letters and the sciences. The debate quickly spread in England and in other European countries as well and lasted up to the second decade of the eighteenth century. It proved inconclusive, although at the end it seemed as though the ancients remained still unsurpassable in art and literature, the creative fields, while the moderns had surpassed the ancients in philosophy and science, the cumulative disciplines.5 There 2 3 4 5

I owe a great deal to discussions with my Nottingham colleague Ian MacGregor Morris as regards this mode. LIPSIUS 1596. GRAFTON 2001, 235–6; POCOCK 2003, 276–95. LEVINE 1991.

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was a good reason that this debate remained inconclusive: there existed no wider discourse that could convincingly explain what separated the ancients from the moderns and why the moderns were able to surpass the ancients. During the eighteenth century, many thinkers came to believe that their age was experiencing developments that were unique and differentiated it from all past history. The cessation of bloody civil and religious wars, commercial expansion, and the advances of science were seen as symptoms and causes of a larger process. There emerged what has been described as “the enlightened narrative”: a narrative of how the spread of commerce since the end of the middle ages had destroyed the feudal relations of dependence, diffused property, created a stable system of states and introduced order and good government, and thus liberty and the security of individuals.6 Seen in this perspective, the ancient republics ceased to be valuable exempla. They were based on agriculture and slavery; their raison d’être was war and conquest; the community had absolute right over its subjects, without recognising individual rights; thus, their political quarrels took the form of bloody civil wars and political stability was impossible.7 The old paradigm of civic humanism came to be seen as irrelevant: the changes in property and manners, the role of commerce and civility, created a new form of society, economy and state, in which the virtue of the citizen was irrelevant.8 Montesquieu was one of the chief figures of this realignment. His main work, the De l’esprit des lois,9 was impressive for its forceful attention to the innumerable differences in institutions, customs and practices between various societies in the past and present. This indeed often underlined the differences between ancient societies and modern ones; but given that he also underlined the important differences among modern societies and the importance of factors like the climate and geography, it did not necessarily point to an insuperable gap between antiquity and modernity as the chief dividing line. More crucial were indeed his conceptual innovations. Instead of the immemorial distinction between monarchy, aristocracy and democracy (and their corrupted forms), he substituted one between republic, monarchy and despotism. In this way he created a gap between ancient societies, which were republics, and modern societies, which were overwhelmingly monarchies.10 Even more, he argued that reason or self-interest were not sufficient causes to explain how a constitution or a society managed to function and survive. Rather, he argued, it was certain passions, different for each society and constitution, which made people accept them and work within their parameters. He identified virtue as the passion that sustains republics, honour as sustaining monarchies, and fear as sustaining despotisms.11 Based on these novel distinctions, it was now possible to differentiate between the passions of the ancients and those of the 6 7 8 9 10 11

POCOCK 1999; 2003, 307–24. GUERCI 1979; AVLAMI 2001. POCOCK 1975; 1985, 103–23. MONTESQUIEU 1748. CAMBIANO 1974. MONTESQUIEU 1748, Book 3.

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moderns, and even more to connect the difference in the passions to differences in their economic and social structure:12 Greek politicians … knew no other force but virtue to sustain them. Those of today speak to us only of manufactures, commerce, finance, wealth and even luxury.13

These themes became the staple of liberal thought in the following decades of the eighteenth century. A good illustration is Hume’s essay On the Populousness of Ancient Nations,14 where they develop into a historical sociology of antiquity and modernity.15 Hume’s primary aim was to show that ancient nations were not more populous than modern ones; but in the process of doing so, he offered a very incisive sociological interpretation of ancient and modern societies. Slavery is the first factor that differentiates antiquity from modernity: The chief difference between the domestic oeconomy of the ancients and that of the moderns consists in the practice of slavery, which prevailed among the former, and which has been abolished for some centuries throughout the greater part of Europe.16

In his view this resulted in smaller ancient populations. Some people had argued that slavery was favourable to population increase, because the masters would have a motive to see their slaves propagate, and thus increase their stock; but in a brilliant stroke Hume argued that exactly the opposite would take place. He observed that in modern cities cattle were not raised close to the cities, since the land around the cities could be put to more profitable use; it was rather from more distant and less developed areas that cattle were imported. In the same way, it would be cheaper to buy a child that was raised in a cheap and underdeveloped area, than to raise one in the expensive city. This explains, according to Hume, the fact that the vast majority of ancient slaves were barbarians coming from the peripheries of the Greek and Roman world.17 In terms of the political domain, Hume concedes that the ancient states, by being small and republican, favoured freedom and equality and thus made it easier for somebody to raise a family.18 But on the other hand the small states of antiquity had to face a number of serious disadvantages: war was very common and particularly destructive in a country divided in countless small states;19 their republican constitutions were prone to faction and civil war and resulted in largescale massacres of the losing party.20 A third difference was the low volume of manufacture and trade among ancient people.21

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

YACK 1986, 35–48. MONTESQUIEU 1748, Book 3, ch. 3. Published in HUME 1752; I cite from HUME 1993. SCHNEIDER 1988. HUME 1993, 226. HUME 1993, 226–34. HUME 1993, 237–40. HUME 1993, 240–2. HUME 1993, 242–8. HUME 1993, 248–51.

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The same issue is also taken over in the essay Of Commerce, where the differences between ancient and modern societies are again stressed: And indeed, throughout all ancient history, it is observable, that the smallest republics raised and maintained greater armies, than states consisting of triple the number of inhabitants are able to support at present. It is computed, that, in all European nations, the proportion between soldiers and people does not exceed one to a hundred. But we read, that the city of Rome alone, with its small territory, raised and maintained, in early times, ten legions against the Latins. Athens, the whole of whose dominions was not larger than Yorkshire, sent to the expedition against Sicily near forty thousand men… In short, no probable reason can be assigned for the great power of the more ancient states above the modern, but their want of commerce and luxury. Few artisans were maintained by the labour of the farmers, and therefore more soldiers might live upon it.22

The same story was told by Adam Smith in his famous An Inquiry into the Causes and Origins of the Wealth of Nations.23 Ancient societies were primarily agricultural communities: The inhabitants of cities and towns were, after the fall of the Roman Empire, not more favoured than those of the country. They consisted, indeed, of a very different order of people from the first inhabitants of the ancient republics of Greece and Italy. These last were composed chiefly of the proprietors of lands, among whom the public territory was originally divided, and who found it convenient to build their houses in the neighbourhood of one another, and to surround them with a wall, for the sake of common defence.24

Even more, ancient communities were not favourable to the promotion of trade and industry and slavery had an important role in explaining this: In several of the ancient states of Greece, foreign trade was prohibited altogether; and in several others, the employments of artificers and manufacturers were considered as hurtful to the strength and agility of the human body, as rendering it incapable of those habits which their military and gymnastic exercises endeavoured to form in it, and as thereby disqualifying it, more or less, for undergoing the fatigues and encountering the dangers of war. Such occupations were considered as fit only for slaves, and the free citizens of the states were prohibited from exercising them… Such trades were, at Athens and Rome, all occupied by the slaves of the rich, who exercised them for the benefit of their masters, whose wealth, power, and protection, made it almost impossible for a poor freeman to find a market for his work, when it came into competition with that of the slaves of the rich. Slaves, however, are very seldom inventive; and all the most important improvements, either in machinery, or in the arrangement and distribution of work, which facilitate and abridge labour have been the discoveries of freemen.25

The observations of all these authors led to similar conclusions: antiquity was no more relevant to modernity, because there existed a large distance between them. Modernity has surpassed antiquity and in most respects this is a positive and welcome development.

22 23 24 25

HUME 1758, 151. SMITH 1776. SMITH 1776, Book 3, ch. 3. SMITH 1776, Book 4, ch. 9.

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18.2. ALTERITY But distantiation could relatively easily lead to the mode of alterity. One could recognise the huge gap between antiquity and modernity, but instead of, or indeed, while accepting that modernity had surpassed antiquity in a number of respects, one could argue that antiquity in its alterity possessed characteristics that were still important and valuable for modern society. Some eighteenth-century thinkers came indeed to pass from one mode to another; a good example is Mably. In his earliest work Parallèle des Romains et des François, par rapport au Governement26 he argued for the superiority of modern French monarchy compared to the ancient Roman empire; while monarchy was destructive in an ancient society which did not possess the checks and balances and the appropriate moeurs, the development of commerce and the arts made that possible in modern society: Luxury destroyed equality in Sparta and Rome, while in France it did the contrary, distributing to the people the superfluity of the rich; it united social echelons, and promoted a circulation among them that was as useful under a monarchical government as it had once been pernicious under a democracy… Wealth, abundance, the arts and industry, are real goods for men; it is by means of the patient uncovering of the new ties and new relations that these create in society, that modern politics has found the secret of rendering itself superior to that of antiquity.27

This passage is clearly reminiscent of the arguments of Montesquieu, Hume and Smith that I have presented above. But in contrast to them, Mably later repudiated wildly the judgments on antiquity and modernity that he presented in this early book. In his later work he came to present antiquity as a model precisely because of its alterity. But despite the differences in evaluation between the early and late works, the understanding of the gap and difference between antiquity and modernity remained pretty much the same:28 War therefore among the Romans, served instead of that industry, arts and oeconomy, which are the only sources from whence the moderns derive their riches.29

It was precisely the difference in the social basis of ancient and modern societies that made antiquity relevant for a corrupted and problem-ridden modernity. Rousseau occupies a central role regarding the emergence of this mode of approach.30 From the renaissance onwards antiquity was presented as a model that could be imitated by the moderns. But two novel developments altered fundamentally the way that antiquity was presented as a model in the eighteenth century. The one was the discovery of the radical newness of modernity, as we just saw. But the other side of celebrating the achievements of modernity was to identify its peculiar and novel problems. The development of the arts and sciences, of commerce and industry and of large kingdoms was seen as having a number of perni26 27 28 29 30

MABLY 1740. MABLY 1740, 323; I follow the translation of WRIGHT 1997, 33–4. WRIGHT 1997, 64. MABLY 1751, 150. LEDUC-FAYETTE 1974; YACK 1986.

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cious effects: luxury, effeminacy, loss of virtue, increasing poverty among rising prosperity, lack of social cohesion, artificiality and pedantry, loss of liberty, participation and patriotism. On the contrary, antiquity could be presented as having societies and states that lacked these problems and possessed all the opposite advantages. Even more, and this was the second development, some thinkers now possessed a language and a conceptual vocabulary that could portray ancient societies and their practices, customs and institutions as interlinked wholes. Ancient societies were based on agriculture and had a relative equality of property, which was the basis of their political equality; wars fought by citizen militias enhanced the martial spirit and social cohesion among the citizen body; their customs and institutions aimed at prioritising the common good and communal intercourse instead of selfish individualism; public deliberation enhanced participation and eloquence; their closeness to nature gave them innocence, simplicity and happiness. Rousseau’s work brought all these aspects to the centre of intellectual discussion. As he pointed to his fellow Genevans: You are neither Romans nor Spartans; you are not even Athenians. Leave aside these great names that ill suit you. You are merchants, bourgeois, always occupied with private interest, work, business and gain; people for whom freedom itself is only a means of acquiring without obstacle and possessing with security.31

The work of Simon-Nicolas-Henri Linguet provides another interesting example of the mode of alterity.32 Linguet published the first history of fourth-century Greece, entitled Histoire du siècle d’Alexandre, avec quelques réflexions sur ceux qui l’ont précède.33 According to Linguet, ancient polities were very different from modern ones, because their oral character and direct participation enhanced the union between ideas and eloquence: Only in Rome and in Greece does one see these inconceivable assemblies of the entire nation, where a single man harangues twenty thousand men at once, and this astonishing fact is nonetheless one of the best authenticated of all ancient history.34

But modern printing and the absence of political participation under modern monarchies have undermined this unity, by dissociating people, eloquence and ideas. But this will never happen to an orator. His glory is attached in its essence to his person. A cruel subtlety does not come to teach his disciples the secret of separating orations from the being who pronounces them. Everything in him is indivisible, and whoever has heard him with pleasure is drawn to defend him with fervour.35

Linguet is aware that ancient societies were divided between free men and slaves; he is thus aware of the slave nature of ancient societies and their difference with

31 32 33 34 35

ROUSSEAU 1763. I quote from ROUSSEAU 1774, 290. On Linguet, see LEVY 1980; GUERCI 1979, 141–65 and 1981. LINGUET 1762. LINGUET 1762, 181; I follow the translation of LEVY 1980, 17. LINGUET 1762, 457. See the modern adoption of this perspective in FINLEY 1985, 142–72.

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modernity in this respect. But in what is one of the main points of his wider social and political theory, ancient societies can seem better in this respect: What was unknown is this cursed breed of men we call manual labourers, who do not enjoy even the advantages of slavery. Compelled to tear from the earth products that are not for them; weighed down by all the expenses of state; exposed to all the losses caused by the harshness of the seasons; rejected, despised; like animals, knowing hardly any pleasures other than digesting food and perpetuating their species. I do not know whether they feel very forcefully the price of their alleged liberty. But I believe basically the slavery we consider barbarity is not nearly as barbarous as the degradation in which perhaps two-thirds of the human race languishes today.36

A different field of viewing Greek alterity is that of art. Rousseau’s comparison of ancient and modern theatre provides a good example. In his polemic against d’Alembert over the introduction of theatrical performances in modern Geneva,37 he presents a tirade against modern theatre while showing its difference from and inferiority to ancient theatre. He argues that ancient drama had sacred origins and therefore the audience saw the actors more as priests than as players; since the subjects of the dramas were taken from the antiquities of the Greek nation, the actors were seen not as men representing fabulous exhibitions, but as citizens instructing the audience in the history of their country; ancient actors were only males, thus avoiding the deplorable mixture of sexes to be seen in modern theatre; and finally their entertainments took place in the open air, in the presence of the whole community.38 The ancient theatre was the theatre of a different, simpler and less corrupted society and Rousseau’s plea in favour of ancient theatre is based precisely on its alterity.39 The theme of Greek simplicity and authenticity that started with Rousseau was further developed by J. J. Winckelmann in his famous works Gedanken über die Nachahmung der griechischen Werke in der Mahlerey und Bildhauerkunst40 and Geschichte der Kunst des Alterthums.41 Winckelmann tried to explain why the Greeks had managed to advance so far beyond any other people in the arts by pointing out the characteristics that differentiated them from other ancient peoples and from those of modern times: The superiority that art achieved among the Greeks is to be attributed in part to the influence of their climate, in part to their constitution and form of government and the way of thinking induced by it; yet, no less to the respect accorded to artists and to the use and application of art among the Greeks.42

36 37 38 39 40 41 42

LINGUET 1762, 229–30. ROUSSEAU 1758. I cite from ROUSSEAU 1767, vol. 3, 111–13. GRELL 1995, 564–71. WINCKELMANN 1755. WINCKELMANN 1764. I follow the translation in WINCKELMANN 2006, 186.

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The gentle temperature of a pure, mild and serene atmosphere, had, no doubt, a certain influence on the bodily constitution of the ancient Greeks; and the manly exercises to which their youths were accustomed, brought to perfection what nature had thus happily begun.43

Winckelmann argues that it is Greek athletics (12–17), the Greek dress (17–18), the Greek love of beauty, which culminated in beauty contests (19–20), the absence of modern diseases (21), the lack of modern decency (26), and the possibility to observe naked bodies in the gymnasia (27–8) that explains the Greek superiority in artistic expression. It is “the turn of the Grecian manners and their public institutions” that explain the Greek achievement and make the ancient Greeks relevant for the moderns.44

18.3. PROXIMITY But there were other options available to the thinkers of the eighteenth century. If modern achievements in economic, social and political matters were the measure by which antiquity would be judged, then it was possible to argue that some of the ancients had approximated the moderns. This is the process of what Pierre VidalNaquet and Nicole Loraux have called “the creation of bourgeois Athens.”45 If some Greek communities like Sparta belonged to a lower, less developed and barbaric state of civilisation, some others could be shown to have followed the same path that was now traversed by the moderns. Cornelius de Pauw’s Recherches philosophiques sur les Grecs46 is a work of fundamental importance in this respect. According to de Pauw the ancient Greek world was not homogeneous: But it must not be imagined that all the inhabitants of ancient Greece have, without restriction, an equal right to our gratitude, or an indiscriminate title to our praise. Not less than four nations existed among them who never did anything for posterity… The Lacedaemonians in the first place, so far from contributing to the progress of science or to the advancement of any art, considered glory to consist only in amassing spoils amidst devastation and carnage.47

The Aetolians are presented as savage and uncivilised, while the Thessalians, although possessing a fertile land, thought that “agriculture was a disgraceful occupation, consigned to the vilest of their slaves, and the fine arts, in common with those purely mechanical, were considered capable of tarnishing the lustre of families, and even the glory of the nation”; the same holds true for the Arcadians.48 It is only the Athenians that have great achievements to show and are indeed close to the moderns in a number of respects. De Pauw acknowledges the existence of dif43 44 45 46 47 48

I follow the translation in WINCKELMANN 1766, 11–12. See POTTS 1994. VIDAL-NAQUET 1995, 82–140. DE PAUW 1788. I cite from DE PAUW 1793. See GUERCI 1979, 263–72. DE PAUW 1793, 1, 1–2. DE PAUW 1793, 1, 3–4.

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ferences and even argues that some of the particularities of the ancients could be imitated: The chief advantage to be derived from the knowledge of ancient nations consists in distinguishing where their conduct should be constantly imitated, or carefully avoided. Our observations therefore, shall be limited to facts, affording a general interest, but hitherto not exactly developed; and of this class, for instance, was the rural mode of education so well practised at Athens. Were such methods now to be adopted, we must begin by demolishing the colleges, and hurry masters with their scholars into the country, to frequent gardens, or inhabit the rural shed.49

But in general, it is the similarities between Athens and the developed nations of modernity that makes it possible to propose such imitations and adoptions. De Pauw’s discussion of the Athenian economy provides a fascinating contrast to the conclusions of Montesquieu, Hume and Smith. While the authors that adopt the distantiation mode depict ancient economies as primitive and agricultural, De Pauw presents a more complicated picture; although he recognises the importance of the countryside for the Athenian society and embarks into a lengthy description of the Athenian landscape and topography and Athenian taste for rural life,50 he also argues that trade and manufacture played an important role: Great Britain is now generally allowed to excel in manufactures, and the Dutch are considered as the greatest dealers in Europe; but the Athenians anciently united both qualities.51

De Pauw even claims that “the ancients not only possessed more inventions than we suppose, but likewise many others, with which we are totally unacquainted,”52 citing as evidence the money of Carthage, which functioned like modern paper money, and the first notions of bills of exchange, which can be seen in the Athenian trade with the Black Sea. The Athenians were so careful to protect trade that they enacted a law, unique among civilised nations, that nobody could be reproached for working in the market.53 One of the most important reasons for the development of manufacture in Athens, as opposed to modern nations, was the absence of guilds and exclusive privileges.54 Finally, his account is full of interesting insights that are not further developed. One is his linking of the form of commerce with money supply and the political context: As the commerce of Athens was chiefly founded on luxury, it increased or diminished in proportion to the circulation of money in Greece or to the power and weakness of the Athenians.55

The other is his argument that Greek religious festivals were intimately connected with trade (237–8); he argues that priests helped the development of trade by pro49 50 51 52 53 54 55

DE PAUW 1793, 1, 7. DE PAUW 1793, 1, 3–73. DE PAUW 1793, 1, 231. DE PAUW 1793, 1, 234. DE PAUW 1793, 1, 241. DE PAUW 1793, 1, 251–2. DE PAUW 1793, 1, 249.

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curing money to those merchants that had no ready supply, and even Apollonius Tyaneus resorted to such a practice, though Philostratus did not find it proper to mention it (239).

18.4. IMMANENCY A final mode that develops during the eighteenth century is that of immanency.56 The frame of reference in this case shows a certain shift: in the three previous modes the actual people and the actual lands of antiquity play only a limited role; antiquity is more a metahistorical category that can be compared to modernity in a number of different ways. But in this mode the land in which ancient civilisation developed and the people that created it come to the forefront. Immanency implies that the distinction between antiquity and modernity is to a lesser or greater extent an illusion and that what is important and interesting in antiquity is immanent in the landscape and the people. The mode of immanency focuses on two distinct, but often linked aspects: in the one case, ancient Greece was what it was because and through the Greek landscape, and is still alive in this landscape; in the other, the ancient Greeks are still alive in the manners and customs of the modern Greeks. Immanency raises a number of issues that will become the bread and butter of the romantic and nationalist agenda in the nineteenth century; but the origins of this mode lie already in the eighteenth century. It is travellers and poets that provide the main examples of this approach. The opening of the lands of the Ottoman empire to western European travellers in the course of the eighteenth century played of course an important part in the emergence of this new mode.57 It facilitated the knowledge of the Greek landscape, the ancient monuments and the modern Greek inhabitants of the ancient lands. PierreAugustin Guys, in his Voyage Litteraire de la Grèce, ou Lettres sur les Grecs anciens et modernes, avec un parallèle de leurs moeurs provides a very illuminating example.58 His approach is based on a number of fundamental principles: if one is to discard the differences created by external circumstances, the modern Greeks retain all the essential characteristics of the ancient Greeks. It would be ridiculous among slaves to look for that king-people, who lived in the flourishing days of Ancient Greece; but men are still the same, the Greeks have faithfully preserved what depended on themselves alone, and where not restrained by the power that subdued them.59

The love of liberty, which explains to a great extent how ancient Greeks created their miracles in the arts and sciences, in philosophy and in morals, is still alive behind the surface among modern Greeks:

56 57 58 59

SAÏD 2005. GRELL 1995, 233–50; EISNER 1991, 63–88. GUYS 1771. I quote from the translation GUYS 1772. GUYS 1772, 1, 27.

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It would be injurious to these people to suppose that they do not sometimes return to themselves, and feel a glow of the ancient spirit of Greece within their veins. The flame of liberty, the former characteristic of the Greeks, from time to time attempts to rekindle.60

He draws a distinction between the continuity to be seen in ancient and modern Greeks and the discontinuity that characterises western Europeans: What difference between the Greeks and ourselves! They tread undeviatingly in the footsteps of their forefathers; while we exert our utmost ingenuity to recede as far as possible from the customs, modes, usages and even manners of our ancestors.61

He is also keen to stress the continuity of the land of the Greeks: It is not in a distant nation, or even on the confines of Greece that the true descendants of the annowned [sic] Greeks are to be found. It is in their proper soil, in the heart of the country you must look for the just character of the nation.62 The same talents, though lying dormant for want of study and practice, nevertheless manifestly exist in Greece at this very day.63 I am aware that it would be in vain to seek in this country for those celebrated artists… But after having discovered so many ancient customs, I also discover in the same climate the very identical genius which formed the masters so renowned in Greece for the practice of the arts: I have actually in front of me the living pictures, the animated statues that industry and talents must copy with success [emphasis mine].64

On the other hand, being a Marseillian and therefore coming from the Mediterranean himself, he is able to recognise the similarities between ancient Greeks and modern Marseillians: Vivacity, sprightly sallies, copiousness, energy, warmth, fluency of speech, obstinacy in dispute, factious restless spirits, easily inflamed, and as easily appeased; are qualities equally common to modern Greeks. You, who are so well acquainted with the national spirit of us Marseillians, will doubtless say: ‘in that respect ye too are Athenians.’65

We can see here the origins of Mediterranean anthropology. Finally, his larger methodological point is that modern Greeks provide the best comparative example in order to understand the ancient Greeks and vice versa: In short to show you the resemblance between ancient and modern Greeks, and that there is no better way to explain the former than by a faithful description of the latter, follow Mr Spon to Messalongi or to Ithaca, formerly the kingdom of Ulysses; there you may see the Monoxylon, build exactly upon the model of the ancient Greek vessels, whose name they likewise retain.66

Guys goes on to present a comparative historical anthropology of ancient and modern Greeks. His discussion of Greek religion is illustrative of his method: 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

GUYS 1772, 1, 28. GUYS 1772, 1, 32. GUYS 1772, 2, 136. GUYS 1772, 3, 3. GUYS 1772, 3, 5. GUYS 1772, 1, 108. GUYS 1772, 2, 135.

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despite the fact that modern Greeks are Christians, a large number of ancient Greek pagan rituals and practices are still present in modern times: sacred groves, fountains and caverns (1, 168–9) votive offerings deposited in them (1, 170), omens (1, 172–4), good and evil days (175), superstitious practices that remain the same from Theophrastus to the present (176–80).

18.5. CONCLUSIONS In conclusion, it is important to note that these different modes are not exclusive of each other. While some of them are clearly incompatible (e.g., distantiation and proximity) others can be easily combined. One case will suffice, I hope, to make the argument. Robert Wood was one of the most important traveller authors of the eighteenth century; his books on Palmyra and Baalbeck were justly famous.67 As one would expect, his approach can be generally subsumed under the immanency approach. His general argument was that there has been a remarkable continuity from antiquity until the present in the wider East and in Greece itself. In his An Essay on the Original Genius and Writings of Homer: With a Comparative View of the Ancient and Present State of the Troade68 he argues that it is the continuity of customs from ancient to modern Greece, which proves that Homer did exist and had actual experience of the lands and the peoples he is writing about. At the same time, ancient and modern Greeks are portrayed under the prism of alterity, as simpler and different from modern Europeans: He (the traveller) will discover a general resemblance between the ancient and present manners of those countries, so striking, that we cannot without injustice to our subject pass it over unnoticed. For perhaps nothing has tended so much to injure the reputation of that extraordinary genius in the judgement of the present age, as his representation of customs and manners so very different from our own. Our polite neighbours the French seem to be most offended at certain pictures of primitive simplicity, so unlike those refined modes of modern life, so unlike those refined modes of modern life in which they have taken the lead.69 However, as we find the manners of the Iliad still preserved in some parts of the East, nay retaining, in a remarkable degree that general cast of natural simplicity … it may not be improper to inquire, how such an invariability in the modes of life should be peculiar to that part of the world.70

The same use of two different modes can be seen in Winckelmann; using the alterity mode, he argued that the ancient Greeks were different from the moderns and this explains why they should be relevant; at the same time, we can see him in some places using the immanency mode, as for example when he emphasises the

67 68 69 70

WOOD 1753 and 1757. WOOD 1775. See SIMONSUURI 1979, 133–42. WOOD 1775, 144. WOOD 1775, 145–6.

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role of the climate in forming the character. He even goes as far as arguing, when discussing the sources of beauty in Greek art, that At this very day, the Grecian isles are remarkable for the gracefulness and beauty of their inhabitants; and the female sex there retain still, notwithstanding their intermarriages with foreigners, such peculiar charms of complexity and figure, as exhibit a strong argument in favour of the transcendent beauty of their ancestors.71

So the Greeks can be past and different, but they can still be immanent in the climate and people of modern Greece. My second conclusion is that the construction of a historical relationship between the past and the present, between antiquity and modernity, is neither a value-free exercise in historical investigation, as positivist historians would have it, nor a continuous construction of novel fictions, as postmodernists would have it. All of the modes discussed above have indeed a larger agenda, which conditions, and even distorts, the image of antiquity and modernity that they produce. But at the same time readers, I hope, did not fail to observe that all four different modes have identified and pursued real historical problems in very interesting ways. To an important extent they are still main issues of research and discussion for modern scholars in our very days. This brings me to my third conclusion. I think it is fairly easy to see that the modes of constructing the relationship between the past and present during the eighteenth century have remained essentially the same in the twenty-first century. Finley’s agenda on the economic history of antiquity follows precisely the mode of distantiation initiated by Montesquieu and Hume, as he himself acknowledged.72 Ober’s work on Athenian democracy makes antiquity relevant precisely because of its alterity from modern political institutions and practices.73 Cohen’s depiction of The Athenian Nation74 as essentially similar to twenty-first century America follows to an impressive extent the proximity perspective created by de Pauw. Finally, the immanency mode can be easily observed in Horden and Purcell’s Mediterranean perspective on Greek history,75 in Gallant’s work on ancient and modern Greek subsistence techniques,76 or in the understanding of Athenian social values in terms of Mediterranean anthropology.77 Finally, to what extent can my classification of modes be applied to ancient Greek constructions of their own past, of their own antiquity and modernity? There is no space to explore this question in depth here; but as part of my conclusion, I would like to offer a few promising suggestions. Thucydides’ Archaeology can be seen as an attempt to apply a model of distantiation in relating to the past. The growth of resources and the emergence of naval empire create a totally new 71 72 73 74 75 76 77

WINCKELMANN 1766, 20. FINLEY 1973. OBER 1989. COHEN 2000. HORDEN – PURCELL 2000. GALLANT 1991. COHEN 1991.

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situation, which makes the archaic Greek past irrelevant for the Greek present and future. The Athenian funeral oration can be seen as applying a mode of immanency to the past: Athenian democracy and its concomitant values and practices, as presented in the funeral oration, is not a recent event in Athenian history but has been part of the Athenian condition since the earliest times.78 Finally, Demosthenes’ distinction between the simplicity and modesty of fifth-century Athenians and the luxury and degeneration of his contemporaries is set within a mode of alterity.79 Thus, the modes of constructing the past can be of great value for analysing the construction of Intentionale Geschichte in ancient Greece.

78 79

LORAUX 2006, 243–6. Dem. 13.28.

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