Memory and Religious Experience in the Greco-Roman World (Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beitrage) 9783515104258, 3515104259

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Memory and Religious Experience in the Greco-Roman World Edited by Nicola Cusumano, Valentino Gasparini, Attilio Mastrocinque and Jörg Rüpke

POTSDAMER ALTERTUMSWISSENSCHAFTLICHE BEITRÄGE (PAWB) Herausgegeben von Pedro Barceló (Potsdam), Peter Riemer (Saarbrücken), Jörg Rüpke (Erfurt) und John Scheid (Paris) Band 45

Memory and Religious Experience in the Greco-Roman World Edited by Nicola Cusumano, Valentino Gasparini, Attilio Mastrocinque and Jörg Rüpke

Franz Steiner Verlag

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2013 Druck: Offsetdruck Bokor, Bad Tölz Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-10425-8

INHALTSVERZEICHNIS Introduction ..................................................................................................... Nicola Cusumano/Valentino Gasparini/Attilio Mastrocinque/Jörg Rüpke Publishing the Proceedings of the 9th EASR – IAHR Special Conference (Messina, 14–17 September 2009) .................................................................. Giulia Sfameni Gasparro

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PART I MEMORY AND RELIGION IN THE GREEK WORLD Memory and Religion in the Greek World ...................................................... Nicola Cusumano

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Glaucus and the Importance of Being Earnest. Herodotus 6.86 on Memory and Trust, Oath and Pain .................................... Nicola Cusumano

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The Perpetuation of Memory in the Myths and Cults of Artemis in the Peloponnese........................................................................................... Isabella Solima

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Memory Lost, Memory Regained. Considerations on the Recovery of Sacred Texts in Messenia and in Biblical Israel: A Comparison ................. Daniela Bonanno

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The Origins and Deeds of our Gods: Inscriptions and Local Historical-Religious Memories in the Hellenistic and Roman World ............. Gian Franco Chiai

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Heroic Memory and Polis: Achilles and Athens in Zosimus’ Historia Nova .................................................................................. 115 Daniela Motta PART II RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE IN THE ROMAN WORLD Religious Experience in the Roman World ..................................................... 135 Attilio Mastrocinque/Jörg Rüpke On Religious Experiences that should not Happen in Sanctuaries .................. 137 Jörg Rüpke

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Group Settings and Religious Experiences ..................................................... 145 Marlis Arnhold Dionysos and Religious Experiences in Bona Dea Rituals ............................. 167 Attilio Mastrocinque From the Curia on the Palatine Hill to the Regia on the Forum: The Itinerary of the Salii as a War Ritual ........................................................ 177 Charles Guittard Staging Religion. Cultic Performances in (and Around) the Temple of Isis in Pompeii ....................................................................................................... 185 Valentino Gasparini Index................................................................................................................ 213 Maximilian Gutberlet

INTRODUCTION Nicola Cusumano, Università degli Studi di Palermo Valentino Gasparini, Universität Erfurt Attilio Mastrocinque, Università degli Studi di Verona Jörg Rüpke, Universität Erfurt Nicola Cusumano/Valentino Gasparini/ Attilio Mastrocinque/Jörg Rüpke In looking at classical antiquity, religion is easily reduced to gods, temples, and priesthoods, and the rituals performed within this framework. This list helps to identify religion in cultures that usually do not entertain notions of religion comparable to our own, or at least not ones that are widespread. The guidance offered by such a list is, however, treacherous. What we describe as “religion” for ancient societies is too easily reduced to a specific dimension of religion. Gods, temples, priests, and rituals concentrate on the visible remains of public architecture, on the institutions providing large-scale ritual, on standard forms of rituals, and on the most spectacular symbols of ancient religious action and discourse, a multitude of superhuman agents. If the religious practices and ideas of ancient societies should be analysed within a comparative framework, as suggested by the disciplines of the history of religion, Storia delle Religioni, or Religionswissenschaft, we need a larger conceptual framework, bringing into focus aspects that go beyond political identity, social integration, or mobilization. This is not to say that we need a universal concept of religion, bringing as many aspects of social action as possible into our field of vision. Any analysis and any comparison demand a specific perspective. But today’s manifold encounters with religion suggest that we should start from a broader concept of religion, which needs to be tailored to the interests informing our research. Thus, we suggest1 regarding ‘religion’ as a cultural product. It is to challenge the suggested definition and the related recent developments in religious studies that we brought together contributions on the topics of memory and experience. Both terms have stimulated interest in a wide range of recent cultural studies. In the history of scholarship on religion in Mediterranean antiquity, scholars have focused on the emotional dimension of both terms by employing the concepts of ‘Christianity’ and its derivative, ‘oriental religion’.2 Only recently has there been a shift to a methodology focusing on the individual and an analysis of emotional and cognitive phenomena from this perspective.3 Memory, on the other 1

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The following definition follows a proposal developed by Martin Fuchs and Jörg Rüpke in the context of the Research Group (KFG) ‘Religious Individualization in Historical Perspective’, financed by the German Science Foundation (DFG). See Rüpke 2010 for the decontextualisation of early ‘Christianity’ and Bonnet, Rüpke, Scarpi 2006 as well as Bonnet, Rüpke 2009 for the critique of any heuristic use of the concept of ‘oriental religions’ (leaving aside the issue of its political correctness). Sanzi 2000; Borgeaud 2009; Rüpke 2011; Rüpke, Spickermann 2012; Rüpke 2013.

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hand, has been studied from a historical rather than religious perspective.4 Like ‘experience’, it opens a window onto the interaction of individual and society, individual processes of memorialization and remembrance, as well as the collective evocation of memories and their shaping of individual memory. The relationship between religion and memory can be investigated through the practice of oath-taking, a particularly sophisticated social tool in ancient Greece. It concerns, in fact, both the status of social trust and problematic intercourses between gods and human beings, who find in oath a regulated and effective space of interrelation. In this volume, Nicola Cusumano focuses on the tale of the Spartan Glaucus in the Histories of Herodotus (“Glaucus and the importance of being earnest. Herodotus 6.86 on memory and trust, oath and pain”), which seems to illustrate the ambivalence of memory, the risks associated with trust, and the efficacy (and limits) of taking an oath based on it. The paper of Isabella Solima (“The perpetuation of memory in the myths and cults of Artemis in the Peloponnese”) focuses on how the relationship between memory and religion involves Artemis through two significant channels: through her rites, in the religious sphere narrowly speaking, and through her cults, whose institution goes back to historical events. The theme of recovered sacred memory, central to several ancient cultures of the Mediterranean, allows the legitimization of new states of affairs by representing them simply as ways of recovering the forgotten past. Accordingly, Daniela Bonanno (“Memory lost, memory regained. Considerations on the recovery of sacred texts in Messenia and in biblical Israel: a comparison”) focuses on how the fourth book of Pausanias’ Periegesis may be read as a journey across the collective memory of the Messenian ethnos, condemned to a painful diaspora for three hundred years. Inscriptions represent a useful source for reconstructing the cults, rituals, and religious mentality of the ancient world. Gian Franco Chiai (“The origins and deeds of our gods: inscriptions and local historical-religious memories in the Hellenistic and Roman world”) offers in his paper an overview of the epigraphical testimonies of the Hellenistic and Roman eras as well as a reconstruction of the different strategies of communication employed by the sacral texts (confessional inscriptions, aretalogiai, prayers etc.) in their local contexts. According to Daniela Motta (“Heroic memory and polis: Achilles and Athena in Zosimus’ Historia Nova”), at a time when most people believed in the power of a holy man’s intercession to save a city from barbarians or natural disasters, the memory of archaic heroes apparently continued to be worshipped by the last pagans. Two passages from Zosimus’ Historia Nova (IV 18 and V 6) tell us how Achilles saved Athens: these events, told only by Zosimus, are of great importance to the historian, according to whom the neglect of Roman ancestral religion brought about the decline of the empire. Zosimus probably draws on Eunapius, and the story of Athens’ preservation through observance of ancient cults, probably arising from a Neoplatonist context, highlights the cultural and religious role of the polis in Eunapius’ outlook. 4

Hölkeskamp 2001; Chaniotis 2005; Diefenbach 2007; Lucarelli 2007; but see now Rüpke 2012; Galinsky 2013.

Introduction

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Individually deviant religious behaviour is observed and criticized by ancient authors, particularly when it takes place in public temples. Jörg Rüpke’s chapter (“On religious experiences that should not happen in sanctuaries”) points to technical installations which contradict the norms on behaviour in temples as formulated by first-century philosophers. He explores the conceptualisation and utilisation of images as a key to understanding the behaviour described. It is ‘experience’ which serves as the central concept for this endeavour. The contribution of Marlis Arnhold (“Group settings and religious experiences”) addresses the topic of religious experiences via the settings created by collective agents, and explores how different options were used to create atmospheres and spaces which could potentially contribute to and effect religious experiences. In this, not only the structure and size of a group played a role, but also the choice of cult and rituals, as well as the design of the spatial settings required for the worship. For example, a mithraeum differed highly from a podium temple regarding the inand exclusion of cult attendants. But spatial arrangements and furnishing also influenced the atmospheres in which rituals were performed, which often required more than one active agent. Thus many actions helping to create atmospheres which could lead to religious experiences depended on the collective, whereas the settings often were the product of individual beneficence and initiative. As Attilio Mastrocinque notes in his contribution (“Dionysos and religious experiences in Bona Dea rituals”), Roman Dionysiac sarcophagi often represent the wedding of Bacchus and Ariadne. Many features of their reliefs depict precisely what Ovid’s Fasti 4.313–30 narrates of the myth of Omphale and Hercules. The Greek hero appears as sleeping or drunk, while the Satyrs or Faunus-Pan are lusting after him. He sometimes wears a necklace, and Omphale can also appear. The imagery of sarcophagi is not only fantasy or a representation of hopes for a happy afterlife, but also an image of what the Romans thought of Maenadic rituals of Fauna, Faunus’ wife or daughter. Such rituals were properly the preparation for a wedding, like the scene, depicted on many sarcophagi, where Ariadne is discovered by Faunus before Bacchus’ arrival. In these rituals, intrusions of cross-dressed men are known. These ceremonies were supposed to take place in a wilderness setting, probably in a cave. Charles Guittard’s analysis (“From the Curia on the Palatine hill to the Regia on the Forum: the itinerary of the Salii as a war ritual”) focuses on one of the oldest collegia in Rome, the Salii, a priesthood related to the sacred rhythm of war and to spectacular rites performed twice a year. At the beginning of March, a procession gathered in the Curia of the Palatine Hill and proceeded to the Regia in the forum to hold a sacrifice with the Pontifex Maximus and the Virgines saliares in the sacrarium Martis, in honour of the god of war. The whole month was marked by a series of feasts related to warfare: Mamurralia, Equirria, Quinquatrus, Armilustrium, Tubilustrium. In October, when the campaigning season came to an end, the rituals were performed in reverse order. Valentino Gasparini (“Staging religion. Cultic performances in (and around) the Temple of Isis in Pompeii”) explores the ritual dynamics experienced inside and around the sanctuary of Isis in Pompeii, and the way they shaped its architecture as well as its relationship with the surrounding urban fabric (the so-called “Theatres

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Quarter”). The paper aims to offer some original ideas on the complexity of these rites by recreating, through an archaeological perspective, a kaleidoscopic world made of a variegated emotional and even “physical” appropriation, where music, dance and scenic representations transformed the sanctuary itself into a theatrical orchestra, and the staircase, the altar, and the pronaos into a sort of stage. These two panels of the annual meeting of the European Association for the Study of Religion (EASR) at Messina in 2009 started a (not exclusively) ItalianGerman cooperation which led to the present book. We are grateful to the authors of these ten articles who readily embarked on the long path of reworking and translating their original talks, and to the editors of the series for remaining patient with this long process of exchange. Kelly Shannon, Oxford/Erfurt (financed by the German Science Foundation – DFG – within the framework of the International Research Group “Religious Individualization in Historical Perspective” – KFG 1013), linguistically revised all chapters, and we are most grateful to her, too. Maximilian Gutberlet compiled the Index. We also would like to thank Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, who took the trouble to outline the intellectual context of the conference for this volume. BIBLIOGRAPHY Bonnet, Corinne; Rüpke, Jörg (eds.) 2009. Les religions orientales dans les mondes grec et romain = Die orientalischen Religionen in der griechischen und römischen Welt (Trivium: 4). Paris. Bonnet, Corinne; Rüpke, Jörg; Scarpi, Paolo (eds.) 2006. Religions orientales – culti misterici: Neue Perspektiven – nouvelle perspectives – prospettive nuove (PawB 16). Stuttgart. Borgeaud, Philippe 2009. Violentes émotions: approches comparatistes. Genève. Chaniotis, Angelos 2005. “Akzeptanz von Herrschaft durch ritualisierte Dankbarkeit und Erinnerung”, in: Ambos, Clauset et al. (eds.). Die Welt der Rituale. Von der Antike bis heute. Darmstadt. 188–204. Diefenbach, Steffen 2007. Römische Erinnerungsräume: Heiligenmemoria und kollektive Identitäten im Rom des 3. bis 5. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. (Millennium-Studien 11). Berlin. Galinsky, Karl (ed.) 2013 (forthcoming). Memory in Rome and Rome in Memory (Memoirs of the American Academy at Rome). Ann Arbor. Hölkeskamp, Karl-Joachim 2001. “Capitol, Comitium und Forum. Öffentliche Räume, sakrale Topographie und Erinnerungslandschaften der römischen Republik”, in: Faller, Stefan (ed.). Studien zu antiken Identitäten. Würzburg. 97–132. Lucarelli, Ute 2007. Exemplarische Vergangenheit: Valerius Maximus und die Konstruktion des sozialen Raumes in der frühen Kaiserzeit (Hypomnemata 172).G öttingen. Rüpke, Jörg 2010. “Early Christianity in, and out of, context”, Journal of Roman Studies 99. 182–93. Rüpke, Jörg 2011. Aberglauben oder Individualität? Religiöse Abweichung im römischen Reich. Tübingen. Rüpke, Jörg 2012. Religiöse Erinnerungskulturen: Formen der Geschichtsschreibung in der römischen Antike. Darmstadt. Rüpke, Jörg (ed.) 2013 (forthcoming). The individual in the religions of the ancient Mediterranean. Oxford. Rüpke, Jörg; Spickermann, Wolfgang (eds.) 2012. Refl ections on religious individuality: GrecoRoman and Judaeo-Christian texts and practices (RGVV 62). Berlin. Sanzi, Ennio 2000. “‘Corpo’ e ‘spirito’ nell’esperienza religiosa dei culti misterici del Secondo Ellenismo”, in: Dal Covolo, Enrico; Giannetto, Isidoro (eds.). Cultura e promozione umana: la cura del corpo e dello spirito dai primi secoli cristiani al Medioevo: contributi e attualizzazioni ulteriori. Troina. 227–68

PUBLISHING THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE 9TH EASR – IAHR SPECIAL CONFERENCE (MESSINA, 14–17 SEPTEMBER 2009) Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, Università degli Studi di Messina

This publication marks the successful completion of the academic project related to the 9th EASR Conference and IAHR Special Conference which I organised at the University of Messina (14–17 September 2009). It brings together in a single volume (Memory and Religious Experience in the Greco-Roman World) two Panels respectively coordinated by the editors on the occasion of the Conference (Nicola Cusumano, “Memory and Religion in the Greek World”, and Attilio Mastrocinque – Jörg Rüpke, “Religious Experience in Sanctuaries in the Roman World”), and aims to provide the academic community with access to two of the most significant themes within the wider issues with which this conference was concerned. The first panel, focusing on the ancient Greek world, examined a theme that today is at the forefront of historical-religious studies, namely the formation and meaning of “cultural memory”. This field of study looks at the mechanisms that make it possible for individuals and social communities to hoard historical events in their selective memory, to a varying extent and for different reasons, and to transform them, sometimes deeply, in a process in which they may also be cancelled or reinvented. The second panel, whose papers examine material drawn from antiquity and late antiquity, dealt with the field of “religious experience”. Leaving behind the excesses of certain phenomenological approaches and psychologistic studies lacking sufficient academic foundations, current historical research is no longer afraid to examine this issue, with encouraging results. I am very grateful to the editors of this volume for inviting me to provide some considerations on the aims and results of this academic project, which, several years after its formulation and realisation, has not become less topical, but if anything more so. “The chosen theme, ‘Religion in the History of European Culture’, aims to encourage debate on the role played by the religious phenomenon in the long and diversified cultural history of Europe. At the same time – in line with the aims of the EASR – the intention is to emphasise how the formation and development of the history of religions as a scientific discipline has been specifically influenced by its ‘European identity’. In terms of comparative methodology and its definition of the subject ‘religion’, the discipline is in fact the result of academic movements which arose and developed within the environment of European culture in the 17th century, although with significant forerunners in previous centuries and in the Greek and Roman world. Since 2009 marks the 50th anniversary of the death of Raffaele Pettazzoni, founder of the SISR and co-founder and President of the IAHR, a section of the Conference will be dedicated to assessing his scholarship and role in the history of the discipline.”

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This was how I presented the goals of the meeting in extending, on behalf of the Società Italiana di Storia delle Religioni (SISR), the invitation to all the members of the European Association for the Study of Religions (EASR) to take part in the 9th EASR Annual Conference which, thanks to an agreement with the IAHR (International Association for the History of Religions) President Rosalind Hackett and the IAHR General Secretary, Tim Jensen, was also an IAHR Special Conference. To exemplify this goal and indicate the fundamental lines along which the proposed theme could be organised, at the same time I established a number of particular fields, in turn divided according to chronological criteria, and circumscribed specific issues, although leaving individual scholars or groups of scholars free to identify and discuss in depth aspects of this general theme, which could be developed in many directions. The project was thus arranged according to six main sections, establishing the “Suggested Topics to which Panels and Papers may relate”: 1. “Religious Europe” in the Mediterranean context: between Asia and Africa. Contacts and influences (antiquity and late antiquity; the Middle Ages; the modern era; the contemporary era). 2. The history of the “History of Religions” (a European “invention”?; reflections on the religious phenomenon and theories of culture; methodologies and theories on the origin and nature of religion; the contribution of European culture and the current scientific debate). 3. Meeting and conflicts between peoples and cultures; the role of religions in the European scenario from antiquity to the present day. 4. Europe: centre for the “diffusion” of religious traditions and pole of “attraction”, from antiquity to the present day. 5. The role and contribution of a “European Association for the Study of Religions” (EASR) within the world scenario of the IAHR: reflections and observations on a decade of experience. 6. Raffaele Pettazzoni: an Italian scholar in the international context of the IAHR. This project was welcomed by the academic world both in Europe and further afield, with many participants from all the national societies belonging to the EASR, as well as others from the USA, Canada, Brazil, South Africa, Japan, Australia, Israel and Turkey. Of particular significance were the talks given by the speakers in the Plenary Sessions, which, as agreed upon between myself and the colleagues who generously accepted my invitation, were intended to discuss wide-ranging themes, and also to provide material and stimulus for the contributions of the other participants. These talks are published in the second (2010) issue of the journal Historia Religionum (HR), thanks to the generosity of its editor Prof. Giovanni Filoramo, who, in his capacity as member of the Executive Committee of the SISR, shared and supported the initiative of the conference from the beginning. Even merely listing the titles of the General Papers allows us to perceive the wealth and exceptional variety of issues connected to the theme, which the Messina Conference tackled from various points of view and with the contribution of a wide range of experience and methods. Following the order of the papers presented over

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the intense days of the conference, I note that attention focused on issues of a methodological nature and at the same time of peculiar historical importance, such as that dealt with by Armin W. Geertz of the University of Aarhus, Denmark (“Religion, Cognition and Culture: A European Idea?”, published in HR 2 (2010) 21–38 as “Too much Mind and not enough Brain, Body and Culture. On what needs to be done in the Cognitive Science of Religion”), an important voice in the current methodological debate taking place within the discipline, as it seeks to embrace the cognitive science of religion. The paper by Enrico Montanari of the University of Rome “La Sapienza” (“Comparative Method and Historico-Religious ‘Commitment’: the Concept of ‘Secular Faith’ in R. Pettazzoni”, published in HR 2 (2010) 39–60 as “Il concetto di ‘fede laica’ in Raffaele Pettazzoni. Verso una ‘religione dello Stato’”), introduced the discussion on the scientific identity of Raffaele Pettazzoni, to whose work the SISR intended to pay homage on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of his death. In fact, a large section of the works of the conference, in line with the general plan, was occupied by a panel with contributions covering the entire span of the scholar’s intense activity (“Raffaele Pettazzoni: an Italian Scholar in the International Context of the IAHR”). Organised by Prof. Giovanni Casadio, it included many papers, some of which are published in a special issue of the journal Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni (SMSR 76/1, 2011), founded by the master of religious-historical studies in Italy. Tim Jensen (University of Southern Denmark, Odense, Denmark, and General Secretary of the IAHR), presented a talk on the theme “The EASR within the World Scenario of the IAHR 2000–2009. Observations and Reflections”, published in HR 2 (2010), 61–90 as “The EASR within (the World Scenario of) the IAHR 2000– 2009. Observations and Reflections”. Prof. Jörg Rüpke (University of Erfurt, Germany) offered a vivid picture of some fundamental issues of religious history in the Mediterranean in antiquity and late antiquity (“Hellenistic and Roman Empires and Euro-Mediterranean Religion”, published in HR 2 (2010), 91–102 as “Wann begann die Europäische Religionsgeschichte? Der hellenistisch-römische Mittelmeerraum und die europäische Gegenwart”). He addressed one of the classic themes of the history of religions, now reassessed in the light of burgeoning documentation and new interpretative models. The paper by Giovanni Filoramo (University of Turin, Italy) dealt with an old topic but one which is of current relevance and constantly evolving: “Dangerous Liasons. Roman Catholic Church and Jewish Communities in the History of Religious Europe”, published in HR 2 (2010), 103–114. The contribution by EASR General Secretary Kim Knott (University of Leeds, UK) introduced a theme of a methodological nature which has a strong impact on the present historical and cultural situation and poses urgent questions which await answers from scholars of history of religions: “Theoretical and Methodological Resources for Breaking open the Secular and Exploring the Boundary between Religion and non-Religion”, published in HR 2 (2010), 115–134. Maya Burger (EASR President, University of Lausanne, Switzerland), with her paper “Europe and India: an Essay in Creative Misunderstanding” published in HR 2 (2010), 135–146, a talk of great historical and cultural significance, introduced us to the issue of the rela-

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tions between Europe and the vast and variegated panorama of the other cultures with which it has always and variously interacted. Last but not least, the contribution of Kari Elisabeth Børresen (Senior Professor, University of Oslo, Norway), illustrating “The Formation and Significance of Christian Gender Models in European Culture” (HR 2 (2010), 147–153), focused on one of the most burning issues of the current situation, not only religious (with particular regard to the positions of the various Christian churches in Europe, and in particular of the Catholic Church), but also social, debating the issue of equal rights for men and women. This brief overview of the topics addressed in the plenary sessions gives an idea of the extent and variety of issues related to the theme of the conference, which were discussed and developed by the papers presented in the various sessions and panels. As I have noted, some of the panels, in addition to the general conferences, have been the subject of particular publications, among which I may mention the soon-to-be-completed work of Panel 13 (“Religio-historical historiography in Italy, between the end of the ninetenth Century and World War II”), organised by Mario Mazza, Giovanni Casadio and Natale Spineto and now edited by Mario Mazza and Natale Spineto (La storiografia storico-religiosa italiana tra la fine dell’’800 e la seconda guerra mondiale, Collana “Biblioteca di Studi Storico-Religiosi”, Edizioni dell’Orso, Alessandria 2013). While several participants have chosen different destinations for their contributions, the contributions presented in the general sessions and some panels (and thus the greater part of the Conference) is the subject of a single publication (Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, Augusto Cosentino, and Mariangela Monaca, eds., Religion in the History of European Culture. Proceedings of the 9th EASR Annual Conference and IAHR Special Conference 14–17 September 2009, Messina (Italy), Officina di Studi Medievali, Palermo 2013), whose publication is imminent. It will allow the entire academic community to assess the results of a meeting that looked at some of the most pressing issues of contemporary historical-religious debate from various perspectives and using various methodological approaches.

PART I MEMORY AND RELIGION IN THE GREEK WORLD

MEMORY AND RELIGION IN THE GREEK WORLD Nicola Cusumano, Università degli Studi di Palermo

Memory, expressed in different ways, plays a central role in ancient Greece as well as in many other cultures. This is because, in part, it represents a mediation between human beings’ unstable present and their “religious” practices. These practices in turn anchor social precariousness in a final and radically “other” reality, that of the supernatural, which by definition is not subject to precariousness. As Peter L. Berger says, one of the effects of the relationship between memory and religion is “to ‘locate’ human phenomena within a cosmic frame of reference”.1 Memory organises time for both the gods and for men in generational and genealogical order. Social groups, cultural patterns and religious systems “live” the past and use it to model and sustain representations of identity, that is to provide an answer to a need for sense. This is one of the reasons why memories are fluid and yet, at the same time, crystallised. It is this ambivalence which allows memory, or rather memories, to control and regulate the erosive and centrifugal power of change. Ordering and re-ordering the past is therefore to trace a map that mainly draws attention towards what from time to time becomes the centre, in respect of that which, on the contrary, remains on the margin. That is, memory proceeds in a “reconstructive” way, reorganising the past according to frames of reference in the present. If sense of the past gives collective continuity to experience, history is the raw material which elaborates new horizons of meaning. Only in this way will the shared past have normative value for the present: this kind of past functions as a tribunal where present disputes and uncertainties can be appealed. It follows that the preservation and erosion of memory are two aspects of the same process. In my opinion, this process furnishes a space in which to negotiate the tension between change and innovation on one hand, and on the other the tendency to discern elements of immutability: “The human personality is an arrangement for the preservation of conventional distinctions […] balancing motivation against compulsion by managing the transitions between them, and society is an arrangement among actors to the same purpose.”2

It is that which, in certain conditions, we define as “tradition”: institutions, values and other elements which structure society all exhibit a relationship with the past. It 1

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Berger 1990, 35. See also 25, n. 11: “Religion is the human enterprise by which a sacred cosmos is established.” Wagner 1981, 104: “I have argued that man creates his realities through objectification, giving his thoughts, acts, and products the characteristics of certain contexts selected as ‘controls’.” Wagner 1981, 48.

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is no coincidence that the sense of the past is manifested through a break with tradition. One of the symptoms by which this break is recognised is, for example, the set of “invented” traditions created to react to new situations through “social constructions” which exhibit a connection with a presumed past: ceremonial and obligatory repetitiveness creates an illusory effect of immobility and changelessness, as much as it satisfies a sense of belonging.3 This work on memory is necessary every time change in the social and political equilibrium (i. e. power relations) requires the reformulation of a system of rules with shared meaning, creating a social order that places memory at the centre and is generated by the interweaving of knowledge and power relations. In such a way, the story of the past responds to strategic urgency in a given historic moment. Within this space, oblivion is a constituent part as much as memory is. The incessant and inexhaustible play between memory and oblivion frames conceptual and institutional instruments, capable of ensuring a shared common life and survival of the community that recognises itself in them. With reference to Jan Assmann, who had the great distinction of recovering Maurice Halbwachs’ work,4 we can maintain that every society practices its own memory culture. In other words, it incessantly elaborates and re-elaborates a differing collection of references to the “past”: “Cultural memory has its fixed point; its horizon does not change with the passing of time. These fixed points are fateful events of the past, whose memory is maintained through cultural formation (texts, rites, monuments) and institutional communication (recitation, practice, observance).”5

This vision suggests a crucial question: what is the nature of the past? Is it really such a constantly unlimited and tractable resource? Or does every culture produce binding sets, necessary for a definition of identity?6 Specifically, in the area of the sacred, the dromena and legomena provide a grammar and reference system of temporal precepts and places of memory: “In the flow of everyday communications such festivals, rites, epics, poems, images, etc., form ‘islands of time,’ islands of a completely different temporality suspended from time. In cultural memory, such islands of time expand into memory spaces of ‘retrospective contemplativeness’ [retrospective Besonnenheit].”7

The Greek world provides a suitable laboratory to observe a space for mediation which complicates, but enhances, the distinction between ethnic and established religions, between “traditional” societies and “historical” ones.8 3 4 5 6

7 8

Hobsbawm 1974, 14. See also Hobsbawm 1992. Assmann 1992. Assmann 1995, 129. The lively and contentious debate developed by Maurice Bloch (Bloch 1977) and Arjun Appadurai (Appadurai 1981) focuses on this problem. Unlike Bloch, Appadurai holds that there are constraints on the tractability of the past constituted by cultural sets that every society produces. Assmann 1995, 129. Lévi-Strauss 1973, 40–41. More recently, see Grethlein 2010.

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In my opinion, the role that religion or religions play as “particular collective memory”9 remains at the fore. This type of memory necessarily measures and compares itself with other dimensions which Pierre Bourdieu unforgettably describes as “une lutte à mort pour la vie et la mort symbolique”: “voué à la mort, cette fin qui ne peut être prise pour fin, l’homme est un être sans raison d’être. C’est la société, et elle seule, qui dispense, à des degrés différents, les justifications et les raisons d’exister; c’est elle qui, en produisant les affaires ou les positions que l’on dit ‘importantes’, produit les actes et les agents que l’on juge ‘importants’, pour eux-mêmes et pour les autres, personnages objectivement et subjectivement assurés de leur valeur et ainsi arrachés à l’indifférence et à l’insignifiance […] à la facticité, à la contingence, à l’absurdité. […] La concurrence pour l’existence sociale connue et reconnue, qui arrache à l’insignifiance, est une lutte à mort pour la vie et la mort symbolique.”10

For all these reasons, memory can be expressed in many ways, but all equally combine to represent mental spaces and regulate communication strategies in the present through the complicated landscape of time. In short, they trace a complex and stratified anthropology of memory. BIBLIOGRAPHY Appadurai, Arjun 1981. “The past as a scarce resource”, Man 16. 201–19. Assmann, Jan 1992. Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in früheren Hochkulturen. Munich. Assmann, Jan 1995. “Collective memory and cultural identity”, New German Critique 65. 125–33. Berger, Peter L. 1990. The Sacred Canopy. Elements of a sociological theory of religion. New York. Bloch, Maurice 1977. “The past and the present in the present”, Man 12. 278–92. Bourdieu, Pierre 1998. Leçon sur la leçon. Paris. Filoramo, Giovanni 2004. Che cos’è la religione. Temi metodi problemi. Turin. Grethlein, Jonas 2010. The Greeks and their past: poetry, oratory and history in the fifth century BCE. Cambridge–New York. Hobsbawm, Eric J. 1974. “La funzione sociale del passato”, Comunità 171. 13–27. Hobsbawm, Eric J. 1992. “Introduction: inventing traditions”: in: Hobsbawm, Eric J.; Ranger, Terrence O. (eds.) 1992. The invention of tradition. Cambridge. 1–14. Lévi-Strauss, Claude 1973. Anthropologie structurale deux. Paris. 40–41. Wagner, Roy 1981. The invention of culture (revised and expanded edition). Chicago–London.

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Filoramo 2004, 264. Bourdieu 1998, 51–52.

GLAUCUS AND THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST HERODOTUS 6.86 ON MEMORY AND TRUST, OATH AND PAIN* Nicola Cusumano, Università degli Studi di Palermo “I think I understand you; you generalize, Don Benito; and mournfully enough. But the past is passed; why moralize upon it? Forget it. See, yon bright sun has forgotten it all, and the blue sea, and the blue sky; these have turned over new leaves.” “Because they have no memory,” he dejectedly replied; “because they are not human.” (Herman Melville, Benito Cereno)

The story of Glaucus the Spartan, his guilt, and the consequent destiny of his descendants holds a strategic position in the narrative economy of Herodotus. The story is the culmination of a long section in the sixth book which intertwines the story of the relationship between Athens and Aegina with that of the Spartan kings Cleomenes, Demaratus, and Leotychidas (6.52–86). The particular structure of this story makes it a cornerstone in the Herodotean vision of the nature and actions of man and their consequences, as well as the influence of divine intervention in human life. In particular, it concentrates on the ambivalence of memory, the risks associated with trust, and the efficacy (and limits) of taking an oath based on the latter.1 Referring to my introductory considerations on the relationship between religion and memory (above, pp. 17–19), the objective of this paper is to show that the whole system of stories to which I will refer is grounded on the constant and determining presence of an oath, at the crossroads of power and fragility. Furthermore, my investigation will highlight some primary cultural focal points: the polarisation between an unintentional act (ἄκων) and an intentional one (ἑκών); the theme of the legacy of guilt;2 the social nature of trust and the reciprocal behaviour this nurtures. The tale of Glaucus and the previous ones make it possible to focus on both the relationship between memory, oath and oblivion, as well as the interruption of * 1

2

I would like to thank Daniela Bonanno, Gian Franco Chiai, Giovanni Ingarao and my wife Donatella for their suggestions. I am the only person responsible for the content of this paper. Regarding unsworn oaths in general, see Callaway 1993, 19, where there is only a brief reference to Glaucus’ tale. Contra Mikalson 2002, 193. There are useful observations in Gray 2002, 313 and Fletcher 2011, 33. For a wider discussion regarding the problems caused by oath-taking in Greece, see Sommerstein, Fletcher 2007, passim. According to Gernet 1955, 537–39, in the story of Glaucus attention is focused on a vision of life “qui admet la transmission héréditaire de la responsabilité”, according to “la conception fondamentale d’une solidarité entre les générations.” On “accountability” in Herodotus, see Gould 1989, 70.

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that “reciprocity continuum”3 on which the social grammar of intercourse and cooperation is founded: “What the rules of justice will have to prescribe is reciprocity, and what is to be accounted as reciprocity, what is to be exchanged for what, will depend on what each party brings to that bargaining situation of which the rules of justice are the outcome”.4

1 BINDING MEMORY: OATH AND SOCIETY A close examination of oath taking in the Greek world is not the aim of this paper. It is important, however, to underline that its function of “social discipline”5 is closely tied to its role as a hinge between politics and religion, the human dimension and that of the divine. Oaths confer an irrevocable seal of guarantee for the affirmation being voiced or to the commitments being undertaken, maintaining the memory of them and at the same time rendering the consequences deriving from oblivion unstoppable and functional, especially if such oblivion is deliberate. In other words, the act of taking an oath is a stabilising force for the social group. Thanks to its ritual structure (e. g. Hom. il. 3.267–80, ὅρκια πιστά), it creates binding situations which serve as witnesses and guarantors through direct invocation of the gods, and/or of objects of marked symbolic significance. The use of “settings, symbolic gestures, bloody offerings”6 establishes the contract within the sphere of the divine, and makes the commitment derived from it both visible and binding: the oath anchors the words in something fixed and definitive and reduces the possibility of different interpretations, an inexhaustible source of ambiguity and conflict. An oath’s performative character7 produces a “temporal space” at its centre, es meson, to put it in Greek, where conflicts tied to memory can be reformulated under the sign of trust guaranteed by irrevocable divine intervention. This “temporal space” has a social nature,8 and the oath possesses all the characteristics of the “fait social”: a) pervasiveness; b) collective involvement; and c) the capacity to coerce.9

3 4 5 6

7 8 9

Sahlins 1972, 198; Calame 2006, 41: “[…] Mémoire consacrée et entretenue de manière communautaire dans des formes discursives.” Macintyre 1988, 36. Ibidem, 14: “[Dike] is the ordering of the polis”. Prodi 1992, 21. Sandowicz 2011, 17. See Benveniste 1947; Casabona 1966, 211–29; Benveniste 1969, 163–75. More recently see Sommerstein, Fletcher 2007. On the dangers of the “sacred” see Moulinier 1952 and Parker 1983. For a comparative and anthropological perspective see Douglas 1984, particularly chap. 6 Powers and Dangers, 95–114. See also Burkert 1996, 169–71. On performative-linguistic aspects see Austin 1962. On oath-taking see also Zuccotti 1998 and Giordano 1999, 36–41. The power of the oath, according to Paolo Prodi (Prodi 1992, 22), is constituted above all by its triadic structure: the relationship between the oath taker, the god, and society. See Durkheim 1895, 22–23: “Est fait social toute manière de faire, fixée ou non, susceptible d’exercer sur l’individu une contrainte extérieure; ou bien encore, qui est générale dans l’étendue d’une société donnée tout en ayant une existence propre, indépendante de ses manifestations individuelles.” See Calame 2006, passim.

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An oath is ultimately a word producing an effect, just like other speech acts, such as the oracular word, which has to be spoken to make an event take place; the word of justice or themistes pronounced by the basileus (Hom. od. 16.403); the word of the curse of the Arai (Aeschyl. eumen. 147); and by no means least the poetic word, the praise which helps what deserves to be remembered to grow and thus exist. It is worth remembering the incipit of the Herodotean Histories (1.1: “[…] This is the display of the inquiry of Herodotus of Halicarnassus, so that things done by man may not be forgotten in time (τῷ χρόνῳ ἐξίτηλα γένηται).”10 “What deserves to be remembered” is in fact the discriminating element that determines the aim of the narrative. 2 THE RELENTLESS OATH: IRREVERSIBILITY AND PUNISHMENT The Herodotean logoi offer various examples of the ways in which the commitments and affirmations expressed in oaths are not forgotten. The ritual gestures and verbal formulae present in the Histories at first sight seem to re-evoke the cultural horizons of the archaic age and express the preoccupation with avoiding oblivion and perpetuating the memory and irrevocability of an oath.11 The punishment of perjury is entrusted to entities belonging to the same divine sphere called upon at the time of the formulation of the oath. Among these are the Arai, the curses that an oath taker invokes against himself and his descendants in the case of perjury.12 Mythical portrayals highlight this punitive aspect: indeed, taking an oath already entails the risk of perjury and its consequences.13 In particular and of primary importance in the Herodotean tale analysed here, is the Hesiodic portrayal. Horkos, the oath personified (Works and days 219; 803–05), is described in the Theogony (231–32) as “Oath who most troubles men upon earth when anyone willfully (ἑκὼν) swears a false oath.”14 Horkos is significantly placed among the sons of Eris, Strife, who in her turn is daughter of “deadly Night” (Theogony 224: Νὺξ ὀλοή) and mother of other woeful entities, including Lethe and Oblivion (Theogony 226–27). What stands out even in Work and Days is the sigTransl. by A. D. Godley, Loeb Cambridge MA, [1925] 19816. All the following translations of Herodotus are from this edition. 11 E. g. 1.165–67 and 3.65.7. For a case of “willing oblivion” of the oath, see the story of Prexaspes in 3.75. On the various types of oath in Herodotus, see Bennardo 2004–2005. See also the interesting observations of Giraudeau 1984, 28–33 and Harrison 2000, 119. 12 On the link between Arai and Erinyes, see Hom. il. 3.278; 19.259–64; Aesch. seven against Thebes 70–71: “Erinys, the potent spirit of the vengeance of my sire”; Aesch. eumen. 415–17: “We are Night’s dread children (τέκνα). Curses (Ἀραί) are we named in our habitations beneath the earth”; Soph. el. 110–15. See Vallois 1914, 262 and Sewell-Rutter 2007, 79–81. See also Calame 2006, 212–15. All the following translations of Aeschylus are from H. Weir Smyth, Loeb Cambridge, MA., 1926. Those of Sophocles are by R. Jebb, Loeb Cambridge, MA. 1894. 13 See Benveniste 1947, 89–90; Benveniste 1969, 163–65. Contra Bollack 1958, 31. See Loraux 1997, 131–35. For alastor as “oath demon”, see Pippin Burnett 1998, 140–41 and 206, n. 77. 14 Transl. by H. G. Evelyn-White, Loeb Cambridge, MA 1914. All the following translations of Hesiod are from this edition. 10

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nificant relationship of Oath both with Oblivion and the Erinyes, daughters of the night, who are present at his birth, offering him his first care: “Avoid fifth days: they are unkindly and terrible. On a fifth, they say, the Erinyes assisted at the birth of Oath whom Strife bare to trouble the forsworn” (τὸν Ἔρις τέκε πῆμ’ ἐπιόρκοις, Work and Days 804). It is opportune to underline this genetic relationship, since it will be a leitmotif in the Herodotean text: Oath is a son (pais) of Eris, Strife, from which divisions among community members derive.15 It is no coincidence that the Erinyes are described as μνήμονες (“ever-mindful”), that is as the “active memory” of the oath, as δυσπαρήγοροι (“relentless”).16 Their implacability reveals a solidarity between oath and memory which can have consequences in reality, above all in a culture in which man describes himself as part of a wider social group from which his existence receives meaning. The most terrible punishment entails both the loss of possessions, which are seen as “an extension of oneself”, as well as deprivation of descendants, which is the other possible method of surviving beyond one’s own lifetime, as Nicole Loraux has rightly observed.17 Memory in the culture of archaic and classical Greece regards a particular state of mind, a feeling: its re-evocation has consequences in reality, and these consequences therefore endorse the concept of the word.18 3 OATH-TAKING IN HERODOTUS (6.52–85): FATHERS AND SONS, MEMORY AND OATHS As already mentioned, the tale of Glaucus, a Spartan citizen and the son of Epicydes (6.86), closes a long section of the sixth book which frames the story of three Spartan kings, Cleomenes, Demaratus and Leotychidas (6.52–85). The flashback on their rivalry is inserted within the tale of the conflict between Athens and Aegina (6.48–94) in the context of the release of some Aeginetan hostages. The narrative structure follows the logic of a story within a story and partially the process of mise en abyme: I will show how the destiny of Glaucus plays a key role in this plot in which oaths and the terms of these vows, betrayed trust, and deliberate oblivion are intertwined.19 15

16 17 18

19

Hesiod distinguishes between two types of Strife: “So, after all, there was not one kind of Strife alone, but all over the earth are two” (Work and Days 11–12). Loraux 1997, 136 and Zarecki 2007, 8–9. Aeschyl. eum. 382–84. See also Hes. theog. 54–135. Loraux 1997, 138. See also Aeschyl. prom. 516; eum. 383; Soph. aj. 1390. Loraux 1997, particularly 129–33. On Theogony 226–31, see Vallois 1914, 258. Simondon 1982, 223–24. See Chaniotis 2006, 212: “Intense emotions were sometimes to be expected (e. g., in funerals) or were deliberate, e. g., in oaths, curses, and confessions. For the understanding of rituals one needs to consider not only the norms that regulated them, but also the emotions of the participants and the tensions among them that threatened to undermine the rituals.” The history of the difficult relations between Athens and Aegina is present throughout the work of Herodotus, see 5.82: “This was the beginning (ἐξ ἀρχῆς τοιῆσδε) of the Aeginetans’ longstanding debt of enmity (ἔχθρη) against the Athenians.” See also 5.82–89, 7.144. This enmity

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In 6.48–50 the Aeginetans obey Darius and concede water and land, as do many other Greek communities. The Athenians accuse them of betrayal, protest to Sparta about this, and King Cleomenes orders the delivery of the hostages. On the instigation of the other Spartan king, Demaratus, the Aeginetans refuse and accuse Cleomenes of acting illegitimately (because according to the Spartan constitution both kings need to agree), and of having been corrupted by the Athenians. At this point (6.51), a long digression about the rights of Spartan kings starts, and only stops at chapter 60. Once again, as in other logoi, we see reference to the Sanctuary of Delphi, the religious authority which at one time had legitimised the dual monarchy of Sparta and, at the same time, the different prestige and rivalry of the two reigning families.20 In chapter 61, the focus returns briefly to the present: Cleomenes returns to Sparta from Aegina and considers taking revenge on Demaratus, who has defamed him (διέβαλε). Cleomenes accuses Demaratus of reigning without being entitled to: indeed, he is not the legitimate son of King Ariston. Here Herodotus begins another dive into the past (6.61–65) which amplifies the effect of the narrative, developing a complex intrigue which revolves around memory, oaths, and generational transmission: a plot that prepares us for the story of Glaucus with its ambivalence. Although Ariston has two wives, he has had no children. So he decides to marry again, this time the most beautiful woman in Sparta, who however is the wife of his friend, Agetos. Ariston promises to give his friend whatever he chooses and he is invited to do the same under the rule of reciprocal exchange. Since Ariston is already married, Agetos suspects nothing and the two friends seal the proposal with an oath (6.62: ἐπὶ τούτοισι δὲ ὅρκους ἐπήλασαν). Ariston asks for the most beautiful woman in Sparta, who thus passes from one husband to the other on the basis of an oath which even in the eyes of Herodotus was a trick, but equally an irrevocable commitment (ἀναγκαζόμενος μέντοι τῷ τε ὅρκῳ καὶ τῆς ἀπάτης τῇ παραγωγῇ). Demaratus is born prematurely to this woman and is initially disowned by his father before the Ephors, but then accepted as his son. The verb used on this occasion is ἀπόμνυμι, which has the sense of “to swear to deny something”, with particular reference to the official act of disowning a son.21 Later, on succeeding his father, Demaratus often conflicts with the other king, Cleomenes.

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has even more distant roots: “But the Aeginetans were uplifted by great prosperity, and had in mind an ancient feud with Athens (ἔχθρης παλαιῆς ἀναμνησθέντες) …” (5.81). See Corcella 1984, 73 and 197–98; Nenci 1998, 247; Rood 2007, 129. Regarding the use of mise en abyme in historiography, and particularly in speech structure, see Grethlein 2010, 98 and 220. On the incomplete connection of Ringkomposition and excursus in this part of book VI, see Spada 2008, 121–27. Regarding digressions in Herodotus’ Histories, see chiefly Cobet 1971, 45–82 and De Jong 2004, 112: “The historical ‘digressions’ are in fact analepses or prolepses, which are usually marked off by means of ring-composition, narratorial interventions which announce or conclude a section […], or by anaphoric and cataphoric pronouns (hōde, hōs, toionde, etc.)”. Defradas 1954 and Momigliano 1979, 71. On the overlapping structure of the section, see Corcella 1984, 197 and Beltrametti 1986, 137–40. Andoc. on the mysteries 127. Transl. by K. J. Maidment, Loeb Cambridge MA, 1968.

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Behind the apparently disordered mix of digressions, Herodotus is really making the rules for his vision of human history. To quote Charles-Olivier Carbonell: “Ce n’est pas l’espace qui ordonne et organise les Histoires. C’est le temps qui en fait une œuvre rigoureusement chronologique, même si cette rigueur exige un apparent désordre.”22

Herodotus returns to his starting point, that is the conflict between Athens and the citizens of Aegina, who are accused of taking the side of the Persians. Cleomenes, who had asked for the delivery of the hostages, is furious because he has been blocked by the accusation of corruption. As revenge (ἀποτίνυσθαι) he makes an agreement with Leotychidas, a Spartan with the same lineage (οἰκία) as Demaratus, that Leotychidas will become king in exchange for supporting Cleomenes against the Aeginetans. At this point a new digression enfolds in which tries to explain Leotychidas’ hate (ἐχθρός) for his relative Demaratus, who married his betrothed after raping her. Here the story takes a judicial turn, introduced once again by an oath. On the instigation of Cleomenes, Leotychidas swears on the illegitimacy of Demaratus and takes him to court. The term used this time is κατόμνυται, that is “to swear to confirm the authenticity of a past event.” The denunciation and oath sworn by Leotychidas start a conflict (6.66: ἐόντων περὶ αὐτῶν νεικέων), which rapidly moves onto a religious plane and involves the god of Delphi. In fact, the Spartans decide to turn to the sanctuary of Apollo to clarify their doubts about the legitimacy of Demaratus. The decision is made publicly and collectively since it is the socio-political balance itself which is in danger. Cleomenes follows a preestablished plan (ἐκ προνοίης): he corrupts an important Delphic person to convince the Pythia to establish (ἔκρινε) that Demaratus was not the son (παῖς) of Ariston. This soon happens and Demaratus is deposed (although later the corruption comes to light and the guilty parties are punished, 6.71–72). 4 MOTHERS AND SONS, OATH AND SUPPLICATION: DANGEROUS CONNECTIONS Leotychidas therefore becomes king through a dispute about fathers and sons, based on oaths taken and then denied but nevertheless actuated by a memory, which is the connection between the social microcosm and that of the divine. Herodotus ably constructs the character of Leotychidas first as victim to the tyranny of Demaratus and then as his persecutor: with the support of the Pythia, who has been corrupted by Cleomenes, he not only deprives Demaratus of sovereignty and of genetic and 22

Carbonell 1985, 145. According to Darbo-Peschanski 1987, 13, “Après avoir admis que l’apparence morcelée des Histoires reflétait leur être, on pose désormais que leur réalité profonde contrarie leur apparence et que leur diversité cache leur unité.” See Gould 1989, 39: “Herodotus’ stories are, for the most part, anchored somewhere in a single continuum of time, either by counting years or more often by counting generations”; Fornara 1990, 26: “He [Herodotus] pursues a multitude of subjects; he has a propensity for digressions that can fatigue the reader and complicate the narrative argument”; Rood 2007, 126: “Particularly distinctive of Herodotus is the use of anachrony in what some critics have thought equivalent to modern footnotes or endnotes.”

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social identity, but also humiliates him publicly with derision and insults (6.67),23 to the point of pushing the deposed sovereign to examine the memory of that paternal oath that has been the source of all his troubles. When he returns home, Demaratus sacrifices a cow to Zeus Ἑρκεῖος, protector of family life, and immediately afterwards summons his mother: in her hands he places (6.68: ἐς τὰς χεῖρας) parts of the entrails and begs her (κατικέτευε) to tell the truth (φράσαι μοι τὴν ἀληθείην). Technically the language used on this occasion does not directly refer to the oath, but to prayer and supplication.24 Furthermore, it seems clear from the context that the mother is excluded from the sacrifice, even though one can deduce that it takes place within the domestic space, from the mention of Zeus Ἑρκεῖος.25 Nevertheless the contact with the entrails binds her to a truthful relationship with both her son and the god. Herodotus seems to place Demaratus in a position that is deliberately ambiguous: on one hand, when he conducts the sacrifice, he acts as legitimate head of the household (oikos); on the other, however, he turns to his mother in the guise of a suppliant, that is of a stranger (xeinos).26 The storyteller uses the vocabulary of supplication twice, firstly in indirect narration (κατικέτευε) and then in direct speech which Demaratus addresses to his mother (ἱκετεύω). The repetition is reinforced by the participle καταπτόμενος with which Demaratus appeals to Zeus Herkeios and the other gods, a term which refers to a supplicant’s typical behaviour, i. e. clutching onto the gods’ altars and statues. The ex-king therefore finds himself in an uncertain position, caught between the affirmation of his identity and its denial. Only the ὀρθὸς λόγος of his mother can put an end to his doubts. It is not by chance that a specific term like κατερέω appears, a verb which when passive has the sense of a full confession without reservations, i. e. “truthful” (6.69: πᾶν ἐς σὲ κατειρήσεται τὠληθές): in this way memory becomes shared and puts back into play that past which seemed irrevocably sealed by the oaths taken by Ariston and then Leotychidas. The mother’s tale produces another flashback, based on a well known literary theme (a variant of the ménage à trois between Zeus, Alcmene and Amphitryon): the groom Ariston is substituted by a ghost which takes on his appearance (φάσμα εἰδόμενον Ἀρίστωνι), sleeps with his new wife, and then leaves crowns, which turn out to come from the heroon of Astrabacus,27 as a physical sign of his presence. The tone is in a minor key and almost parodic: the hero Astrabacus is not Zeus (as in the case of Alcmene), just as Ariston is not a fully legitimate husband. This does 23 24 25

26 27

Lloyd-Jones 1971, 68; Nenci 1998, 233. The taking of an oath requires an inseparable mix between verbal and nonverbal actions. See Harth 2006, 15–36 and Caciagli 2009, 187–88. Hom. od. 20.333–37; Lyc. a. leocr. 25. See Sourvinou-Inwood 1995, 16. According to Burkert 1977, 184 and 256, there is a close connection between Zeus Herkeios and Zeus Ktesios, not only “as centre of court and property”, but also as gods who guarantee the participation of citizenship: for both these gods their “places of cult are not transferable and thus indissolubly bind the man to his polis”. Brief observations in Scott 2005, 272. Paus. 3.16.6. See Burkert 1965. Regarding the fabulous nature of this and other stories Aly 1921 remains valid; on the birth of Demaratus in particular, see 156–57. On the influence of research on Herodotus by Wolf Aly, see Beltrametti 1986, 210–11.

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not stop Ariston demanding more credible evidence from his wife: she therefore takes an oath to confirm this, using the same word (κατόμνυμι) used by Leotychidas to affirm the illegitimacy of Demaratus (ἐγὼ δὲ κατωμνύμην), and at the same time she reproaches Ariston for denying that he was the man with whom she had just lain. In the story told by the mother wishing to persuade her son, the oath of confirmation (publicly taken) weakens her husband’s suspicions (6.69.3): “When he saw me swearing (κατομνυμένην), he perceived that this was some divine affair (ὡς θεῖον εἴη τὸ πρῆγμα)”. The mother’s tale concludes with a request that Demaratus no longer seek out the past, since he has now heard the truth declared in a solemn manner. One can note in this account a reversal of roles: in the mother’s tale it is the mother who has taken the oath (κατωμνύμην), and no longer the father. However, her vow remains an event in the past: it is not repeated in front of Demaratus. Finally, Herodotus’ insistent use of another verb needs to be underlined. The verb μετέρχομαι is typical in these situations of supplication. In this context it is best translated as “to beseech”, and yet one cannot and must not neglect the potential aggressive sense of this verb which renders the very same supplication a risky practice.28 Used first by the son towards his mother (6.68), and then again by the mother in her reply to her παῖς (6.69),29 this verb refers to λιταί, that is the “prayers”, which are well known in the personified Homeric and Hesiodean version (αἱ Λιταί, the “Prayers”, Hom. il. 9.502–23). The completeness of the mother’s tale is confirmed by her request that Demaratus no longer accept other logoi about his paternity, since they are by now rendered superfluous both by the absolute truth (“You have heard the whole truth”, τὰ γὰρ ἀληθέστατα) he has just heard and by the recovered memory of his mother’s oath, each authenticated by the sacrificial entrails placed in her hands. As well as being authenticated through the recovery of maternal memory, paternity reveals its function as an interface at the crossroads of multiple processes of socialisation and recognition. The same function can be better illustrated by Glaucus’ tale. 5 DEPOSITS AND TRUSTS, MEMORY AND RETURN AS CULTURAL OBJECTS: SOME GUIDELINES TO MEANING-MAKING Herodotus now moves into the future to illustrate the unhappy demise of the three kings,30 and with this aim turns to the general narrative framework of the Athenian denunciation against the Aeginetans (6.48–50). Cleomenes, finally rid of Demara28 29

30

Havelock 1978, 126–27; Crotty 1994; Naiden 2006, 82 and 273. Hdt. 6.69: “Therefore I entreat you by the gods to tell me the truth” (Ἐγώ σε ὦν μετέρχομαι τῶν θεῶν εἰπεῖν τὠληθές); 6.69.1: “My son, since you pray and entreat me to tell you the truth, the whole truth shall be told to you” (Ὦ παῖ, ἐπείτε με λιτῇσι μετέρχεαι εἰπεῖν τὴν ἀληθείην, πᾶν ἐς σὲ κατειρήσεται τὠληθές). Hdt. 6.72–84 (and Paus. 3.7.9). See How, Wells 1912, 92; Nenci 1998, 237; Scott 2005, 280– 81; Irwin forthcoming, 232 (I am very grateful to prof. Klaus Geus, Freie Universität Berlin, who allowed me to read the text at proof stage).

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tus, can wreak vengeance on the Aeginetans who have humiliated him and, together with Leotychidas, vent all his anger against them (6.73: δεινόν […] ἔγκοτον). Left without protection, the inhabitants of the island put up no resistance, and the two kings “round up” (this is the sense evoked by the verb ἐπιλέγειν in 6.73.2) ten hostages chosen from among the most eminent citizens, take them to Athens, and place them in the custody (παραθήκην κατατίθενται, entrust) of their worst enemies. Punishment therefore happens in a well known and regulated manner, that is the depositing of a possession.31 Usually the deposit refers to privately owned, material goods of some value: in this case the framework is that of an interstate conflict and the item placed in custody has great political value.32 A deposit implies its return and, at the same time, a preliminary definition of the conditions of return: it is impossible to fail to return a deposit without being in violation of the rules.33 In Plato this infringement is intertwined with the relationship between fathers and sons, ancestors and descendants, that is with the temporal line which sustains the notion of genos. Plato draws on a long tradition when he states (Laws 913c): “[…] if any man […] without the consent of the depositor takes up a treasure which neither he himself nor any of his forefathers has deposited (ἃ μήτε αὐτὸς κατέθετο μήτε αὖ πατέρων τις πατήρ), and thus breaks a law most fair, and that most comprehensive ordinance of the noble man who said, ‘Take not up what you laid not down’ […] what penalty should such a man suffer? God knows what, at the hands of gods (ὑπὸ μὲν δὴ θεῶν, ὁ θεὸς οἶδεν) […]. Such conduct is injurious (οὐ σύμφορα) to the getting of children […]”.

Plato makes reference to unspecified ancient stories (τοῖς περὶ ταῦτα λεγομένοις μύθοις), amongst which that of Glaucus could perhaps be included.34 What seems a simple, even obvious rule, which reciprocally binds the depositor and recipient can nevertheless cause intricate situations and lend itself to becoming a source of social mistrust and conflict. It is within this reference system that the second part of this paper is developed, with the aim of roughly identifying the posi31 32

Millett 1991, 204. We know at least one other case of an unusual type of deposit: At 9.45, the deposit is an illocutionary act by king Alexander of Macedonia, regarding the Persians’ intentions before the battle of Platea (Ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, παραθήκην ὑμῖν τὰ ἔπεα τάδε τίθεμαι). The “delivery” of this deposit will have to take place in the future through the activation of memory. See Macan 1908, ad l., and Flower, Marincola 2002, 33 and 188–89. 33 See Sahlins 1972, 217 and 247 on the multiple kinds of return. 34 A law attributed to Solon states: “a deposit shall not be removed except by the depositor himself, on pain of death” (Diog. Laert. 1.57: ἃ μὴ ἔθου, μὴ ἀνέλῃ, transl. by R. D. Hicks, Loeb Cambridge MA, 1972 [First published 1925]). See Plat. laws 913a–c: “Our business transactions one with another will require proper regulation” (Τὸ δὴ μετὰ ταῦτ’ εἴη συμβολαίων ἂν πρὸς ἀλλήλους ἡμῖν δεόμενα προσηκούσης τάξεως, transl. by R. G. Bury, Loeb Cambridge MA, 1967 & 1968). In the same section of Laws, the rule “Thou shalt not move the immovable” (μὴ κινεῖν τὰ ἀκίνητα) plays a centrale role. See also Laws 742c: “No one shall deposit money with anyone he does not trust (ὅτῳ μή τις πιστεύει)”. Plat. resp. 333c: “‘What then is the use of money in common for which a just man is the better partner?’ ‘When it is to be deposited and kept safe (Ὅταν παρακαταθέσθαι καὶ σῶν εἶναι), Socrates.’” (Transl. by P. Shorey, Loeb Cambridge, MA, 1969). See Millett 1991, 204.

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tion of the cultural objects at play:35 a) the trust that sets in motion the delivery of the deposit; b) the memory that guarantees its return; c) the oath that provides an ordered space in which potential controversies come together and possible conflict is neutralized. When used correctly, the deposit is a procedure that stabilises a reciprocal relationship and implicitly has ties with traditional forms of exchanging gifts.36 6 UNFAIR DEPOSIT, IMPROPER RETURN: KING LEOTYCHIDAS AND THE AEGINETAN HOSTAGES In the episode regarding Aegina, what was a widespread practice in the Greek world based on shared obligations and prohibitions seems to be ruined to the core by elements of impropriety and subversion. The action in 6.73 takes place in two phases: in the first, the Spartans seize ten men; in the second phase, these “goods” are given as a deposit to the Athenians. The deposit does not belong to the depositors (the two kings, Cleomenes and Leotychidas), but are hostages (ὅμηροι) taken by force and selected with the aim of weakening Aegina. And yet the language used (παραθήκην κατατίθενται) usually means “to deposit something with somebody”. The misdeed is first of all identifiable in the fact that the Aeginetans are excluded from this negotiation and, instead of making an exchange, they are the subjects of the exchange. Moreover, the deposit entrusted to the Athenians does not seem to provide for terms and conditions of return. In 6.85 Herodotus again resumes the narrative about the legal contention between Aegina, Athens and Sparta: years later when the Aeginetans hear of the death of Cleomenes (488 BCE), they file a suit against the other king Leotychidas regarding the hostages who remain “deposited” in the custody of the Athenians. Recognising the king’s guilt, the Spartan magistrates decide to re-establish reciprocity, making Leotychidas himself a hostage to be surrendered in exchange with those he himself had given to the Athenians (6.85: […] ἀντὶ τῶν ἐν Ἀθήνῃσι ἐχομένων ἀνδρῶν). This time it is the same citizens who voluntarily deliver their king in order to reactivate the balance fractured by previous behaviour. The intervention of a Spartan “wise advisor” (Θεασίδης ὁ Λεωπρέπεος, ἐὼν ἐν Σπάρτῃ ἀνὴρ δόκιμος) once again, however, changes the situation. The Aeginetans are warned of the risks of a possible “second thought” on the part of the Spartans and therefore give up the idea of taking Leotychidas away as hostage. Following the logic intrinsic to deposits, this is the right decision: only the person who has given the deposit can have it returned. And this indeed is the aim of the Aeginetans. An agreement (ὁμολογία) is then stipulated between the two sides: Leotychidas will accompany the Aeginetans to Athens to obtain the return of the deposit (6.86, ἀπαιτεῖν τὴν παρακαταθήκην). We see a process of duplication: on one 35

36

See the definition of Griswold 1987, 4: “I use the term cultural object to refer to shared significance embodied in form, i. e., to an expression of social meanings that is tangible or can be put into words”. Definitions 415d, attributed to Plato: Παρακαταθήκη δόμα μετὰ πίστεως), “deposit”, i. e. ‘which is given in trust’”. See Millett 1991, 204.

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hand, the two parties are Leotychidas and the Athenians; on the other, the two parties consist of Leotychidas and the Aeginetans. Attention is therefore focused on general principles which render the request for the return legitimate: the search for a solution introduces and justifies a new story within the narrative, that is the story of Glaucus.

7 GLAUCUS, THE MOST RIGHTEOUS OF ALL SPARTANS: TOKENS AND TRUST, MEMORY AND IDENTITY The Athenians refuse to relinquish the deposit, claiming as a pretext (προφάσιας) the same argument used by the Aeginetans at the beginning of the story, that the two Spartan kings are not present together. Leotychidas therefore opts for a “moral suasion” based on the authority of the past and the value of important teachings which the Greeks, particularly the Spartans attribute to the “stories from the past”.37 “Men of Athens, do whichever thing you desire. If you give them back, you do righteously; if you do not give them back, you do the opposite. But I want to tell you the story of what happened at Sparta in the matter of a trust” (Hdt. 6.86α, ὁκοῖον μέντοι τι ἐν τῇ Σπάρτῃ συνηνείχθη γενέσθαι περὶ παρακαταθήκης, βούλομαι ὑμῖν εἶπαι).

The tale, set about three generations before Leotychidas (ἐν τῇ Λακεδαίμονι κατὰ τρίτην γενεὴν τὴν ἀπ᾽ ἐμέο), seems to have been intended to be related orally, given the continual repetition of oral markers (Λέγομεν ἡμεῖς οἱ Σπαρτιῆται […] φαμὲν […] τάδε λέγομεν […]). Glaucus, the son of Epicydes (Γλαῦκον Ἐπικύδεος παῖδα), a Spartan citizen famous throughout Greece for his many good qualities, one day receives a visit from a rich stranger (ξεῖνος) from Miletus wishing to benefit from Glaucus’ famous righteousness, δικαιοσύνη38 (ἥκω δὲ τῆς σῆς, Γλαῦκε, δικαιοσύνης βουλόμενος ἀπολαῦσαι). Given the political instability of the Greeks of Asia, the Milesian feels it is wise to guarantee the future of his oikos and descendants: in fact, “nowhere in Ionia do we see the same men continuing to possess wealth”.39 He wants to deposit half of the family’s inheritance with Glaucus in monetary form (τὰ ἡμίσεα πάσης τῆς οὐσίης ἐξαργυρώσαντα θέσθαι) together with some tokens (σύμβολα). These will be kept as a material sign of both the commitment undertaken and the memory of it, as well as the identity of the possessor. Indeed, Glaucus would have to “restore the money to whoever comes with the same tokens and demands it back.” According to this agreement, Glaucus receives the deposit with these tokens (Γλαῦκος δὲ ἐδέξατο τὴν παρακαταθήκην ἐπὶ τῷ εἰρημένῳ λόγῳ). Some observations can be made immediately. In the first part of the story, the σύμβολα appear to be the binding elements: the agreement is based on them, and trust, with its double sense of confidence (πίστις) and deposit (παραθήκη/ παρακαταθήκη), is established. It is for this reason that a conflict regarding the 37 38 39

Plat. hipp. maj. 285d. Gagarin 2002, 74. This is a continually repeated guiding principle of Herodotean thought, e. g. 1.5 and 9.122.

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σύμβολα can lead naturally to the oath as a space for regulation and resettlement every time a breach of trust is discovered and resolved. Another element of duplication regards memory, as will be seen in the next part of the story. The σύμβολα are by definition incomplete and have to be reunited with their counterparts to become whole: this is the only way to reliably communicate and pass on the authenticity of the contract agreed in the past.40 Σύμβολα are therefore material memories which reciprocally oblige two people in relation to certain items and on the basis of certain pre-established conditions. The tale of the virtuous Spartan had to sound familiar both to the audience of the tale and to Herodotus. For the internal narrator, Leotychidas, the story is true.41 Even if Herodotus does not seem to doubt the authenticity of the story of Glaucus, the historian’s position nevertheless does not coincide with that of the secondary narrator, as I shall show. The story has an anecdotal and legendary flavour, while also alluding to the uncertain situation of the Greeks of Asia in sixth century due to the Persian conquest and the Ionic revolt. In spite of these allusions, which would be recognisable to Herodotus’ audience, one has to agree with those scholars who maintain that “the moral tale of Glaucus […] has no historical content; the situation is ‘immemorial’ suspended in an anecdotal, essentially timeless and placeless limbo”.42

Furthermore, it is important to remember the persuasive aims of Leotychidas’ speech to the Athenians.43 From this perspective, there is a clear asymmetry between the main character (Glaucus and his genos, not all Spartans), on one hand, and, on the other, all Athenians as a political community. Lastly, from the perspective of a wisdom oriented anecdote without precise historical truth, it can be helpful to reflect on the irony created by Glaucus’ name and family name. If the story is accepted as legend, the names become part of a network of allusions typical of such stories: indeed, the name selected is also that of the Homeric hero Glaucus the Lycian, who in the duel scene with Diomedes (Hom., il. 6.119–236) is an extreme and generous example of the rigour with which one has to understand the rules of hospitality exchange and inter-generational hospitality. In 40

Gauthier 1972, 65–66 is accurate when he speaks of “marques de reconnaissance”. Theognis (1137, 1139 and 1147–50) links trust with the “evil deeds”: “Let him beware always of the crooked speech of the unrighteous, who having no respect for the Immortal Gods do ever set their heart upon other men’s goods, making dishonorable covenants for evil deeds (αἰσχρὰ κακοῖσ› ἔργοις σύμβολα θηκάμενοι) (transl. by J. M. Edmonds, Loeb Cambridge MA, 1931). See Nagy 1984, 253 and Bouvier 2004–2005, 87 (and, therein, the paper of D. Bonanno). See the definition of polis by Macintyre 1988, 34: “The expression of a set of principles about how goods are to be ordered into a way of life”. 41 Griffiths 2007, 135–36. See also Rood 2007, 130. 42 See Myres 1953, 74 and 80, and Lateiner 1989, 144 and 226. For the inclusion of Glaucus among the “morality tales” see Fontenrose 1978, 113 and 118–19; Nenci 1998, 248–49; Eidinow 2007, 46–47. Contra Parke, Wormell 1956, 17. 43 Gould 1989, 41. The story of Glaucus is a “memorable traditional tale” used as a means of persuasion in a public rhetorical framework aimed at collective and political decisions. In Immerwahr’s opinion (Immerwahr 1966, 214), “its [Glaucus’ tale’s] underlying idea is that justice in international relations corresponds to justice in private relations, in that both are a give-andtake based on mutual trust” (italics mine).

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its turn, the father’s name Ἐπικύδης, an evocative name (“glorious”, “brilliant”) linked to the Homeric κῦδος (“renown”, e. g. Il. 1.405; 5.506; 8.51), bitterly confirms the destiny of the son: yes, Glaucus becomes famous, but in a different way from that set out by the archaic code.44 The σύμβολα exchanged between the depositor and receiver understandably enter the sphere of reciprocity based on the sharing of trust.

8 LOST IN OBLIVION: DISCLAIMING SYMBOLA, DENYING IDENTITY The functioning of the σύμβολα involves a double and reciprocal procedure: recognising the identity of others, and being recognised in your own identity. Here the voluntary amnesia of Glaucus comes into play, which introduces the second part of the story. A long time later (Χρόνου δὲ πολλοῦ), the children of the citizens of Miletus arrive at Sparta and, after having displayed the tokens, ask Glaucus if they can have their paternal possessions back in accordance with the agreement established with their father. At this point, an embarrassing tug of war begins which overturns the initial terms of the story. Glaucus does not remember the event (oὔτε μέμνημαι τὸ πρῆγμα) and neither do the children’s attempts to remind him about the man from Miletus succeed in jogging his memory. Nevertheless, such oblivion does not stop the wise Spartan from remembering his reputation as a righteous and earnest man. He therefore adds that once his memory returns (ἀναμνησθείς) and confirms his receipt of the deposit, he will take steps to return the deposit as stipulated by the law (ποιέειν πᾶν τὸ δίκαιον). On the other hand, if he remembers that he did not receive the deposit, things will be regulated according to Greek custom (νόμοι). Finally, he allows himself and his memory (τέταρτον μῆνα) three months of time to make a decision.45 The situation is complex: not only does it hinge on memory and oblivion, but also on true and false memory. Here the act of remembering takes place on two levels: the first is the return of memory, but this does not in itself guarantee the memory of the deposit (and its return). On the second level, Glaucus clearly says that he wants to remember, but that he could remember that the deposit did not take place. There are therefore two double events, separate but intertwined: a) remembering / not remembering; b) remembering what is true / remembering what is false. The Herodotean text does not allow for the possibility of innocent oblivion happening in good faith, that is involuntarily. The strangers leave resigned to the loss of their paternal legacy.46 The reference to Greek nomoi suggests that the first exchange of the σύμβολα took place without witnesses. Resorting to an oath is therefore the only weapon available to the creditors

44 45 46

See Baslez 2008, 47. Regarding the anthropological space of κῦδος, see Kurke 1993. See Gernet 1917, 62–63. Gauthier 1972, 76.

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who feel they have been denied the agreement represented by the σύμβολα.47 Glaucus knows that he will be unable to avoid this oath, and this has further consequences. The compensation that the receiver of the deposit denies to the depositor will be translated into another type of compensation, in which the unexpected intervening factor will be social identity and the generational memory of the main character. 9 “BUT OATH HAS A SON” The sons of the man from Miletus have left, to return (with little hope) at the end of three months. For his part, Glaucus makes his way to Delphi to consult the oracle: he wants to ask the god “whether he should seize the money under oath” (εἰ ὅρκῳ τὰ χρήματα ληίσηται). Once again the Pythia appears and plays a decisive role.48 Equally, the close correspondences between the previous stories and the story of Glaucus are clear. The same verb μετέρχομαι, which we have seen mark the dialogue between Demaratus and his mother (above, pp. 26–28), now symmetrically marks that between Glaucus and the priestess. Here, however, the focus is moved from the human arena to that of the divine, from the area of supplication to that of the illocutionary (and implacable) force of the words. It is worth examining directly the Pythia’s response in hexameter to the Spartan’s request: “The Pythian priestess threatened him in these verses (μετέρχεται τοῖσδε τοῖσι ἔπεσι): ‘Glaucus son of Epicydes, it is more profitable now / To prevail by your oath and seize the money (χρήματα ληίσσασθαι). / Swear, for death awaits even the man who swears true. / But Oath has a son (Ὅρκου παῖς), nameless; he is without hands / Or feet, but he pursues (μετέρχεται) swiftly, until he catches / And destroys all the family and the entire house. / The line of a man who swears true is better later on’” (6.86γ).

It has been rightly observed that the Pythia’s reply includes two parts: one part derives from Hesiod, as confirmed by the verbatim repetition of a verse (Works and days 285): “The line of a man who swears true is better later on”. In the other part, we see attention focused on the relationship between man and god, and on the difference between the involuntary act and the intentional one.49 The description of the son of Oath (Ὅρκου παῖς) is largely connected to that “underworld” genealogy which was mentioned in the earlier part of this paper. In Works and days 320–26 we find the inspiration for the Delphic verses: “Wealth should not be seized: god-given wealth is much better; for if a man takes great wealth violently and perforce, or if he steals it through his tongue (ὅ γ› ἀπὸ γλώσσης ληίσσεται), as often happens when gain deceives men›s sense and dishonor tramples down honor, the gods soon blot him out and make that man›s house low, and wealth attends him only for a little time”.

This warning recurs frequently and insists above all on the relationship between deliberate falsehood and future retribution involving descendants: 47 48 49

The resignation of the Milesian’s sons seems to further confirm the non-historical nature of the story: see Bravo 2011. Gernet 1955. See Crahay 1956, 97–98; Nagy 1984, 272. From a different perspective, see Gagné forthcoming [2013]: “Les deux parties du texte se répondent de manière parfaitement symétrique”.

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“For whoever knows the right and is ready to speak it, far-seeing Zeus gives him prosperity; but whoever deliberately lies in his witness and foreswears himself, and so hurts Justice and sins beyond repair, that man’s generation is left obscure thereafter” (works and days 282–85).50

The question up for discussion here is not the Hesiodic and generally archaic framework, which is undeniable, so much as the value the Herodotean public gave to it in the fifth century. From this perspective, authors such as Pindar and the tragedians seem to take seriously the gravity of perjury and its consequences for descendants.51 If we move into the fourth century, the theme remains alive, as we can gather from both Plato and Aristotle,52 and also from judicial oratory. For example, Lysias and Demosthenes refer to an oath κατ’ ἐξωλείας, i. e. “invoking annihilation upon himself and his children”.53 Other sources for the story can also be identified outside the Greek world. The story is set in Sparta, but is also connected with Miletus in Asian Ionia, a culturally mixed area and home of the depositor. It comes as no surprise to note that similar types of oath which call for eradication of memory through the destruction of descendants as a punishment for perjury are widespread throughout the Aegean and the Near East. In Akkadian, the oath itself is said to be transformed into a demon who seizes the transgressor. Comparable to the story of Glaucus is a Babylonian document that bears witness to the conflict between an insolvent debtor, in spite of repeated oaths and a desperate creditor: “The one who swears a (false) oath by Nanna and Šamaš will be covered with leprosy. He will become poor and have no heir”. A similar case is a text discovered at Ugarit (thirteenth century BCE): “Fear the oath and save yourself. The one who swears at the river (but) refuses the payment, his wife will never have children”.54 Nevertheless, neither Hesiod’s poetry nor eastern parallels can fully account for Herodotus’ representation, which remains singular and substantially isolated.55 It requires a systematic analysis of its most significant elements. 50

Theog. 231–32; works and days 263–64: “He does mischief to himself who does mischief to another, and evil planned harms the plotter most”. See Lonis 1980, 274. Cf. od. 4.824 and 9.454: about these verses see Griffin 1980, 162 and Callaway 1993, 20. 51 Pind. ol. 2.65–68. See Grethlein 2010, 22 and 30. Aeschyl. agamemnon 466 and choephorae 853. About Euripides, see Torrance 2009, 4: “There is no reason to doubt that Euripides took oaths as seriously as other fifth-century Greeks […] Jason in Euripides’ Medea essentially suffers the traditional punishment for perjury through the extinction of his family line”. Contra Sewell-Rutter 2007, 3; Lonis 1980, 274–75: “L’imprécation appelle donc la malédiction non seulement sur le parjure, mais aussi sur sa maison et même, dans certains cas, sur sa descendance […]”. 52 Plat. resp. 363c: “And others extend still further the rewards of virtue from the gods. For they say that the children’s children of the pious and oath-keeping man and his race thereafter never fail (παῖδας γὰρ παίδων φασὶ καὶ γένος κατόπισθεν λείπεσθαι τοῦ ὁσίου καὶ εὐόρκου)”. See also Arist., F 148 Rose. 53 IG 12.10.15; Antiph. on the murder of Herodes 11; Lys. a. eratosth. 10. See also Demosth. a. aristocr. 68 and a. timocr. 151. Callaway 1993, 20; Loraux 1997, 137. 54 Burkert 1996, 172; Sandowicz 2011, 18 and 30–31. 55 Repeated references to this Herodotean passage are in Plut. de sera numinis vindicta, 22.556; Juvenal sat. 13.199–207; Stobaeus anthologium 3.27.14.27 and 3.28.15.5. See also Eustathius comm. ad hom. Il. 1.652.10, and anthologia graeca 14.91.4. According to Crahay 1956, 97–98, it is possible to consider this tale as “un fabliau unique”. Nenci 1998, 248–49.

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10 BEING NAMELESS AND UNUTTERABLE As the Pythia assails Glaucus on hearing his request, the same verb (μετέρχεται) heralds the son of Oath’s assault on Glaucus. It is an inescapable assault which is seemingly paradoxical in its description. In fact, the son of Oath is characterised by two peculiar features: he is ἀνώνυμος, but while he has no hands or feet he quickly and relentlessly seizes his victim. In relation to anonymity, there are two different levels to consider: the human and supernatural. On the human level, anonymity expresses a situation of temporary or permanent marginality, as can be established from the Odyssey and in some ethnographic sections in Herodotus. Alcinous sees Odysseus weep as he listens to Demodocus singing, and asks the hero to finally reveal his identity, because “there is no one of all mankind who is nameless (ἀνώνυμος), be he base man or noble, when once he has been born, but parents bestow names on all when they give them birth” (Od. 8.552).56

Anonymity is a condition which places the individual beyond the social nature of the human “space”. Even in Herodotus it is a condition which places man in an unsocial space. He notes that anonymity makes the Atarantes exceptional: “These are the only men whom we know who have no names (ἀνώνυμοί εἰσι μοῦνοι ἀνθρώπων τῶν ἡμεῖς ἴδμεν); for the whole people are called Atarantes, but no man has a name of his own” (4.184, see also 4.45 and 7.16). The absence of name characterises the extreme position of marginality and assigns these people to “last position”, making them unrecognisable.57 Given this, it is not surprising to find an interest in anonymity in tragedy and judicial oratory. In fact, the term ἀνώνυμος is regularly associated with the absence of glory (ἀκλεής), with the lack of homeland and home (ἄπολις, ἄοικος), and above all with the lack of descendants (ἄπαις). Equally interesting is the connection between anonymity and oath taking. In Euripides’ Hippolytus, the father Theseus accuses his young son Hippolytus of the death of Phaedra. To defend himself, Hippolytus swears an oath: “I swear by Zeus, god of oaths, and by the earth beneath me that I never put my hand to your wife, never wished to, never had the thought (μηδ› ἂν θελῆσαι μηδ› ἂν ἔννοιαν λαβεῖν). May I perish with no name or reputation (ἀκλεὴς ἀνώνυμος) [citiless, homeless, wandering the earth an exile] and may neither sea nor earth receive my body when I am dead if I am guilty (κακὸς ἀνήρ)!” (Eurip. hippol. 1028–31).58 At this point there is a clash between Theseus, who does not trust his son’s oath and the Chorus, which considers Hyppolytus’ words sufficient to inspire trust (1036–37): “[Chorus Leader] You have made a sufficient rebuttal of the charge

56 57 58

Transl. by A. T. Murray, Loeb, Cambridge, MA., 1919. All the following translations of Homer are taken from this edition. Hartog 1980, 46. Transl. by D. Kovacs, Loeb Cambridge MA., 1994–2002. Regarding the connection between polis and oikos, see Camassa 2007, 93. See also Darbo-Peschanski 1987, 28.

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against you by giving your oath in the name of the gods, which is no slight assurance” (ὅρκους παρασχών, πίστιν οὐ σμικράν, θεῶν). The son proclaims his innocence by means of the oath and, at the same time, affirms the absence of willingness and intent:59 this is exactly what Glaucus cannot do, and what will lead him to ruin. Anonymity is therefore perceived not only as a weakness, but also as a threat which hangs over the whole social order. Plato (Laws 878b) holds that a party guilty of a bloody crime like murder or injury (ἐξαμαρτόντα) must be without name (ἀνώνυμον), without children (ἄπαιδα), and without his rightful inheritance (ἄμοιρον).60 It is important to underline here that anonymity is part of the social sphere, both in the public and private area: indeed, it is connected to the absence of time and kleos, and therefore to oblivion.61 This threatening element is certainly present in the anonymity of the son of Oath, against which it seems impossible for Glaucus to defend himself. This aspect, which is explicit in the Delphic hexameter, makes this entity even more terrible. Indeed, without knowing a name, how does one know whom to react against? The absence of name highlights the extreme strangeness (and otherness) of the avenger. Turning to the supernatural, anonymity frequently characterises entities belonging to the dimension of the underworld, bound to the sphere of impurity (miasma) and its reparatory procedures: their literary (and figurative) representation is problematic, and anonymity is a symptom of that difficulty. Above all, it seems to connote pre-Olympic entities such as the Moirai (the goddesses of Fate), the Sirens,62 and especially the Erinyes (see above, pp. 23–34), called “the anonymous Goddesses” in Iphigenia in Tauris (944): […] ταῖς ἀνωνύμοις θεαῖς […]. In any case, what is of interest here is that anonymity characterises entities from the underworld that punish the guilty through isolation and social oblivion.

59

Cf. Eurip. iphig. in tauris 502: Orestes does not want to reveal his name to Iphigenia and tells her: “If I die unnamed, I would not be mocked at” (ἀνώνυμοι θανόντες οὐ γελώιμεθ’ ἄν). See Ion, 1372: “I think on that time when my mother, after a hidden union, sold me secretly and did not allow me the breast; but in the temple of the god, without a name, I had a slave’s life (ἀνώνυμος … εἶχον οἰκέτην βίον)”. All the following translations of Iphigenia in Tauris and Ion are by W. J. Oates and E. O’Neill, Jr., New York 1938. 60 E. g. Isaeus menecl. 36–37, 46, on the connection between “gave his name” (ἐθέμην τὸ ὄνομα)/ “house’s anonymity” (ἵνα μὴ ἀνώνυμος ὁ οἶκος αὐτοῦ γένηται)/“childless”/“nameless” (ἄπαιδα δὲ τὸν τελευτήσαντα καὶ ἀνώνυμον). Transl. by E. S. Forster. Loeb Cambridge, MA, 1962. 61 See e. g. Isocr. antidos. 136. See laws 873d, regarding the cowards who kill themselves (ἀνανδρία): “They shall be buried in those borders of the twelve districts which are barren and nameless (ἀργὰ καὶ ἀνώνυμα), without note, and with neither headstone nor name (μήτε στήλαις μήτε ὀνόμασι) to indicate the tombs”. Aristotle ethica eudemia 1221 and Pollux onomasticon 5.159 associate anonymity with a series of unsocial values: envy, ill repute, ingloriousness, blame, etc. See Zeitlin 2008, 92. 62 Regarding the Moirai, see Eurip. fr. 13 Page: […] ἃ δ’ εἴς τε Μοίρας τάς τ’ ἀνωνύμους θεὰς […]. Regarding the Sirens as an anonymous pair, see Eustathius comm. in dion. perieg. 358: […] αἱ Σειρῆνες δύο καὶ ἀνώνυμοι […]. See Scarpi 2005 and Pirenne-Delforge, Pironti 2011, 102–103.

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As already mentioned, the relationship between otherness and anonymity is ambiguous in the same way that there are many names which characterise other terrible and implacable gods, such as in the case of Hades, “the Son of Cronos, He who has many names”.63 Even Apollo is described πολυώνυμος, in Hymn 3.82: it is in the verses in which the island of Delos asks Leto to swear that Apollo, the child to be born, will build his first temple there, in exchange for a place of welcome for her next birth, since the god “surely … will be greatly renowned” (ἐπεὶ ἦ πολυώνυμος ἔσται). The oath is solemnly taken (84–86): “And Leto swore the great oath of the gods: ‘Now hear this, Earth and wide Heaven above, and dropping water of Styx (this is the strongest and most awful oath for the blessed gods) […]’”.

11 A DREADFUL SON, AN UNBREAKABLE MEMORY: THE AWFUL BODY OF OATH’S PROGENY “Being nameless” is not the only way the Pythia represents the son of Oath. The absence of hands and feet is added to his anonymity (οὐδ’ ἔπι χεῖρες οὐδὲ πόδες). This type of monstrosity is akin to being a monopode, or, homologically speaking, to having multiple limbs or to lacking limbs entirely (apodia). Compare Scylla’s twelve feet in the Odyssey: “Verily she has twelve feet, all misshapen […]”(od. 12.89, πάντες ἄωροι). The semantic oscillation of ἄωρος is significant here. It is a word which indicates both an excess of quantity as well as deformity and incompleteness: in other words, a monstrosity which expresses weakness and power together. Then there are the Graiai, the Gorgon’s sisters, single-toothed and one-eyed creatures: “the faircheeked Graiae, sisters grey from their birth” (theogony 270–71).64 The case of kings Ariston and Demaratus is closely linked to the integrity of trust and the area of sexual relations. The kings obtain their wives wrongly, or there is the case of Demaratus’ mother who has an ambiguous erotic experience. The mythical model for this type of situation is the cripple Hephaestus who catches up with and captures the rapid Ares, thereby punishing the anomy and chaos caused by Aphrodite’s adultery: “Ill deeds thrive not (οὐκ ἀρετᾷ κακὰ ἔργα). The slow catches the swift (κιχάνει τοι βραδὺς ὠκύν); even as now Hephaestus, slow though he is, has out-stripped Ares for all that he is the swiftest of the gods who hold Olympus. Lame though he is, he has caught him by craft, wherefore Ares owes the fine of the adulterer (τὸ καὶ μοιχάγρι’ ὀφέλλει)” (od. 8.329–32).

In all these cases, being deformed in respect to the feet is not only the expression of an uncontrollable power, of a threatening otherness, but also expression of an ability to re-establish order where it has been shattered. From this perspective, the best example of this theme is still the Erinyes, whose connection with Oath I have already underlined. In Sophocles’ Electra, the heroine and her sister talk about the need to seek vengeance for the death of their father 63 64

Hymn 2 to Demeter, 18 and 32: “that son of Cronos, of many names”. See Calame 2011, 9 and 11. Cusumano 2006.

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Agamemnon. Electra hopes that their brother Orestes (παῖδ’ Ὀρέστην) can join them with powerful means at his disposal (ἐξ ὑπερτέρας χερóς) and stamp out their enemies (ἐπεμβῆναι ποδί). The Chorus predicts the imminent arrival of Justice: “Justice, the sender of the omen, will come, winning the just victory of her hands’ might (Δίκα δίκαια φερομένα χεροῖν κράτη)” (electra 455–75). It is a clear sign of the unrelenting memory of Agamemnon’s death: “Never does the lord of the Hellenes forget (Οὐ […] ἀμναστεῖ)” (electra 482). The fragile and pliable memory of men is countered by the unbreakable memory of the Erinyes of Agamemnon, whom Sophocles describes as πολύπους καὶ πολύχειρ (489–90): “She, too, will come, she of many hands and many feet who lurks in her terrible ambush, the bronze-shod Erinys”. Through the reference to an excess of hands and feet, these verses highlight the ability of the Erinyes to pursue and seize the guilty party to deliver the right punishment. The memory of the Erinyes is also specifically connected to Oath in the rhesis by Ajax in the Sophoclean drama of the same name, when the hero tricks both Tecmessa and the chorus and isolates himself for his imminent suicide.65 The fragility of memory is the counterpart to the fragility of an oath, both expressions of betrayed trust : “All things the long and countless years first draw from darkness, and then bury from light; and there is nothing which man should not expect: the dread power of oath (δεινὸς ὅρκος) is conquered, as is unyielding will” (Soph. ajax 646–49).

On the seashore, immediately before killing himself, Ajax asks Zeus to protect his corpse from the outrage of his enemies and animals. This plea is also made to the Erinyes: “And I call for help to the eternal maidens who eternally attend to all sufferings among mortals, the dread, far-striding Erinyes (σεμνὰς Ἐρινῦς τανύποδας) […] Come, you swift and punishing Erinyes (ταχεῖαι ποίνιμοί τ’ Ἐρινύες), devour all the assembled army and spare nothing!” (835–44).

Implacability, speed, and excessiveness intertwine to fence off a space protected from tricks and betrayal, where an oath can be taken and maintained and return power and integrity to injured memory.66 Again, Hesiod comes to mind: the bad action fuels the speed of the punishment, a quality of Oath in Theogony (231–32) and in Works and days 219: “For Oath keeps pace (αὐτίκα γὰρ τρέχει Ὅρκος) with wrong judgements”. Oath therefore belongs to the same category as underworld beings such as the Erinyes, as well as beings who manifest their regulatory power through deformed or excessive otherness, as in the case of Hephaestus. The Son of Oath, already nameless, appears as a mutilated creature, deprived of movement and grip, yet even he can move quickly in order to seize, like a real underworld power.

65 66

Farmer 1998. Hesychius, τ 149 line 1 · ταχύποδας, ἐν τάχει τιμωρουμένας. Scholia in Sophoclem, (scholia vetera) Ajax, 837, τὸ τανύποδας …τὰς πανταχοῦ τεινούσας τοὺς πόδας.

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The excess of hands and feet is analogous to their absence, similar to the relationship between anonymos and polyonymos that I have suggested. Indeed, anonymity produces social stigma comparable to that produced by physical deformity. The power and implacability of the son of Oath are tied to strangeness and eeriness: on the level of ritual practices, they are a reminder of the Curse Tablets, in particular the judicial ones, in which the absence of hands and feet play a role.67 The condition of incompleteness in its various forms is at play here: the status of son (pais), however, is already in itself an expression of otherness because it indicates an as yet incomplete being. The punishment inflicted on Glaucus is the extinction of genos which can only take place through the absence of sons (paides). It therefore seems legitimate to identify the son of Oath as a double of the Erinyes. Alongside them, another group of entities should be remembered, the Litai, i. e. the Prayers, described in book IX of the Iliad and mentioned earlier in relation to the dialogue between Demaratus and his mother on the crucial subject of paternity and identity. The verb “pray” (λίσσομαι) recalls the ambivalent “beseech/attack/ seek to avenge” (μετέρχομαι), and that places the Homeric description in the functional area not only of the Herodotean Son of Oath, but also of the other “beings” recalled earlier. If we follow the Homeric verse directly, the coherence of the whole picture and the internal references appear immediately clear: “For Prayers are the daughters of great Zeus (λιταί εἰσι Διὸς κοῦραι), halting (χωλαί) and wrinkled (ῥυσαί) and of eyes askance (παραβλῶπές τ’ ὀφθαλμώ), and they are ever mindful to follow in the steps of Sin (μετόπισθ’ ἄτης ἀλέγουσι κιοῦσαι). Howbeit Sin is strong and fleet of foot (σθεναρή τε καὶ ἀρτίπος), wherefore she far out-runneth them all, and goeth before them over the face of all the earth making men to fall, and Prayers follow after, seeking to heal the hurt. Now whoso revereth the daughters of Zeus when they draw nigh, him they greatly bless, and hear him, when he prayeth; but if a man denieth them and stubbornly refuseth, then they go their way and make prayer to Zeus, son of Cronos, that Ate may follow after such a one to the end that he may fall and pay full atonement (ἵνα βλαφθεὶς ἀποτίσῃ)” (il. 9.502–12).68

One can clearly see the general tone which recalls on the one hand Works and Days69 with references to the Erinyes and Oath, and on the other the Delphic hexameter which in Herodotus’ text gives the Son of Oath the ability to seize hold of those who are guilty of perjury (κραιπνὸς δὲ μετέρχεται), and destroy their line (γενεή) and house (οἶκος). What matters most here is to observe the constant use of descriptive elements which refer to a conflicting vision of the world, in continual tension between order and anomy. The discourse strategies that have been examined return insistently to peculiarites of name or deformity of parts of the body, defined in terms of excess or flaws. A relevant and paradoxical role is assigned to the symbolic exchange between weakness and power, which leads us to the penalty that in the end all of us have to pay, in the present and future. All the elements examined seem to lead us 67 68 69

See Michel 1957 and Jordan 2000. See Naiden 2006, 273. See Hainsworth 1993, 128–30 and particularly 129: “The description of the Λιταί clearly must be pathetic […] It is characteristic of admonitory literature”.

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towards the notions of “retribution” and of “guilt by descent”, which are activated by both the strength and the fragility of the social importance of trust.70 12 GLAUCUS’ REPENTANCE: ASKING FOR THE GOD’S FORGIVENESS An examination of the second part of the Pythia’s response to Glaucus allows us to clarify two fundamental questions: Why is Glaucus punished? What is the ideological framework that establishes the sense of this story in the whole Herodotean narrative? The Pythia’s response immediately produces a feeling of repentance in Glaucus: “When Glaucus heard this, he entreated the god to pardon (συγγνώμην τὸν θεὸν παραιτέετο) him for what he had said (τῶν ῥηθέντων). The priestess answered that to tempt the god and to do the deed had the same effect (τὸ πειρηθῆναι τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ τὸ ποιῆσαι ἴσον δύνασθαι)” (6.86γ).

Pardon here is not admissible, and the nature of guilt is closely tied to intentionality.71 The problem of “intention” is not about what had been previously done in the external part of the sanctuary, i. e. Glaucus’ intentional oblivion regarding the agreement made with the stranger from Miletus and the non-recognition of the tokens inherited by the sons, but rather about the question that has been put to the god within the sacred area. In fact, the question itself is endowed with power and is therefore dangerous: “to tempt the god” (τὸ πειρηθῆναι τοῦ θεοῦ) is a language act which is not so different from an oath (above, pp. 22–23). Glaucus’ words, delivered as a query to the god, produce a lesion in that reference system on which the cohesion of any social reality is based. It is no coincidence that the conflict between the Spartan and the Delphic god reaches its peak in the symbolic short-circuit of the two communicative faculties, speaking and hearing, which are normally supported reciprocally in the real sense as a pair of tokens. We observe a flawed exchange between what is said (by Glaucus to the Pythia and vice versa) and what is heard (first by the Pythia and then by Glaucus). In fact, Glaucus’ repentance relates to what he has said (to the god), not what he would like to say/do (to the Milesian’s children). In my opinion, this explains the priestess’ reply. She pulls together both sides of the problem, which Glaucus had separated, just as in the narrative he had disregarded the “right order” implicit in the exchange of tokens: to say (“to tempt the god”) produces the same consequences as “to do the deed” (τὸ ποιῆσαι ἴσον). 70

71

Deigh 1996, 12–13, and 6: “A good will is what qualifies a person as trustworthy”. With regards to μετέρχεται, see the observations of Gagné forthcoming [2013] about “l’aspect progressif du présent de metérchetai, qui commence dès que l’acte est commis, pour se poursuivre jusqu’à son éventuel accomplissement final […] au-delà de la mort”. About syngnome in Herodotus, see Naiden 1996, 243 and Konstan 2010, 30 and 66. As regards the importance of intentionality to measure the gravity of an offence, see also Demosthenes against aristocrates 50: “[…] If a man slay another with malice aforethought (ἐκ προνοίας), indicating that it is not the same thing if he does it unintentionally (εἴ γ’ ἄκων, οὐ ταὐτόν) […]”. Transl. by A. T. Murray, Loeb Cambridge, MA, 1939.

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Glaucus’ question destabilises the effect of legitimization exercised by the divinity, which is linked to a set of shared “moral” standards.72 In other words, it is a request which can have only one of two solutions: to allow the destruction of that “set of standards”, or to destroy Glaucus, the one who pushed himself to the edge of the abyss “deliberately and of free will”, and who has endangered the fragile balance between the conflicting forces which regulate the boundaries of human relations. This is why he has no means of escape. He will not pay personally for the debt. Nevertheless the crime was committed vis-à-vis the god, and the penalty is played out on the two levels of immortality: divine (temporal immortality) and human (immortality through the memory of genos). Not perceiving the fracture in appropriate relations between men and divinities, Glaucus does not grasp the gravity of the situation: this is why his second thought cannot obtain the god’s pardon. His mistake is that of having involved the religious sphere and exposing the entire social structure to an unceasing contagion. The punishment that strikes will be extreme and unrelenting. Glaucus’ misunderstanding of the true sense of his mistake is confirmed at the end of the tale in which the secondary narrator king Leotychidas and his Athenian listeners reappear: “So Glaucus summoned the Milesian strangers and gave them back (ἀποδιδοῖ) their money. But hear now, Athenians, why I began to tell you this story: there is today no descendant of Glaucus, nor any household that bears Glaucus› name (Γλαύκου νῦν οὔτε τι ἀπόγονον ἔστι οὐδὲν οὔτ᾽ ἱστίη οὐδεμία νομιζομένη εἶναι Γλαύκου); he has been utterly rooted out (ἐκτέτριπταί τε πρόρριζος) of Sparta. So good is it not even to think anything concerning a trust (περὶ παρακαταθήκης) except giving it back on demand!” (6.86δ).

The return of the deposit to its legitimate owner also implies the “restitution” of memory, revived by the Delphic response. Leotychidas warns the Athenians that Glaucus remembered, but too late. The key term here is πρόρριζος (i. e. “by the roots”), which refers not only to the annihilation of Glaucus’ line and house, but also to the eradication of his social memory: in the narrative, Leotychidas underlines that the punishment has taken place and that the generational line of Glaucus is already broken (νῦν, that is “today”).73 Πρόρριζος, however, has a more complex and deeper significance that returns at other points critical in formulating Herodotus’ vision of the past: “Only thrice, in exceptionally significant narratives, does Herodotus employ the poetic word prorrhizos: Solon’s warning to Croesus, Amasis’ warning to Polycrates, and here”.74

72

73

74

Cairns 1999, 172: “Remorse is thus predicated upon responsibility […]. Equally, remorse and its concomitant desire to make reparation (and elicit forgiveness) are fundamental strategies in the maintenance of co-operation […]”. See also Thomas 1999, 128. On the relationship between man and god in Herodotus, see Lateiner 1989, passim. Filoramo 2004, 32 underlines the Herodotean tendency “a distinguere nettamente storia umana e storia divina”. Crahay 1956, 97–98 rightly observes that the final detail of the extinction of Glaucus’ genos implies a knowledge of the future, a characteristic of the wisdom oriented anecdote. See also Lloyd-Jones 1971, 68. Lateiner 1989, 144.

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At whom is the warning aimed here? It seems to be aimed at the Athenians, at least on the secondary level of narration. One therefore has to ask whether this warning which regards the future of the receivers of the deposit has a satisfactory conclusion or not. The doubt is legitimate: “Thus spoke Leotychidas; but even so the Athenians would not listen to him, and he departed” (6.87). In the chapters that immediately follow, however, it will be the Aeginetans and not the Athenians who are put in a bad light, when they carry out two acts of sacrilege narrated in detail in the following section of the sixth book (6.87–93).75 13 THE REVERSE SIDE OF THE STORY: SPERTHIAS AND BULIS AS COUNTERPARTS OF GLAUCUS The narrative examined so far reveals a “problematic” approach which emerges more clearly from a comparison with the story of the two Spartans Sperthias and Bulis.76 The famous story is found in the seventh book (7.133–37): in my opinion, it is an example which confirms Herodotus’ tendency to disseminate unexpected cruxes and implications throughout his otherwise “traditional” narration. The setting is the expedition of Xerxes and the theme is the inviolability of the heralds, a norm which both the Athenians and the Spartans had violated in the days of Darius, when they killed his messengers. This time, therefore, Xerxes does not send any. At this point, Herodotus starts one of his many digressions in which he tries to throw light on the causal mechanisms of human behaviour. This wickedness has consequences in Sparta, where the embassies are entrusted to the descendants (Talthybiadae) of the mythical herald Talthybius, to whom a sanctuary was dedicated. The hero shows his anger through bad omens during sacrifices (7.134) and, since the sacrificial crisis continues, the assembly officially asks if any citizen is prepared to sacrifice his life (εἴ τις βούλοιτο Λακεδαιμονίων πρὸ τῆς Σπάρτης ἀποθνῄσκειν) to recover the good will of the hero.77 Herodotus describes how two Spartans of noble birth and great wealth, Sperthias son of Aneristus and Bulis son of Nicolaus, offer “of their own free will” (ἐθελονταί) to make amends for the wrongs inflicted on the Persians in the past. The ritual nature and scapegoat aspect of their deaths will not be considered here. Instead, I will concentrate on two main connections with Glaucus: the principle of reciprocity and restitution, and that of “guilt by descent”.78 After a discussion with the Persian Hydarnes, 75 76

Hdt. 6.87 and 6.92. Lloyd-Jones 1971, 68; Macan 1908, ad l. Another comparison worthy of attention, but not here, is the story of Pactyes (1.158–59), which presents interesting parallels with Glaucus. See mainly Immerwahr 1966, 214, n. 71; Fornara 1990, 41–42; Mitchell 1997, 76; Chiasson 2003, 24. 77 See Irwin forthcoming, 226: “The Spartan herald does not ask if anyone wishes to speak, but rather whether they wish to die for their city; the difference not only privileges deed over word, for some a classic distinction between Sparta and Athens, but also stresses the ergon which should be the most important priority of a citizen, or so at least Pericles asserted in logos as the first funeral oration of the war”. 78 In Hdt. 9.88 Pausanias refuses to kill Attaginus’ sons: “[…] On these terms they made an agreement, but Attaginus escaped from the town. His sons were seized, but Pausanias held them free

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Sperthias and Bulis arrive before the king and, after refusing “to fall down and bow to the king”, they pass on the message from the Spartans in which they play an integral role: “The Lacedaemonians have sent us, O king of the Medes, in requital for the slaying of your heralds at Sparta, to make atonement for their death (ποινὴν ἐκείνων τείσοντας)”. Xerxes’ reply is ambivalent and includes two points: 1) he will not lower himself to the level of the Spartans who have violated a universal human law (συγχέαι τὰ πάντων ἀνθρώπων νόμιμα); 2) he will not release the Spartans from their guilt (ἀπολύσειν Λακεδαιμονίους τῆς αἰτίης).79 There are some significant details: a) the Spartans and Persians share the same code of communication, so the confrontation is on the level of νόμιμα for all men; b) Xerxes breaks the pattern of reciprocity, albeit natural between enemies at war, and will not accept reparatory exchange; c) on the other hand, respect for the code and readiness to reciprocate will not save the Spartans from unrelenting consequences – that is, they will not avoid suffering the effects of “guilt by descent”. For a moment Talthybius’ anger (ἡ Ταλθυβίου μῆνις) seems to appease, despite Sperthias and Bulis being refused in exchange and returning to Sparta alive (7.137). At this point, Herodotus makes one of his now familiar leaps into the future and moves forward to the Peloponnesian War: “Long after that, however, it rose up again in the war between the Peloponnesians and Athenians, as the Lacedaemonians say (ὡς λέγουσι Λακεδαιμόνιοι). That seems to me to be an indication of something divine. It was just that the wrath of Talthybius descended on ambassadors, nor abated until it was satisfied. The venting of it, however, on the sons of those men (ἐς τοὺς παῖδας) who went up to the king to appease it, namely on Nicolas son of Bulis and Aneristus son of Sperthias […] makes it plain to me that this was the divine result of Talthybius› anger (θεῖον τὸ πρῆγμα). These two had been sent by the Lacedaemonians as ambassadors to Asia, and betrayed (προδοθέντες) by the Thracian king Sitalces son of Tereus and Nymphodorus son of Pytheas of Abdera, they were made captive at Bisanthe on the Hellespont, and carried away to Attica, where the Athenians put them […] to death (ἀπέθανον ὑπὸ Ἀθηναίων)”.80

79

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of guilt, saying that the sons were not accessory to the treason” (Παυσανίης ἀπέλυσε τῆς αἰτίης, φὰς τοῦ μηδισμοῦ παῖδας οὐδὲν εἶναι μεταιτίους). See Corcella 1984, 201. According to Irwin forthcoming, 247: “When he [Xerxes] rejects the legitimacy of killing Sperthias and Boulis as poine, he also rejects the principle that reciprocation-in-kind legitimates the performance of acts recognized as illegitimate: some actions are bad in themselves, always, regardless of the context. His rejection speaks rather remarkably to the Athenians of 430 BC […] He [Herodotus] depicts the Persian king not only respecting the legitimacy of a universal law that the Athenians in 430 will have broken a second time, but also rejecting the principle they evoke to legitimate that act”. Cobet 1971, 72–74. See also Rood 2007, 127: “The story of the revival of the anger of the herald Talthybius during the Peloponnesian War – when the Athenians execute the sons of the Spartan heralds sent to make amends for the execution of Persian heralds (7.137) – is placed just before Herodotus’ praise of the Athenians for not abandoning their fellow Greeks or surrendering to Xerxes (7.139). This external prolepsis is, as we have seen, one of a number of anticipations of the later conflict between the two great victors of the Persian Wars”. According to Irwin forthcoming, 217: “Herodotus’ portrayal of these Spartans responds polemically to the ideology, policies and fate of the Athenian who gave that speech, the man who was for many responsible for the conditions prevailing in 430 BC, for Athens’ increasingly harsh imperial policies, the war they precipitated with Sparta, and its consequences”.

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Just as in the tale of Glaucus, the point of view employed here is that of the Spartans (“as the Lacedaemonians say”, ὡς λέγουσι Λακεδαιμόνιοι). While Glaucus has only thought about committing a misdeed and is punished severely (by descent), in the other case the situation is reversed. Sperthias and Bulis’ good intentions to make up for a wrong, sacrificing themselves for the sake of the community, does not have the same determining value, and the god will make their descendants pay the same price.81 In the case of Glaucus, “to tempt the god” is sufficient to precipitate the events. In the case of Sperthias and Bulis, however, the right and honest intention to make amends for the wrong committed against the sacred world and to reactivate reciprocity on a human level is still insufficient. Xerxes denies them their reward.82 Other structural features connect the two stories. The tale of Sperthias and Bulis in the seventh book is in fact preceded by a list of the poleis that had delivered water and land to Xerxes, in the same way the narrative of the sixth book began with the subjection of various Greek areas (particularly Aegina) to the Persians, and its consequences. Even an oath is present, which here, immediately before the story of Sperthias and Bulis, closes the list of the treacherous Greek cities. Here, too, the god at Delphi is implicated in the oath: “Against all of these the Greeks who declared war with the foreigner entered into a sworn agreement (ἔταμον ὅρκιον), which was this: that if they should be victorious, they would dedicate to the god of Delphi (δεκατεῦσαι τῷ ἐν Δελφοῖσι θεῷ) the possessions of all Greeks who had of free will surrendered themselves to the Persians. Such was the agreement sworn by the Greeks” (7.132).

I would like to conclude these observations by looking at the “other side of the coin”, both here and in the story of Glaucus. On one hand, this alternative perspective makes the relationship between men and gods less transparent and predictable, and, on the other, points to the fragility of the rules and their sanctions.83 Indeed, the general law according to which transgressors unleash an inescapable and retributive reaction is fulfilled imperfectly in practice. It is Herodotus himself who insists on this. He notes some significant “cracks”, and in this way reserves for himself the right to take a more active role as critical narrator and witness of a world that is difficult to decode. Its complexity casts shadows on memory and makes it difficult to understand the past from the present. Confirming the narrative connection between these two “edifying” stories, we once again find the Athenians in a difficult role. In fact, they share the same guilt as the Spartans: they too have killed the heralds of Darius. They should therefore pay the same price according to the same law, 81

82 83

Regarding the inheritance of guilt, the best story is perhaps that of Athamas, Phrixus and Cytissorus (7.197): nevertheless, it does not seem to include those elements of crisis evident in the two stories of Glaucus and Sperthias and Bulis. Irwin forthcoming, 245. See Desmond 2004, 29: “Athenian-Aeginetan relations were a concatenation of ἀδικήματα and attempted retributions (6.87–93)”. This observation underlines the problematic nature of the story of Glaucus: it is true that the Athenians refuse to follow moral teaching and deliver the hostages, but the conflict between Aegina and Athens is very long and old, and both rivals reciprocate misdeeds. This does not deny the central role of the logic of retribution, as Gould 1989, 82 rightly states.

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whereby transgressors of norms basic to human relationships are prohibited from forgetting. Herodotus, however, offers two diverging solutions which surprise the reader and introduce a complicating factor. On one hand, the future of the Spartans is already determined: the historian does not hesitate to recognise indelible divine memory (θεῖον τὸ πρῆγμα) in the violent death of the sons of Sperthias and Bulis, which “puts things right” a generation later. On the other, Herodotus does not recognise the same effect in the case of the Athenians, and introduces doubt by implying that in truth they have never “paid the right penalty”: “What calamity befell the Athenians for dealing in this way with the heralds I cannot say (οὐκ ἔχω εἶπαι), save that their land and their city were laid waste. I think, however, that there was another reason for this, and not the aforesaid (ἀλλὰ τοῦτο οὐ διὰ ταύτην τὴν αἰτίην δοκέω γενέσθαι)” (7.133).

Herodotus does not want to explicitly consider the law on moral reciprocity and divine action, but he makes it clear that to his mind the reasons for the Athenians’ punishment remain obscure, and that this obscurity is reflected in the illusory presumption of a clearly ordered world: “Herodotus sees the event as a complex of human motivations and superhuman forces, a complex which is not intelligible to him under a simple theological scheme. The forces that operate beneath the surface of the observable historical events appear to him contradictory and can be described only in stories which have an essentially paradoxical meaning”.84

This does not mean that in the Histories the gods disappear: “traditional” religiosity and new ways of understanding the world coexist in a problematic way. In my opinion, Herodotus does not supply rigid and final answers, he does not dictate new rules, but rather puts forward new questions and raises doubts. 14 EARNESTNESS AND TRUSTWORTHINESS AS CRUXES: TRADITIONAL WISDOM, DELPHIC EXPEDIENCE, AND THE MORAL OF GLAUCUS’ STORY In itself, the story of Glaucus summarises the cruxes identified in the sixth book that I have examined here, but also partly returns us to the overall vision of Herodotus. It is a two-sided tale which looks with respect at the past, but at the same time

84

Immerwahr 1954, 30 [italics mine]. Lloyd-Jones 1971, 66–67: “For him (Herodotus) as for the early poets, the purposes of the gods are inscrutable to men; sometimes, especially to one looking back into the past and surveying a long period of time, each link in a chain of guilt and retribution may be perceptible, but often much of its extent must remain obscure to human understanding” [italics mine]. For Herodotus’ circumspect descriptions of the gods and their activities in the human sphere see Corcella 1984, 151; Lateiner 1989, 197–203; Sewell-Rutter 2007, 3: “His [Herodotus’] interest in supernatural modes of causation, including inherited guilt and fate, is clear, though their precise status and function in his historical work are hotly disputed”. See also Rood 2007, 127: “[…] the importance of reciprocity as an organizing principle in Herodotus’ narrative”.

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presents subtle traces of irony and disenchantment. This can be confirmed by an intertextual perspective on the complex and dense narrative world of Herodotus. There is no doubt that the narrative materials used are drawn from the colour and imagination of archaic epic, particularly that of Hesiod, as the analysis conducted so far confirms. These materials, however, are present in Herodotus via a Delphic filter. According to Roland Crahay, the main focus in the story of Glaucus is in the second part of the Pythia’s response. While the first part reworks or even quotes to the letter Hesiodic hexameter, the second part defends the honour of the sanctuary and its god: there is no need to make requests to Apollo that can compromise him within the new ethical horizons which take hold between the end of sixth and fifth centuries. The Pythia does not want to announce a universal moral principle as much as to protect the sanctuary and safeguard its prestige.85 The ancient tale of wisdom, once set and re-read in the wider narrative plot of Herodotus’ stories, however, produces a mosaic of contradictory and challenging references which draw the reader’s attention to various questions. Certainly one of these is the continuous comparison between ancestors and descendants, that is the temporal line that supports the notion of genos. When Glaucus intentionally and fraudulently forgot the deposit he had received, he intervenes in the genetic memory of the Milesian’s oikos and jeopardises the delicate apparatus of intergenerational memory. Glaucus will be repaid in the same way by Son of Oath. At least two other points deserve to be underlined here: both are related to the paradoxical (and perhaps ironic) tone of the story of Glaucus. The first point is that (against the intentions of the narrator Leotychidas, but not those of Herodotus) the story of Glaucus does not produce the expected effects on the Athenians: they do not return the deposit, and no catastrophe seems to befall them. (We have seen the same pattern in the story of Sperthias and Bulis). Indeed, for a moment it is the Aeginetans who are to suffer this fate, both because the hostages are not returned, and because of the injustices which will render them guilty. Herodotus’ irony can be measured thanks to the chapters which immediately precede Glaucus. In fact, the historian anticipates the accusation of betrayal and corruption for which Leotychidas, caught in the act, will be driven away in the future and finish his days far from his homeland and deprived of his oikos (6.72).86 Only after this prolepsis does Herodotus let him speak. He uses Leotychidas as spokesman for an epilogue on how the corrupting nature of greed for even the most honest attracts both human and divine punishment. The irony seems to be mainly aimed at two subjects: at Sparta, and also at the sanctuary at Delphi, whose prestige was in decline after the endorsement given initially to the Persian invaders:87

85 86 87

Gernet 1955, 528; Crahay 1956, 97–98. Defradas 1954 does not recognize the Delphic element in the story of Glaucus. Darbo-Peschanski 1987, 67. See also Irwin forthcoming, 232. Crahay 1956, 97–98, 164 has already underlined this irony. See Beltrametti 1986, 163 and Rood 2007, 127: “Herodotus’ prolepses often have an overtly moral point”.

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Nicola Cusumano “[…] The parable is used ironically, not only with reference to the speaker, who acquired the throne by fraud and later came to a bad end, but also in respect to the Athenians, who do not anywhere receive punishment from the gods for refusing to hand over the hostages”.88

The second point is that no oath is explicitly sworn by Glaucus. The text does not say that Glaucus has received the deposit under oath: the agreement seems to have been limited to the exchange of tokens. It is possible, however, to identify a clear allusion to the taking of an oath in those Greek nomoi to which Glaucus wants to appeal when he tries to deny and not return the deposit. The Spartan, however, withdraws the oath at the last minute and returns the deposit. In the story of Glaucus, a basic ambiguity surrounds the oath, which is confirmed by the quantity of oaths which precede it. In my opinion, one can see in the story both Herodotus’ attention to the imponderable which escapes the control of man, as well as an attitude of disenchantment and a “bitter” vision of history: “Choice and necessity, together with intellectual and moral blindness, are the elements of the Herodotean view of historical action”.89

From this perspective, man does not have complete dominion over his actions and their consequences: the morality that guides them is imperfect and ambiguous, as in the case of Cleomenes and Leotychidas, but also the Delphic priests. It is no coincidence that “[…] in Herodotus’ historical narrative the less personalized concepts of fate and the unnamed god are more frequently deployed, and named gods tend to recede into the background”.90

At the centre of the crisis marked by Glaucus’ behaviour is again that trust which, together with memory and oath, has been identified among the primary “cultural objects” present in all the stories examined (above, pp. 28–30): “Widespread acceptance of moral prohibitions and requirements makes possible a climate of trust […] A good source of examples is the duty to respect another’s property […]”.91

Observed in its widest narrative framework (6.48–94) and in the perspective of the whole structure of the Herodotean text, the tale of Glaucus can therefore illuminate 88 89

90

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Immerwahr 1966, 214. Immerwahr 1954, 40 [italics mine]. Momigliano 1979, 72: “But whereas Thucydides concentrates on the inner logic of the development of power in Greece, Herodotus regarded results as being beyond human calculation”. Sewell-Rutter 2007, 8. Lateiner 1988, 208–09 refers to “[…] the uncertainty of human existence that historians can ignore or minimize but cannot transcend […]. Mention of the gods does not lessen the human historical accomplishment, for the gods are beyond history”. See also the observations of Fornara 1990, 27: “His work [Histories] not only embodies a highly sophisticated view of the world but expresses it polemically […]. Unfortunately for us, Herodotus is not explicit about the inner working of his mind or his underlying intentions”. Rood 2007, 117: “Grasping the inescapably mediated and fragmented nature of his story is an essential part of understanding Herodotus’ view of history”. Ibidem, 130: “[…] past and future [are] a way of forming links, many of them unexpected, and deepening our sense of the uncertainties as well as the regularities of human achievement”. Deigh 1996, 12–13.

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some aspects of Herodotus’ methods of making meaning. With this approach, memory and oblivion, oath and trust appear abscissa and ordinate within the same coordinated system of rules and of sense: two key values, trustworthiness and earnestness, depend on them.92 Donald Lateiner’s and Charles Fornara’s observations are fundamental: “Herodotus’ original inquiry was not the culmination of a mature tradition, such as Homer’s epic represents, but the invention of the first complex prose work in European literature […] Enough flexibility remains to allow him to borrow from other genres […] parody, comedy or melodrama, and tragedy […] Herodotus managed to hover between the particular and the general. Facts, not speaking for themselves, required the author to ‘put things next to one another’ (συμβάλλεσθαι)”.93 “He was content to accept a kind of compromise between historical inevitability and freeagency which from our perspective may seem philosophically vicious but which for him combined the equally valid notions of man’s responsibility for his actions and his ultimate subservience to the divine will”.94

In conclusion, Herodotus’ new paradigm of memory boldly emerges from his subtle game of observing tradition while recognising its inadequacy in relation to the new ethical norms in the fifth century. The Herodotean preface (1.1) has a precise aim: that the great enterprises of man (ἔργα μεγάλα τε καὶ θωμαστά) should not disappear because of the passing of time and become ἀκλέα, which as we have seen before is equivalent to anonymity. The crisis of traditional religiosity and changing signals are also recognisable, on a small scale, in the mocking destiny of the Delphic reply to Glaucus. The same story which on the face of it seems to guarantee the success of the punishment designated for Glaucus, that is social oblivion, at the same time shows an anomaly. On the one hand, within the story itself, Glaucus is destined to be forgotten, in that he has no descendants. On the other, the tale seems to guarantee a much longer and more stable memory that would have ensured him respect and obedience consistent with righteousness (δικαιοσύνη), within a system of fractured, religious morals. But this, of course, is another matter.

92

93

94

I agree with Beltrametti 1986, 140: in Herodotus “la storia continua ad essere una forma della morale e a costringere in questa forma le notizie, i dati, il vissuto anche recente”. See Fornara 1990, 42: “Herodotus’ system of cause and effect is inherently moral”. Lateiner 1989, 224–25. According to Thompson 2009, 71, “The fighting stories of Herodotus have a communal authority in the sense that they are recognized as the accounts that define a particular community by embodying its aspirations or exhibiting its cultural presuppositions or perhaps simply by embodying its anxieties. Factual veracity is not the point for a story to qualify as a significant memory. It may be an illusion that such stories come wholly intact and ready-made, depending only on a willing raconteur like Herodotus to preserve them. But it does seem important that such stories or logoi have an independent existence that a historian may tap into; a very great historian will do more” [italics mine]. Fornara 1990, 29.

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Sandowicz, Małgorzata 2011. “‘Fear the Oath!’ Stepping back from oath taking in First Millenium B. C. B abylonia”, Palamedes 6. 17–36. Scarpi, Paolo 2005. “Des Grands dieux aux dieux sans nom: autour de l’altérité des dieux de Samothrace”, in: Belayche, Nicole et al. (eds.) 2005. Nommer les Dieux. Théonymes, épithètes, épiclèses dans l’Antiquité. Turnhout. 213–18. Scott, Lionel 2005. A Historical Commentary on Herodotus Book 6. Leiden–Boston. Sewell-Rutter, Neil J. 2007. Guilt by descent. Moral inheritance and decision making in Greek tragedy. Oxford–New York. Simondon, Michèle 1982. La mémoire et l’oubli dans la pensée grecque jusqu’à la fin du Ve siècle av. J.-Chr. Psychologie archaïque. Mythes et doctrine. Paris. Sommerstein, Alan H.; Fletcher, Judith (eds.) 2007. Horkos. The oath in Greek society. Bristol. Sourvinou-Inwood, Christiane 1995. “Early sanctuaries, the eighth century and ritual space. Fragments of a discourse”, in: Marinatos, Nanno; Hägg Robin (eds.) 1995. Greek sanctuaries. New approaches. London. 1–13. Spada, Silvia 2008. Le storie tra parentesi. Teorie e prassi della digressione in Erodoto, Tucidide e Senofonte. Milano. Thomas, Alan 1999. “Remorse and reparation. A philosophical analysis”, in: Cox, Murray (ed.) 1999. Remorse and reparation. London. 127–34. Thompson, Norma 2009. “Most favored status in Herodotus and Thucydides”, in: Salkever, Stephen (ed.). The Cambridge companion to ancient Greek political thought. Cambridge. 65–95. Torrance, Isabelle 2009. “On your head be it sworn: oath and virtue in Euripides’ Helen”, Classical Quarterly 59. 1–7. Vallois, Raoul 1914. “Arai”, Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 38. 250–71. Zarecki, Jonathan P. 2007. “Pandora and the good Eris in Hesiod”, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 47. 5–29. Zeitlin, Froma 2008. “Religion”, in: Whitmarsh, Tim (ed.) 2008. The Cambridge companion to the Greek and Roman novel. Cambridge–New York. 91–108. Zuccotti, Ferdinando 1998. “Il giuramento in Grecia e nella Roma pagana: aspetti essenziali e linee di sviluppo”, in: Calore, Antonello (ed.) 1998. Seminari di storia e di diritto. II. Studi sul giuramento nel mondo antico. Milano. 1–86.

THE PERPETUATION OF MEMORY IN THE MYTHS AND CULTS OF ARTEMIS IN THE PELOPONNESE Isabella Solima, Universität Heidelberg The tight and inescapable relationship between memory and religion can be detected with considerable clarity in several cults associated with sanctuaries of Artemis in the Peloponnese. The first and most immediate channel through which Artemis is linked with the perpetuation of memory is that of her cults and her rites, in the religious sphere narrowly speaking. In this case, we have a mythical tale which legitimizes a cult where, in turn, the repetitive ritual action keeps alive the memory of the myth. The ritual expression of that myth works in this context both as memory and simultaneously as a warning for the community. This well known phenomenon reveals itself even more clearly in the initiation rites. The protagonists in this case are typically a group of young people who have been recently initiated. They perpetuate, through a ritual, the mythical memory of those places of which they present themselves as new and future citizens, and of which they become new guardians, together with the participation of the entire community, which is renewed by the rite. There is also a second fundamental channel of memory relating to Artemis, and it pertains to what can be defined as a more historico-political memory. In Greek religion, the divinities are strictly intertwined with and related to the needs of the polis and, in consequence, their cults actually cover functions generally wider than what their specific spheres of competence would seem to indicate in theory. The selection of a specific cult in a given place corresponded, on a first level, to the specific spheres of influence of each divinity (health, marriage, observations of the laws, etc.). Each divinity answered to the individual and various needs of the citizens. On a second level, however, in a given city or place, the presence of a given cult was also connected to a specific function and a specific meaning which went beyond the direct sphere of competence of that divinity and presented itself as a consequence of well known historical and mythical events that were of central importance in that community. In the case of mythical events, the cult is intrinsically linked to a specific event in the history of the polis, of which it becomes itself instrument of memory. In this way, there are many cults of Artemis whose institution goes back to historical events, of which the cults themselves therefore become further evidence. Moving on from these necessary assumptions, I will try here to illustrate some of the most incisive cases where the cults of Artemis present themselves as vehicle of memory. A first and significant example refers to the city of Patras in Achaia. Pausanias, in the seventh book of his work,1 offers a long excursus on the origins of the cult 1

Paus. 7.19.1–20.2.

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as well as on the ritual of Artemis Triklaria. The geographer explains that the goddess Triklaria (i. e. the goddess of the three klaroi) was to be connected to the synoecism of the three Ionian komai of Antheia, Aroe and Mesatis, which took place in the fifth century BCE and gave rise to the city of Patrai. Artemis Triklaria was therefore the original tutelary goddess of Patrai, and her cult was probably located on the acropolis. Dionysos Aisymnetes, like Artemis, was associated with the synoecism and was the tutelary god of Patrai. Dionysos was also linked to the same three komai, for whose fertility he was responsible, as is revealed by his three epithets of Antheus, Aroeus, and Mesateus.2 The ritual’s foundation myth speaks of the forbidden love, consummated inside the temple of Artemis, between Komaitho, priestess of the goddess, and her young lover Melanippos. This crime arouses the inevitable wrath of Artemis, who punishes the city of Patrai with deaths, diseases, and infertility of the fields. In order to soothe the goddess, the Pythia then orders two young people to be sacrificed to her each year. This same story is intertwined with that of the Trojan Eurypylos, who, upon finding a larnax containing Dionysos’ image, looks at it by mistake and turns mad. In atonement for his misdeed, the oracle orders Eurypylos to bring the larnax to a place where human sacrifice is carried out. His arrival and landing at Patrai will at last bring to an end both the aforementioned sacrifice and, at the same time, Eurypylos’ own madness. This is a brief summary of the long myth. Therefore, the complex ritual3 probably included a section connected to the story of Eurypylos as well as one related to the story of Komaitho. On the acropolis they would have performed an enagismos, a sacrifice to Eurypylos, eventually reenacting the crucial moment of Eurypylos’ misdeed by publicly displaying a larnax with the image of Dionysos (which, as Pausanias says, was kept closed during the remaining part of the year). In this way, they were re-experiencing the deplorable event, while the dire consequences which Eurypylos experienced were avoided through the ritual action.4 The images of Dionysos Antheus, Aroeus, and Mesateus, divinities representing the three komai before the synoecism, were then carried in procession from a temenos near the theatre to the sanctuary of Dionysos Aisymnetes. This is a very significant detail, as it shows how the ritual celebrated the historical memory of the city through its two polyadic deities (Artemis and Dionysos) simultaneously. Next would come the section of the ritual connected to the story of Komaitho and the human sacrifice as narrated by the myth: a ritual death was staged through the initiation rite itself, with a procession carried out by the paides outside the city near the banks of the river Meilichos.5 We can assume, therefore, that the extra-urban sanctuary which matched the urban sanctuary of Artemis Triklaria was probably located here. During the procession, the paides walked down from the acropolis wearing wreaths of wheat ears on their heads. These wreaths were connected to the birth of Patrai, since Triptolemos, according to the 2 3 4 5

Paus. 7.21.6. On this ritual see Massenzio 1968; Brelich 1969, 366–76; Dowden 1989, 169; Redfield 1990, 126; Zunino 1994, 33–57; Osanna 1996, 137–49; Baudy 1998, 143–67; Calame 1999, 285. Zunino 1994, 36 and Osanna 1996, 138. Paus. 7.2.211.

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legend, had taught Eumelos, founder of one of the komai (Aroe), how to cultivate grain. Once at the river, the paides laid the wreaths in the temple of Artemis Triklaria, took a ritual bath, put on new wreaths (now made of ivy), and went back to the acropolis and to the sanctuary of Dionysos Aisymnetes. Even the ivy wreaths which the paides put on their heads for the return journey bore a specific meaning, as the plant had a Dionysian connotation.6 In this ritual, it is possible to identify a pattern typical of initiation rites, with the idea of the impending death (under Artemis) followed by that of the successive return (under Dionysos). This very rich example offered by Patrai already allows us to make our first observations. In this case, Artemis and Dionysos played the role of tutelary deities while at the same time presiding at a rite of passage. It is also very important to consider how this rite of passage incorporated many symbolic elements pertaining to the tradition of the birth of the city itself. The rite therefore had a double function: on the one hand, it legitimized and perpetuated correct behavior (in this case, the opposite of the kind of behaviour represented by the stories of both Komaitho and Eurypylos). On the other hand, it commemorated and transmitted the memory of the birth of the city through elements present in the festival: the procession to the temple of Dionysos Aisymnetes, patron god of Patrai, involving the three statues of the god dating back to before the synoecism, or the wreaths of wheat ears worn by the paides. While carrying out the rite of passage, the paides evoked and re-experienced this tradition through these various symbolic aspects, and they preserved it as the citizens they were becoming by virtue of the rite itself. If the festival of Artemis Triklaria recalled the birth of Patrai, it also contributed to the perpetuation of its memory: the paides became its guardians through the ritual. Furthermore, this ritual shows how the cult of Artemis, the tutelary goddess, was therefore connected to the mythical tradition of the city. This is one example where, as mentioned earlier, the transmission of the memory connected to Artemis is carried out through the performance of a ritual in her honor. In other cases, Artemis appears very much connected to an idea of memory rooted in the historical rather than the mythical past. An example of this is offered by the example of the Arcadian city Megalopolis. Pausanias7 mentions that in the agora of this city there was a temple dedicated to Zeus Soter. Inside it, the statue of Zeus was flanked on the right by a statue of Megalopolis and on the left by the statue of Artemis Soteira. As the results of an excavation have confirmed,8 this temple is to be dated to the middle of the fourth century BCE, immediately following the birth of the city. Megalopolis, as is well known, was created in 368–367 BCE thanks to Theban support and following the example of Messene, which had been founded by Epameinondas after the Battle of Leuktra in 369 BCE. In the agora, daily meeting point and center of the polis’ civic life, the temple of Zeus, worshipped with the significant epithet of Soter, played a very strong commemorative role in the eyes of the citizens. The political function

6 7 8

Brelich 1969, 366. 8.30.10. Lauter, Spyropoulos 1998.

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Artemis served also appears noteworthy: the aforementioned statue, endowed with the epithet Soteira and notoriously associated with her interventions in favour of the city’s territory, was located inside the temple together with the personification of the city of Megalopolis. Such a position necessarily recalled the role played by the goddess in the birth of Megalopolis and in its protection9 (Megalopolis was born as a city of refuge). It is not a coincidence that the statue of Artemis Phosphoros played the same role in Messene, founded just one year earlier.10 This goddess was, like Artemis Soteira, represented holding torches, and it also had a similar significance.11 It was located inside the temple of Artemis Orthia at Messene, which was in turn part of the Asklepieion12 (which we shall discuss in more detail further below). Both these statues, therefore, the statue of Artemis Soteira at Megalopolis and the statue of Artemis at Messene, were located inside their respective temples to recall their defensive and protective function on the basis of Artemis’ role as “bringer of light”. At Megalopolis we find a cult of Artemis in her role as defender of territory located inside a temple of Zeus, and in the agora, a place with a strong meaning. When people worshipped Artemis Soteira, therefore, at the same time they recalled the history of the city of Megalopolis itself. Artemis, wild goddess of the countryside, in this and in many other cases has the role of defending the city and its boundaries. Consequently, many of her cults were a very important vehicle for the historical memory of the polis. The defensive function of the goddess could refer to the protection of the city not only from the outside, but also from the inside: at Megalopolis itself, the statue of Artemis Ephesia,13 together with the statue of the wild Pan, was placed with clear defensive function in one of the porticoes where the magistrates had their seat. The goddess can therefore likewise protect both the city and its institutions. A similar example is offered by the cult of Artemis Laphria at Messene. Pausanias14 connects the introduction of this cult with what happened in 464 BCE when the Messenians, defeated by the Spartans, lived as refugees at Naupaktos.15 Because Naupaktos is near Kalydon, Pausanias says, the Messenians got acquainted with the cult of Artemis Laphria and eventually decided to introduce it into their newly founded city. When associated with the epithet Laphria, Artemis was above all a wild goddess of nature and animals; the bloody character of the cult is witnessed by the ritual in honor of Artemis Laphria at Patrai16 which still included a sacrifice of living

9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

According to Farnell 1896, 471, the statue probably celebrated the victory of Epameinondas; Jost 1985, 414 underlines the strong political role played by Artemis in this case. Paus. 4.31.10. Fragments of the head and the torch belonging to this statue have been found: see Themelis 1994, 111. On the significance of Artemis Phosphoros see most recently Piolot 2005. On the Asklepieion see Felten 1983, 84; Sineux 1997; Riethmüller 2005, 156. On Messene see also Müth 2007. Paus. 8.30.6. 4.31.7. Paus. 4.24.7; 25.1. Paus. 7.18.8–13.

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animals during the Augustan Age.17 In the case of Artemis Laphria at Messene, her role was above all political: with the introduction of a new cult into the city, the Messenians indirectly recalled the painful circumstances under which they had become acquainted with it. The cult of Artemis Laphria at Messene therefore also becomes a vehicle of memory for the Messenians. There are other instances where a statue of the goddess becomes an instrument of the memory of a given historical event through cult activity. A case worth mentioning is that of Sikyon,18 where a statue of Artemis Mounichia, situated on the homonymous hill next to the Piraeus,19 became the object of a very famous cult and was celebrated for the prodigious and saving intervention of the goddess herself on the occasion of the battle of Salamis.20 The presence of the statue of Artemis Mounichia at Sikyon probably recalled the role played by these cities in the Persian wars through their contribution of men and ships.21 By underlining the role played by Artemis in the defense of the territory, in line with her typical functions, the statue highlighted the relationship between the goddess and the city. Messene itself probably offers the most considerable example of the political function of Artemis: the temple of Artemis Orthia. As we know from the excavation results, the temple was built immediately after the foundation of the city.22 One element that appears fundamental to this cult is the epithet Orthia, which, with the exception of the famous sanctuary of Artemis at Sparta, does not appear in any of the numerous cults of the goddess present throughout the Peloponnese. In contrast with other relevant cults of Artemis, where epithets clearly spread through various regions, in this case the epithet of Orthia was probably characterized as Spartan in such a limiting and specific way that its diffusion through another area was impossible. It is therefore peculiar and of considerable importance that at Messene and only there (in a city that had been founded after the Messenians had revolted against the Spartans), the citizens founded a temple for Artemis Orthia, the Spartan goddess par excellence. This can be explained only if we consider the nature of the Messenian helots, who recognized themselves as Dorians and therefore as having the same origin and the same culture as their oppressors, the Dorians from Laconia.23 In a famous passage of his fourth book, Pausanias24 emphasizes how, during the three centuries of their subjection, the Messenians had neither abandoned their customs nor forgotten the Doric dialect, but, on the contrary, had maintained intact its peculiar features to a greater extent than any other people in the Peloponnese.25 After Thebes gave them their freedom back and the city of Messene was founded, they made a communal effort to show their culture

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

On the cult of Artemis Laphria at Patrai see Piccaluga 1981; Osanna 1996, 142–45. On the bloody sacrifice see also Burkert 1977, 108–12; Bonnechère 1994; Graf 2002. Clem. Alex. protr. 42. See Palaiokrassa 1991, passim. Plut. de gloria athen. 349 f.; lysander.15.1. Hdt. 8.1.43.72; 9.28.31.102.103; Paus.,5.23.2. See Themelis 1990, 31–32; 35, and 1991, 28–31. See, for example, Bultrighini 2001, passim; Luraghi 2008, 157–67 and 188. Paus. 4.27.11. Paus. 3.20.6.

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and their identity. In order to present themselves as new, true, and free citizens of a new free Messenia, they had two alternatives: either to differentiate themselves completely from their old masters and consequently develop their own Dorian identity in opposition to the Dorians of Laconia, or to incorporate some significant Spartan customs and legitimately show how the Spartans were no longer the only guardians of that culture. As clearly demonstrated by the institution of the cult of Artemis Orthia, by choosing this latter possibility they revealed their pride in being Dorians from Messenia whose cults, different or similar to those of their former masters, in any case represented the expression of their cultural identity. The presence of the cult of Artemis Orthia at Messene (set up, as it is important to remember, at the very moment of the foundation of the city) thereby became emblematic. The Messenians selected the most central and most characteristic of the Spartan cults, took it from the cultural milieu of their old oppressors, and appropriated it in order to be able to show and consider themselves as Dorians who finally had the same rights and the same culture as their neighbors (and, in a certain sense, rivals). It is therefore interesting to observe how tightly the various cults of Artemis at Messene were connected to the history of the city itself. In the center of the city, in the Asklepieion, there was the shrine of Artemis Orthia. Within the temple26 of Artemis Orthia there was a statue of Artemis Phosphoros, whose torches symbolize her function of defense and protection of the city. To the east of the city, toward the summit of Mount Ithome, there was a sanctuary of Artemis Limnatis,27 a goddess notoriously connected with the rites of initiation for youths. Finally, in an unidentified location, there was the cult of Artemis Laphria,28 the goddess of Kalydon, which referred to the exile of the Messenians in Naupaktos. The future of the city was therefore represented by Artemis Orthia and Laphria, while the past was represented by Artemis Phosphoros, who, with her torches, represented the salvation that she had brought and that she was supposed to keep bringing. We could offer many more examples. But in conclusion, I would like to underline the tight connection between polis and religion. We also see how the concept of memory is always present in relation to cult and ritual:

– –

–

the cult, through the ritual, refers to a collective memory; the mythological tale connected to the divinity transmits, in its turn, a memory of episodes, characters, and places, all with very strong significance for the local community; finally, the sanctuaries or the cults connected to specific historical events perpetuate the memory of the historical events themselves.

The role of Artemis in the service of the polis appears very strong in this context: as a goddess in charge of initiations and as a wild deity of the countryside, through her cults and sanctuaries connected to her defensive functions, she also becomes guardian of memory.

26 27 28

Paus. 4.31.10. See Themelis 1988, 72; IG 5.1.1442, 1458, 1470. Paus. 4.31.7.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Baudy, Gerhard. 1998. “Ackerbau und Initiation. Der Kult der Artemis Triklaria und des Dionysos Aisymnetes in Patrai”, in: Graf, Fritz (ed.) 1998. Ansichten griechischer Rituale. Geburtstags Symposium für Walter Burkert (Castelen bei Basel 15. bis 18. März 1996). Stuttgart. 143–67. Bonnechère, Pierre 1994. “Le sacrifice humain en Grèce ancienne”, Kernos Suppl. 3. 55–62. Brelich, Angelo 1969. Paides e parthenoi. Roma. Bultrighini, Umberto 2001. “Recupero dell’identità: Andania, i Dori, e la rifondazione di Messene”, in: Zecchini, Giuseppe; Barzanò, Alberto; Landucci Gattinoni, Franca (eds.) 2001. Identità e valori. Fattori di aggregazione e fattori di crisi nell’esperienza politica antica. Alle radici della casa comune europea (Bergamo, 16–18 dicembre 1998). Roma. 39–61. Burkert, Walter 1977. Griechische Religion der archaischen und klassischen Epoche. Stuttgart. Calame, Claude 1999. “Indigenous and modern perspectives on tribal initiation rites: education according to Plato”, in: Padilla, Mark W. (ed.). Rites of passage in ancient Greece: literature, religion, society. Lewisburg. 278–312. Dowden, Ken 1989. Death and the maiden. London. Farnell, Lewis R. 1896. The cults of the Greek States. 2. Oxford. Felten, Florens 1983. “Heiligtümer oder Märkte?”, Antike Kunst 26. 84–105. Graf, Fritz 2002. “What is new about Greek sacrifice?”, in: Horstmannshoff, Herman F. J.; Singor, Hendricus W.; Van Straten, Folkert T.; Strubbe, Johan H. M. (eds.) 2002. Kykeon. Studies in honor of H. S. Versnel. Leiden. 113–25. Jost, Madeleine 1985. Sanctuaires et cultes d’Arcadie. Paris. Lauter, Hans; Spyropoulos, Theodor 1998. “Megalopolis III. Vorbericht. 1996–1997”, Archäologischer Anzeiger. 417–18. Luraghi, Nino 2008. The ancient Messenians. Constructions of ethnicity and memory. Cambridge. Massenzio, Marcello 1968. “La festa di Artemide Triklaria e Dionysos Aisymnetes a Patrai”, Studi e materiali di storia delle religioni 39. 101–32. Müth, Silke 2007. Topographie und Stadtplan von Messene in spätklassischer und hellenistischer Zeit. Rahden–Westfalien. Osanna, Massimo 1996. Santuari e culti dell’Acaia antica. Napoli. Palaiokrassa, Lydia 1991. To ιερό της Αρτέμιδος Μουνιχίας. Athenai. Piccaluga, Giulia 1981. “L’olocausto di Patrai”, in: Vernant, Jean P. (ed.) 1981. Le sacrifice dans l’antiquité. Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 27 (Vandouvres, 25–30 août 1980). Genève. 243–77. Piolot, Laurent 2005. “Nom d’une Artémis! À propos de l’Artémis Phôsphoros de Messène”, Kernos 18. 113–40. Redfield, James 1990. “From sex to politics: the rite of Artemis Triklaria and Dionysos Aisymnetes at Patras”, in: Halperin, David M.; Winkler, John J.; Zeitlin, Froma I. (eds.) 1990. Before sexuality. The construction of erotic experience in the ancient Greek world. Princeton NJ. 115–35. Riethmüller, Jürgen W. 2005. Asklepios: Heiligtümer und Kulte. Heidelberg. Sineux, Pierre 1997. “À propos de l’Asclépieion de Messène. Asclépios poliade et guérisseur”, Revue des études grecques 110. 1–23. Themelis, Petros 1988. “᾽Ανασκαφαὶ Μεσσήνης”, Πρακτικὰ τῆς ἐν Ἀθῆναις Ἀρχαιολογικῆς Ἑταιρείας. 43–79. Themelis, Petros 1990. “᾽Ανασκαφὲς Μεσσήνη”, Τὸ Ἔργον τῆς Ἀρχαιολογικῆς Ἑταιρείας. 26–35. Themelis, Petros 1991. “᾽Ανασκαφαὶ Μεσσήνης”, Τὸ Ἔργον τῆς Ἀρχαιολογικῆς Ἑταιρείας. 28–35. Themelis, Petros 1994. “Artemis Ortheia at Messene. The epigraphical and archaeological evidence”, in: Hägg, Robin (ed.) 1994. Ancient Greek cult practice from the epigraphical evidence. Proceedings of the second international seminar on ancient Greek cult, organized by the Swedish Institute at Athens, 22–24 November 1991. Stockholm 1994. 101–22. Zunino, Maddalena L. 1994. “Del buon uso del sacrificio”, Quaderni di storia 40. 33–57.

MEMORY LOST, MEMORY REGAINED CONSIDERATIONS ON THE RECOVERY OF SACRED TEXTS IN MESSENIA AND IN BIBLICAL ISRAEL: A COMPARISON* Daniela Bonanno, Università di Palermo 1 INTRODUCTION The fourth book of Pausanias’ Periegesis is the only complete excursus that we possess on the story of the Messenians, condemned to almost 300 years of sorrowful diaspora after a protracted conflict with the Spartans.1 The Theban Epaminondas organized their return in 369 BCE after his victory over the Spartans at the Battle of Leuctra. Within the structure of the work, whose narrative unfolds programmatically across the Greek places worthy of being seen (theas axia) – and thus worthy of being preserved in memory (mnemes axia) – the fourth book represents a type of reversal of the periegete’s typical expository manner. Here, in fact, the historical part surprisingly prevails in terms of length over the portion devoted to the tour of the region and the description of its Sehenswürdigkeiten, to use a German term that nicely expresses the ‘worth of being seen.’ During their centuries-long exile, the Messenians, according to Pausanias, never deviated from their ancestral customs, nor did they forget their Doric dialect, but rather preserved its purest form even up to his own time.2 Modern scholars have raised various doubts regarding the reconstruction of Messenian history as posited in the Periegesis. It was compiled from sources dating to the fourth and *

1 2

This study presents the first results of research that is still in progress, begun in July, 2009, during a stay, financed by the Deutscher Akademischer Austauschdienst, at the Westfälische Wilhelms Universität – Seminar für Alte Geschichte – Institut für Epigraphik. I should like to thank Peter Funke for his kind hospitality in Münster and Nicole Belayche for having invited me, in November 2009, to present some of the results of my research within the scope of her seminar “Religions de Rome et du monde romain” at the École Pratique des Hautes Études – Centre AnHiMA – Paris. My sincere thanks also go to Giorgio Camassa and Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge for their valuable suggestions, and to Corinne Bonnet and Gabriella Pironti for having read and commented on this text several times. Thanks to Benedict Beckeld for his help in translating this text. Responsibility for what is written remains, of course, my own. Paus. 4.27.9, 27.11. Paus. 4.27.11: Μεσσήνιοι δὲ ἐκτὸς Πελοποννήσου τριακόσια ἔτη μάλιστα ἠλῶντο, ἐν οἷς οὔτε ἐθῶν εἰσι δῆλοι παραλύσαντές τι τῶν οἴκοθεν οὔτε τὴν διάλεκτον τὴν Δωρίδα μετεδιδάχθησαν, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐς ἡμᾶς ἔτι τὸ ἀκριβὲς αὐτῆς Πελοποννησίων μάλιστα ἐφύλασσον. “But the wanderings of the Messenians outside the Peloponnese lasted almost three hundred years, during which it is clear that they did not depart in any way from their local customs, and did not lose their Doric dialect, but even to our day they have retained the purest Doric in the Peloponnese” (transl. by H. A. Ormerod, Loeb Cambridge MA. [1926] 19775).

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third centuries BCE, when there was an urgent need for a history with traditions, cults and myths for the Messenians, who had just been reintegrated into the region. These sources magnified the scope and consequences of the diaspora, and this is interpreted as an attempt on the part of the Thebans, enemies of the Spartans, to present themselves as benefactors and defenders of an oppressed Greekdom.3 Nonetheless, according to the tradition accepted by Pausanias, the Messenians’ attachment to their language and customs made them a paradigmatic example of “good practice” regarding memory. In the Antonine era, the story thus served a twofold objective in Pausanias’ comprehensive project to describe all the Greek things (panta ta hellenika):4 to rescue from oblivion anything remaining of an identity untarnished by Roman rule, and to issue a warning to his contemporaries not to forget the past.5 It is perhaps also for this reason that the syngraphe on Messenia differs so markedly from the other books of the Periegesis. The romanticised exposition, typical of Hellenistic taste, with its sequence of heroic deeds, wonders, miracles, omens, dreams, gruesomely violent episodes, and compelling love affairs, made it pleasing and intriguing reading, thus confirming its didactic function.6 Pausanias also relates the story of the Messenian people in his discussion of the so-called “Andanian mysteries”. Andania is a city on the Arcadian border which he considered the original site of a telete celebrated in honour of the Great Goddesses, Demeter and Kore, since the Pre-Doric era.7 The reference to these cults constitutes one of the leitmotifs of book 4, where the evocation of Andania often corresponds to the events of the Messenian insurrection against the Spartans.8 Toward the end of the Second Messenian War, when oracular replies had already assured a Messenian defeat, the texts of the telete were stowed away for safekeeping by Aristomenes, hero of the resistance against the Spartans, in a hydria buried on Mount Ithome. The hydria was then recovered by Epaminondas and the Argive general Epiteles when the exiles returned to their homeland.9 The rediscovery of the sacred texts was followed by the foundation of the city of Messene and the renewal of 3 4 5

6 7

8 9

This is the radical position of Asheri 1983; more nuanced positions are held by Bultrighini 2001, 54–55 and Luraghi 2008, 247–48. Paus. 1.26.4. On this passage cf. Musti 1996. Cf. the considerations of Lafond 2001 and 2006, 181–93 regarding the link that Pausanias establishes between places and the relation they have with the past. On the function of memory in the Periegesis, see Ambaglio 2004. For an interpretation of the book on Messenia as a warning to the Greeks, see Pirenne-Delforge 2008, 35. On the peculiarity of book 4, see Alcock 2001 and Baladié 2001. On book 4, see also Musti, Torelli 1991, IX–XXVII; Auberger 1992a; 1992b and 2000; Pirenne-Delforge 2008, 304. Pausanias’ testimony on the so-called “Andanian mysteries” is the crucial element of a riddle that has been engaging scholars for over a century. There is no need to reconsider here the question which many have tried to answer. I mention only the most recent studies on the issue. See Zunino 1997, 301–35; Scarpi 2002, 103–53; Piolot 1999; Zizza 2006, 140–146; Deshours 2006, 17–25; and, more recently, Epigraphic Bulletin for Greek Religion (ed. A. Chaniotis), Kernos 20 (2004 [2007]). 317–18, n. 268; Bulletin épigraphique, Revue des Études Grecques 120 (2007). 663–64, n. 301; Luraghi 2008, 93; 297; Pirenne-Delforge 2008, 311–12; Ead. 2010; Carbon 2012, 323–27; Gawlinski 2012. Cf. Paus. 4.1.5–9; 2.6; 3.10; 14.1; 14.7; 16.2; 17.10; 20.4; 26.6–27.6. Paus. 4.20.4; 26.6–27.5.

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the mysteries of the Great Goddesses, which Pausanias claims were still being celebrated in his own day, in the Carnasian grove, site of the ancient city of Oechalia, close to Andania.10 A topical element in various traditions of the ancient Mediterranean world, renewed sacral memory offers a means of adapting to new situations in the form of the recovery of a forgotten past. Several contributions have been published on this subject, starting with the classic study by Wolfgang Speyer, Büchererfunde in der Glaubenswerbung der Antike. Mit einem Ausblick auf Mittelalter und Neuzeit, published in 1970, which catalogues the various instances. The most recent such volume, Zwischen Relikt und Reliquie. Objektbezogene Erinnerungspraktiken in antiken Gesellschaften, published by Andreas Hartmann in 2010, offers an extensive historical journey through the forms of objectification of memory, ruins and relics, from eighth century BCE Greece until fourth century CE Rome. Regarding relics (objects or sacred texts, as hypostases of divine presence), Philippe Borgeaud11 has observed that they represent an area of sperimentation particularly well suited for a comparison striving to push the inquiry beyond the limits of its own context.12 It is just beyond these limits, as Borgeaud emphasizes, that we must situate the “comparables”,13 which the historian of religions is called upon to deconstruct, reconstruct, and confront with the object of his own analysis. It is such a comparative exercise that I propose to carry out in the following pages, juxtaposing the buried and renewed memory of the Messenians with another equally significant episode, namely the “chance” recovery of a sacred text of the Old Testament: the rediscovery of the Book of the Law under the reign of Josiah (621 BCE) as told in 2 Kings 22–23. The goal will be to illustrate how the one may serve as a “comparable” of the other within the framework of a general reflection on the uses and management of memory and on the need for representational identity. 2 THE SECRET OBJECT OF THE MESSENIANS The episode of the burial of the hydria is irrevocably linked to the name of Aristomenes, representative of the flower of Andanian youth and descendant of the tribe of the Epitides, kings of Messenia from the time of the arrival of the Dorians.14 He was responsible for the resumption of hostilities with Sparta after the defeat in the first conflict. The Second Messenian War, according to Pausanias’ testimony, which

10 11 12 13 14

Paus. 4.2.3; 33.5. Borgeaud 2004–2005, 7–8. On the cults of relics in antiquity, cf. also Pfister 1909–1912; on the function of sacred books, Speyer 1995. Detienne 2000. Paus. 4.3.8; 15.4. On Aristomenes, cf. Ogden 2004; Coppola 2008, 38–46 and Luraghi 2012. Nino Luraghi kindly allowed me to read his manuscript even before its publication.

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claims to follow the poem of Rhianus of Bene (end of the third century BCE),15 is characterized by the memorable deeds of the hero. His exploits are accompanied by divine favour which dampens the efficacy of the Lacedaemonian offensive.16 Nonetheless, during the eleventh year of the Spartan siege, which would be followed by the definitive subjugation of the region, the divine protection begins to wane. Aristomenes must confirm that the Pythian oracle’s prediction of the Messenians’ approaching ruin is being fulfilled.17 In this state of immediate danger, he decides to take a series of countermeasures to ensure the future survival of the Messenian race. With the help of oracular knowledge, the champion of Andania repairs at night to Mount Ithome. Here, in the place symbolic of Messenian resistance,18 he buries a sacred object to prevent its discovery. Pausanias does not immediately reveal its nature, but recalls that Aristomenes, for the purpose of protecting his precious deposit, invokes Zeus Ithomata and the gods who had hitherto protected Messenia.19 Pausanias’ report of the hero’s visit to Ithome is rich in implications for the use of memory as a mark of identity: Καὶ ἦν γάρ τι ἐν ἀπορρήτῳ τοῖς Μεσσηνίοις, ἔμελλε δὲ ἀφανισθὲν ὑποβρύχιον τὴν Μεσσήνην κρύψειν τὸν πάντα αἰῶνα, φυλαχθὲν δὲ οἱ Λύκου τοῦ Πανδίονος χρησμοὶ Μεσσηνίους ἔλεγον χρόνῳ ποτὲ ἀνασώσεσθαι τὴν χώραν· τοῦτο δὴ ὁ Ἀριστομένης ἅτε ἐπιστάμενος τοὺς χρησμούς, ἐπεὶ νὺξ ἐγίνετο, ἐκόμιζε. Παραγενόμενος δὲ ἔνθα τῆς Ἰθώμης ἦν τὸ ἐρημότατον, κατώρυξεν ἐς Ἰθώμην τὸ ὄρος, καὶ Δία Ἰθώμην ἔχοντα καὶ θεοὺς οἳ Μεσσηνίους ἐς ἐκεῖνο ἔσωζον φύλακας μεῖναι τῆς παρακαταθήκης αἰτούμενος, μηδὲ ἐπὶ Λακεδαιμονίοις ποιῆσαι τὴν μόνην καθόδου Μεσσηνίοις ἐλπίδα. (Paus. IV 20, 4). “For the Messenians possessed a secret thing. If it were destroyed, Messene would be overwhelmed and lost forever, but if it were kept, the oracles of Lycus the son of Pandion said that after a lapse of time the Messenians would recover their country. Aristomenes, knowing the oracles, took it towards nightfall, and coming to the most deserted part of Ithome, buried it on the mountain, calling on Zeus who keeps Ithome and the gods who had hitherto protected the Messenians to remain guardians of the pledge, and not to put their only hope of return into the power of the Lacedaemonians” (transl. by H. A. Ormerod, Loeb Cambridge MA. [1926] 19775).

A secret object (τι ἐν ἀπορρήτῳ), part of Messenian cultural memory and known only to them, is removed from view and hidden at night in a remote place. It is intended to protect the territory from catastrophe, from being vanquished and becoming invisible in turn (κρύψειν τὸν πάντα αἰῶνα). The object also constitutes the only guarantee of return for the Messenians. It thus functions as a token of the divine protection that is assured to the exiles, and of the continuing safety of their territory.20 The passage revolves around the relationship invisible/visible and se15 16 17 18 19 20

Paus. 4.6.1. Cf. Paus. 4.18.4–7. Paus. 4.20.1–3. Paus. 4.9.1. Cf. infra 71. This function recalls the catalogue of the seven fatal objects to which the imperial destiny of Rome was linked. The tradition on the septem pignora imperii, of which Servius the grammarian speaks (Serv. auct. Aen. 7,188) in his commentary on the Aeneid (fourth century CE), dated back to the Republic: see Hartmann 2010, 545–62. For a definition of the secret object of the Messenians as pignus, see Ferri 2010, 126.

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cret/manifest, which reflects the emergency of a threatened community. In this grave crisis, the community’s most authoritative figure deliberately removes from the victors’ destructive fury the object that represents the most precious core of his people’s identity, so that it may be guarded (φυλαχθέν), put away for safekeeping, and recovered at a more favourable time. The object’s talismanic function and the secrecy surrounding it also cement the union of those who participate in that secrecy, intensifying their sense of common identity.21 The safekeeping of the object is entrusted to Zeus of Ithome, “national” deity of the Messenians, and to other tutelary gods whose names are not specified and whom it is difficult to identify with certainty in book 4. Indeed, if one examines Pausanias’ preceding narrative, the divine protection accorded to the Messenians is rather irregular.22 In this context, the omission of the names of Messenia’s tutelary deities in Aristomenes’ prayer deserves scrutiny. To call upon the gods by name is tantamount to identifying them, giving them an anchor in time and space and, in a way, overcoming their otherness in order to establish communication with them.23 There may be different reasons for failing to name a god: because of genuine uncertainty as to the identity of the deity; because the prayer takes place in the context of mysteries, in which both legomena and dromena had to remain secret; or because the prayer is an appeal to the infernal gods, whom one would always approach with a measure of dread.24 In the Messenian case, however, the anonymity of the deities seems to represent an additional measure aimed at protecting the land. In fact, concealing the proper way to invoke the gods could serve the purpose of establishing a privileged path of communication with them, and of avoiding the risk of dangerous interference at a time when the fate of the community was entrusted to them. In the seventh book of the Iliad, Ajax seems to use a similar stratagem. Before facing Hector, he asks his companions to pray silently to the gods so that the Trojans may not hear them.25 This reflects the fact that, in times of war, the appeal to the divine had to take place along private channels unknown to the enemy. The omission of the divine name, incidentally, no doubt also arose from the Messenians’ need to distinguish their own identity from that of their enemy, with whom they had been forced 21 22

23 24 25

On the function of secrets in antiquity, cf. the contributions collected in Kippenberg, Stroumsa 1995. The portents indicate a lack of attention on the part of Artemis and Zeus Ithomata and perhaps also of Demeter even in the first war (Paus. 4.13–14). Aristomenes quickly managed to regain the favour of Zeus with exceptional sacrifices (Paus. 4.19.3) and to re–establish a correct rapport with Demeter as well, if the benevolence that the goddess’s priestess grants him in the sanctuary of Aegilia (Paus. 4.17.1) is any indication. See Scarpi 2005, 213–14. Regarding anonymity and polynymity in invocations of the gods in Greek prayer, see Aubriot 2005. Hom. il. 7.193–95: “But come now, while I am doing on me my battle gear, make ye prayer the while to king Zeus, son of Cronos, in silence by yourselves, that Trojans learn naught thereof – nay, or openly, if ye will, since in any case, we fear no man” (transl. by A. T. Murray, Loeb, Cambridge MA. [1924] 198110).

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to share deities and sacred spaces for too long.26 There were in fact many cults in existence for long enough that they received both Messenian and Spartan devotion. The Dioscuri are among the deities for whose protection the Messenians vied with the Spartans,27 and it was under their sign that the discovery of the secret object took place. It remained concealed until Epaminondas arrived in the region. After the Battle of Leuctra (371 BCE) and the Lacedaemonian defeat, when the portents of an imminent return of the Messenians had multiplied,28 the Theban general took it upon himself to reintegrate the exiles into their territory and to found for them an evidently anti-Spartan city. The Thebans therefore began to send messengers to Italy, Sicily and Libya29 in order to recall the inhabitants of the Messenian colonies there to the Peloponnese. According to Pausanias, the exiles responded with exceptional speed such was the desire to return home (τῆς πατρίδος πόθος). Their “nostalgia” ran through many generations over almost three centuries, paradoxically stamped in the chromosomes of each exile. But neither the site of Andania nor that of Oechalia seemed appropriate for the foundation of a Messenian city, since both brought back the memory of past misfortunes.30 They are places of Messenian memory, linked to the pre-Doric past of the region. The first, Andania, had been the first royal seat, where queen Messene had been initiated into the mysteries of the Great Goddesses by an Athenian missionary named Caucon.31 Subsequently, a reform of the celebration of the mysteries had taken place in the city thanks to a second missionary, also of Athenian provenance, Lycus, son of Pandion.32 Six generations after Messene, he initiated Arene, wife of Aphareos, third ruler of the region. Oechalia, on the other hand, was the residence of Messenia’s most representative hero, Eurytus, who is mentioned several times in the Iliad and the Odyssey.33 His father Melaneus, supposedly a son of Apollo, had received the area as a gift from king Perieres, Aphareos’ father.34 Pausanias claims that soon after the arrival of the Dorians, king Sibotas, who like Aristomenes also belonged to the dynasty of the Epitides, linked these two locales together. He organized a type of cyclical ritual, important from the perspective of the recovery of preDoric religious memory, that involved an annual celebration of the mysteries of Andania, preceded by a sacrifice to the hero Eurytus. The ἐναγισμός had to occur in Oechalia, in the Carnasian grove described by Pausanias during his visit to the region.35 26

27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

Among these deities were Apollo Karneios, whose cult was common to all Dorians (Paus. 3.13.4; 4.31.1, 33.4); Artemis Limnatis (Paus. 4.4.2); Zeus Ithomata (Paus. 3.26.6; 4.3.9, 12.7– 8, 33.1); Asclepius (Paus. 3.26.4; 4.3.2); the Dioscuri (Paus. 3.26.3; 4.31.9). Paus. 4.31.9. Paus. 4.26.3. Paus. 4.26.5. Paus. 4.26.6. Paus. 4.1.2. Paus. 4.1.5–9.2.6. Hom. il. 2.596; 621; 730; od. 8.224–26; 21.32–37. Paus. 4.2.2. Paus. 4.3.10.

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The choice to leave Andania and Oechalia uninhabited reveals the Messenians’ desire not only to decide how much to conserve in memory, but also to consign to oblivion things that could no longer be part of the city’s future. The two cities were condemned in a damnatio memoriae, the results of which are clearly recognizable in the pages of the Periegesis. The one is reduced to a heap of ruins, and all that Pausanias’ guides know about it is that its name came from an unknown woman.36 The other changes its name, apparently maintaining its original function as a cult centre, now limited to the sacred grove.37 Nostalgia for one’s homeland is thus joined with the right to forget the suffering linked to the war and to Spartan oppression, and these two impulses frame the discovery of Aristomenes’ deposit. In this period of indecision before the foundation of Messene, a “double dream” happily intervenes and calms the uncertainties of the two generals. Epaminondas is visited in his sleep by an old man strongly resembling a hierophant, subsequently identified as the missionary Caucon, who orders him to bring the Messenians back home, since the wrath of the Dioscuri has abated. Pausanias will later explain the reference, when he speaks of an impious act committed by two Andanian youths during a celebration in honour of the twin gods at the time of the conflict with Sparta.38 The Argive general Epiteles, tasked with founding Messene, has the second dream. He is exhorted by the same old hierophant to go to Ithome to recover Aristomenes’ deposit, buried between yew and myrtle, and to pull out the old woman, exhausted and on the verge of fainting, from her bronze chamber.39 The vessel that Epiteles finds contains a very thin sheet of rolled up tin, on which was written the

36 37 38 39

Paus. 4.33.6. Paus. 4.33.4. Paus. 4.27.1. Paus. 4.26.7–8: τοῦτον οὖν τὸν ἄνδρα ἐκέλευεν ὁ ὄνειρος, ἔνθα ἂν τῆς Ἰθώμης εὕρῃ πεφυκυῖαν σμίλακα καὶ μυρσίνην, τὸ μέσον ὀρύξαντα αὐτῶν ἀνασῶσαι τὴν γραῦν· κάμνειν γὰρ ἐν τῷ χαλκῷ καθειργμένην θαλάμῳ καὶ ἤδη λιποψυχεῖν αὐτήν. ὁ δὲ Ἐπιτέλης, ὡς ἐπελάμβανεν ἡμέρα, παραγενόμενος ἐς τὸ εἰρημένον χωρίον ἐπέτυχεν ὀρύσσων ὑδρίᾳ χαλκῇ, καὶ αὐτίκα παρὰ τὸν Ἐπαμινώνδαν κομίσας τό τε ἐνύπνιον ἐξηγεῖτο καὶ αὐτὸν ἐκεῖνον τὸ πῶμα ἀφελόντα ἐκέλευεν ὅ τι ἐνείη σκοπεῖσθαι. ὁ δὲ θύσας καὶ εὐξάμενος τῷ πεφηνότι ὀνείρατι ἤνοιγε τὴν ὑδρίαν, ἀνοίξας δὲ εὗρε κασσίτερον ἐληλασμένον ἐς τὸ λεπτότατον· ἐπείλικτο δὲ ὥσπερ τὰ βιβλία. ἐνταῦθα τῶν Μεγάλων θεῶν ἐγέγραπτο ἡ τελετή, καὶ τοῦτο ἦν παρακαταθήκη τοῦ Ἀριστομένους. τοῦτον τὸν ἐπελθόντα τῷ Ἐπιτέλει καὶ Ἐπαμινώνδᾳ καθεύδουσι Καύκωνα εἶναι λέγουσιν, ὃς ἀφίκετο ἐξ Ἀθηνῶν ἐς Ἀνδανίαν παρὰ Μεσσήνην τὴν Τριόπα. “He was bidden by the dream, wherever he found yew and myrtle growing on Ithome, to dig between them and recover the old woman, for, shut in her brazen chamber, she was overcome and wellnigh fainting. When day dawned, Epiteles went to the appointed place, and as he dug, came upon a brazen urn. He took it at once to Epaminondas, told him the dream and bade him remove the lid and see what was within. Epaminondas, after sacrifice and prayer to the vision that had appeared, opened the urn and having opened it found some tin foil, very thin, rolled like a book. On it were inscribed the mysteries of the Great Goddesses, and this was the pledge deposited by Aristomenes. They say that the man who appeared to Epiteles and Epaminondas in their sleep was Caucon, who came from Athens to Messene the daughter of Triopas at Andania” (transl. by H. A. Ormerod, Loeb Cambridge MA. [1926] 19775).

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“old” telete40 of the Great Goddesses, a metaphor for a religious memory that was being progressively eroded. So, in addition to being a precious relic and a guarantee of the safety and reconquest of the territory, the secret object of the Messenians also turns out to be a sacred text connected to the region’s past. As pignus and “book” at the same time, it fulfils two functions which reflect especially well the needs of a community about to refound its own city: the defence of its territory and the sacred legitimacy to live in it.41 We can now understand why it had to remain hidden: to keep it from view ultimately meant to keep it from being read and from being circulated, which in turn meant it could not be performed.42 Preventing the texts of the telete from being read thus amounted to an intentional, indefinite suspension with the purpose of avoiding the risk of misuse by the enemy, specifically the Spartans. After its recovery, the telete was put into books (κατετίθεντο)43 by some priests, perhaps the same as those originally handling the celebration of the mysteries.44 The use of the verb katatithemi does not clarify whether they transcribed the contents or just physically archived the sheets.45 Pausanias specifies, however, that the medium on which the telete was inscribed was reduced to a very thin sheet, so we can assume that we are dealing with a true and proper “rewrite”, which apparently resulted in a legitimization of the social role and prestige of the priestly class which Pausanias says was charged with carrying out this delicate task.46 The transcription and archiving of the telete text launch a whole series of ritual actions that precede the physical construction of the city with streets, temples, and city walls.47 The order of events is described in detail. Epaminondas and the Thebans begin with sacrifices to Dionysius and Apollo Ismenius. The Argives, who helped found the city, sacrificed in honour of Argive Hera and Nemean Zeus. Then sacrifices are offered by the Messenians to Zeus Ithomata and the Dioscuri, and others are offered by the barely reconstituted priestly class in honour of the Great Goddesses and Caucon. Finally, the communal invocation of the national heroes from the re-

40

41 42 43 44 45

46 47

The old woman on the verge of fainting (“the old woman, for, shut in her brazen chamber, she was overcome and well-nigh fainting”) is to be understood as a reference to the telete: see Pirenne-Delforge 2008, 305. Regarding the legitimizing function attributed to the recovery of the sacred texts, see Hartmann 2010, 562–92 (partly on the Messenians p. 564). Cf. on the relationship between orality, writing, reading and performance the reflections of Thomas 1992, 101–27; Cavallo, Chartier 1995, 6; Carastro 2006, 165–66. Paus. 4.27.5. Pausanias had already referred to the priests handling the mysteries of the Great Goddesses: see 4.14.1; 15.7; 16.2. As S. Georgoudi has observed, the verb tithemi and its compounds, as well as the verb anagrapho, are used interchangeably to refer to a “filed” writing or one destined for exhibition (Georgoudi 1988, 225). Paus. 4.27. On the setting down of the telete into books, cf. the considerations of Henrichs 2003, 249–50. Pausanias recalls the exceptional fortifications of Messene (4.31.5), unknowingly touching upon a sign of Messenian identity that contrasts with that of Sparta, which is devoid of walls (cf. Plut. lyc. 19.12; lys 14; mor. 210e; 228e).

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gion’s past before the Spartan conquest concludes the process (Messene,48 Eurytus, Aphareos and his sons, Aristomenes, etc.).49 The Messenians then proceed to the construction of a full-fledged pantheon to accompany the other construction works in the city.50 All this, caused by the recovery of the ancient text, was tantamount to a restoration of what Jan Assman calls “natural framing conditions of collective memory”,51 which should help the Messenians rethink themselves in their new territory. The religious landscape formed at the time of the new polis’ foundation betrays a clear desire on the part of the Messenians to define their own identity as the opposite of Sparta by means of the invocation of their own local heroes. This was certainly a Doric identity, but nonetheless imbued with an authentic Messenian colour which highlights above all the region’s pre-Doric past.52 Several gods belonging to the Messenians’ religious memory have their worship resumed: Demeter, whose image also appears in the first monetary series coined in Messene after 369 BCE;53 Zeus Ithomata; and the Dioscuri, of whom Pausanias finds traces during his visit to the city (as he does of all the heroes invoked before the founding).54 Andania and ancient Oechalia, however, are missing in this newly constituted religious landscape: the one was reduced to a sort of “non-place” by the Messenians’ desire to forget; the other reorganized its cults and was destined to change its name. A feeling of togetherness55 permeates the account of the discovery of the hydria and its consequences, and this is given concrete expression in a territorial reorganization and even “museumization” of memory. In the course of his Messenian tour, Pausanias will indeed find the hydria displayed in the Carnasian grove, together with the bones of Eurytus.56 These objects are among those that David Bouvier defines as “mediators of identity” and “agents of continuity” between the present and the distant, but still sometimes visited, past.57 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57

On the cult attributed to Messene, cf. Deshours 1993. Paus. 4.27.6. Of the descendants of Heracles, Cresphontes and Aepytus are mentioned. Jourdain-Annequin 1998. “Natürliche Stabilierung des kollektives Gedächtnisses” (Assmann 1992, 213). On the Messenian construction of identity, cf. Figueira 1999 and, in particular, Luraghi 2008. Grandjean 2003. Aristomenes was the object of a cult that was still celebrated in Pausanias’ time, and he even states (4.14.8) that he was present (oida) at libations in honour of the hero. We can suppose that these took place in Messene in the hierothysion, the location of a statue of Epaminondas and the tomb of Aristomenes, on which the Messenians periodically held a particular sacrifice with divinatory aspects (4.32.1–3). On the other hand, certain inscriptions attest a hero cult for Aristomenes in the Augustan era. See SEG 23.207; 35.343; Themelis 2000, 34 and Luraghi 2008, 89. There was also a temple dedicated to Messene with a statue of the queen in Parian marble. On the back of the temple there were drawings of the kings who had governed Messenia before the Doric arrival, Aphareos and his sons, and of the Heraclid Cresphontes (Paus. 4.31.11). But in the city’s religious landscape, the memory of exile remained in the statue of Artemis Laphria, whose cult was imported to Naupactus by Messenian refugees who settled there with Athenian help after being defeated by Sparta (Paus. 4.31.7). On the cult of Artemis Laphria at Messene, see Solima in this volume, 58–60. On the cult of Zeus Ihomata and the Dioscuri, see Paus. 4.31.9; 32, 1. Regarding the feeling of togetherness among the Messenians, see Asheri 1983, 27. Paus. 4.33.4–5. Bouvier 2004–2005, 87.

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3 THE HYDRIA AND OTHER FINDS The secret object of the Messenians along with the sacred texts it guarded cannot but recall other stories of more or less chance recoveries of religious memories. There are various possible cases: the hydria could be associated with the depositories on the Athenian Areopagus in which the soteria of the polis was kept,58 or with the discovery of the false tablets which the prophet Alexander claimed as justification for the founding of a new cult to Asclepius Glycon in Abonoteichus in Paphlagonia, according to Lucian.59 But none of these examples shows the same functional complexity as the hydria, that precious container of a talisman that was also a sacred text. The particular form attributed by Pausanias to Messenian history, the Messenians’ status as a “pious” people, the pathemata they were forced to face due to Spartan aggression,60 and the conditions of the real or fictitious dispersion under which they were forced to live, lead us to look elsewhere for an adequate point of comparison. As D. Asheri has concluded, the history of the Messenians contributed to the development of a new kind of historiography “adatto per narrare la storia di nazioni o congregazioni cosiddette trascendentali”.61 He does not explain the meaning of this expression, but it is possible that he is referring to communities that remain intact even outside of their territory and despite the diaspora in which they are forced to live. Asheri’s conclusion could be read in connection with what Jonathan Z. Smith stated in 1978 about diasporic groups in the Graeco-Roman period. For such peoples, nostalgia for the homeland was a central religious value, and home a religious category. Away from their homeland, they considered themselves to be in exile from their true home, thought of as “a world beyond this world,” and they projected its existence into the cosmos, finding their fulfillment in the Beyond. In this sense, Smith argues, “Diasporic religion, in contrast to native, locative religion, was utopian in the strictest sense of the word, a religion of ‘no-where’, of transcendence”.62 These observations suggest an immediate and non-arbitrary “comparable” through which to re-read the episode in the Periegesis, in order to show how one may think of memory in relation to the Greek world. Leaving for a moment the Messenian world, I should like to propose (as I announced in the introduction) an excursion to ancient Israel at the time of the rediscovery of the Book of the Law (probably an original version of Deuteronomy)63 during repairs to the temple in Jerusalem during the reign of Josiah in 622 BCE. At that time, with an easing of the Assyrian pressure that had caused the fall of the Kingdom of Israel with its capital Samaria in 722, the Kingdom of Judah was going 58 59 60 61 62 63

Din. 1.9.1. Hartmann 2010, 543–45 offers a thorough survey of other talismans associated with the protection of various cities in the Greek world. Luc. alex. 10. On Alexander of Abonoteichus, cf. Sfameni Gasparro 1996 and Ead. 1999; Victor 1997; Chaniotis 2004. Paus. 4.29.13. Asheri 1983, 41–42. Smith 1978, XIII–XIV and 117–19 Finkelstein, Silberman 2001, 281.

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through a phase of relative political autonomy, in the shadow of mild Egyptian control.64 After Josiah was killed by the Egyptian Pharaoh Necho, Judah was invaded by the armies of king Nebuchadnezzar, which led to the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and the deportation of the leading Jewish class to Babylonia.65 Josiah’s reign, however, had begun more auspiciously. Having ascended to the throne at the age of eight, he had followed the example of King David in all respects, without deviation. Having received word of the discovery of the Book and having heard its contents, Josiah tore his clothes in horror. The text contained instructions not to forget the Covenant with the Lord made after the Exodus from Egypt,66 as well as specific curses in the case of non-observance of the commandments. He then consulted the oracle of the Lord regarding this issue, and the reply led him to proclaim a public reading of the Book followed by a renewal of the Covenant, with unanimous consent of the people. According to the narrative, Josiah then embarked on a radical reorganization of the country, which intervened in all the sacred spaces of the land of Canaan, from the centre to the periphery, from Jerusalem to the surrounding areas, from north to south and back. The first measure was to purify the temple by burning the objects placed there in honour of Baal, Ashera, and the whole host of heaven. He then intervened within the priestly class, deposing those who were burning herbs in honour of Baal and for the sun, moon, and constellations. He removed the sacred pole from Jerusalem and burned it.67 The reform then expanded to Jerusalem’s surroundings. Tophet in the Valley of Hinnom was desecrated, so that no one in the future would burn his own son or daughter in honour of Moloch.68 The horses that the kings had dedicated to the sun in the temple were removed and the altars on the hills and those in honour of Astarte were destroyed.69 Josiah then demolished the altars of Bethel and continued with the reform as far as Samaria. He then expelled from the country all necromancers, diviners, teraphim, idols, and all abominations that had been in Judah and Jerusalem, thereby putting into practice the words of the Law written in the book that had been found in the temple.70 The king thus eliminated all religious symbols of the polytheism and idolatry of the nations of Canaan in order to ensure unity and oneness in the worship of Yah64 65 66

67 68

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Finkelstein, Silberman 2001, 281–84. 2 Kings 24; 2 Chron. 36. Deut. 4.21. It is difficult to date the emergence of the tradition of the Exodus from Egypt as a type of collective memory, but it is certainly older than the Diaspora, even older than the Babylonian exile after the fall of Judah and the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem. See Assmann 1992, 201–02. This was a type of pole erected in Canaanite cult places: see Smith 1987. There has been a scholarly dispute regarding this passage. Some have regarded the term mlk as a reference to the name Moloch, others have compared Punic inscriptions in arguing that it is a technical term used to define a particular type of sacrifice. For the status quaestionis, see Stravrakopoulou 2004, 149–50. A slightly modified version is to be found in 2 Chron. 34–35: here, the destruction of the pagan symbols is attributed to the first reform by the king, while the recovery of the Book triggers the general suppression of the “abominations”. On teraphim, see Barbu 2011.

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weh: it was a reform that, by modifying the religious landscape, proceeded by selection and a reductio ad unum of the cults, in harmony with the logic of monotheism. Josiah’s religious scruples were not enough, however, to keep the people of Israel from misfortune. In the words of the biblical narrator there remains a sense of the irrevocability and implacability of God’s wrath, unleashed by the infractions against the Covenant, a sign of the forgetfulness into which Judah had fallen: “Notwithstanding the Lord turned not from the fierceness of his great wrath, wherewith his anger was kindled against Judah, because of all the provocations that Manasseh had provoked him withal. And the Lord said, “I will remove Judah also out of my sight, as I have removed Israel, and will cast off this city Jerusalem which I have chosen, and the house of which I said ‘My home shall be there’ ” ”.71

The story of the recovery of the Book of the Law is interesting also in light of the interpretation suggested by Jan Assmann, which can add new nuances to the tradition of the Messenian hydria and allows us to highlight the substantial differences between that story and the biblical one.72 We must agree with Assmann’s assumption that, beyond the degree of historicity that can be attributed to the events, one must ask how each may be regarded as a “figure of memory” (Erinnerungsfigur). He attributes to Josiah’s reform the value of a “foundation legend”. The Book that suddenly reappears has the function of “spatialising memory”, which, in “a situation of catastrophe and total forgetting” (in einer Situation der Katastrophe und des totalen Vergessens), attests to a “forgotten and unrecognizable identity” (das einzige Zeugnis der vergessenen und unkennbar gewordenen Identität).73 The hydria did perhaps have a similar function, even if not an identical one: its burial was meant to guard (φυλάσσειν) Messenian identity from oblivion under catastrophic conditions, an identity that, even though it was kept inside a bronze chamber, was on the point of collapsing. Some differences, however, are easily discernible. The resurgence of religious memory under Josiah triggers and legitimizes substantial intervention in the region’s religious space. But these reforms prove ineffective and ephemeral, because the discovery of the Book is in this case a testament precisely to the abandonment of the Covenant that has already taken place, and to the imminent disaster for the people of Israel. It should be noted, however, that the biblical account in question is probably the result of two different textual versions. The first, which tells of the religious spirit of the ruler and of his efforts to purify the region, can be dated to the time of Josiah. The failure of the reform and the disasters that followed are probably the result of interpolations in a second editorial phase, which has been placed in the period of the Babylonian exile.74 These modifications have been interpreted as revisionist efforts of the Jewish élite, which needed to explain why Josiah’s reform 71 72 73 74

2 Kings 23,23, trans. Norton, David et al. (ed.) 2005. The New Cambridge paragraph Bible with the Apocrypha. King James version. Cambridge. Assmann 1992, 215–17. Assmann 1992, 217. See, in this regard, Spieckermann 1982 and Finkelstein, Silberman 2001, 301–05. For a thorough analysis of the status quaestionis on various phases of the editorial process, see Eynikel 1996. On Josiah’s reform, see also Barrick 2002 and, more recently, Monroe 2011.

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was so ineffective in avoiding the destruction of Jerusalem and the deportation to Babylonia. The goal of this second version was to rehabilitate the identity of Israel as the chosen people. Like the hydria, the suddenly emerging Law is, to a certain extent, a pledge of divine protection, since it contains instructions on how not to forget the pact and incur the wrath of the Lord.75 It represents in and of itself the salvation of the Jewish people. But its unexpected discovery, at least in the post-exile account, reverses the saving function, since it does not imply the definitive recovery of a dormant memory, but rather emphasizes the beginning of the crisis. Its recovery and the public reading become instrumental in confirming for Israel the need for a different use of memory, and are important for the way in which the text serves as a vehicle of identity. According to the theory of cultural memory elaborated by Assmann based on reflections of M. Halbwachs,76 as a consequence of being uprooted from their land in the Diaspora, the people of Israel will later distinguish themselves by their capacity to internalize their lieux de mémoire, thereby rendering superfluous the natural conditions of collective memory (such as, for example, the kingdom, the temple, the land). These “framing conditions” must rather be ensured by the principles of cultural mnemonics, illustrated in Deuteronomy, based on a regular “presentification” by recollecting a distant past that lacks a footing in everyday life.77 The same cannot be said of the Messenians. It is true that in both cases the recovery of the texts serves as a catalyst for communal regeneration. But in the Messenian context, in some ways, it initiates and accelerates the renewal of those conditions. It also serves to reconstruct a political and religious landscape that is based on a thorough “territorialisation” of memory, this time according to the logic of polytheism. Indeed, if Josiah intervenes in the religious landscape, destroying the traces of polytheistic memory in the land of Canaan, and if this solution still proves insufficient to save Israel, the Messenians “reconstruct” by pursuing the vestiges of memory that are submerged, but still salvageable. In both cases, the actions promoted in the lands are based on a selective and reconstructive process that recovers the recoverable and physically eliminates what should be forgotten.

4 CONCLUSION Even though the recovery of the hydria for the Messenians and that of the Book of the Law for the people of Israel qualify as “figures of memory” and result in spatialisation of memory (the one effective, the other futile), they respond to different needs of representing one’s identity. The one seems in fact to constitute the converse of the other. Pursuing the analysis conducted thus far will demonstrate how the two stories, while analogous, attest to the existence of two different systems of memory management.

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Assmann 1992, 214. See also Stroumsa 2005, 123. Halbwachs 1925. Assmann 1992, 217.

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In biblical Israel, a religious memory is forgotten by those who pledged to uphold it. The fortuitous rediscovery, which corresponds to its spatialisation and its passage from invisibility to visibility, from internal to external, makes clear the loss of an identity that must be internalized in order to be renewed and maintained. The public reading of the Book is a recognition of its religious content, and leads to the adoption of a series of late and ineffective measures throughout the land. For the Messenians, on the contrary, the discovery of the hydria leads to a decision to forget the pathemata suffered under Spartan oppression and the beginning of an identity reconstruction in which the newly (re)founded community decides what of the past to conserve and what to forget. Religious memory is recognized when the text returns to visibility, and this recognition occurs not via reading the text but by writing (or rather rewriting) it. The rewriting of the telete here performs a dual function: it both stabilizes and perpetuates memory78 and the form with which it is ultimately acquired, and, presumably, reactivates performance of that memory. For the Messenians, the recovery of the telete is thus instrumental in establishing a memory that, to remain alive and useful, must be externalized, lived, exercised, and exposed to the public. It is a passage from the bottom to the surface, an outward projection that legitimizes the return of the Messenians and their belonging to the land through a past that returns and is finally canonized. So they cease to be a “transcendental” community, or perhaps they never were. However this may be, the discovery of the hydria reflects the needs of a group that, liberated from a centuries-old yoke, searches for a genuinely Messenian identity, recovered in extremis, buried between yew and myrtle, an identity that continuously defines itself in opposition to that of its closest enemy. Artificial or manipulated though it may be, the Messenian story met the objectives of the historiographical project of the Periegesis in an extraordinarily efficient way. With their way of preserving language, customs, cults, and deities, and of dedicating their temples and sacred spaces, they represented the very essence of the hellenikon of which Herodotus speaks in his eighth book and which strongly inspired Pausanias.79 The markers of Greek identity that the historian of Halicarnassus designates are ultimately (to paraphrase Assmann once again80) the result of Greek mnemonics, which consisted in the use of a single language and the conser78 79

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Thus Assmann 2000, 20. Cf. also Camassa 2009. Hdt. 8.144. In this famous passage, when Alexander the Macedonian, emissary of the Persian Mardonius, is seeking to convince the Athenians to come to terms with Xerxes, they explain the reasons why they could not accept peace with the king: “For there are many great reasons why we should not do this, even if we so desired; first and chiefest, the burning and destruction of the adornments and temples of our gods, whom we are constrained to avenge to the uttermost rather than make covenants with the doer of these things, and next the kinship of all Greeks in blood and speech, and the shrines of gods and the sacrifices that we have in common, and the likeness of our way of life…” (αὖτις δὲ τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν, ἐὸν ὅμαιμόν τε καὶ ὁμόγλωσσον καὶ θεῶν ἱδρύματά τε κοινὰ καὶ θυσίαι ἤθεά τε ὁμότροπα); (transl. by A. D. Goodley, Loeb Cambridge MA. [1925] 19816). On the relationship between Pausanias and previous historiography as well as on the historiographic system of the Periegesis, cf. Musti 1982, xxxvi–lv; Moggi 1993. Assmann 1992, 212.

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vation of customs, ritual, and cult practices rooted in the territory.81 In the Messenians’ behaviour Pausanias perceived, perhaps, the winning formula to withstand another foreign and even more threatening reality represented by Rome, whose rule over Greece was clearly tangible both in the transformation of the political and religious landscape and in the inexorable efforts of the Roman élite to mix with the memories of Greek poleis.82 In the cases of biblical Israel and Pausanias’ retelling of Messenian history, two systems of memory are at work, which correspond to two different perceptions of identity. For both, however, the rediscovered sacred memory, whether externalized or internalized, represents a form of resistance to a nearby “other” that lives in the vicinity and shares the same conditions, whose presence threatens to obfuscate this memory or, worse, to appropriate it. BIBLIOGRAPHY Alcock, Susan E. 2001. “The Peculiar Book IV and the Problem of the Messenian Past”, in: Alcock, Susan E.; Cherry, John F.; Elsner, Jaś (eds.) 2001. Pausanias. Travel and memory in Roman Greece. Oxford. 142–53. Ambaglio, Delfino 2004. “Il peso del ricordo nella Periegesi di Pausania”, in: Laffi, Ugo; Prontera, Francesco; Virgilio, Biagio (eds.) 2004. Artissimum memoriae vinculum. Scritti di geografia storica e di antichità in ricordo di Gioia Conta. Firenze. 9–24. Asheri, David 1983. “La diaspora e il ritorno dei Messeni”, in: Gabba, Emilio (ed.) 1983. Tria Corda. Scritti in onore di Arnaldo Momigliano. Como. 27–42. Assmann, Jan 1992. Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in früheren Hochkulturen. München [1992] 19972. Assmann Jan 2000. Religion und kulturelles Gedächtnis. München (en. ed.: id. 2006. Religion and cultural memory. Ten studies. Stanford). Auberger, Janick 1992a. “Pausanias et les Messéniens: une histoire d’amour!”, Revue des Études anciennes 94. 187–97. Auberger, Janick 1992b. “Pausanias romancier? Le témoignage du livre IV”, Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne 18.1. 257–80. Auberger, Janick 2000. “Pausanias et le livre 4: une leçon pour l’empire?”, Phoenix 54. 255–81. Aubriot, Danièle 2005. “L’invocation au(x) dieu(x) dans la prière grecque: contrainte, persuasion ou théologie?”, in: Belayche et al. 2005. 473–90. Baladié, Raoul 2001. “Structure et particularités du livre IV de Pausanias”, in: Knoepfler, Denis; Piérart, Marcel (eds.) 2001. Éditer, traduire, commenter Pausanias en l’an 2000. Actes du colloque de Neuchâtel et de Fribourg (septembre 1998). Neuchâtel-Genève. 275–81. Barbu, Daniel 2011. “Idole, idolâtre, idolâtrie”, in: Bonnet, Corinne et alii (eds.) 2011. Les représentations des dieux des autres (Colloque de Toulouse, 9–11 décembre 2010), (Suppl. a Mythos. Rivista di Storia delle Religioni 2). Palermo. 31–49. Barrick, Boyd W. 2002. The king and the cemeteries; toward a new understanding of Josiah’s reform. Leiden–Boston–Köln. Belayche, Nicole et al. (eds.) 2005. Nommer les Dieux. Théonymes, épithètes, épiclèses dans l’Antiquité. Turnhout. 81 82

On the use and practice of memory in the Greek world, cf. Simondon 1982; Bouvier 1997; Calame 2006. Cf. Ferrary 1988, 576; Lafond 1996 and the material collected in Id. 2001; Luraghi 2008, 292–293.

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Borgeaud, Philippe 2004–2005. “Introduction”, in: Borgeaud, Volokhine 2004–2005. 7–12. Borgeaud, Philippe; Volokhine, Youri (eds.) 2004–2005. Les objets de la mémoire. Pour une approche comparatiste des reliques et de leur culte. Berne. Bouvier, David 1997. “Mneme. Le peripezie della memoria greca”, in: Settis, Salvatore (ed.) 1997. I Greci: storia, cultura, arte, società. Una storia greca. Definizione, 2.2. Torino. 1131–46. Bouvier, David 2004–2005. “Reliques héroïques en Grèce archaïque: l’exemple de la lance d’Achille”, in: Borgeaud, Volokhine 2004–2005. 73–93. Bultrighini, Umberto 2001. “Recupero dell’identità: Andania, i Dori e la rifondazione di Messene”, in: Barzanò, Alberto et alii (eds.) 2001. Identità e valori: fattori di aggregazione e fattori di crisi nell’esperienza politica antica. Atti del convegno di Bergamo (16–18 dicembre 1998). Roma. 39–61. Calame, Claude 2006. Pratiques poétiques de la mémoire. Représentations de l’espace-temps en Grèce ancienne. Paris. Camassa, Giorgio 2009. “Scrittura e mutamento delle leggi in quattro culture del mondo antico (Mesopotamia, Anatolia ittita, Israele biblico, Grecia)”, Mythos. Rivista di storia delle religioni 3. 67–92. Carastro, Marcello 2006. La cité des mages. Grenoble. Carbon, Jan-Mathieu 2012. “Monographing ‘Sacred Laws’”, Kernos 25. 318–27 [available on-line: kernos.revues.org/2035 (posted on 01.10.2012, accessed on 26.10.2012)] Cavallo, Guglielmo; Chartier, Roger 1995. Storia della lettura nel mondo occidentale. Bari–Roma (en. ed.: id. 1999. A History of Reading in the West. Cambridge). Chaniotis, Angelos 2004. “Wie (er)findet man Rituale für einen neuen Kult? Recycling von Ritualen – das Erfolgsrezept Alexanders von Abonouteichos”, in: Diskussionsbeiträge des SFB 619 »Ritualdynamik« der Ruprecht-Karls Universität Heidelberg, herausgegeben von Dietrich Harth und Axel Michaels, 9, November 2004, available online: http://archiv.ub.uni-heidelberg. de/volltextserver/volltexte/2004/5103/pdf/ChaniotisAlex.pdf [posted on 13.12.2004, accessed 18.04.2012]. 1–16. Coppola, Alessandra 2008. L’eroe ritrovato. Il mito del corpo nella Grecia classica. Venezia. Deshours, Nadine 1993. “La légende et le culte de Messènè ou comment forger l’identité d’une cité”, Revue des Études Grecques 106. 39–60. Deshours, Nadine 2006. Les mystères d’Andania. Bordeaux. Detienne, Marcel 2000. Comparer l’incomparable. Paris. Eynikel, Erik 1996. The reform of king Josiah and the composition of the Deuteronomistik history, Leiden–New York–Köln. Ferrary, Jean-Louis 1988. Philhéllenisme et impérialisme: Aspects idéologiques de la conquête romaine du monde hellénistique, de la seconde guerre de Macédoine à la guerre contre Mithridate (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 271). Roma. Ferri, Giorgio 2010. Tutela segreta ed evocatio nel politeismo romano. Roma. Figueira, Thomas J. 1999. “The evolution of the Messenian identity”, in: Hodkinson, Stephen; Powell, Anton (eds.) 1999. Sparta: new perspectives. London. 211–44. Finkelstein, Israel; Silberman, Neil A. 2001. The Bible unearthed. Archeology’s new vision of ancient Israel and the origin of its sacred texts. New York. Gawlinski, Laura 2012 (ed. comm.). The sacred law of Andania: a new text with commentary (Sozomena 11). Berlin–Boston. Georgoudi, Stella 1988. “Manières d’archivages et archives de cités”, in: Detienne, Marcel (ed.) 1988. Les savoirs de l’écriture en Grèce ancienne. Lille. 221–47. Grandjean, Catherine 2003. Les Messéniens de 370/369 au 1er siècle de notre ère: monnayages et histoire (Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique. Supplément 44. École française d’Athènes). Athenai. Halbwachs, Maurice 1925. Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire. Paris [1925] 19522. Hartmann, Andreas 2010. Zwischen Relikt und Reliquie. Objektbezogene Erinnerungspraktiken in antiken Gesellschaften. (Studien zur alten Geschichte 11). Berlin. Henrichs, Albert 2003. “Hieroi Logoi and hierai biblioi: the (un)written margins of the sacred in ancient Greece”, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 101. 207–66.

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Jourdain-Annequin, Colette 1998. “Représenter les dieux: Pausanias et le panthéon des citésˮ, in: Pirenne-Delforge, Vinciane (ed.) 1998. Les Panthéons des cités des origines à la Périégès de Pausanias (Kernos Supplément 8). Liège. 241–61. Kippenberg, Hans G.; Stroumsa, Guy G. 1995. Secrecy and concealment. Studies in the History of Mediterranean and Near-Eastern religions. Leiden–New York–Köln. Lafond, Yves 1996. “Pausanias et l’histoire du Péloponnèse depuis la conquête romaine”, in: Bingen, Jean (ed.) 1996. Pausanias historien (Entretiens Hardt 41). Vandoeuvres–Genève. 167– 98. Lafond, Yves 2001. “Lire Pausanias à l’époque des Antonins. Réflexions sur la place de la Périégèse dans l’histoire culturelle, religieuse et sociale de la Grèce romaine”, in: Knoepfler, Denis; Piérart, Marcel (eds.) 2001. Éditer, traduire, commenter Pausanias en l’an 2000. Actes du colloque de Neuchâtel et de Fribourg (september 1998). Neuchâtel–Genève. 387–406. Lafond, Yves 2006. La mémoire des cités dans le Péloponnèse d’époque romaine (IIe siècle avant J.-C. – IIIe siècle après J.-C. Rennes. Luraghi, Nino 2008. The Ancient Messenians. New York. Luraghi, Nino 2012. “Aristomenes and Miloš Obilić: of memory, defeat and nation building“, in: Offenmüller, Margit (ed.), Identitätsbildung und Identitätsstiftung in griechischen Gesellschaften. Graz. 97–106. Moggi, Mauro 1993. “Scrittura e riscrittura della storia in Pausania”, Rivista di Filologia e Istruzione classica 121. 396–418. Monroe, Lauren A. S. 2011. Josiah’s reform and the dynamics of defi lement. Israelite rites of violence and the making of a Biblical text. New York. Musti, Domenico 1982. “Introduzione generale”, in: Musti, Domenico; Beschi, Luigi (eds.) 1982. Pausania, Guida della Grecia. Libro I. L’Attica. Milano [1982] 20047. ix–lv. Musti, Domenico 1996. “La struttura del discorso storico in Pausania”, in: Bingen, Jean (ed.) 1996. Pausanias historien (Entretiens Hardt 41). Vandoeuvres–Genève. 9–34. Musti, Domenico; Torelli, Mario 1991. “Nota introduttiva al libro IV”, in: Musti, Domenico; Torelli, Mario (eds.) 1991. Pausania, Guida della Grecia. Libro IV. La Messenia. Milano. ix–xxxix. Ogden, Daniel 2004. Aristomenes of Messene: legend of Sparta’s nemesis. Swansea. Pfister, Friedrich 1909–1912. Der Reliqiuenkult im Altertum / Die Reliquien als Kultobjekt. Giessen Piolot, Laurent 1999. “Pausanias et les mystères d’Andanie. Histoire d’une aporieˮ, in: Renard, Josette (ed.) 1999. Le Péloponnèse. Archéologie et Histoire, Actes de la rencontre internationale de Lorient (12–15 mai 1998). Rennes. 195–228. Pirenne-Delforge, Vinciane 2008. Retour à la source. Pausanias et la religion grecque (Kernos Supplément 20). Liège. Pirenne-Delforge, Vinciane 2010. “Mnasistratos, the ‘Hierophant’ at Andania (IG 5.1.1390 and Syll.3 735)ˮ, in: Dijkstra, Jitse; Kroesen, Justin; Kuiper, Yme (eds.) 2010. Myths, martyrs and modernity. Studies in the history of religions in honour of Jan N. Bremmer. Leiden–Boston. 219–35. Scarpi, Paolo (ed.) 2002. Le religioni dei misteri, 2. Milano. Scarpi, Paolo 2005. “Des Grands dieux aux dieux sans nom: autour de l’altérité des dieux de Samothraceˮ, in: Belayche et al. 2005. 213–18. Sfameni Gasparro, Giulia 1996. “Alessandro di Abonutico, lo ‘pseudoprofeta’ ovvero come costruirsi un’identità religiosa. 1. Il profeta, ‘eroe’ e ‘uomo divino’ˮ, Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 62. 565–90. Sfameni Gasparro, Giulia 1999. “Alessandro di Abonutico, lo ‘pseudo-profeta’ ovvero come costruirsi un’identità religiosa. 2. L’oracolo e i misteriˮ, in: Bonnet, Corinne; Motte, André (eds.) 1999. Les syncrétismes religieux dans le monde méditerranéen antique. Actes du colloque international en l’honneur de Franz Cumont à l’occasion du cinquantième anniversaire de sa mort (Rome, 25–27 September 1997). Bruxelles–Roma. 275–305. Simondon, Michèle 1982. La mémoire et l’oubli dans la pensée grecque jusqu’à la fin du Ve siècle av. J.-Chr. Psychologie archaïque. Mythes et doctrines. Paris. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1978. Map is not territory. Studies in the history of religions. Leiden.

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Smith, Mark S. 1987. “God male and female in the Old Testament: Yahweh and his Asherahˮ, Theological Studies 48. 333–40. Speyer, Wolfgang 1970. Bücherfunde in der Glaubenswerbung der Antike. Mit einem Ausblick auf Mittelalter und Neuzeit. Göttingen. Speyer, Wolfgang 1995. “Das Buch als magisch-religiöser Kraftträger im griechischen und römischen Altertumˮ, in: Id. (ed.) 1995. Religionsgeschichtliche Studien (Collectanea 15). Hildesheim. 28–55. Spieckermann, Hermann 1982. Juda unter Assur in der Sargonidenzeit (Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments). Göttingen. Stavrakopoulou, Francesca 2004. King Manasseh and child sacrifi ce. Biblical distorsions of historical realities. Berlin. Stroumsa, Guy 2005. La fin du sacrifice. Les mutations religieuses de l’Antiquité tardive. Paris. Themelis, Petros 2000. Ἥρωες καὶ ἡρῶα στὴ Μεσσήνη. Athenai. (Non vidi). Thomas, Rosalind 1992. Literacy and orality in ancient Greece. Cambridge. Victor, Ulrich 1997. Lukian von Samosata, Alexander oder Der Lügenprophet. Eingeleitet, herausgegeben, übersetzt und erklärt. Leiden–New York. Zizza, Cesare 2006. Le iscrizioni nella Periegesi di Pausania. Commento ai testi epigrafici. Pisa. Zunino, Maddalena L. 1997. Hiera Messeniaka. La storia religiosa della Messenia dall’età micenea all’età ellenistica. Udine.

THE ORIGINS AND DEEDS OF OUR GODS: INSCRIPTIONS AND LOCAL HISTORICAL-RELIGIOUS MEMORIES IN THE HELLENISTIC AND ROMAN WORLD* Gian Franco Chiai, Freie Universität Berlin In Augustan times, Dionysios of Halicarnassos observed that historians occupied with Greeks’ or barbarians’ history and the deeds of single peoples and cities had only one aim: to preserve and divulge local memories, conserved in temples and archives.1 Therefore, the historian’s aim was not reduced to a mere struggle against oblivium, conducted by recording and preserving the historical memories of a people, a city or a religious institution, but his goal was also to divulge this history. This could be achieved not only by making these works accessible in public (or private) libraries or by having public readings (ἀκροάσεις), but also via epigraphical publications2 that were often promoted and financed by religious or civil insti-

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1

2

I should like to thank Daniela Kleine Burnhoff and Dr. Benedict Beckeld for correcting my English. I am greatful to my friends and colleagues Dr. Valentino Gasparini (Erfurt) and Prof. Dr. Nicola Cusumano (Palermo) for reading the manuscript and helping with useful criticism and suggestions. De Thuc. 5.1: οὔτοι προαιρέσει τε ὁμοίᾳ ἐχρήσαντο περὶ τὴν ἐκλογὴν τῶν ὑποθέσεων καὶ δυνάμεις οὐ πολύ τι διαφερούσας ἔσχον ἀλλήλων, οἳ μὲν τὰς Ἑλληνικὰς ἀναγράφοντες ἱστορίας, οἳ δὲ τὰς βαρβαρικὰς, {καὶ} αὐτάς οὐ συνάπτοντες ἀλλήλλαις, ἀλλὰ κατ’ ἔθνη καὶ κατὰ πόλεις διαιροῦντες καὶ χωρὶς ἀλλήλων ἐκφέροντες, ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν φυλάττοντες σκοπόν, ὅσαι διεσῴζοντο παρὰ τοῖς ἐπχωρίοις μνῆμαι {κατὰ ἔθνη τε καὶ κατὰ πόλεις} εἴτ’ ἐν ἱεροῖς εἴτ’ ἐν βεβήλοις ἀποκείμεναι γραφαί, ταύτας εἰς τὴν κοινὴν ἁπάντων γνῶσιν ἐξενεγκεῖν, οἵας παρέλαβον, μήτε προστιθέντες αὐταῖς τι μήτε ἀφαιροῦντεςÚ ἐν αἷς καὶ μῦθοί τινες ἐνῆσαν ἀπὸ τοῦ πολλοῦ πεπιστευμένοι χρόνου καὶ θεατρικαί τινες περιπέτειαι πολὺ τὸ ἠλίθιον ἔχειν τοῖς νῦν δοκοῦσαι. “These writers had a similar plan in respect to subject matter, and did not differ greatly from one another in ability. Some wrote about Greece, other about barbarians, not joining their inquiries together into a continuous whole, but separating them by nations and cities and bringing them out individually, with one and the same object in view, that of bringing to the attention of the public traditions preserved among the local people {by nations and cities} written records preserved in sacred or profane archives, just as they received them, without adding or subtracting anything. Among these sources were to be found occasional myths, believed from time immemorial, and dramatic tales of upset fortunes, which seem quite foolish to people of our day.” (For the text and the translation: Fowler 1996, 63). See Jacoby 1949, 205; Gozzoli 1970, 158–64, 183–201; Pritchett 1975, 50–57; Fornara 1983, 16–20; Troiani 1983; Aujac 1991, 147; Maddoli 1992, 39–45; Desideri 1996, 173 and 176; Fowler 1996, 63; Higbie 1999, 55–59; Fowler 2000, 116–17; Porciani 2001, 13–27; Gabba 2002, 521–23; Dillery 2005, 506–07; Ambaglio 2007, 23–25. See the important research of Chaniotis 1988a, who collects and comments on the epigraphical texts and provides a historical reconstruction of this cultural phenomenon.

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tutions in order to divulge their history. A good example is the sacred history of Magnesia.3 The choice of stone as writing material is connected to a collective will to eternalize the historical and cultural memories with a lasting material, able to defeat time and to overcome the limits of human memory. Dionysios of Halicarnassos stressed the importance of local (public as well as religious) archives for the preservation of local memory,4 where the fundamental documents were preserved that made it possible to reconstruct the history of a city or of a sacral institution. These had to be published by the historians “without adding or subtracting anything”. Historical writing became one of the most important media for bringing out the cultural identity of a polis in the Hellenistic era.5 According to Gehrke’s definition of “intentional history”,6 the historian’s activity was useful for a city in the Hellenistic era, both in constructing its identity and in affirming its archaiotes and eugeneia,7 often by using archaeological or epigraphical testimonies or by analysing and publishing ancient mythical traditions. Intentional history is to be understood not only as a manipulation of history, but also as an ethnocentric perception and interpretation of the past by the community,8 and inscriptions must have played a central role as a medium to preserve, divulge, and affirm that history and identity.9 The aim of this research is to reconstruct the practise of the epigraphical publication of religious memories as well as to show its contexts and mechanisms by analysing selected inscriptions. I have distinguished between public documents, exposed in the public spaces of the polis and accessible to all,10 in which both citizens and foreign visitors could read the history of the city; and documents of reli-

3

For this spectacular inscription, see Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1885; Kern 1900, 12–69; Dunand 1978; Ebert 1982; Dušanič 1983; Chaniotis 1988a, 34–40; Rigsby 1996, 179–279; Chaniotis 1999; Jones 1999, 59–60 and 118–19; Flashar 1999, 414–20; Gehrke 2001 (from the perspective of “intentionale Geschichte”); Slater-Summa 2006; Pezzoli 2006; Thonemann 2007; Sammartano 2008–2009; Sosin 2009. 4 For the importance of archives for historians, see generally Boffo 1995; Desideri 1996; Camassa 2004; Boffo 2004; Del Corso 2004; Boffo 2011. 5 See the important considerations of Herrmann 1984, who stresses the process of intensification of the historical dimension of a city’s self-understanding. On the historical constructs of the Hellenistic era, see the useful essays in Cartledge, Garnsey, Gruen 1997. 6 See Gehrke 1994, 2001, 2003 and 2010. 7 For archaiotes and eugeneia as arguments for constructing city identity in Roman Asia Minor, see Heller 2006a with bibliography. 8 See Gehrke 2001, 286: “Social knowledge of the past, in other words that which 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”. Gehrke 2001, 298: “Intentional history would then be history in a group’s own understanding, especially insofar as it is significant for the make-up and identity of the group”. 9 For inscriptions as medium to publish local history, see Boffo 1988; Culasso Gastaldi 2003. See also remarks in Bertrand 1999, 110–24. 10 See the useful study of Von Hesberg 2009 and the remarks of Chaniotis 1988a, 100–12 about the “Aufstellungsorte”.

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gious institutions, placed within sanctuaries, in which the sacred memory of the temple was conserved and divulged. According to the definition of Dionysios of Halicarnassos, we consider sacred history as a branch of local history,11 concentrating on the cults and religious traditions of a given Greek city or region and based on documents from the archives of a temple or civic institution. Moreover, sacred history differs from a sacred chronicle because it was often written by professional authors using literary topoi and in an elaborate style. Its aim is to narrate and divulge the deeds of the divinity of a sanctuary or city, praising his or her power.

1 INSCRIPTIONS FROM CITIES 1.1 Writing mythical past: the sacred histories of Magnesia and Sydima The first epigraphical document, briefly cited above, is the famous historia sacra of the Magnesians, included within a dossier of eighty-seven inscriptions whose redaction has been dated to the second half of the third century BCE. The motive of its redaction was an apparition (epiphania) of the goddess Artemis Leukophryene (“with the white eyebrows”), the most important divinity of the city, which caused a delegation to be sent to Delphi in order to consul the oracle. The oracle replied: Λώιον εἶμεν καὶ ἄμεινον τοῖς σεβόμενοις Ἄρτεμιν Λευκοφρυνὰν καὶ τὰν πόλιν καὶ τὰν ἱερὰν καὶ ἄσυλον νομίζοντι “It is more agreeable and better for those who revere Apollo Pythios and Artemis Leukophryene and treat the city and territory of the Magnesians on the Maeander as sacred and inviolable”.12

In line with this response, diplomatic delegations were sent throughout the Hellenistic world soliciting Panhellenic status for the newly reformed local festivals of Artemis Leukophryene, which were also assimilated to the Pythic and Olympic festivals by the introduction of gymnastic and musical agones.13 The other task of the delegation was to persuade the monarchs and the other Greek poleis to recognise the city and its territory as sacred and inviolable, stressing the συγγένεια and οἰκειότης

11

Dillery 2005, 507, according to the text of Dionysios of Halicarnassos (de thuc. 5.1), defines sacred history as “[…] a branch of local history, centering specifically on the cult of a given region or polis in the Greek world and based on documents from temple archives (ἐν ἱεροῖς ἀποκείμεναι γραφαί), sometimes coming from the cult officials themselves”. Clarke 2005, 110–17 stresses the strong local character of Greek historiography, recalling the words of Orsi 1994, 149: “La storiografia greca si configura principalmente come storiografia locale”. 12 For ἀσυλία with a collection and analysis of the epigraphical testimonies, see Rigsby 1996; Flashar 1999; Chaniotis 1996 and 2007a; Dreyer 2011. 13 See the analysis of Dunand 1978; Köhler 1996, 46–53; Sumi 2004; Slater-Summa 2006; Thonemann 2007; Sosin 2009. For the Panhellenic festivals in the Hellenistic era, see Chaniotis 1995a; Dunand 1998, 349–52; Parker 2004.

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that tied Magnesia14 with many cities of the Greek world.15 This is a clear instance of how the redaction and publication of a sacred history (or religious memory) is related to political and economic motives. The Magnesians, who had obtained a prestigious international acknowledgement, could defend their requests against critics because they had obeyed the will of their goddess. For this reason, the inscriptions were displayed in a columned hall, the topos epiphanestatos of the polis.16 This long inscription also contained the sacred history of Magnesia on the Meander (whose beginning and end is unfortunately fragmentary), which narrated the mythical past of the city as well as the origins of the first colonizers from the Thessalian tribe of the Magnesians. After the Trojan War, the contingent of Magnesians landed in Crete because of a storm, where they founded a city between Gortina and Faistos. Due to an apparition of white ravens, the Magnesians sent a delegation to Delphi to consult the oracle, who ordered them to leave Crete and to found a new city in the region of the Pamphylians under the command of a man from the descendants of Glaucos, that is, Leucippos.17 This tale is rich in narrative topoi, such as the storm and the apparition of the white ravens. Very interesting are the central role of the Delphic oracle (an element present in the most important foundation myths) and the text of the oracles, in hexametric verses which presuppose a poet’s expert hand. The inscription aims to make accessible the official history of the origins of Magnesia, stressing its descent from the Thessalian Magnesians, and the connection to Crete as well as to Delphi. Another important dossier of epigraphical documents, dated to the imperial era and connected with the sacred history of Lycia, was displayed in the agora of Sidyma and narrated tales of the apparitions and wonders of Apollo and Artemis in the chora of Sidyma, Tlos, and Araxe.18 This long inscription probably contained ex14

15

16 17 18

See Sammartano 2008–2009, who uses the expression “diplomazia della parentela”. For συγγένεια in the Greek inscriptions and its role in political relationships, see Musti 1963; Curty 1994 and Id. 1995 (with a useful collection of the epigraphical testimonies); Will 1995; Curty 1999; Jones 1999; Lücke 2000; Musti 2001; Erskine 2002; Curty 2005; Sammartano 2008–2009. For the different use of these two ideas in inscriptions, see Sammartano 2008–2009, 120–27, who writes (122): “Il concetto di syngheneia, infatti, esprime uno stretto legame tra due o più comunità politiche che fanno risalire le loro origini al medesimo capostipite o che appartengono allo stesso ceppo etnico, mentre il concetto di oikeiotes rinvia ad una nozione più generica di ‘affinità’ o ‘familiarità’ esistente nell’attualità tra varie communità, a prescindere dalla loro stirpe. La categoria della oikeiotes era infatti usata in riferimento a relazioni amichevoli piuttosto salde o a rapporti di reciproca collaborazione stabiliti in epoca relativamente recenti e in maniera trasversale tra realtà politiche di varia estrazione etnica, ivi comprese anche comunità consanguinee”. For the use of the term oikeiotes in diplomatic inscriptions, see Sammartano 2007. For an archaeological reconstruction of the monumental porticus see Von Hesberg 2009, 28, fig. 5; on the archeological context see also Flashar 1999, 416–17 with bibliography. For an analysis of this text see Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1885; Prinz 1979, 111–37; Chaniotis 1988a, 34–40; Gehrke 2001, 287–97; Pezzoli 2006; Sammartano 2008–2009, 116–20. TAM 2.174; FgrHist 570, fr. 5; Robert 1978, 45, n. 39; BE 1979, 479; SEG 28.1222; Chaniotis 1988a, 75–85 (with a German translation and apparatus criticus); Merkelbach 2000 (with a new German translation).

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cerpts from the work of the local historian Hieron of Sidyma, in which the mythical traditions of the region were narrated, stressing the gods’ particular relationships with the poleis Sidyma, Tlos and Araxe.19 The local religious landscape was rich with signs of the interventions of these gods, such as two stones in the shapes of Artemis and Apollo in the territory of Tlos.20 The text features complex syntax and new words,21 which must have made for some difficult reading. Furthermore, numerous narrative elements as well as literary topoi are embedded in the text, such as the severe punishment of a woman who saw Apollo in a hole, situated in the city’s territory (probably in order to explain why the worshipers entering this hole sang χαίρε, Ἄπολλον ὁ ἐγ Λόπτων). The inscription is a good example of sacred intentional history, composed by a local historian and published in a public space in order to divulge and make accessible the region’s own mythical past, as well as to reinforce the relationships between the three Lycian cities. This happened within the framework of competition for εὐγένεια and ἀρχαιότης, characteristic of the cultural and political context of poleis in the Greek East during the second century CE.22 All these epigraphical texts provide good examples of cities that promoted and financed the publication of their own local history. In the case of Sidyma, the layout of the inscription probably also reproduces the form of a book.23 Other important aspects include the affixing of single letters into the stone, the stone’s dimensions, as well as the visual effects brought about by coloration of the letters. In the case of the Magnesian inscriptions, the letters are 1,5 cm high and the inscribed stone 100– 180 cm high.24 These aesthetic aspects aim at making the epigraphical texts visible and easy to read. These inscriptions are rich in fantastical and romantic elements, which presuppose the presence of a professional writer who was able to write the tales in a good literary style and had researched the mythical traditions and history of the city. It is an activity promoted and financed by the polis, as an inscription from the Thracian Chersonesos clearly shows. It documents public honours for Syriskos, son of Her-

19 20 21

22

23

24

This city was considered the birthplace of the gods (Col. 3.14–15: ἐν Ἀ[ρά]ξοις κυηθεῖσιν, / Ἄρτεμιν καὶ Ἀπόλλωνα). Col 3.10–13: ἀλλὰ τῆς ἀφ’ ἡμῶν γενεᾶς ἀνα/φυούσης τῆς θ[εο]τόκου γῆς λαι/νέου μορφὰς ὁμοιοτυπεῖς τς / Λητοῦς διδύμοις φωστῆρσιν. Chaniotis 1988a, 80 remarks: “Wegen der sehr komplizierten Syntax, der seltenen Worte und des nicht an allen Stellen guten Erhaltungszustandes bereitet der Text besondere Interpretationsschwierigkeiten”. For this cultural and political phenomenon see Robert 1977b; Merkelbach 1978a; Dräger 1993, 107–200; Schmitz 1997, 97–135 (concerning the role of the Second Sophistic); Heller 2006b; Dmitriev 2011. See Petersen,von Luschan 1889, 175: “Ist in der Mitte durch einen senkrechten Streifen geteilt, so dass sich die Inschrift πλινθηδόν in quadrate Abteilungen gliederte, welche rings von glatten Rahmen umgeben sind und wie die Seiten eines Buches bequem übersehbar waren”. Merkelbach 2000, 125 remarks: “Für das unter den Papyrologen oft diskutierte Thema ‘Rolle und Codex’ ist dieser Stein von Interesse. Als diese Inschrift gesetzt wurde, zwischen 200 und 250, muß der Codex als die schönere Form eines Buches gegolten haben”. See remarks in Chaniotis 1988a, 131–33 (with other examples) and Von Hesberg 2009, 28–32.

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aklidas, who, “having diligently written up the epiphanies of the Parthenos (Artemis Taurica), read them aloud”.25 In this context the expression γράψας ἀ[νέ] γνω is noteworthy, as it provides evidence for the public recital of these works of local history. The epiphanies, the records of which were probably conserved in documents from archives, must have represented the fulcrum of Syriskos’ work and been part of the reconstruction of the polis’ local history. Only the local history could provide a narrative framework for the tales of epiphany, which served to attest the region’s privileged relationship with the goddess. This document also shows us how sacred chronicles were considered an important element of local history, promoted by the civic communities to preserve and divulge the memories of their own gods’ deeds beyond the boundaries of the polis. 1.2 Creating mythical kinships: the Argive decree for Antiochos and the stele of Xanthos As another example we may consider the Argive decree in honour of the sophist Antiochos of Aigai,26 who, during his sojourn in the city, held public lectures27 on the subject of the mythical kinship (συγγένεια) between Argos and his native

25

26

27

SGDI 3086; IOSPE 1.184; IOSPE 12.344; FGrHist 807 T 1: [Ἡρακλε]ίδας Παρμένοντος εἶπ[ε·] / [ἐπειδὴ] Σύρισκος Ἡρακλείδα τὰ[ς] / [ἐπιφα]νείας τᾶς Παρθένου φιλ[ο]/ [πόνως] γράψας ἀ[νέ]γνω καὶ τ[ὰ] / [ποτὶ τ]οὺς Βοσ[π]όρου [β]ασιλεῖ[ς] / [διηγήσα]το […]. “Herakleidas the son of Parmenon said: / “Since Syriskos the son of Herakleidas / having diligently written up the epiphanies of the Parthenos, / read [them] aloud and set out in detail / the relations to the kings of the Bosporos […]” (translation of C. Higbie). On this epigraphical text see Rostowzew 1920, 203; Chaniotis 1988a, 300–01; Higbie 2003, 275–76; Clarke 2005, 116–17. The decree is included in the text of a letter, sent to Aigai. For this important epigraphical document see SEG 1.69; FGrHist 747, T. 2; Hiller von Gaertringen 1922; Robert 1977a, 120– 32; BE 1978, 512; SEG 26.426; Bousquet 1982, 192; SEG 31.308; Spawforth, Walker 1986, 103–04; Chaniotis 1988a, 322–24; Scheer 1993, 220–22; Jones 1999, 115–16; Curty 1995, 13–15; Puech 2002, 68–70. For the lectures of wandering poets and historians see Guarducci 1929 (with a useful collection of historical and epigraphical testimonies); Chaniotis 1988a, 287–389 (for the historians); Clarke 2005, 117–24; Shepens 2006; Chaniotis 2009b. Guarducci 1929, 629 considers the wandering poets and historians as “una folla di personaggi singoli, i quali per amore di gloria e spesso di lucro, vagavano di città in città, percorrendo in tutti i sensi le terre della Grecia, le isole dell’Egeo e le coste dell’Asia Minore”. Polybius (16.14.8–9) defines the itinerant historians as people “who gain their living by their pens” (τῶν ἀπὸ τούτου τὸν βίον ποριζομένων); in another passage (12.25e.2) he compares them with drug sellers (φαρμακοπῶλαι). For the public lectures of historical works in the Greek and Roman world see also remarks in Momigliano 1978. About these historians Schepens 2006, 100–01 states: “In spite of Poybius’ allegations to the contrary, we ought to see the itinerant historians as quite learned men, equipped with the necessary professional skills to do their jobs to the great satisfaction of the local communities that honoured and rewarded them with wreaths, money, the grant of proxeny, citizenship or tax privileges etc.”.

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city,28 founded by Perseus like other Cilician poleis.29 Since he reinforced good relations between Argos and Aigai, the Argive assembly decided to confer upon him the honorific title of bouletas. Unfortunately, the fragmentary text represents only a short portion of the sophist’s work, describing the arrival of Perseus with a cult statue (ἀφείδρυμα) of Athena,30 probably in order to introduce her cult to the region:31 “He explained to us the kinship which from the time of our fathers once tied us to the people of Aigai; then he told how, when Perseus, son of Danaus, was racing to (far lands) against the Gorgons, arrived in Cilicia, which is the boundary to [---]; and that there carrying the statuette of his national goddess […]”.32

The brevity and fragmentary nature of the text make it impossible to reconstruct its style and content. The use of the local dialect33 and the verb ἔφη may be a sign that the inscription represents, as it were, an “abstract” of Antiochos’ lectures. The expression φανερὰν ἁμῖν ποιήσας […] συγγένηαν seems to emphasize that Antiochos must have convinced the Argives of the historicity of this mythical kinship, although at the beginning we read the term ἀνανέωσις. The placement of the stele in the sanctuary of Apollo Lykeios also deserves our consideration.34 Pausanias (2.19.3–5) refers to the temple as ἐπιφανέστα28

29 30

31 32

33 34

For the rhetorician Publius Anteius Antiochos see Follet 1989. Jones 1999, 116 considers Antiochos as belonging “to the local aristocracy of Aegeae, whose members traced their ultimate origin to Argos”. For the importance of the cultural education of ambassadors in Hellenistic and Roman times, see remarks in Chaniotis 1988b, 155–56; Erskine 2002, 103–06. The use of the mythical past as argument in diplomatic relationships often appears in inscriptions: see Chaniotis 1988a, 304–05, E 11 (decree honouring Hermokles from Chios), 305–06, E 12 (decree honouring Themistokles from Ilion), 310, E 18 (decree honouring Bombos from Alexandria Troas); Id. 2004d, 200–03; 2005; 2008a. See Scheer 1993, 282–305; Ehling 2004, 132–36; recently Odgen 2008, 119–21. Five temples dedicated to Athena are attested in Argos (three in the city and two outside). For the Athena cult in Argos, see Billot 1997–1998; Pierart 1996, 177–194; Wulfram 2008, 137–39 (concerning Hymn 5 of Callimachus). According to Pausanias (2.23.5: λέγουσι γὰρ Ἀργεῖοι […] ἄγαλμα κεῖσθαι παρὰ σφίσιν Ἀθηνᾶς τὸ ἐκκομισθὲν ἐξ Ἰλίου καὶ ἁλῶναι ποιῆσαι Ἴλιον. Τὸ μὲν δὴ Παλλάδιον – καλεῖσθαι γὰρ οὔτω – δῆλον ἐστι ἐς Ἰταλίαν κομισθὲν ὑπὸ Αἰνείου), the Argives had the Trojan palladion. For this tradition, see Burkert 1998, 51– 53; Hartmann 2010, 115–16, 556–57, with bibliography. The image of the goddess is found on the obverse of local coins. For the gods of Aigeia documented on coins, see Pohl 2004, 52–53. Curty 1995, 13–14, n. 5 and 20–24: φανερὰν ἁμῖν ποιήσας / [τὰν ἐκ παλαιοῦ ὑ]πάρχουσαν ποτ’ Αἰγεαίους ἁμῶν συγγένηαν· Περ/[σέα γὰρ ἔφη τὸ]ν Δανάας ἐπὶ τὰς Γοργόνας στελλέμεν ΕΣ / [......... ἀφίκ]εσθαι Κιλικίαν, ἅτις ἐστὶν τέρμα τᾶς πρὸς / [---] κἀκεῖ τὸ τᾶς πατρίου κομίζοντα θεᾶς ἀφεί/[δρυμα ------]. For the use of the Argive dialect in local historiography during the Hellenistic times, see Cassio 1989. For the importance of the cult of Apollo Lykeios, see Scheer 1993, 288–89, who considers the images of the god on the local coins of Argos and Tarsos: “Vor allem im 2. Jh. n. Chr., im Angesicht des hadrianischen Panhellenions, erhält der Mythos die Bedeutung des Lösungsworts, das Rechte und Zugehörigkeiten definiert und Griechen und Barbaren voneinander abgrenzt: durch das man seine Verwandschaft zum griechischen Mutterland und zu illustren Größen mythologischer Erzählung nachweist”; for an analysis of the numismatic evidence, see Ehling

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τον35 and tells us that Danaos, the father of Perseus, founded this sanctuary, in order to thank the god for help and to praise his power. The erection of the stele within one of the most ancient and important sacred spaces of Argos must have implied public acknowledgment of the Argive origin of Aigai.36 Furthermore, this acknowledgment could be used politically as an argument for admission into the Panhellenion, founded by Hadrian.37 Although epiphanies are not mentioned, this inscription represents very important testimony for the publication of local mythical and sacred history in the public space of a polis, and for the role that mythical kinship (συγγένεια) played in contextualizing the political relations between civic communities. A very interesting passage from the stele of Xanthos sheds further light on the importance of mythical kinship within the framework of diplomacy in the ancient world:38 “They request us, recalling the kinship that exists between them and us from gods and heroes, not to allow the walls of their city to remain demolished. Leto (they say), the goddess who presides over our city, gave birth to Artemis and Apollo amongst us; from Apollo and Coronis the daughter of Phlegyas, who was descended from Dorus, Asclepius was born in Doris (that is, the land of the Dorians).”39

The scope of this paper does not permit a thorough analysis of this text, which was probably read aloud before the assembly of Xanthos. As in many similar diplomatic texts, mythical kinship and elements of local sacred history are used as part of a persuasive strategy, in order to convince the Xanthians to help the citizens of Cytenion, whose city wall was destroyed by an earthquake and by an attack of Antigonos Doson’s troops (228 BCE).40

35 36 37

38

39

40

2004, 133–38. For the character and cult of this divinity, see Burkert 1997, 79–80; De Roguin 1999, 99–104; Marcinkowski 2008. For a reconstruction of the sacred topography of Argos, see Marchetti 1994; Marchetti, Rizakis 1995; Marchetti 2000. According to the sources, the city was founded by Alexander the Great. On this tradition, see Merkelbach 1978b; Ziegler 1998, 684–85. Spawforth, Walker 1986, 104: “The interest of this inscription lies not least in its detailed account of a particular type of Greek diplomatic activity, the ‘renewal’ of kinship between cities, examples of which are known from the Hellenistic period”. Robert 1977a, 128 remarks: “L’inscription d’Argos nous montre l’activité d’un rhéteur historien pour faire reconnaître l’eugéneia de sa patrie en Cilicie avec un des peuples nobles de la Grèce, les Argiens. Telle fut l’activité des littérateurs en toute ville hellénisée. Ils eurent spécialement du travail, je pense, lorsque l’empereur Hadrien créa le Panhellénion à Athènes et que celui-ci prospéra sous Antonin le Pieux et Marc Aurèle”. For the cultural role of Argos in the Roman period, see Pierart 2010. Bousquet 1988; SEG 38.1476; Rousset 1989; BE 1989, 275, 282, 284, 315; Walbank 1989; BE 1990, 737; Curty 1995, 183–91, n. 75; Jones 1999, 61–62, 139–43; Hadzis 1997; Erskine 2002, 101–03; Chaniotis 2007b, 153–55; 2008a, 154–55; and 2009b. Transl. of C. Jones. Bousquet 1988, 14, ll. 14–20: […] παρακαλοῦσιν ἡμᾶς ἀναμνησθέντας τῆς πρὸς / αὐτοὺς ὑπαρχούσης συγγενείας ἀπὸ τε τῶν θεῶν καὶ / αὐτῶν τὰ τείχη· Λητοῦν γάρ, τὴν τῆς πόλεως ἀρχηγέτιν / τῆς ἡμετέρας, γεννῆσαι Ἄρτεμίν τε καὶ Ἀπόλλωνα παρ’ ἡμεῖν· Ἀπόλλωνος δὲ καὶ Κορωνίδος τῆς Φλεγύου τοῦ ἀπὸ / Δώρου γενέσθαι ἐν τῆι Δωρίδι Ἀσκληπιόν. See remarks in Bousquet 1988, 45–49; Walbank 1989.

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In this passage, Artemis and Apollo are said to have been born in the territory of the polis, and Leto to be the leader (ἀρχηγέτις) of the city, using an epithet that often refers to the most important divinity of the city in dedications or sacral inscriptions.41 The citizens of Xanthos had reason to be proud and to set up this text in a public space, because an ancient Dorian city42 had acknowledged their Greek origins and their claim to be the birth place of the gods Apollo and Artemis, as against other cities like Didyma, Delos, and Ephesos,43 which also claimed this distinction.44 This acknowledgement must have represented for Xanthos an important opportunity to affirm not only its own Greekness, but also the εὐγένεια and ἀρχαιότης of its origins. The rhetorician Menandros suggested that when praising a city, one should begin from its origin: the city was noblest if founded by a god.45 Pausanias, telling of the birth of Zeus on Mount Ithome (according to a local Messenian tradition), affirms: “It is a hopeless task, however zealously undertaken, to enumerate all the people who claim that Zeus was born and brought up among them”.46 This shows 41

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For this use, see Chaniotis 2003, 185 and 2007b, 149. Here are some examples: Pergamon (LSAM, n. 15, 46) τὸν καθηγεμόνα Διόνυσον; Teos (LSAM, n. 28, 7–9) ὕμνους [ᾅδεσθαι] / [καθ’ ἑκά]στην ἡμέραν τοῦ προκαθηγεμ[όνος τῆς] / [πόλεω]ς θεοῦ Διονύσου; Ephesos (LSAM, n. 31, 8) ἡ προεστῶσα τῆς πόλεως ἡμῶν θεὸς Ἄρτεμις; Magnesia on Maeander (LSAM, n. 33, 18) τῇ ἀρχηγέτιδι τῆς πόλεως Ἀρτέμιδι Λευκοφρυηνῇ; Kalymnos (I. Kalymnos, n. 145, 3) τοῦ προκαθηγεμόνος θεοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος; Samos (IG XII, 582) Ἥρι Σαμίων ἀρχηγέτιδι; Milet (LSAM, n. 53, 6–8) εὐσέβειαν εἴς τε τὸν προκαθαγεμόνα τῆς πόλεως ἡμῶν Ἀπόλλωνα Διδυμέα. See Bousquet 1988, 29; Rousset 1989, 221–22; Erskine 2002, 101–03. Leto was the most important divinity of Xanthos, worshiped in a monumental sanctuary (Letoon) outside the city. Leto is to be considered the interpretatio graeca of a local goddess, mentioned in the Lycian inscriptions as Ēni mahanahi (Μήτηρ θεῶν). For the religious context, see Bousquet 1988, 30–32; Le Roy 1993; Lebrun 1998, 145–51; Le Roy 2003. We can consider the text of the historian Semos from Delos (FrGrHist 396, fr. 20 = Steph. Byz.): Τέγυρα, πόλις Βοιωτίας, ἐν ᾗ Ἀπόλλωνα φασι γεννηθῆναι Σῆμος δ’ὁ Δήλιος τὴν Ἀπόλλωνος γένεσιν οἱ μὲν Λυκίᾳ, οἱ δ’ἐν Δήλῳ, οἱ δ’ἐν Ζωστῆρι τῆς Ἀττικῆς, οἱ δὲ ἐν Τεγύρᾳ τῆς Βοιωτίας φασίν. About this text see Nollé 2005, 87–93. Menander Rhetor (1.5–12): Δεύτερος δ’ ἂν εἴη τόπος ὁ τοῦ γένους καλούμενος, διαιρεῖται δὲ εἰς οἰκιστάς, εἰς τοὺς οἰκήσαντας, εἰς τὸν χρόνον, εἰς τὰς μεταβολάς, εἰς τὰς αἰτίας ἀφ΄ ὧν αἱ πόλεις οἰκοῦνται. Τούτων δ’ αὖ ἕκαστον πολλαχῆ διαιρετέον, οἷον εὐθὺς εἰ τίς οἰκιστής ζητοῖμεν, εἰ θεός, εἰ ἥρως, εἰ ἄνθρωπος, καὶ πάλιν κατὰ τύχας στρατηγὸς ἢ βασιλεὺς ἢ ἰδιώτης. ἐὰν μὲν τοίνυν θεὸς ᾖ, μέγιστον τὸ ἐγκώμιον. “The second main head is that which is called ‘origin’. It is divided into: founders, settlers, date, changes, causes of foundation. Each of these in turn has many subdivisions: e. g. if we inquire who the founder was, we say whether he was a god, hero, or man, and then, according to status, whether he was a general, a king, or a private individual. If a god, the encomium is the grandest” (Transl. of D. A. Russel and N. G. Wilson). See the remark of Robert 1977a, 129: “C’est une obligation pour le conférencier qui s’adresse à une ville que de faire l’éloge de cette ville, avec certains thèmes d’usage : le site de la ville, sa grandeur, son climat, son antiquité (ἀρχαιότης) et ses illustres fondateurs, héros ou dieux (συγγένεια)”. For the role of mythological traditions in the construction of a Greek identity in the cities of Roman Asia Minor, see Strubbe 1984–1986; Weiß 1984; Chaniotis 2003 and Yildirim 2004 (for Aphrodisias). Paus. 4.33.1: […] πάντας μὲν οὖν καταριθμήσασθαι καὶ προθυμηθέντι ἄπορον, ὁπόσοι θέλουσι γενέσθαι καὶ τραφῆναι παρὰ σφίσι Δία. In Asia Minor, Nysa, Magnesia on Mae-

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how the mythical tradition constituted a central element of self-definition and the construction of the polis’ identity in the Greek world.47 In front of the assembly, the ambassadors also recalled that the heroes Chrysaor and Aletes linked the Xanthians to the Cytenians. This second level of mythical kinship, involving heroes, must also have signified an important acknowledgement of the Greek origins of the city and its Dorian founding.48 At the beginning of the inscription we read the verbal form ἀναμνησθέντας, stressing that the ambassadors of the Aetolians were not recounting or inventing stories but were recording existent (mythical) traditions concerning their ancestral kinship with the citizens of Xanthos.49 The verb anamimnesko seems in this context to allude to local traditions, probably collected and published in a literary work. This must have been the aim of a local historian, who by narrating and praising the deeds of gods and heroes ennobled the origins of his homeland. Both texts give evidence for the importance of mythical kinship within the framework of the diplomatic relationships among cities, as well as for the role of inscriptions in eternalizing and publicizing local traditions, thereby affirming the Greek origins of many cities in the East. It is an important element in the self-representation of poleis in Hellenistic and Roman times. 1.3 Narrating divine help: Divine apparitions and the miracle of Panamara Divine apparitions (ἐπιφανίαι) represented a central element of the sacred histories: in an apparition, a god could manifest his power in the form of an intervention in order to defend his worshipers or his sanctuary, to communicate his will, or to show his particular predilection for a place. So we should not be surprised that the sacred histories are rich in tales about the apparitions of gods. In his biography of Lucullus, Plutarch recounts the numerous epiphaneiai of Athena to the citizens of Ilion in their sleep:50

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ander, Sardis and Apameia claim to be the birth place of Dionysos; Laodicea on Lycos, Aizanoi, Akmoneia and Sardis affirm in their local traditions that they are the birthplace of Zeus. Inscriptions and coins make it possible to reconstruct these local traditions in Asia Minor. For the numismatic evidence, see Robert 1975 (for Akmoneia); Robert 1981 (for Aizanoi); Weiß 1990 (for Lykaonien); Weiß 1992; Linder 1995; Nollé 2003; Weiß 2004 (for the Second Sophistic); Price 2005; Chiai 2012 (for the local cults). For the Hellenistic period, Flashar 1999, 414 remarks, “Die letzten Jahre des dritten und die ersten des zweiten Jahrhunderts vor Christus bedeuteten für eine Reihe von poleis an der ionisch-kleinasiatischen Küste offensichtlich eine Phase nachhaltigen Rückbezügs auf die eigene myth-historische Vergangenheit. Hand in Hand mit dieser Intensivierung des kulturellen Gedächtnisses ging eine schärfere Profilierung der jeweiligen polis-Identität, die Geschichte schreiben und in die Zukunft weisen sollte”. See Bousquet 1988, 34–39; Hadzis 1997, 1–6. Another inscription from Hellenistic Ilion (SEG 33.1184; Chaniotis 1988a, 305–06, E 12) mentions the honours for the rhetorician Themistokles, son of Aischylos, who in Xanthos held public readings of his ῥητορικοὶ λόγοι concerning the mythical kinship between Ilion and Xanthos. Lucullus 10.2.4: […] ἱστορεῖται δὲ τῶν ἐν Ἰλίῳ πολλοῖς καθ’ ὕπνον ὀφθῆναι τὴν Ἀθηνᾶν, ἰδρῶτι πολλῷ ῥεομένην καὶ ὑποφαίνουσάν τι τοῦ πέπλου παρερρωγός, λέγουσαν ὡς

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“It is reported that Athena was seen in their sleep by many of the citizens of Ilion, drenched with sweat and a bit disheveled in her dress, saying that she had just come from helping the Cyzicenians. And the Ilians show a stele with some public decrees and inscriptions about these things”. (Translation of C. Higbie)

The decision to erect the stele is to be understood not only as a method of preserving historical and mythical memory, but also as a means of publishing and divulging the dynamis and arête of the goddess. The epiphaneiai represent one of the most important elements of religiosity in Hellenistic and Roman times,51 and numerous dedications made according to a divine order (κατὰ κέλευσιν/ex iussu) are connected with them.52 Moreover, they were the subject of historical and antiquarian research for local historians like Istros and Phylarchus, both of whom wrote collections of tales about the apparitions of Apollo, Heracles, and Zeus.53 Epiphanies were of course one of the favorite (and often central) subjects of the sacred histories,54 in particular for the topos of the intervention of a divinity who defends his or her temple and worshipers. One example is the famous long inscription of the wonder of Zeus Panamaros.55 When the sanctuary of Zeus and Hecate was attacked by enemies (probably Parthian troops under Labienus in 39 BCE),56 Zeus manifested his power with thunders, lightning and an earthquake, terrifying the assailants to such an extent that “many were those who were deserting, asking for forgiveness and crying out with loud voice ‘Great is Zeus Panamaros’”.57

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ἀρτίως ἥκοι βοηθήσασα Κυζικηνοῖς· καὶ στήλην τινὰ δόγματα καὶ γράμματα περὶ τούτων ἔχουσαν ἐδείκνυον Ἰλιεῖς. About the epiphaniai see Rostowzew 1920; Pax 1962; Speyer 1980; Versnel 1987; Graf 1997; Dickie 2002; Graf 2004a; Chaniotis 2005, 157–60 and 2007b, 148–49. About these dedications see Van Straten 1976 (with a collection of the epigraphical evidences); Pleket 1981, 14–16; Veyne 1986, 267–69; Lazzarini 1989–1990, 852–53; Sanzi 2006. A fourthcentury votive inscription in Athens represents the oldest testimony. IG 22.4326: Ἀθήναι Μένεια ἀνέθηκεν / ὄψιν ἰδοῦσα ἀρετὴν τῆς θεοῦ. For Istros, two titles are attested: Ἀπόλλωνος Ἐπιφάνειαι (FGrH 334, fr. 50–52) and Ἡρακλέους Ἑπιφάνειαι (FGrH 334, fr. 33). According to the Suda (s. v. Φύλαρχος), Phylarchos authored a work περὶ τῆς τοῦ Διὸς Ἐπιφανείας. In the second century CE, the sophist Aelian wrote a work entitled περὶ Θείων Ἐναργειῶν, in which he argued that epiphanies to humans really did occur. For an overview of this literature, see Rostowzew 1920 and Dillery 2005, 511–19. For a useful collection of literary testimonies about apparitions of gods and ghosts, see Stramaglia 1999. See remarks in Chaniotis 1988a, 163–65; Higbie 2003, 273–88. For this interesting epigraphical text see Roussel 1931; Merkelbach 1968; I. Stratonikeia 10; Chaniotis 1988a, 145–46 and 1998, 408–10; Girone 2003 (with a carefully historical reconstruction); Chaniotis 2005, 159. On this cult see Oppermann 1924; Laumonier 1958, 221–343; Girone 2003. For the inscriptions from the sanctuary, see Drew-Bear, Schwertfeger 1979. I. Stratonikeia 21.13: ἔτι δὲ ἀναβοών[των] μεγάλῃ τῇ φωνῇ Μέγαν εἶναι Δία Πανάμαρον. We can remember the similar acclamation for the Ephesian goddess Artemis. Acta Ap. 19.28.34: […] ἀκούσαντες δὲ καὶ γενόμενοι πλήρεις θυμοῦ ἔκραζον λέγοντες ‘μεγάλη ἡ Ἄρτεμις Ἐφεσίων’. For acclamations as a form of sacral communication, see Chaniotis 2009a and 2009c, 139–40.

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The popular assembly of Stratonikeia decided to publish this sacred history in the form of a decree; the beginning of the inscription deserves our attention. Zeus has been considered the saviour (σωτήρ) of the city as well of the sanctuary “for a long time but particularly now” (ἐκ πα[λαιῶν χρόνων μ]άλιστα δὲ νῦν). The use of the temporal particle νῦν emphasizes that the redaction of this inscription is due to a recent manifestation of Zeus’s power, while the expression ἐκ παλαιῶν χρόνων stresses the city’s privileged relationship with the god. The author of the text tells us that none of Stratonikeia’s inhabitants was wounded or killed by the thunders and the earthquake.58 The divine anger was directed only against the enemies of the city and of the temple. In contrast to the sacred history of Sidyma, the syntax and style of the text are uncomplicated and easy to understand. We can assume that a copy of this inscription was placed in a public space of Stratonikeia, in order to divulge the history of the city and praise the power of Zeus. This sacred history presents interesting similarities with the tales of the apparitions of Apollo in Delphi: the god frightens the Galatians who want to plunder his sanctuary with thunders, lightning and an earthquake.59 These similarities show the presence of literary topoi in the inscription.60 The central element is the city’s collective will to publicize its own sacred history, emphasizing for political aims its privileged relationship with the divinity.

2 THE INSCRIPTIONS FROM TEMPLES 2.1 Constructing religious origin: the sacred history of Lebena We can consider the epigraphical documents found in temples from a similar point of view, though in this case the competition among sacred institutions could have played an important role 61 concerning the production of epigraphical texts praising the memory of the sanctuary and the power of the worshiped god. The religious competition, which aimed at making a cult attractive to believers and pilgrims praising the deeds and the power of the god, seems to have (probably) begun with

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I. Stratonikeia 21.18: ἡμᾶς δὲ πάντας διετήρησ]εν ὁ θεὸς ἀπημάντους καὶ [ἀβ]λαβεῖς. As sources for this tale see, the texts of Pausanias (10.23.1–19) and Iustinus (24.8). For this tradition, see the remarks of Roussel 1931, 103 and Chaniotis 1998, 408, with a comparison with the inscription of Stratonikeia, cited above. See also a decree of Cos (Syll.3 398) mentioning an apparition of Apollo, who battles against the Galatian in order to defend his sanctuary; on this epigraphical text, see remarks in Chaniotis 2005, 158. See Chaniotis 1998, 406–10. On the religious concurrence, see Nock 1954, 77–137; Garland 1992, 1–22; Gladigow 2005, 125–60; Chaniotis 2007b, 142–43 and 2008b. For the spread of the new cult of Alexander from Abounoteichos, see Chaniotis 2002 and 2004c. For the context of the country in Roman Lydia and Phrygia, see Chiai 2008; Chaniotis 2010. For the German provinces, Engster 2002.

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the diffusion of the Asclepieia,62 and during Hellenistic times with the increasing importance of the Isis cult63 and the spread of the mysteries. One of these documents is a second century BCE inscription in the local dialect from the sanctuary of Asclepius in Lebena, in which the foundation of the cult is said to have happened according to the god’s will.64 As Pugliese Carratelli has emphasized,65 the goal of this text was to affirm the truthfulness of the tradition that the Cretan cult was directly affiliated with Epidauros and not Cyrene. Though fragmentary, the text seems to be a sacred chronicle in the form of a narrative. The expression ἔτι καὶ νῦν κατὸς ἀρχαίος νόμος stresses the antiquity of ritual practice, which prescribed the sacrifice of a pig for the river god Acheloos and of a kid for the Nymphs. The river god and the Nymphs, divine figures linked to the territory and its inhabitants, seem to be connected with the history of the sanctuary’s foundation, as the temporal preposition ὅτι shows, related to the time of the introduction of the Asclepius cult. The use of this preposition linked to the expression ἔτι καὶ νῦν gives the text a narrative character and reveals the hand of a professional writer. The most important element of this inscription is the formula προσέταξε ὁ θιὸς, expressed with an elegant aorist, which emphasizes that the foundation of the sanctuary happened according to a divine order and not due to an initiative of the local priesthood. 2.2 Narrating the deeds of a goddess: the chronicle of Lindos The next document coming from a sanctuary is the famous chronicle of Lindos,66 one of the most amazing narratives of antiquity. It is divided into three sections. The first reports the text of the decree, in which the authorities of the temple decide to catalogue the votive objects, which often carry inscriptions and have been dedicated in the temple since the time of Deucalion. The second part is the epigraphic catalogue of these objects. The third contains tales of epiphanies, narrated carefully and with many romantic elements, of which only three longer fragments remain. 62 63

For a reconstruction of the diffusion of the Asclepieia, see Riethmüller 2005. For a reconstruction of the diffusion of the Isis cult, see Dunand 1973a; Id. 1973b; den Boef 2003; Malaise 2007. 64 [---]ιον[......]αια[....τῶ] ǀ [βωμῶ] τῶν Νυνφᾶν καὶ Ἀχελώιω [.....] ǀ [....] ὁπῆ οἱ Λεβηναῖοι ἔτι καὶ νῦν θύοǀ[ντι κ]ατὸς ἀρχαίος νόμος Ἀχελωίωǀ[ι μὲν]χοῖρον, Νύνφαις δὲ ἔριφονÚ ανǀ[....]εταν[…]ανεΛΛΛ[…]ι ὅτι ὁ Ἀǀ[σκλα]πιὸς ἐξ Ἐπιδαύρ ἐς Λεβηνǀ[αίος]ἀπ[..] λ[…] καὶ [.]ε[…]πε[..] ǀ [-----------]θει[------------] ǀ [-----------]πολ[---]ιλυκιαγι[--------] ǀ [......κ]αὶ προσέ[τ]αξε ὁ θιὸς κα[....] ǀ [........]ν[-----]θε[----------]π[....]. See Herzog 1931, 52; Guarducci 1934, 426–27, T 11; Ead., IC 17.8–12; BE 1936, 376; Pugliese Carratelli 1964; Guarducci 1978, 148, 152; Chaniotis 1988a, 48–51; Bultrighini 1993, 82, 95–96; Girone 1998, 75; Sporn 2002, 190–92; Riethmüller 2005, 327–34; Sinneux 2006a and 2006b; Melfi 2007, 119–27, 164–67. 65 Pugliese Carratelli 1964; Sinneux 2006b, 600–01. 66 For the text see Blinkerberg 1915; Id. 1941, coll. 149–200; FrGrHist 532, fr. 1; Chaniotis 1988a, T. 13, 52–57; Higbie 2003, 18–49; Shaya 2005, 437–39. For an historical analysis see with bibliography Shaya 2005; Massar 2006; Però 2012.

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The votive gifts document the history of the temple, which is very old (ἀρχαιότατον), famous (ἐντιμότατον),67 decorated with votives since very ancient times (ἐκ παλαιότατων χρόνων), and known for the apparitions of the goddess (διὰ τᾶς θεοῦ ἐπιφανίας).68 The aim of this sacred history is not only the preservation of local historical memories, but also the publication and revelation of the deeds of the goddess in order to make them accessible to visitors and pilgrims.69 This was happening at a time in which the traditional cults were suffering from the emergence of new cults, such as those of the Egyptian gods. As an example we may consider the offering of the Telchines,70 the mythical rulers of Rhodos: “The Telchines, a vessel. Which no one was able to discover what it is [made] from, on which had been inscribed: ‘The Telchines to Athena Polias and Zeus Polieus71 a tenth of their labours’ as Gorgon declares in the eleventh book of his work about Rhodes, Gorgosthenes in his letter, Hieroboulos in his letter”. (Translation of C. Rigbie)

The terminology the text uses is worthy of our consideration. The term κροσόν represents perhaps a dialectal variant for κρωσσοί, which according to Hesychius means72 “water pitchers, wine jars, oil flasks”.73 The religious epithets polias (for Athena) and polieus (for Zeus) transfer the origins of this cult into the mythical past when the island was inhabited by the Telchines. The term δεκάταν,74 typical for the language of sacred offerings, is a sophisticated usage, like the form Ἀθάναι Πολιάδι derived from the local dialect. In order to enforce the historical reality of the dedication, the historian Gorgo’s work is also cited, as well as the letters of Gorgosthenes and Hieroboulos.75 67

Però 2012, 16 remarks: “I due superlativi che egli (Hagesitimos) usa possono essere interpretati oltre che come superlativi assoluti, anche come superlativi relativi, «il più antico» «il più venerando», nel qual caso la frase suonerebbe come una dichiarazione fortissima di orgoglio lindio, rivolta innanzitutto alle altre πόλεις rodie e poi al resto del mondo greco.” 68 See remarks in Shaya 2005, 428–34; Massar 2006, 230–32; Però 2012, 14–25, with bibliography. 69 See remarks in Higbie 2003, 241–43, 291–93; Shaya 2005, 435–36; contra Però 2012, 25. 70 Diodoros (5.55.1–3) considered the Telchines as the sons of Thalatta; Strabo (14.2.7) mentions a place of Rhodos named Telchinis and tells us that they were sorcerers and magicians. In another passages (10.3.7; 10.3.19), he identifies these mythological figures with the Curetes. For an analysis of the mythical traditions, see Musti 1999. 71 Higbie 2003, 63 remarks that Athena Polias was not worshipped at Lindos until late in the third century BCE, and Zeus Polieus not until the beginning of the third century BCE. 72 Hesychius: κρωσσοίÚ ὑδρίαι, στάμνοι, λήκυθοι. 73 B 2.9–14: Τελχεῖνες κροσόν, ὅν οὐδεὶς ἐδύνατο ̸ ἐπιγ[νώμειν ἐκ] τίνος ἐστί, ἐφ’οὗ ἐπεγέγρα/πτοÚ “Τελχε[ῖν]ες Ἀθάναι Πολιάδι καὶ Διὶ Πο/λιεῖ δεκάταν τῶν ἔργων”, ὡς ἀποφαίνεται / Γόργων ἐν Λ τᾶν περὶ Ῥόδου, Γοργοσθένης ̸ ἐν τᾶι ἐπιστλᾶ[ι], Ἰερόβουλος ἐν τᾶι ἐπιστλᾶι. For this text, see remarks in Rigbie 2003, 68–70. 74 For the use of this term in sacral dedications, see remarks in Lazzarini 1976, 90–93; Van Straten 1981, 92–96 with a useful collection of epigraphical examples. Rigbie 2003, 180–83 emphasizes the use of a technical epigraphical vocabulary (δεκάταν, ἀπαρχάν, ἀκροθἰνιον/ ἀκροθίνια, and εὐχάν) in the Lindian chronicle. 75 On the Rhodian historians, see remarks in Funke 1994, 257–60. He states that the authors of χρονικαὶ συντάξεις (p. 216) “sie zeichnen sich durch das Bemühen aus, die rhodische ‘Geschichte in die größere’ Geschichte der östlichen Mittelmeerwelt miteinzubeziehen”.

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Among the other votive objects listed in the Lindian Chronicle, we may briefly recall the bronze lebes of Cadmos with Phoenician letters (also mentioned in the historical work of Polyzalos),76 a silver drinking cup of Minos with a dedication to the gods (Zeus and Athana) of the sanctuary,77 and the phiale of Tlapolemos.78 All these votive objects, which according to the chronicle were lost in a fire, provided the sanctuary with a veritable museum of Greek history (or prehistory) and represented important (material) evidence for the archaiotes of the cult,79 and constituted a fundamental element of local identity.80 The most important element of this inscription is represented by the three tales of the epiphanies of the goddess, in which Athena’s interventions to defend the sanctuary and the city are narrated. The historical context of the first tale is the first Persian war, when Darius landed with his fleet at Rhodos and besieged Lindos. The inhabitants of the island, terrified by the force of the Persians, were of a mind to surrender the city to the enemy because of a lack of water. “During this time, the goddess, standing over one of the rulers in his sleep, called upon him to be bold, since she was about to ask her father for the much-needed water for them. After he had seen the vision, he announced to the citizens the command of Athena”.

The inscription says that the Persian general was laughing about this apparition, when suddenly it started to rain over the acropolis and “paradoxically, the ones being besieged had abundant water, but the Persian force was in need”. The Persians are astounded at the manifestation of the goddess’ power and decide to send 76

3.15–17: Κάδμος λέβητα χά[λ]κεον φοινικικοῖς γράμμα/σι ἐπιγεγραμμένον, ὡς ἱστορεῖ Πολύζα/λος ἐν τᾶι Δ τᾶν ἱστοριᾶν (“Kadmos, a bronze lebes. Inscribed with Phoenician letters, as Polyzalos reports in his investigations in the fourth book of his Investigations”. Transl. of C. Higbie). For a comment on this passage, see Higbie 2003, 70–72. Larrarini 1976, 108–09 knows only one dedication (Lemnos, Kabirion, fifth century BCE, n. 775: θεοῖς πρόναον σῦλα καὶ λέβητ[α]ς ἀνέθηκ’ Ἀθηνόδωρος Ὀαεύς) mentioning a lebes. 77 4.18–22: Μίνως ἀργύρεον ποτήριον, ἐφ’οὗ ἐπεγέγρα/πτοÚ “Μίνως Ἀθάναι Πολιάδι καὶ Διὶ Πολιεῖ”, ὥς φατι / Ξεναγόρας ἐν τᾶι Α τᾶς χρονικᾶς συντάξιος, ̸ Γόργων ἐν τᾶι Α τᾶν περὶ Ῥόδου, Γοργοσθένης / ἐν τᾶι ἐπιστολᾶι, Ἰερόβουλος ἐν τᾶι ἐπιστολᾶι (“Minos, a silver drinking cup. On which had been inscribed, Minos to Athena in the first book of his Annalistic Account, Gorgon in the first book of his work About Rhodes, Gorgosthenes in his letters, Hieroboulos in his letters”. Transl. of C. Higbie). For a comment on this passage, see Higbie 2003, 73–74. 78 6.36–41: Τλάπολεμος φιάλαν, ἐφ’ἇς ἐπεγέγραπτοÚ / “Τλαπόλεμος Ἀθάναι Πολιάδι καὶ Διὶ Πολιεῖ / εὐχάν”, ὥς φατι Γόργων ἐν τᾶι Α τᾶν περὶ / Ῥόδου, Γοργοσθένης ἐν τᾶι ἐπιστολᾶι, ̸ [Ἰ]ερόβουλος ἐν τᾶι ἐπιστολᾶι (“Tlapolemos, a phiale. On which had been inscribed, Tlapolemos to Athena Polias and Zeus Polieus, a votive, as Gorgon states in the first book of his work on Rhodes, Gorgosthenes in his letter, Hieroboulos in his letter”. Transl. of C. Higbie). For a comment on this passage, see Higbie 2003, 80–81. 79 For the function of sanctuaries as museums, see Scheer 1996 (concerning the mythical relics preserved in the temple of Apollon at Sicyon); Arafat 1995; Shaya 2005; Krumeich 2008; Hartmann 2010, 117–19, with bibliography. For sanctuaries as “Erinnerungsorte,” see the contributions in Haake, Jung 2011. For the representation of the past by archaeological remains in the Hellenistic era, see remarks in Förtsch 1995. 80 Another good example is the jaw bone of the Calidonian boar, which represented the “Staatssymbol” of the Aetolian league. For this tradition, see Jördens, Becht-Jördens 1994.

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rich dedications to the sanctuary and to make a treaty of friendship with the Rhodians. The terminology of this text deserves our consideration. The formula ἁ μὲν θεὸς ἑνὶ τῶν ἀρχόντων ἐπιστᾶσα κατ’ ὕπνον is typical of descriptions of epiphanies, and of the apparition of a divinity during sleep. The use of the term ποτίταξις shows how the will of the goddess is perceived as an order. We find a similar expression in two other epiphanies: ἁ θεὸς ἐπιστᾶσα τῶι ἰερεῖ καθ’ ὕπνον ποτέταξε ἡσυχίαν ἔχειν περὶ αὑτᾶς (D 68–70)81 and ἐπιστᾶν αὐτῶι καθ’ ὕπνον τὰν θεὸν ποτιτάσσειν ἀπαγγεῖλαι (D 98–100).82 In these texts, the verb ποτιτάσσειν used in the descriptions of divine apparitions stresses that Athena’s will is an order, and that each epiphania must be revealed to others, because they are both a manifestation of the goddess’ bond with the city and proof of her power. The narrative elements are also interesting, like the need for water and the resistance of the besieged city, which show how the author of the chronicle used literary topoi typical of Eastern literature and attested, for example, in the Bible.83 All these texts can be read from different points of view. They represent the expression of a strong local identity, stressed by the use of the local dialect. They emphasize the power of the divinity, who shows her presence in loco, as well as her privileged relationship with the temple, by means of these apparitions. In fact, pagan deities were not omnipresent like the God of Christian monotheism: they had their preferred places, in which their presence and power were manifested by apparitions and wonders. 2.3 Praising divine power: iamata and aretalogies The epiphanies, understood as manifestations of the δύναμις/ἀρετή (power) of the divinity, represent the central element of another category of epigraphical text: the iamata.84 Probably composed by the staff of the Asclepieia, iamata were a sort of sacred chronicle of the temples, narrating miraculous healings of illnesses for which traditional medicine had not found remedies. In these tales, faith in the power of the god and obedience to divine will are stressed. These inscriptions are the first examples in the Greek world of sacred chronicles inscribed on stone. The rise of this new 81 82 83

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“The goddess, standing over the priest in his sleep, commanded him to be serene” (Transl. of C. Higbie). “He believed that the goddess stood over him in his sleep to command him to announce” (Transl. of C. Higbie). On the presence of topoi from the Bible in Greek historiography, see Momigliano 1965 and 1976; specific for the chronicle of Lindos in particular, see Cusumano 1986, 13–24; Heltzer 1989. For a good overview, see Grottanelli 1987. There exists a vast literature on iamata. In general, see: Herzog 1931; Edelstein 1945; Guarducci 1978, 143–66; Graf 1992; Dillon 1994; LiDonnici 1995; Girone 1998; Dorati 2001; Di Nino 2005 (who investigates the relationship between the iamata and Poseidippos); Belayche 2006b (who stresses the connections with confessional inscriptions); Di Nino 2010, 193–205; Martzavou 2012a.

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medium is perhaps to be connected with the fact that the cult of Asclepius was new and needed publicity in order to spread. As an example, consider the following text: “Ambrosia from Athens, blind in one eye. She came as a suppliant to the god. Walking about the sanctuary, she ridiculed some of the cures as being unlikely and impossible, the lame and the blind becoming well from only seeing a dream. Sleeping here, she saw a vision. It seemed to her the god came to her and said he would make her well, but she would have to pay a fee by dedicating a silver pig in the sanctuary as a memorial of her ignorance. When he said these things, he cut her sick eye and poured a medicine over it. When day came she left well”85 (Translation of L. R. LiDonnici).

The terminology and literary topoi of this text deserve closer examination. The use of dialect serves to stress the strong local identity and indicates the redaction of this chronicle by local priests. The term ἱκέτις emphasizes the status of Ambrosia as a suppliant before Asclepius, as well as her desperate and hopeless situation. The woman’s scorn for the incredible healings in the temple recalls the mockery of Athena’s power by the Persian general Datis.86 Another topos is the god’s apparition in a dream in order to manifest his will. In this case, in return for the healing of the woman, Asclepius demands the payment of a fee in the form of the dedication of a silver pig as a ὑπόμναμα τᾶς ἀμαθίας (“memorial of her ignorance”). The object also serves as proof of the presence of the god’s power in the sanctuary. The iamata thus represent both a way to preserve and promulgate the historical memory of the sanctuary (in fact, they are presented as documents from the archives of the temple), and a means of publicizing Asclepius’ power.87 We may also recall Pausanias’s testimony (2.27.3–4) describing the Epidaurian temple as full of votive steles with tales of miraculous healings. From this point of view, another category of inscriptions deserves attention: the aretalogies of the Egyptian gods.88 These texts, displayed in the entrances of the 85

A 34–41: Ἀμβροσία ἐξ Ἀθανᾶν / [ἁτερό]πτ[ι]λλος. αὕτα ἱκέτις ἦλθε ποὶ τὸν θεόν· περιέρπουσα δὲ / [κατὰ τὸ ἱ]αρὸν τῶν ἰαμάτων τινὰ διεγέλα ὡς ἀπίθανα καὶ ἀδύνα/[τα ἐόν]τα, χωλοὺς καὶ τυφλοὺ[ς] ὑγιεῖς γίνεσθαι ἐνύπιον ἰδόν/[τας μό]νον. ἐνκαθεύδουσα δὲ ὄψιν εἶδεÚ ἐδόκει οἱ ὁ θεὸς ἐπιστὰς / [εἰπεῖν], ὅτι ὑγιῆ μέν νιν ποιησοῖ, μισθὸμ μάντοι νιν δεησοῖ ἀν[θέμεν ε]ἰς τὸ ἱαρὸν ὗν ἀργύρεον ὑπόμναμα τᾶς ἀμαθίας. εἴπαν / [τα δὲ ταῦτ]α ἀνσχίσσαι οὑ τὸν ὄπτιλλον τὸν νοσοῦντα καὶ φάρμ[αǀκόν τι ἐγχέ]αιÚ ἁμέρας δὲ γενομένας ὑγιὴς ἐξῆλθε. 86 The confessional inscriptions from the rural sanctuaries of Phrygia and Lydia show similar cases of persons punished because of their scepticism about the power and the miracles of the gods. On these similarities, see Belayche 2006b. 87 See for example Dorati 2001, 98–103, who remarks (100), “La decisione di redigere un’iscrizione nella quale i miracoli e ciò che il santuario riconosceva come propria ‘storia sacra’ fossero raccolti ed esposti in modo visibile per i visitatori risponde ad evidenti esigenze di propaganda. Le raccolte sono composte con l’occhio rivolto non solo alla potenza superiore di cui si vuole attestare la forma, ma anche alle esigenze del santuario e alla sua attività: si vuole dimostrare l’efficacia della medicina templare e incrementare la fede nei visitatori, rendendo manifesti i vantaggi che attendono coloro che vi si recano per risolvere i propri problemi; e spesso si vogliono definire la posizione e lo status specifico del santuario, affermandone la superiorità rispetto ai santuari rivali o comunque legittimandone la posizione di preminenza.” 88 For the aretalogies see Longo 1969, 11–48; Guarducci 1978, 133–142; Versnel 1990, 39–72; Rossignoli 1997; Den Boef 2003; Martzavou 2012b.

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sanctuaries, contained tales of the apparitions of Isis. Speaking in the first person, she presents herself and proclaims her omnipotence and superiority to other gods. So, for example, at the beginning of the aretalogy of Andros, the goddess says, speaking in the first person: “I am Isis, the tyrant of all the world”.89

Another good example is the beginning of the Delos aretalogy: “Apollonios wrote this according to the order of the god”.90

The formula κατὰ πρόσταγμα stresses that the composition of this sacred history as well as its epigraphical publication are due to the will of a divinity, in order to divulge his/her power and cult in the world. The inscription tells us about the introduction of the Sarapis cult in Delos by Apollonios, grandfather of Apollonios, priest in Memphis. The tale features various narrative topoi, such as the god’s apparition in a dream to reveal where the his new temple must be constructed. The construction of the Sarapeion is impeded by persons who are apparently attempting to oppose the spread of this new cult on the island. They lost the trial, as the god had predicted in a dream, allowing the Sarapeion to be built. In the final formula, “We praise the gods giving appropriate thanks”,91 the use of the verb ἐπαινοῦμεν seems to stress that the redaction and promulgation of this (sacred) history represent the best medium for praising Sarapis. This epigraphical document therefore represents both a way to conserve the historical memory of the temple, and a means of publicizing the power of the new Egyptian gods in order to earn them new worshipers. The next document concerns the introduction of Sarapis’ cult in Opus by Xenainetos.92 In his sleep, this man saw the god, who commanded that his and Isis’ cults be introduced in Opus. Sarapis left under his pillow a letter for Euronomos, Xenainetos’ rival in Opus. After Euronomos read the letter, he decided to reconcile with Xenainetos and to found the cult of the Egyptian gods in the city. In the inscription, exposed within the Serapeion of Opus, the use of the verb ἐπιτάξαι emphasizes that the god’s will was regarded as an order. This text shows interesting parallels

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IG 12.5.1–3: [ὁ δεῖνα ἀνέθηκε Εἴ]/σι[δι Σεράπ]ι[δ]ι [Ἀ]νούβιδι κ’ Ἀ[ρποκρά]τῃ. Εἶσις ἐγὼ εἰμι / ἡ τ[ύρανν]ος πάσης χώρας. A similar aretalogy has been found in Isis’ temple at Cyrene (SEG 9.192 = Totti 1985, 13, n. 4): Ἐγὼ τύραννος Εἶσις αἰῶνος μόνη / πόντου τε καὶ γῆς τέρμονας τ’ ἐπιβλέπω. / Καλοῦσι δή με πάντες ὑψίστην θεόν, / πάντων μεγίστην τῶν έν οὐρανῷ θεῶν. For this text, see the important analysis of Peek 1930. For the henotheistic character of the goddess, see (with bibliography) Sfameni Gasparro 2007; Turcan 2007; Gasparini 2011. 90 IG 11.4.1299 = RICIS 202/0101 (with French translation): ὁ ἱερεὺς Ἀπολλώνιος ἀνέγραψεν κατὰ πρόσταγμα τοῦ θεοῦ. For this inscription, see Bruneau 1973 and 1975; Engelmann 1975; Totti 1985, 25–28, n. 11; Bricault 2008, 50–51. 91 ἀξίως τοῦ θεοῦ ἐπαινοῦμεν τοὺς θεοὺς ἀξίαν χάριν ἀποδιδόντες. 92 IG 10.2.255; Dunand 1973a, 42–44; Merkelbach 1973, 49–54; BE 1973, 278; Sokolowski 1974, 441–45; BE 1976, 394; Totti 1985, 34–35, n. 14; RICIS 113/0536; Rigsby 2001; Bricault 2008, 52.

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with a text from the Egyptian archive of Zenon,93 which tells us of the apparition of Sarapis to Zoilos, who then made the journey to Apollonios to found a temple of Sarapis according to the god’s will as expressed in the dream.94 These documents allow us to reconstruct the spread of the cults of the Egyptian gods in the Greco-Roman world. The texts often stress that the foundation of a new site for cult happened according to the god’s order, and that the god appeared in dreams to his or her worshipers and indicated the place where the new temple was to be founded. The use of the verb προτάσσειν emphasizes that the introduction of the new cult derives from divine will. The goal of these texts is also to praise the omnipotence of the divinity, who presents him- or herself as ruling over the world and humanity. Furthermore, we may recall that the oldest dedications κατὰ κέλευσιν were found in the temple of the Egyptian deities of Delos.95 The redaction of these epigraphical texts was probably performed by priests or temple staff, who were tasked with registering the god’s interventions and writing the chronicles for the archives. Strabo tells us that in the Sarapeion of Canopos, “some writers go on to record the cures, and others the virtues of the oracles”.96 This shows the existence of interesting specializations in registering the memories of the sanctuary. Pausanias reports that visitors to the shrine of Trophonios “are obliged to dedicate a tablet on which is written all that each has heard or seen”.97 These tablets (πίνακες) must have represented interesting archival documents, as well as very important means of divulging and praising the god’s power.98

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For this text see P.Cair.Zenon 59168; Longo 1969, 103–06, n. 62; Totti 1985, 160–62, n. 71; RICIS 314/0601. (ll. 2–6): ἐμοὶ συμβέβηκεν / θεραπεύοντι τὸν θεὸν Σάραπιν περὶ τῆς σῆς ὑγιείας καὶ εὐ[η]μερίας τῆς / πρὸς τὸν βασιλέα Πτολεμαῖον τὸν Σάραπίμ μοι χρημα[τίζει]ν πλε[ο] νάκι[ς] / ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις, ὅπως ἂν διαπλεύσω πρὸς σὲ καὶ ἐμφ[ανίσω σοι τὸ]νδε τὸ[ν] / χρηματισμὸν. See remarks in Clarysse, Vandorpe 1995, 78–85; Bricault 2008, 52–53. IG 11.4.1230 = RICIS 202/0122: Σαράπι, Ἴσι, Ἀνούβι / θεοῖς νικηφόροις / Μνησικλείδης Καλλία / ὑπὲρ αὑτοῦ καὶ τῆς μητρὸς / Τελεσίππης, κατὰ πρόσταγμα / τοῦ θεοῦ. IG 11.4.1234 = Totti 1985, 150, n. 64 = RICIS 202/0173: Κατὰ πρόσταγμα Ὀσείριδος / Διὶ τῶι πάντων κρατοῦντι / καὶ Μητρὶ Μεγάληι τῆι πάντων / κρατοῦσηι Ἀριστοκύδης Δημα/ ρήτου καὶ Ἀρτέμων Πυθέου. For the cult of the Egyptian gods on Delos, see Roussel 1916; Bruneau 1970, 457–66; Baslez 1977; Bruneau, Ducat 1983, 219–25; Siard 1998, 2007a, 2007b and 2008. Strabo 17.1.17: Κάνωβος δ’ἐστὶ πόλις […] ἔχουσα τὸ ἱερὸν πολλῇ ἁγιστείᾳ τιμώμενον καὶ θεραπείας ἐκφέρον, ὥστε καὶ τοὺς ἐλλογιμωτάτους ἄνδρας πιστεύειν καὶ ἐγκοιμᾶσθαι αὐτοὺς ὑπὲρ ἑαυτῶν ἢ ἑτέρους· συγγράφουσι δέ τινες καὶ θεραπείας, ἄλλοι δὲ ἀρετὰς τῶν ένθαῦτα λογίων. “Canobus is a city […] it contains the temple of Sarapis, which is honored with great reverence and effects such cures that even the most reputable men believe in it and sleep in it – themselves on their own behalf or others for them. Some writers go on to record the cures, and others the virtues of the oracle there” (Transl. of H. L. Jones). Pausanias 9.39.14: […] τοὺς δὲ ἐς τοῦ Τροφωνίου κατελθόντας, ἀναγκη σφᾶς, ὁπόσα ἤκουσεν ἔκαστος ἢ εἶδεν, ἀναθεῖναι γεγραμμένα ἐν πίνακι. On this literature, see Merkelbach 1994; Dorati, Guidorizzi 1996.

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2.4 Praising divine justice: the confessional inscriptions Tales of epiphanies, iamata, aretalogies, sacred histories, and chronicles represent important categories of epigraphical texts diffused throughout the Hellenistic and Roman world. The reception of such texts on the peripheries of that world is attested by the so-called confessional inscriptions, appearing in Lydia and Phrygia during Roman times. These texts represented an act of public confession of sins, inscribed and published on steles99 by persons guilty of a crime and therefore punished by the gods with illness. Only the act of public confession could restore health.100 The confessional inscriptions contain elements of praise of the god’s power that are common to both the iamata from Epidauros and the aretalogies. The gods worshiped in the rural sanctuaries of Lydia and Phrygia are presented as almighty deities, ruling as kings over a territory and its inhabitants.101 These inscriptions, written by the staff of the sanctuary (the uncorrected Greek probably reflects the language used by the people in the region during Roman times),102 represent a form of conservation and reproduction of the historical and religious memory of the temple. They endeavor to praise and publicize the god’s power according to his will, as the acclamation formulas at the beginning of the inscription often stress.103 The god then receives the appropriate acknowledgement in order to aggrandize his or her honors (timai).104 These texts, like the iamata, also have a didactic function, in that they warn human beings about sins and present moral examples.105 As an example, we may consider the following text: “Great is the god Mes Axiottenos, who rules over Tarsi. Since a sceptre was set up, if someone stole something from the bath, when a cloak was stolen, the god punished the thief and after

99 For the confessional inscriptions, see Pettazzoni 1936, 54–162; Petzl 1988; Ricl 1995; Petzl 1998; Rostad 2002; Schnabel 2005; De Hoz 2006; Belayche 2006b and 2007; Chaniotis 2004b and 2009a. 100 For this aspect of the confessional inscriptions, see Petzl 1998; Chaniotis 1997 and 2004. 101 Belayche 2006a; Chiai 2009; Id. 2010. For the presence of a henotheistic tendency, see Marek 2000; Chaniotis 2010. 102 See Brixhe 1987, 2001 and 2002. 103 BIWK 3: Μέγας Μεὶς Ἀξιοττηνὸς Ταρσι βασιλεύων; BIWK, 6: Διεὶ Ὀρείτῃ κὲ Μηνὶ Περκον βασιλεύοντα; BIWK, 40, 1–2: Μὶς Λαβανας κ[αὶ] Μὶς Ἀρτεμιδώρου Δόρου κώμην βασιλεύον/τες; BIWK, 47, 1: Μεγάλοι θεοὶ Νέαν Κώμην κατέχοντες; BIWK 55.1– 2: Μεὶς Ἀρτεμιδώ/ρου Ἀξιοττα κατέχων; BIWK, 56, 1: Μηνὶ Ἀρτεμιδώρου Ἀξιοττα κατέχοντι. For this text, see Chiai 2010, 197–201, with bibliography. 104 BIWK 9.10–13: Παρανγέλει / πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις, ὅτι οὐ / δεῖ καταφρονεῖν το[ῦ θε]/οῦ. Ἀνέστησε δὲ τὸ μαρτ[ύ]/ριον; BIWK 10.10–12: παρανγέλ/λω δέ, αὐτοῦ τὰς δυνάμις μή / τίς ποτε κατευτελήσι καὶ κόψει δρῦν; BIWK 106, 14–17: παρανγέλω μηδένα καταφρο/[νεῖν τῷ θ]εῷ Ἡλίῳ / Ἀ[πόλλωνος, ἐπεὶ ἕξει] τὴν στήλ/[λην ἐξεμπλάριον]; BIWK 111.5–8: διὰ τοῦτο οὖν πα/ρανγέλω πᾶσιν μδέ/να κα[τα]φ[ρονῖν] τῷ θεῷ, ἐπὶ ἕξει τὴ[ν σ]τήλεν ἐξον/πλάριον. Very interesting is the use of the term ἐξονπλάριον, a Latin loan word (exemplarium). On the ritual character of this usage, Chaniotis 2009a, 141, remarks: “The gods expect the mortals who have experienced their power, both the euergetic and the destructive, to tell others about it, to write hymns and aretalogies, to set up inscriptions with narratives for others to read”. 105 For the didactic function of the iamata, see Dillon 1994; Dorati 2001, 103–09; for parallels with the confessional inscriptions, see Belayche 2006b.

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some time had the cloak taken to the god [into the temple] and the thief made an act of confession. The god ordered [the thief] through a messenger to sell the cloak and to write on a stele the manifestations of his power. In the year 249”106 (164–165 CE).107

The text begins with a typical acclamation formula praising the power of the divinity, who rules over the village Tarsi like a king.108 The inscription tells us about the theft of a cloak in a bath and about the punishment of the thief, who took the cloak into the temple, where he made a public confession. Moreover, the god ordered through a messenger that the cloak be sold and the story inscribed on a stele, in order to praise and to make known his power.109 The verb κελεύειν stresses how the god’s will was regarded as an order. Other examples from the confessional inscriptions illustrate how the gods worshiped in these sanctuaries demanded the acknowledgement of their power.110 In other words, their interventions in human matters had to be narrated and divulged. The goal of such publication may have been didactic (these stories were to serve as moral examples for others), and were perhaps also connected to the religious competition between sacral institutions in the country in Roman Phrygian and Lydia.111 The use of the verb στηλλογραφεῖν is also interesting, since it means “write on a stele”.112 The dates given at the end of the inscriptions are perhaps to be considered an indication that the tales are excerpts from archival documents redacted by the priests.113 The authorities of the sanctuaries could defend the decision to set up the steles within the sanctuary by the argument that they had obeyed the god’s order. The ritual of public confession in a temple is also attested for other cults, such as that of Isis or of the Syrian goddess,114 but the confessions are inscribed on steles (and published) only in the context of the Phrygian and Lydian rural shrines.115 106 The confessional inscriptions use Sulla’s era. For the use of this chronological system in Asia Minor, see Leschhorn 1993, 420–423. 107 BIWK 3: Μέγας Μεὶς Ἀξιοττηνὸς Ταρσι βα/σιλεύων. Ἐπεὶ ἐπεστάθη σκῆ/πτρον, εἴ τις ἐκ τοῦ βαλανείου τι / κλέψι / κλαπέντος οὖν εἱματίου / ὁ θεὸς ἐνεμέσησε τὸν κλέπτην / καὶ ἐπόησε μετὰ χρόνον τὸ εἱμά/τιον ἐνενκῖν ἐπὶ τὸν θεόν, καὶ ἐ/ξωμολογήσατο. Ὁ θεὸς οὖν ἐκέλευ/σε δι’ ἀνγέλου πραθῆναι τὸ εἰμά/τιν καὶ στηλλογραφῆναι τὰς δυ/νάμεις. Ἔτους σμθ’. 108 On this aspect of the local religious beliefs, see Belayche 2006a and Chiai 2009. 109 On the role of messengers in confessional inscriptions, see Sheppard 1980–1981; Merkelbach 1997; Hirschmann 2007. 110 See the examples in note 95. 111 On the religious competition in the area of Roman Phrygia and Lydia, see Chiai 2008. 112 On this verb, see remarks in Chaniotis 2009a, 140–42. 113 BIWK 4.1: Ἔτους σπε’, μη(νὸς) Πανήμου ι’ ἀ(πιόντος) (year 285, day 30 of the month Panemos); BIKW 5, 1: Ἔτους τκ’, μη(νὸς) Πανήμου βι’ (year 320, day 12 of the month Panemos); BIKW 10.13–14: Ἔτους σοθ’, μη(νὸς) Παǀνήμου ηι’ (year 279, day 18 of the month Panemos); BIKW 12.5: ἔτους τλη’, μη(νὸς) Περιτίου ηι’(year 338, day 18 of the month Peritios). For this usage, see remarks in Gordon 2004, 184 and Chaniotis 2009a, 141–42. 114 See Pettazzoni 1967; Graf 2004b; Chaniotis 2009a, 134–36; Chiai 2010, 223–24. On similarities with Christian ritual, see Frisch 1983. On the similarities with the confessional inscription from South Arabia, see Sima 1999. 115 The confessional inscriptions can perhaps be seen as a reaction to the diffusion of Christianity in the country. Schnabel 2005, 188 remarks: “It seems quite possible, however, that the vigor-

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The presentation of these inscriptions is also particularly interesting. The letters are clear and easy to read. This contrasts with the ungrammatical and error-prone language. 3 CONCLUSIONS Most of the epigraphical documents that we have considered express a collective will to publicize the deeds and power of the gods, who are often regarded as omnipotent and praised as εὐεργεταί of the community (city or village) or of the temple. As the texts from Magnesia and Sydima show, the cities may use the inscriptions to construct and publicize their own Greekness. The presence of literary topoi and elaborate language indicates the hand of a professional historian who conducted research about the city’s mythical past, consulting historical works and documents preserved in the archives. Another important element of these texts is the cities’ desire to publicize their own sacred history, emphasizing a privileged relationship with a divinity and often using it for political ends. Among these various political aims is the renewal of συγγένεια, often mentioned in political treatises, with which cities were able to emphasize their kinship, seal alliances, claim privileges, or simply construct a Greek identity and a more impressive origin. So we can understand why the civic communities supported the historian’s craft, granting public honours to the person who investigated and reconstructed the polis’ past, as the decrees from Argos and Xanthos show.116 The publication of these memories on stone was intended to make local history accessible, and to show how noble and old the origins of the city were. Another important goal, especially during the second century CE (in the age of the Second Sophistic),117 was that of affirming a city’s εὐγένεια and ἀρχαιότης by promulgating local mythical and religious traditions. The media were not only inscriptions and written history, but also coins, artistic works, festivals, and public lectures. In the case of religious institutions, noble origins and ἀρχαιότης must have played a very important role in constructing the identity and image of a sanctuary. By means of the epigraphical publication (and promulgation) of sacred histories or chronicles, the temple’s privileged relationship with the divinity could be stressed: an epiphany is always evidence for the god’s presence in a place. Through with ous Christian expansion provoked an increased use, or a focused consolidation of these practices whose message would serve to solidity the presence of the traditional divine ʻrulers’ of the village”. 116 So, for example, Chaniotis 1988a, 363 remarks: “Dieses Interesse der Städte an der positiven Darstellung ihrer Geschichte war kein Narcisismus. Es ist auf die Bedeutung der historischen Überlieferung und der Historiographie in den zwischenstaatlichen Beziehungen, die Stellung der Geschichte im antiken Völkerrecht und ihre legitimierende Rolle bei Ansprüchen aller Art zurückzuführen”. 117 For the role of the history in the Second Sophistic, see Bowie 1970 and Swain 1996.

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other cults, a request or an appeal would have had better chances of being fulfilled in one temple than in another. So if the goal of the historian was to reconstruct (or construct) the sacred local history of a given Greek city or sanctuary by collecting, editing, and selecting the documents preserved in the temple archives, the aim of an inscription set up in the public space of the city or within the sanctuary was to make this history accessible, praising the origin of the polis and the power of the divinities, who by their apparitions could both manifest their particular relationship with a polis or sanctuary and protect their worshippers. Finally, old inscriptions could be used as juridical documents in the context of territorial struggles.118 Tacitus (ann. 4, 43),119 speaking of the conflict between Messenians and Spartans, mentions the ancient inscriptions on rock and bronze cited by the Messenians in order to refute the oral traditions of the Spartans, who claimed ownership of the temple of Diana Limnatis. The words of the stones were stronger, and the prestigious ownership of the sanctuary was granted to the Messenians. Verba volant, scripta manent. BIBLIOGRAPHY BIKW = Petzl, Georg (ed.), Die Beichtinschriften Westkleinasiens (Epigraphica Anatolica 22). Bonn 1994. RICIS = Bricault, Laurent (ed.), Recueil des inscriptions concernant les cultes isiaques. Vol. 1 – Corpus. Paris 2005. Ambaglio, Delfino 2007. Storia della storiografia greca. Bologna. Arafat, Karim W. 1995. “Pausanias and the temple of Hera at Olympia”, Annual of the British School at Athens 90. 461–73.

118 See remarks in Chaniotis 2004d, 200–03, 2005 (concerning history as argument) and 2008a, 153–54. For the use of the historian’s works in the territorial claims, see, for example, the famous inscription n. 37 of Priene (on this document, see Curty 1989 and remarks in Chaniotis 2008, 156–57). Inscriptions were also used as sources by the historians: see, for example, Higbie 1999; Fabiani 2003 (for Herodotos) and Zizza 2006 (for Pausanias). 119 Ann. 4.43: Auditae dehinc Lacedaemoniorum et Messeniorum legationes de iure templi Dianae Limnatidis, quod suis a maioribus suaque in terra dicatum Lacedaemonii firmabant annalium memoria vatumque carminibus, sed Macedonis Philippi, cum quo bellassent, armis ademptum ac post C. Caesaris et M. Antonii sentential redditum. Contra Messenii veterem inter Herculis posteros divisionem Peloponnesi protulere, suoque regi Denthaliatem agrum in quo id delubrum cessisse; monimentaque eius rei sculpta saxis et aere prisco manere. “A hearing was now given to embassies from Lacedaemon and Messene upon the legal ownership of the temple of Diana Limnatis. That it had been consecrated by their own ancestors, and on their own ground, the Lacedaimonians sought to establish by the records of history and the hymns of the poets: it had been wrested from them, however, by the Macedonian arms during their war with Philip, and had been returned later by the decision of Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. In reply, the Messenians brought forward the old partition of the Peloponnese between the descendants of Hercules: – ‘The Denthaliate district, in which the shrine stood, had been assigned to their king, and memorials of the fact, engraved on rock and ancient bronze, were still extant’” (transl. by J. Jackson).

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Van Straten, Folkert 1981. “Gifts for the Gods”, in: Versnel, Henk (ed.) 1981. Faith, hope and worship: aspects of the deity in the Greek world. Leiden. 65–151. Versnel, Henk 1987. “What did ancient man see when he saw a God? Some reflections on GrecoRoman epiphany”, in: Van Der Plas, Dirk (ed.) 1987. Effigies Dei. Essays on the history of religions. Leiden. 42–55. Versnel, Henk 1990. Ter unus. Isis, Dionysos, Hermes. Three Studies in Henotheim. Leiden. Veyne, Paul 1986. “Une évolution du paganisme gréco-romaine: injustice et piété des dieux, leurs orders ou «oracles»”, Latomus 45. 259–83. Von Hesberg, Henner 2009. “Archäologische Charakteristika der Inschriftenträger staatlicher Urkunden – einige Beispiele”, in: Haensch, Rudolf (ed.) 2009. Selbstdarstellung und Kommunikation. Die Veröffentlichung staatlicher Urkunden auf Stein und Bronze in der römischen Welt. Internationales Kolloquium an der Kommission für Alte Geschichte und Epigraphik in München (1. Bis 3. Juli 2006). München. 19–56. Walbank, Frank W. 1989. “Antigonus Doson’s Attack on Cytinium (REG 101 [1988], 12–33)”, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 76. 184–92. Weiß, Peter 1984. “Lebendiger Mythos. Gründheroen und städtische Gründungstraditionen im griechisch-römischen Osten”, Würzbürger Jahrbücher für Altertumswissenschaft 10. 179–207. Weiß, Peter 1990. “Mythen, Dichter und Münzen von Lykaonien”, Chiron 20. 221–37. Weiß, Peter 1992. “Götter, Städte und Gelehrte. Lydiaka und ʻPatria’ um Sardes und den Tmolos”, in: Schwertheim, Elmar (ed.) 1992. Forschungen in Lydien (AMS 17). Bonn. 85–109. Weiß, Peter 2004. “Städtische Münzprägung und zweite Sophistik”, in: Borg, Barbara E. (ed.) 2004. Paideia: the world of the Second Sophistik (Millennium-Studien 2). Berlin. 179–200. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, Ulrich 1885. “Die Herkunft der Magneten am Maeander”, Hermes 30. 177–98. Will, Edouard 1995. “Syngeneia, oikeiotès, philia”, Revue de Philologie 69. 299–325. Wulfram, Hartmut 2008. “Raum und Zeit in Kallimachos’ Hymnos Auf das Bad der Pallas”, Göttinger Forum für Altertumswissenschaft 11. 135–60. Yildirim, Bahadir 2004. “Identities and empire: local mythology and the self-representation of Afrodisia”, in: Borg, Barbara E. (ed.) 2004. Paideia: the world of the Second Sophistic (Millennium Studies 2). Berlin. 23–52. Ziegler, Ruprecht 1998. “Alexander der Große als Städtegründer. Fiktion und Realität”, in: Peter, Ulrike (ed.). Stephanos nomismatikos. E. Schönert-Geiß zum 65. Geburstag. Berlin. 679–97. Zizza, Cesare 2006. Le iscrizioni nella Periegesi di Pausania. Commento ai testi epigrafici (Studi e testi di storia antica 16). Pisa.

HEROIC MEMORY AND POLIS: ACHILLES AND ATHENS IN ZOSIMUS’ HISTORIA NOVA Daniela Motta, Università degli Studi Palermo 1 ACHILLES AND ATHENS IN ZOSIMUS’ HISTORIA NOVA At a time when most people believed in the power of a holy man’s intercession to save a city from barbarians or natural disasters, the memory of archaic heroes apparently continued to be worshipped by the last pagans. Two well-known passages from Zosimus’ Historia Nova narrate how Achilles and Athena miraculously saved the city of Athens. In this study, I will analyze the cultural and religious context in which the historiographical tradition of these prodigious events developed, with regard both to the popularity of the hero in Late Antiquity and to the relationship of Zosimus with his source, Eunapius of Sardis. The aim will be to decide whether or not the account of these incidents appears coherent with Eunapius’ historical perspective. The first episode from the Historia Nova is the supernatural preservation of Athens and Attica from the earthquakes which devastated regions of Greece upon Valentinian’s death.1 Zosimus reports that the hierophant Nestorius, by that time ὑπέργηρως, was admonished in a dream and ordered to bestow public honors on Achilles, an act which would preserve the polis from disaster. Not heeded by his fellow-citizens because of his old age, Nestorius himself implemented what had been prescribed through ὄψις; therefore, beyond the usual sacrifices in honor of Athena, he also performed propitiatory rites for Achilles, having constructed a shrine with an ἄγαλμα of the hero at the foot of the statue of Athena in the Parthenon. To give more credibility to what is narrated, Zosimus cites as his authoritative source a hymn in honor of Achilles composed by the philosopher Syrianos. The second episode is the preservation of the polis from Alaric’s invasion of Thrace and Greece in 395–396 CE.2 As in 375, Athens escaped ruin under the joint intervention of Achilles and Athena Promachos.3 Alaric was terrified to see the armed goddess walking along the walls and Achilles in a state of rage, the same ὀργή that Homer ascribed to him after the death of Patroclus. Alaric preferred to begin negotiations, and thanks to these agreements he was able to enter the city and 1

2 3

Zos. 4.18. See Paschoud 1979, 367–69, n. 138. According to Baldini 1984, 109, n. 43, these events are omina that predict the disaster of the battle of Hadrianople; for Kaegi 1968, 120–21, these incidents demonstrated to Zosimus that paganism was still meaningful and useful in a largely Christian society. Zos. 5.6. 1–3. See Paschoud 1986, 94–96, n. 9. On the monumental bronze statue of Athena Promachos present on the Acropolis until at least 410, see Hurwitt 1998, 286.

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be greeted by dignitaries, and so left the polis and the whole of Attica undamaged in exchange for gifts (δῶρα λαβών). The two passages are set in parallel primarily by Zosimus himself, who, when speaking about the second event, refers to what is narrated in the former book (ἐν τῷ προλαβόντι βιβλίῳ).4 It is not surprising that Achilles is mentioned in these passages dealing with events from the second half of the fourth century, since Achilles was a figure rich in meaning in Julian’s time and more generally in the late fourth century, together with other historical or legendary figures chosen by pagan Hellenism as emblems of its cultural policy.5 The myth of Achilles was widespread in the literature and iconography of late antiquity. In this era, the representation of the hero is inspired not only by his depiction in the Iliad, but also by the biographical cycles of Hellenistic and Roman times, and probably also by folktales. Since Achilles is viewed through this lens, his role as a warrior hero is neglected, and paideia becomes a notable feature in the story of his life, and he becomes a model of humane behaviour.6 The theme of Achilles’ warrior virtus continued to be popular as paradigm of invincibility used in imperial propaganda, but at the same time the representation of the hero was not univocal. Achilles’ wealth of meaning as an exemplum can be inferred from literary references such as, for example, the second oration of Julian to Constantius,7 and passages from Themistius’ orations,8 Libanius,9 Ammianus Marcellinus,10 and the Historia Augusta.11 In particular, in one passage from Themistius, the use 4 5 6

7

8

9 10 11

Zos. 5.6.3. On the cultural significance of the heroic era, see Cracco Ruggini 1972. Pavlovskis 1965 points out that the many references to Achilles’ education in late antique authors stems not only from Statius, but also from Greek rhetoric; see also Manacorda 1971. On the popularity and features of the myth of Achilles in late antiquity, see Cracco Ruggini 2002, 357, 359–60; Ghedini 1994, 315–16. On the iconography of Achilles in late antiquity: Carandini 1965; Delvoye 1984; Sande 1987; Ghedini 1997. Iul. or. 2.1 (Bidez, 116–118): Achilles’ withdrawal from the war because of his anger at Agamemnon is an example Julian uses to urge the emperor not to fall victim to ὕβρις. On the contrast between Achilles and Agamemnon in this passage as an allusion to the contrast between Julian himself and Constantius, see Barnes 1998, 144–45. See also Iul. or. 2.3.18–24 (Bidez, 121), where Achilles’ armour is compared to that of Constantius; or. 2.7.4–55 (Bidez, 127), a comparison between Achilles and Constantius, where Constantius’ μεγαλοφροσύνη exceeds that of Achilles. See Rosen 2006, 167–70 and 350, on the use of Homeric epic and the character of Achilles in the Panegyric to Constantius, and on Achilles as a model in the Persian expedition. Among the references in Themistius to the exemplum of Achilles, see or. 14.181C and 18.221A, on Achilles’ military virtues, which are compared Theodosius’ similar virtues against the barbarians and the usurper Maximus; or. 9.123C; 13.173A, D; 18.224D; 21.257B, on Achilles’ paideia acquired from Phoenix and Chiron; or. 21.264A, on Achilles’ hymn to gods and men while he is away from battle. For a negative judgement on Achilles, see or. 13.172B; 15.184B; 15.197B and particularly 24.308C, where the faults of Achilles’ paideia are recognized as a limit in spite of his exceptional physical gifts. Lib. or. 12.49 (Foerster II.27.2–6); 13.6 (Foerster II.65.3–5); 15.8.31–35 (Foerster II.123.5–9; 131.5–133.13); 17.31 (Foerster II.219.12–13); 18.66 (Foerster II.265.2–6). See Conti 2009, 122. On Achilles in Ammianus, see Barnes 1998, 146–151. HA Alex. 31.4: see Settis 1972, 248–49, who notes that the combination of Achilles, Virgilius, and Cicero in this passage highlights aspects of Achilles’ paideia as well as his virtus. See also

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of Achilles shows how the hero could be a role model par excellence in the fight against the barbarians: in Themistius’ opinion, this exemplum represented the ideal of imperial military power that was never to be separated from philanthropia. The passage is significant because it not only enhances the virtues of Achilles himself, who with only a cry terrifies the barbarians who had been victorious until then, but also compares the emperor Theodosius fighting against the Goths to Achilles.12 The cult of the hero continues parallel to the literary and iconographic proliferation of his myth. Julian says he saw the Achilleion during his travel in Troades: Achilles’ tumulus was intact and his statue was still located in the open air in front of Hector’s heroon; the temenos of Athena Ilias was also still undamaged.13 All these sites were objects of veneration and sacrifices at the time of the Emperor according to his own testimony. For Julian and the intellectuals linked to him, the figure of Achilles was indeed a symbol of cultural policy characterized by classicism. The Homeric world represented all of the human values which Julian cultivated,14 so the mention of Achilles in his writings is not surprising. Achilles’ significance as an exemplum for Julian is also shown by Zonaras’ story about the emperor’s mother, who dreamed of bearing Achilles when she was pregnant with Julian.15 It can be assumed that Zonaras got this information, albeit indirectly, through the historian Eunapius of Sardis, for whom Julian represented the ideal emperor and the true fulcrum of his History. Achilles’ role not only as an exemplum in the fight against the new barbarians, the Goths, but also as a cultural model in general, thus explains why Zosimus connects him with Athens. Nevertheless, the report that Athens remained safe from

Bertrand Dagenbach 1990, 150. Max. 4.9: see Lippold 1991, 346–47, who shows the value of Achilles as an exemplum not “als Vorbild für Herrscher”, but “für die Athletik.” See also Pr. 1.2, where Alexander the Great considers Achilles ‘felix’ because Homer was the singer of the hero’s virtutes (see Bertrand Dagenbach 1990, 162; on the passage’s relationship with Cicero and Sallust, see Paschoud 2001, 46–49). The topos also appears in Themistius (or. 19.233B) and Symmachus (epist. 9.72). On Achilles as exemplum in the Historia Augusta in general, see Van’t Dack 1991, 61–80. 12 Them. or. 14.181C. 13 Iul. epist. 79 (Bidez 85.21–86.24). The letter describes Julian’s journey to Troy in 354. Caltabiano 1991, 135 and 254–255 observes that this pilgrimage linked Julian both with other kings and emperors who had paid homage at Achilles’ tomb (including Xerxes, Alexander, Hadrian, Caracalla, and Constantine), and at the same time with the cradle of Greek paideia, another important characteristic of Achilles. Ammianus Marcellinus also mentions the tomb of Achilles outside the city of Troy (22.8.4): Rosen 2006, 113–14. On Julian’s stay at Athens, see Athanassiadi 1981, 47–51. 14 On this aspect of Julian’s cultural education and the importance of Homer for Julian’s political philosophy, see Browning 1975, 36–39; Bowersock 1978, 24–25; Marcone 1983, 507–08 (= Marcone 2008, 12); Mazza 1986a, 51–54 (= Mazza 1986b, 108–12); Athanassiadi 1981, 19– 23; Athanassiadi 2010, 80–83; Bringmann 2004, 22–23; Tantillo 2001, 12–14. On the Homeric quotations in Julian’s writings, see Bouffartigue 1992, 143–56, and on Julian’s ethos in emperor’s biographies, see Bouffartigue 2009. For the notion of Julian as a new Achilles, see especially Barnes 1998, 143–51. 15 Zon. 13.10 (Dindorf III.202.11–16). See Rosen 2006, 26, according to whom Oribasius was “wahrscheinlich auch der Urheber der Geburtslegende Julians”.

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Alaric strongly conflicts with what we know of these events from other sources. When speaking of the devastation caused by Alaric during these years, Philostorgius specifically mentions Athens and clearly indicates that the city was taken (τὰς Ἀθήνας εἶλεν).16 Likewise, Jerome and Claudian allude to the barbarians’ control of the polis.17 As Paschoud highlights,18 comparison of the literary data with the archaeological evidence is fundamental when interpreting Zosimus’ report on the safety of Athens, so that we can attribute to it the proper significance while also not dismissing it as wholly false. Frantz’s excavation reports on Athens in late antiquity have shown the effects of the destruction caused by Alaric in 396.19 The remaking of the old outer wall, the so-called Wall of Valerian, in the late fourth century has led to the belief that the Gothic king succeeded in entering this barrier through several breaches and destroyed a few buildings in the agora, while the people probably found refuge in the inner circumference of the town, the post-Herulean Wall. The opening of negotiations for the ransom of the polis would have followed the devastation. In this way, the archaeological evidence allows us to reconcile the two opposing historical reconstructions provided by the literary sources.20 According to Zosimos, Alaric believed that the town was easy to conquer, and that it was indefensible because of the disproportion between its great size and its small population, and because of the scanty supplies offered by the Piraeus. This assessment might have been true of the whole area included within the Wall of Valerian, but not to the more restricted area inside the post-Herulean Wall, as Frantz notes.21 Zosimos appears reliable when he properly points out the strategic aspects of Alaric’s invasion and that the city was spared in exchange for a ransom; on the other hand, he is not reliable when he confuses and identifies the probable safety of the inner part of the city and acropolis22 with the safety of the whole polis. The story, in which he claims

16 17

18 19

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Philost. 12.2 (Bidez–Winkelmann 140–41). Hier. epist. 60.16.4 (Hilberg 571.5–7): Quid putas nunc animi habere Corinthios, Athenienses, Lacedaemonios, Arcadas cunctamque Graeciam, quibus imperant barbari?; Claud. in Ruf. 2.191 (Hall 38.2): nec fera Cecropias traxissent vincula matres. According to Charlet 2000, 214–15, the resemblance of the two passages, which refer to the same cities, albeit in a different order, does not necessarily indicate the dependence of the authors, because the cities mentioned are the most illustrious. On these events, see Stein 1959, 231; Cameron 1970, 159–76; Demougeot 1979, 164–67; Heather 1991, 201–02. Paschoud 1986, 95–96, n. 9. Frantz 1965, 189–90 and 1988, 48–56. The archaeological and literary evidence relating to Athens in the late fourth century, see also Castrén 1994, 9–10; Baldini Lippolis 1995; Hurwitt 1998, 283–85; McK. Camp, Mauzy 2009, 11 and 38; Robertson Brown 2011, 88–96. Frantz 1988, 51–52 and 58. It should be noted that the archaeological evidence, on the basis of rebuilt walls, indicates the damages caused by Alaric are less serious than those of Herulean invasion. Frantz 1988, 51. According to Castrén 1989, 46, the destruction of the southern slope of the Acropolis is dated to the late fourth century, and the reconstruction of the early fifth century is related to Alaric’s attack on Greece. Holtzmann 2003, 218 raises the possibility that the Parthenon was involved in the destruction of 396, noting that no other buildings on the Acropolis suffered damage and

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that Athens was spared in its entirety, is intended to manipulate the event so that it might be seen as an intervention of divine providence (pronoia). As always, reading Zosimus involves examining his sources. It is important to consider whether we can discern Eunapius’ hand in the actions of Achilles and Athena, or whether the report is the result of an independent investigation by Zosimus. Since no fragments of Eunapius on these events survive, the relationship between the quoted passages of the Historia Nova and Eunapius has previously been analyzed by pointing to relevant extracts of the Vitae Sophistarum. Recently, Liebeschuetz, against common opinion and particularly in disagreement with Paschoud, proposed that both instances of the supernatural preservation of Athens are to be ascribed to Zosimus. This would be evidence of Zosimus’ ability to find information outside his main sources; this ability has often been denied to him, reducing his work to a slavish revision of the works of others without adding anything of his own.23 In support of this argument, Liebeschuetz highlights the mention of the philosopher Syrianos, to whom Zosimus ascribes a hymn in honour of Achilles as proof that Athens really was spared during the earthquake of 375.24 As a pagan, Zosimus would have been familiar with the memoirs of the Neoplatonist philosopher. Moreover, these passages would then have a dual function: they both show off the author’s antiquarian learning and, above all, support the argument that the end of ancestral pagan religion had disastrous consequences for the Roman Empire.25 Nevertheless, the quotation of Syrianos appears to be of little use from the chronological point of view: in fact, the year of the hymn’s composition is unknown, and it is debatable whether we should consider as a terminus post quem the period 431–434, after which Syrianos took the helm of the Neoplatonist school at Athens. Liebeschuetz, who supports this terminus post quem, rules out the possibility that Eunapius could have been acquainted with Syrianos’s writing, because of the chronology of Eunapius’ Historia;26 this would mean that the citation of Syrianos re-

23 24 25 26

therefore asserting that the signs of destruction are due to fire or negligence. Hurwitt 1998, 285–86 notes that the rebuilding of the monuments, which is archaeologically attested, is probably related to Julian’s restorations after the damage caused by the Heruls. Liebeschuetz 2003, 209–14. On the apotropaic role of holy statues in Zosimus, see Cracco Ruggini 1977, 123–24. Zos. 4.18. Liebeschuetz 2003, 214. In fr. 87 Müller, the chronological reference ἐπὶ Πουλχερίας implies the year 414 as a terminus post quem, since Pulcheria reigned as Augusta. Blockley (1981, 5) believes that ἐπὶ Πουλχερίας is an error and should be amended with the name of Eudoxia; the terminus post quem for the publication would then remain the year 404, according to Photius (Bibl. cod. 77), who states that the history finishes with events that occurred in 404. On the other hand, Paschoud supports 404 as an end point for Eunapius’ Historia, and holds that fr. 87 makes predictions about subsequent events (Paschoud 1985a, 59–60 = Paschoud 2006, 139–40; Paschoud 1985b = Paschoud 2006, 181–84); Baldini 1986, 58 and Liebeschuetz 2003, 186 and 210 highlight that, according to the testimony of fr. 87, the author was writing the second edition of the Historia after 414.

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sults from Zosimus’ own research.27 Among the writings attributed to Syrianos by the Suda is a commentary on Homer defined as ὅλον ὑπόμνημα, as well as a study of the Homeric gods.28 This suggests that the composition of a hymn in honour of Achilles would be quite consistent with the philosopher’s interests in mythology. He evidently took both exegetic and poetic approaches to Homeric material, but of course there is no chronological evidence. In theory, it remains equally likely that Syrianos composed the hymn in his youth and that Eunapius was able to read it, as Paschoud assumes.29 2 EUNAPIUS’ EVIDENCE FOR THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TEMPLES Two well-known passages from Eunapius’s Vitae Sophistarum referring to his historical work have been compared with Zosimus’ testimony on Athens’ safety during the invasion of Alaric. The first comes from the Life of Maximus30 and contains a prophecy attributed to an Eleusinian hierophant, whose name Eunapius leaves out because this hierophant had initiated him into the mysteries.31 The prophecy alludes to a contemptible successor who worshipped other gods, under whose reign the sacred temples would be destroyed (τὴν τῶν ἱερῶν καταστροφήν) and Hellas devastated (τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἀπώλειαν ἁπάσης). The oracle concludes with the prediction of many inexplicable disasters (πολλὰ καὶ ἀδιήγητα κακά) which would occur at that time. Eunapius claims that he has already described some of these troubles in the more detailed narrative of his Historia (ἐν τοῖς διεξοδικοῖς τῆς ἱστορίας), while he would relate others in the future.32 The latter most likely refers to Eunapius’ account of the events connected with Alaric’s entry into Greece.33 Eunapius again refers to what he will eventually relate in his Historia in the Life of Priscus, where he discusses those who perished by the hands of the barbarians and 27 28 29

Liebeschuetz 2003, 210. Suid. Lex. Σ 1662 (Adler IV.478–79); Praechter 1932, 1730–32; Syrianus 3, in PLRE 1051. According to Paschoud 1979, 368, n. 138, Eunapius may have had access to this hymn at least when he was composing his second edition of the historical work, around 420. 30 Eun. VS 7.3.1–5 (Giangrande 45.6–46.11). See notes of Civiletti 2007, 463–71. 31 This hierophant is probably to be identified with Nestorius, whom Zosimus mentions in 4.18.2. See Paschoud 1979, 367, n. 138; Baldini 1984, 103, n. 33; Liebeschuetz 2003, 210. For an opposing view, see Banchich 1998, who explains the terms with which Zosimus refers to Nestorius (ἱεροφαντεῖν τεταγμένος) not as reference to a priesthood of the goddesses at Eleusis, but to the act of communion with the sacred through the dream sent by a god. 32 In the opinion of Baldini 1984, 109, n. 43 and 1986, 102, the troubles Eunapius claims to have described previously consist of the battle of Hadrianople. It should be noted that the expression ἀδιήγητα κακά appears in fr. 42 Müller with reference to the devastation of towns and regions of Thrace, Macedonia, and Thessaly by the Goths before the battle of Hadrianople. However, it is likely that with the words πολλὰ καὶ ἀδιήγητα κακά Eunapius does not allude to a particular incident, but to a set of events that led to the decline. 33 For the interpretation of this complex passage, see Paschoud 1980, 151–52 = Paschoud 2006, 94–95; Paschoud 1985b, 271–77 = Paschoud 2006, 175–79; Paschoud 1992, 21–22. Baldini 1984, 103, unlike Paschoud, does not agree with Giangrande’s (46.4) emendation of ὅτε to ὁ [τε]. For the significance of this passage, see also infra, n. 35.

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died a common death with the temples of Greece.34 Among them is Hilarius, massacred when he was out of Athens (ἔξω τῶν Ἀθηνῶν); this precise topographical information is in full agreement with what we learn from Zosimus about the preservation of Athens. This second passage, like the first, is therefore to be attributed to Alaric’s attack, and links together the destruction of the temples and the devastation caused by the barbarian in a logical sequence.35 The passage from the Life of Maximus is especially important for the chronology of the Vitae Sophistarum: the invasion of Greece by Alaric actually constitutes a terminus post quem for its composition.36 As we have seen, this passage, along with the one from the Life of Priscus, is also significant for Eunapius’ promise to describe in detail in his Historia events corresponding with Alaric’s attack in 395– 396; this testimony is important in the debate on the two editions and the subject of the Historia.37

34

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36

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Eun. VS 8.2.1–4 (Giangrande 58.17–59.4). See notes of Civiletti 2007, 5–556. For this passage and the one quoted above (VS 7.3.1–5, Giangrande 45.6–46.11) see also fr. 65 of Eunapius’ Historia edited by Müller and of fr. 64, 2–3 of Eunapius’ text edited by Blockley (1983, 94–95). Baldini 1984, 106–07 connects this passage from the Vitae Sophistarum with Zosimus 5.6.1–2, considering it to be evidence of complementary philosophical and historical works by Eunapius, and stresses the link between Theodosius’s prohibitions of pagan cults and Alaric’s invasion in a category he calls “periodo della distruzione dei templi”. See also Baldini 2001, 491– 94. On the likelihood that the terminus post quem of the writing of the Vitae Sophistarum is not the year 396, as generally held according to this passage, but the year 399, see Banchich 1984, who argues that the θόρυβος referred to in Vitae Sophistarum 7.5.6 (Giangrande 53.7–13) is the revolt of Trebigild; the hypothesis is accepted by Penella 1990, 9 and Baldini 2001, 486–88. For an opposing view, see Cameron, Long 1993, 51, n. 175, for whom the θόρυβος remains unidentifiable, and who think it is unlikely that Eutropius would have increased the power of praetorian prefect, a dangerous enemy of his, because of Trebigild’s revolt. In the opinion of Breebart 1979, 362, the Vitae Sophistarum were written round 400. For the dating of the Vitae some time after 395, see Blockley 1981, 1 and Liebeschuetz 2003, 179. On this vexata quaestio, Chalmers 1953 holds that the first edition went down to 395. Barnes 1978, 117–20 and Banchich 1988, 376 believe that the first edition ended with the battle of Hadrianople, while the second edition was a continuation of the first; Baldini is also of this opinion (Baldini 1984, 100–09; 1986, 90–93, 103; 2000, 189–92), but assumes that the first edition started with Augustus and was the source of the first book of Zosimus’ Historia Nova. Goulet 1980 and 2000 emphasizes that the question of the two editions of the Historia is to be dealt with separately from the testimonies which speak in favour of its publication in instalments, and assumes that the first instalment ended with Jovian’s reign (contra Banchich 1987). Breebart 1979, 362 and Blockley 1980 1981, 4–5 argue that the Historia was probably published in instalments, and Breebart also believes that Eunapius did not go beyond the year 395 in the Historia, when he was writing the Vitae Sophistarum. Paschoud 1980 (= Paschoud 2006, 93–106) and 1985a (= Paschoud 2006, 189) has also identified the year 395 as end of the first edition or at least of the first instalment of the work. Sacks 1986, 64, n. 50 suggests that the first edition went to 404. Finally, Cameron 2011, 672–73 is against the hypothesis that the first instalment stopped in 395, and considers it strange that this hostile account of Theodosius would appear so very soon after the emperor’s death, and that no other cross-references in the Vitae Sophistarum refer to anything later than the reign of Valens. See also infra 122–123.

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If we consider Photius’ testimony in his Bibliotheca38 to be solid evidence for the existence of two editions of the Historia characterized by the same subject and ending with the year 404,39 we could eliminate any discrepancy and explain Eunapius’ references in the Vitae Sophistarum to events which he claims he will relate in the Historia by hypothesizing that the Historia was published in instalments. There are many parallels for this practice in ancient historiography.40 Based on these testimonies, we can assert for certain only that 395 is a terminus ante quem for the subject matter dealt with in the instalments of the Historia that had already been published when Eunapius was writing the Vitae. Scholars such as Breebart and Paschoud have identified 395 as the end of an instalment of the Historia or of the first edition, although they base this on different assumptions.41 This would make the end of the reign of Theodosius also the end, even if only a provisional one, of the historical work. Nevertheless, it should be emphasized that, though 395 probably corresponds to the end of the first instalment, this “ending” was not regarded as the culminating event which would close the work. We know that Eunapius’ historiographical method departed from rigorous chronological schemes: in a fragment of the introduction to his work, Eunapius considers Dexippus’ excessive attention to chronology as grounds for criticism, and rejects the model of chronikè historía.42 He will date events not by the year or the day (κατ᾿ ἐνιαυτὸν καὶ καθ᾿ ἡμέραν), but by the reigns of the Emperors (κατὰ χρόνους, οἳ τοῖς βασιλεῦσι περιγράφονται), so it should be understood that a certain action was performed during the reign of this or that emperor (ἐπὶ τοῦδε τοῦ βασιλέως ἣ τοῦδε ἐπράττετο).43 Because of his departure from the strict model of the chronicles, Eunapius must have regarded the end of the reign of an emperor only as a formal binding term for the publishing of the work in instalments. In his opinion, the death of Theodosius probably did not represent the significant event which would have concluded the Historia, even provisionally, and induced him to write the Bioi. From the point of view of the Historia itself, this significant event must be the attack on the pagan cults and the symbolic place of traditional religion, which had begun some years earlier in imperial legislation. In this sense, the passage of the Life of Edesius which refers to the destruction of the Serapeum of Alexandria in the context of a prophecy attributed to Antoninus is central.44 It closes with a consideration of the fortune of the pagan temples: “To all intelligent men the end of the temples which had been prognosticated by him was painful”.45 Eunapius claims to have

38 39

40 41 42 43 44 45

Phot. Bibl. cod. 77 (Henry I.158.36–44). Baker 1988 argues that there is no reason to doubt the truth of what Photius says in this regard, since he could have examined the two editions and so verified the chronology of the subject. Cameron 2011, 653 is sceptical about the truth of the testimony by Photius. So recently Cameron 2011, 672–73. See n. 37. Eun. fr. 1 Müller = fr. 1 Blockley 1983, 6.30–10.90. Eun. fr. 1 Müller = fr. 1 Blockley 1983, 10.84–89. Eun. VS 6.11 (Giangrande 38.10–40.19). Eun. VS 6.11.12 (Giangrande 40.18–19): λυπηρὸν τοῖς νοῦν ἔχουσι τὸ προεγνωσμένον ἐκείνῳ τῶν ἱερῶν τέλος (transl. W. C. Wright).

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related this episode in the Historia,46 and the context is evoked with mention of the Emperor Theodosius and the bishop Theophilus, who is compared to Eurymedon, king of the mad Giants.47 As Baldini observes, this event, together with Alaric’s invasion, is the temporal break which pressed Eunapius into writing the Vitae Sophistarum, as we can argue from the preface of the biographies.48 This event is likely to have given Eunapius the impetus to give up his historical work and embrace biographical writing, in order to praise the leading personalities of a dying culture. Furthermore, from an ideological point of view, it could be a culminating event of the instalments of the Historia published when Eunapius began the Bioi. In Zosimus we do not read of the destruction of the Serapeum49 and this could mean that the epochal sense of the incident escaped him, cut out because of the need for abridgement. Nevertheless, it is useful to reconsider the end of the fourth book of the Historia Nova. Shortly before Zosimus’ concise description of the division of the empire among Theodosius’ sons, the death of the emperor, and his burial, he reports a journey Theodosius allegedly made to Rome, where he summons the senate to urge them to abandon error and embrace the Christian faith.50 Here, Zosimus develops the idea that the end of the ancestral rites had progressively undermined the Empire:51 it was by this time the residence of barbarians, and the locations of the cities could not even be recognized.52 This picture is a mirror image of that of the Roman Empire, which had been crushed by the barbarians (βαρβαρωθεῖσα) ever since the Ludi saeculares had been neglected after the abdication of Diocletian.53 Zosimus probably drew this image of the declining civilization of the Roman Em-

46

47 48

49

50

51 52

53

Eun. VS 6.11.7 (Giangrande 39.20–21). Goulet 1980, 66–67 and n. 43 assumes that the first instalment of the Historia published before the writing of the Vitae Sophistarum finishes with the reign of Jonah and that the destruction of the temples was narrated as a prediction of the future or as a prophecy in the section regarding Julian. For a different view, see Paschoud 1985a (= Paschoud 2006, 153–94). Barnes 1978, 116, Baldini 1986, 98 and Cameron 2011, 672 doubt that the reference in the Vitae Sophistarum to the contents of the Historia is related to the destruction of the Serapeum, and propose that Eunapius alludes to excesses of the monks, a topos frequent in polemic against Christians. Eun. VS 6.11.2 (Giangrande 38.18–19), where Hom. Od. 7.59 is quoted. Baldini 2001, 476 and 494 interprets the writing of the Vitae Sophistarum as “proposta di un modello di eccellenza” in reply to the temporal break represented by the disasters (διὰ τὰς συμφοράς); for Baldini this term includes the destruction of the temples and Alaric’s invasion. The sources for this event are Hier. epist. 107.2.3 (Hilberg 292); Ruf. h.e. 11.23; 27–28 (Winkelmann 1026–1030; 1033–34); Socr. 5.16–17 (Hansen 289–91); Soz. 7.15 (Bidez-Hansen 319–321); Thdt. h.e. 5.22 (Hansen 320–321). These texts are discussed by Schwartz 1960; Orlandi 1968; Fowden 1978, 69–70; Baldini 1985; Sabottka 2008, 330–31. On the journey of Theodosius to Rome (which is chronologically unlikely), see Paschoud 1975, 100–24. On the error of Zosimus or of his source in regard to the abolition of public funding for pagan rites, which is instead to be ascribed to Gratianus, see Paschoud 1967, 82–87; 1975, 133–36. Zos. 4.59.3. For Zosimus, the disappearance of the towns is an important metaphor for the end of civilization. On these passages (1.37.3; 2.38.4; 3.32.6) as sign of pagan propaganda, see Paschoud 1975, 137. Zos. 2.7.1. On these events, see Paschoud 1975, 11, 187; 2000, 192–205.

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pire from Eunapius, and also the information about the prohibition of sacred rites.54 Presumably with this pessimistic but impressive picture of decline, Eunapius temporarily finished his Historia. He would probably have given further proof of his assertions in the continuation of the work, as can be surmised from Zosimus’ conventional phrase placed at the end of the fourth book: “The narrative of events will clearly show how the situation reached this point” (ταῦτα μὲν εἰς τοῦτο τύχης ἐνεχθέντα δείξει σαφῶς ἡ κατὰ μέρος τῶν πραγμάτων ἀφήγησις).55 The subsequent destruction of Greece’s temples, and consequently of its culture, was anticipated by prophecy in the Vitae Sophistarum as a subject with which he would deal in his Historia. According to Zosimus, and indeed previously in the opinion of Eunapius and the Neoplatonic intellectuals with whom he was connected, only Athens came out of the decline of the ancient culture unscathed, and Alaric had to give the finishing stroke to this culture. 3 ALARIC AND THE MONKS IN GREECE. THE PRESERVATION OF ATHENS If we come back to the testimonies of the Vitae Sophistarum for Alaric’s invasion of Greece, the differences between them and Zosimus’ report would seem manifest, since a religious interpretation prevails in Eunapius, whereas a political one does in the Historia Nova.56 It is rightly assumed that we can account for this divergent view by considering the difference between the two literary genres:57 that the religious reading has been favoured in the Vitae Sophistarum is to be expected, but this does not exclude the possibility that Eunapius could have added a political perspective to the Historia. In the narrative of the prophecy of the destruction of the temples (τὴν τῶν ἱερῶν καταστροφήν) and the ruin of all of Greece in the Life of Maximus, there is a harsh invective against the monks, who are not explicitly mentioned but can be recognized by their dark raiment (φαιὰ ἱμάτια). Eunapius blamed

54

See Paschoud 1975, 100–24 and Cameron 2011, 644, who deems that Zosimus derives from Eunapius information about Theodosius’s withdrawal of financial support for the pagan cults of Rome. 55 Zos. 4.59.4. Paschoud 1979, 472, n. 213 maintains that for Zosimus the prohibition of sacrifices in 394 had as its first consequence the death of Theodosius, and as second the sack of Rome by Alaric. On the propagandistic significance of this passage, see also Paschoud 1975, 137–38. 56 Zos. 5.5.5–6 explains the entry of Alaric through Thermopylae by the collusion of the proconsul Antioch and the general Gerontius with the barbarians. This difference between the religious interpretation of Eunapius and the political interpretation of Zosimus has been already highlighted by Cracco Ruggini 1972, 275 and 292–95, as peculiar to the historiographical perspective of Zosimus. Heather 1991, 202 n. 26 believes that it is very likely that this collusion derives from Eunapius’ imagination in order to criticize the generals in charge of the Empire. The political explanation attributing Alaric’s entry into Greece to the manoeuvring of Rufinus is also provided by Johannes Antiochenus, who probably got this information from Eunapius (fr. 282 Roberto, 474.5–7; see also Paschoud 1986, 91–94, n. 8). 57 So Paschoud 1986, 92–93 n. 8.

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their impiety (ἀσέβεια) for throwing Greece open to Alaric the invader while the hierophantic ordinances (θεσμοί) had been rescinded.58 The well-known passage of the Life of Edesius about the destruction of the Serapeum at Alexandria is similarly polemic: the monks who had settled in the sacred places are described as men only in appearance (κατὰ τὸ εἴδος), but marked by a porcine way of life (βίος συώδης), identified by their black robes (μέλαινα ἐσθής), and provided with tyrannical power (τυραννικὴ ἐξουσία); their actions, in conclusion, are said to be sacrilege (ἱεροσυλία) and impiety (ἀσέβεια).59 This polemical topos is not astonishing, if we consider that some years before Libanius had appealed to Theodosius in his Oratio 30 (ὑπὲρ τῶν ἱερῶν) to defend the temples from the violence of the monks, and that in this period the monks, like the bishops, frequently took part in the plunder and destruction of pagan temples.60 In Zosimus we do not find this view and, as we have seen, he does not mention the Serapeum at Alexandria or the monks’ involvement in Alaric’s entry into Greece. This has been explained either by supposing this is an example of originality on Zosimus’ part, or by ascribing the difference to Eunapius himself and to the dissimilarity of his two works.61 Nevertheless, it is to be remembered that polemic against monks is also present in the Historia. Fr. 55 Müller describes the Goths’ crossing of the Danube during the reign of Theodosius, where the barbarians are disguised as Christians, along with fake monks dressed in dark cloaks and tunics (φαιὰ ἱμάτια και χιτώνια).62 Furthermore, we know from Photius that Eunapius corrupted his style, dropping the usual nobility from his vocabulary (τῶν ὀνομάτων εὐγένεια). Among the many examples of this, Photius notes his use of the adjective ‘porcine’ (συώδης);63 as we have seen, this adjective qualifies the life (βίος) of the monks in Antoninus’ prophecy, and therefore it was likely also used in the Historia with similarly polemic tone against the monks.

58

Eun. VS 7.3.5 (Giangrande 46.6–11). See Tartaglia 1995, 111 for the connection of the passages with fr. 55 Müller. According to Robertson Brown 2011, 92, “it is perhaps not surprising that Alaric brought monks, and that the plundering of temples and the disruption of polytheistic religion ensued”. 59 Eun. VS 6.11.6–7 (Giangrande 39.13–20). Baldini 1984, 196–97 notes that Eunapius took the inspiration for this polemical topic from Julian. 60 Frend 1990, 477–81. On polemic against monks in Eunapius and in the fourth and fifth centuries, see infra n. 67 too. 61 Paschoud 1986, 93, n. 8. Cracco Ruggini 1972, 103–04 declares herself in favour of the originality of Zosimus in this passage. 62 Eun. fr. 55 Müller = fr. 48, 2; Blockley 1983, 74–76. About the chronology of these events before 383 see Paschoud 2006, 488. In the opinion of Paschoud 1986, 93, n. 8, on the basis of this fragment of Eunapius, it is not impossible that Alaric had the monks beside him when he was entering Greece. Undoubtedly in this fragment, as in the passage of the Vitae Sophistarum about the invasion of Alaric, there is the effect of the Christianization of the Goths beginning from Wulfila, and of the role of the clerk in the diplomatic relations between Romans and Goths, as noted by Cracco Ruggini 1972, 275–76. On these aspects, see Wolfram 1980, 58–66; Heather 1986, 313– 15; Heather, Matthews 1991, 124–26. According to Sacks 1986, 55, fr. 55 “reveals a sense of irony that paganism could succeed by assuming the pose of the Christianity”. 63 Phot. Bibl. cod. 77 (Henry I.159.14).

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In the Historia Nova, the monks only appear in the clash between John Chrysostom and Eudoxia,64 which ends in the first banishment of the bishop from Constantinople. In this passage, the language shows Eunapius’ influence: the monks are notable for their dark raiment (φαιὰ ἱμάτια), and so all the people clad in this manner (ἅπαντας ὅσοι φαιαῖς ἔτυχον ἐσθήσιν ἡμφιεσμένοι) are without distinction victims of the repression of the riots caused by the monks. Since Eunapius’ Historia ended, according to Photius, with the removal of John Chrysostom from his office, it is probable that Zosimus followed Eunapius in his description of the quarrel between the bishop and Augusta Eudoxia, and also of the prodigious preservation of the statues of Zeus and Athena thanks to pronoia, when they are spared from the fire in the Curia caused by the turmoils after the second banishment of the bishop.65 The role of the monks is essential in the religious dispute, and so Zosimus does not leave it out. In fact, the incident is significant beyond the doctrinal struggle: the resistance of civilians and soldiers together (δημοτικοί τε ὁμοῦ καὶ στρατιῶται) against the monks66 makes clear the hostility towards a class regarded as socially useless or even harmful.67 Zosimus’ silence on other incidents that involve the monks can be explained through the fact that his work is an abridgment. Actually, this polemical topos is not especially developed in Zosimus, while in Eunapius it had both a social and religious value and was connected with the question of the barbarians. As we have seen, the barbarians crossed the Danube in the time of Theodosius, helped by being disguised as monks and by staging a mock conversion in order to settle within Roman boundaries; and the Arian Alaric was helped by monks to enter Greece through the pass at Thermopylae. All this strengthened the religious interpretation of these events, in which the plan of pronoia could be discerned. Towards the end of the fourth century, Athens aimed at maintaining its centrality for the sake of scrupulously preserving its cultural identity,68 and the memory of divine and heroic worship was an instrument for just such a defence. In the Neoplatonist circle in which

64 65

66

67

68

Zos. 5.23. See Gregory 1973; Paschoud 1986, 176–81, n. 47. Zos. 5.24.7–8. On this passage, see Paschoud 1986, 187, n. 50. In the opinion of Kaegi 1968, 139–41, who compares the role of Athena as city guardian to that of the Virgin Mary, the preservation of the statues of these gods shows that Zosimus continued to have some hope for the future. On the term δημοτικοί, see Gregory 1973, 72–77, who in his analysis of Zosimus’ language points out that δημοτικοί is a word not attested elsewhere in the Historia Nova to refer to the people. It can therefore explain the remarks of Zosimus at 5.23.4. On the polemic against monks in this passage, see Cracco Ruggini 1972, 288–95 and 1977, who highlights the differences between Eunapius and Zosimus; Gregory 1974, 66–67, who recognizes the certain influence of Eunapius on this passage of Zosimus; and Paschoud 1986, 179–81, who does not agree with this reading because of the difference between the Historia and the Vitae Sophistarum, and infers that “nous n’avons pas le moindre motif de douter que, dans le passage perdu que Zosime résume ici, Eunape, dans le contexte d’un ouvrage historique et non plus dans des biographies d’intellectuels, ait mis en relif l’inutilité sociale des moines” (180). On the topos of Athens’ leading role in contrast no longer with Rome, but with Constantinople, see Cracco Ruggini 1972, 209–16.

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Eunapius was involved, the firm support for a providential interpretation of events in a religious reading of their significance must have been strengthened by living worship practices. In the two passages of Zosimus, the fate of Athens is opposed to that of Hellas: the destruction and ravaging of the cities of other Greek peoples (Ἑλληνικὰ ἔθνη) contrasts with the preservation of Athens and its territory, Attica.69 The flag of Athenian supremacy was raised above all of Greece, looking back nostalgically on the conception of ancient Greece as formed by the various Ἑλληνικὰ ἔθνη, as opposed to that current period of a united provincia of Achaia.70 The idea that Athens would take a leading role in the cultural and religious field is to be attributed to Eunapius, an ideological claim involving the assertion of Athens’ superiority to the whole of Greece. In the Vitae Sophistarum, Athens is a vital centre of the Neoplatonist and sophistic schools, representing the city responsible for the greatness of Greece. According to Eunapius’ pessimistic view of the contemporary decline of Athens in contrast to the flourishing of Constantinople, the Athenians were no longer responsible for anything glorious, and the whole of Greece was ruined along with the city itself after the death of Socrates (διὰ τὴν πόλιν τὰ τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἅπαντα συνεφθάρη).71 Moreover, in this work he does not fail to mention Athens as the centre of pagan worship in a time when it was dangerous to perform such rituals. We can consider Anatolius, praefectus praetorio per Illyricum, who came to Athens to start an oratorical strife of epochal memory and courageously (θαρσαλέως) offered sacrifices in all the temples of the city, as a divine ordinance commanded (ἧ θεσμός ἱερὸς ἐκέλευεν).72 His journey to Greece was the consequence of his being “devout in offering sacrifices and fond of Greek studies” (φιλοθύτης ὢν καὶ διαφερόντως Ἕλλην).73 The mystical presence of the cult of the two Eleusinian goddesses, into which the emperor Julian and Eunapius himself were initiated in the Vitae Sophistarum, is not to be forgotten.74 The image in Zosimus of an Athens safe from natural disasters and the barbarian thanks to Achilles, the warrior hero par excellence who was so fashionable in the fourth century, is consistent with the reflections of Eunapius, not only in general on the religious significance of historical events, but more specifically on the cultural and religious role of Athens in comparison with the entire Greek world.75 We can consider it likely that the two incidents relating to the polis, closely connected and stemming from a Neoplatonist cultural context, are endorsed by Eunapius: he 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

Zos. 5.5.7. Paschoud 1986, 94, n. 9: the words Ἑλληνικὰ ἔθνη in Eunapius-Zosimus are used as the equivalent of the technical term provincia Achaia. Eun. VS 6.2.6 (Giangrande 19.17–20). On Athens as cultural and religious capital of the Greek world at this time, see Cracco Ruggini 1971, 417. Eun. VS 10.6.8 (Giangrande 75.8–10). Eun. VS 10.6.3 (Giangrande 74.7–8). On this passage, see Bowersock 1990, 10. Eun. VS 7.3.1 (Giangrande 45.6–9). On Eunapius’ initiation into the Eleusinian mysteries, see Goulet 1980, 67; Fornara 1989, 521–22; Banchich 1996, 308–10. Paschoud 1986, 97, n. 10, in opposition to Kaegi 1968, 125–27, holds that in Eunapius the preservation of Athens is not an antithesis to the sack of Rome, and asserts that the two passages of the Vitae Sophistarum “laissent deviner que l’action combinée de la législation impériale et des Goths ne laisse rien subsister du paganisme en Grèce après 396”.

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had to include the events of 375 as sung by Syrianos in the second edition of his Historia, and to link them to the preservation of Athens from Alaric. BIBLIOGRAPHY Athanassiadi, Polymnia 1981. Julian. An intellectual biography. London–New York [1981] 19922. Athanassiadi, Polymnia 2010. Vers la pensée unique. La montée de l’intolérance dans l’Antiquité tardive. Paris. Baker, Aaron 1988. “Eunapius’ Νέα ἔκδοσις and Photius”, Greek Roman and Byzantine Studies 29. 389–402. Baldini, Antonio 1984. Ricerche sulla Storia di Eunapio di Sardi. Problemi di storiografia tardopagana. Bologna. Baldini, Antonio 1985. “Problemi della tradizione sulla ‘distruzione’ del Serapeo di Alessandria”, Rivista storica dell’antichità 15. 97–152. Baldini, Antonio 1986. “Le due edizioni della Storia di Eunapio e le fonti della Storia Nuova di Zosimo”, Annali della Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia. Università di Macerata 19. 45–109. Baldini, Antonio 2000. Storie perdute (III secolo d. C.). Bologna. Baldini, Antonio 2001. “Eunapio di Sardi tra biografia e storia”, in: Ambaglio, Delfino; Bearzot, Cinzia; Vattuone, Riccardo (eds.) 2001. Storiografia locale e storiografia universale. Forme di acquisizione del sapere storico nella cultura antica (Bologna, 16–18 dicembre 1999). Como. 455–95. Baldini Lippolis, Isabella 1995. “La monumentalizzazione tardoantica di Atene”, Ostraka 4. 169–90. Banchich, Thomas M. 1984. “The Date of Eunapius’ Vitae Sophistarum”, Greek Roman and Byzantine Studies 25. 183–192. Banchich, Thomas M. 1987. “On Goulet’s chronology of Eunapius’ life and works”, The Journal of Hellenic Studies 107. 164–67. Banchich, Thomas M. 1988. “Vit. Sophist. X.2.3 and the terminus of the first edition of Eunapius’ History”, Rheinishes Museum für Philologie 131. 375–80. Banchich, Thomas M. 1996. “Eunapius in Athens”, Phoenix 50. 304–11. Banchich, Thomas M. 1998. “Nestorius ἱεροφαντεῖν τεταγμένος”, Historia 47. 360–74. Barnes, Timothy D. 1978. The sources of the Historia Augusta (Collection Latomus 155). Bruxelles. Barnes, Timothy D. 1998. Ammianus Marcellinus and the representation of historical reality. Ithaca–London. Bertrand-Dagenbach, Cécile 1990. Alexandre Sévère et l’Histoire Auguste (Collection Latomus 208). Bruxelles. Blockley, Roger C. 1980. “The ending of Eunapius’ History”, Antichthon 14. 170–76. Blockley, Roger C. 1981. The fragmentary classicising historians of the later Roman empire. Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus and Malchus (ARCA, Classical and Medieval Texts, Papers and Monographs 6). Liverpool. Blockley, Roger C. 1983. The fragmentary classicising historians of the later Roman empire. Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus and Malchus, 2, Text, translation and historiographical notes (ARCA, Classical and Medieval Texts, Papers and Monographs 10). Liverpool. Bouffartigue, Jean 1992. L’Empereur Julien et la culture de son temps (Collection des Études Augustiniennes 133). Paris. Bouffartigue, Jean 2009. “Julien entre biographie et analyse historique”, in: Carrié, Lagacherie 2009. 79–89. Bowersock, Glen W. 1978. Julian the Apostate. London. Bowersock, Glen W. 1990. Hellenism in late Antiquity (Jerome Lectures 18). Cambridge–New York–Port Chester–Melbourne–Sydney. Breebart, Abraham B. 1979. “Eunapius of Sardes and the writing of History”, Mnemosyne s. IV 32. 360–75.

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Ghedini, Francesca 1997. “Achille ‘eroe ambiguo’ nella produzione musiva tardo antica”, Antiquité Tardive 5. 239–64. Goulet, Richard 1980. “Sur la chronologie de la vie et des œuvres d’Eunape de Sardes”, The Journal of Hellenic Studies 100. 60–72. Goulet, Richard 2000. “Prohérésius le païen et quelques remarques sur la chronologie d’Eunape de Sardes”, Antiquité Tardive 8. 209–22. Gregory, Timothy E. 1973. “Zosimus 5, 23 and the people of Constantinople”, Byzantion 43. 61–83. Heather, Peter 1986. “The crossing of the Danube and the Gothic conversion”, Greek Roman and Byzantine Studies 27. 289–318. Heather, Peter J. 1991. Goths and Romans 332–489. Oxford. Heather, Peter; Matthews, John 1991. The Goths in the fourth century. Liverpool. Holtzmann, Bernard 2003. L’Acropole d’Athènes: monuments, cultes et histoire du sanctuaire d’Athèna Polias. Paris. Hurwitt, Jeffrey M. 1998. The Athenian Acropolis. History, mythology and archaelogy from the Neolithic Era to the Present. Cambridge. Kaegi, Walter E. 1968. Byzantium and the decline of Rome. Princeton. Liebeschuetz, Wolf 2003. “Pagan historiography and the decline of Empire”, in: Marasco, Gabriele (ed.) 2003. Greek and Roman historiography in Late Antiquity. Fourth to sixth century A. D. Leiden–Boston. 177–218. Lippold, Adolf 1991. Kommentar zur Vita Maximini duo der Historia Augusta (Antiquitas R. 4, Beiträge zur Historia-Augusta-Forschung S. 3, Kommentare B. 1). Bonn. Manacorda, Mario A. 1971. La ‘paideia’ di Achille. Roma. Marcone, Arnaldo 1983. “L’imperatore Giuliano tra politica e cultura: una nota a proposito di due libri recenti”, Rivista storica italiana 95. 504–09. Marcone, Arnaldo 2008. Di Tarda Antichità. Scritti scelti (Studi Udinesi sul Mondo Antico 6). Milano. Mazza, Mario, 1986a. “Filosofia religiosa ed imperium in Giuliano”, in: Gentili, Bruno (ed.) 1986. Giuliano imperatore. Atti del Convegno della S. I. S. A. C. (Messina, 3 aprile 1984). Urbino. 39–108. Mazza, Mario 1986b. Le maschere del potere. Cultura e politica nella tarda antichità. Napoli. McK. Camp II, John; Mauzy, Craig A. (eds.) 2009. Die Agora von Athen. Neue Perspektiven für eine archäologische Stätte (Zaberns Bildbände zur Archäologie: Sonderbände der antiken Welt). Athens. Orlandi, Tito 1968. “Uno scritto di Teofilo di Alessandria sulla distruzione del Serapeum?”, La Parola del Passato 23. 295–304. Paschoud, François 1967. Roma aeterna. Études sur le patriotisme romain dans l’Occidente latin à l’époque des grandes invasions (Bibliotheca Helvetica Romana 7). Roma. Paschoud, François 1975. Cinq études sur Zosime. Paris. Paschoud, François 1979. Zosime, Histoire nouvelle, 2.2. Livre IV. Paris. Paschoud, François 1980. “Quand parut la première édition de l’Histoire d’Eunape?”, in: Birley, Eric et al. (eds.) 1980. Bonner Historia-Augusta-Colloquium 1977/1978. Bonn. 149–62. Paschoud, François 1985a. “Zosime et la fin de l’ouvrage historique d’Eunape”, Orpheus n. s. 6. 44–61. Paschoud, François 1985b. “Eunapiana”, in: Béranger, Jean et al. (eds.) 1985. Bonner Historia-Augusta-Colloquium 1982/1983. Bonn. 239–303. Paschoud, François 1986. Zosime, Histoire nouvelle, 3.1. Livre V. Paris. Paschoud, François 1992. “Claude II aux Thermopyles? A propos de HA Claud. 16.1, Zosime 5.5 et Eunape Vitae Soph. 7.3.4–5”, in: Christol, Michel et al. (eds.) 1992. Institutions, société et vie politique dans l’Empire Romaine au IVe siècle ap. J. C. Actes de la table ronde autour de l’oeuvre d’André Chastagnol, Paris, 20–21 janvier 1989. Rome. 21–28. Paschoud, François 2001. Histoire Auguste. Vies de Probus, Firmus, Saturnin, Proculus et Bonose, Carus, Numérien et Carin. Paris. Paschoud, François 2006. Eunape, Olympiodore, Zosime. Scripta minora. Recueil d’articles, avec addenda, corrigenda, mise à jour et indices. Bari.

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Pavlovskis, Zoja 1965. “The education of Achilles, as treated in the literature of late Antiquity”, La Parola del Passato 20. 281–97. Penella, Robert J. 1990. Greek philosophers and sophists in the fourth century A. D. Studies in Eunapius of Sardis (ARCA. Classical and Medieval Texts, Papers and Monographs 28). Liverpool. Praechter, Karl 1932. “Syrianos”, in: Kroll, Whilhelm; Mittelhaus, Karl (eds.) 1932. Paulys RealEncyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, Neue Bearbeitung begonnen von Georg Wissowa, IV A 2. Stuttgart. 1728–75. Robertson Brown, Amelia 2011. “Banditry or catastrophe? History, archaeology and Barbarian raids on Roman Greece”, in: Mathisen, Ralph W.; Shanzer, Danuta (eds.) 2011. Romans, Barbarians and the transformation of the Roman World. Cultural interaction and the creation of identity in Late Antiquity. Burlington. 79–106. Rosen, Klaus 2006. Julian. Kaiser, Gott und Christenhasser. Stuttgart. Sabottka, Michael 2008. Das Serapeum in Alexandria. Untersuchungen zur Architektur und Baugeschichte des Heiligtums von der frühen ptolemäischen Zeit bis zur Zerstörung 391 n. Chr. (Études Alexandrines 15). Le Caire. Sacks, Kenneth S. 1986. “The Meaning of Eunapius’ History”, History and Theory 25. 52–67. Sande, Siri 1987. “The equestrian statue of Justinian and the σχῆμα ᾿Αχίλλειον”, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia. Series altera 6. 91–111. Schwartz, Jacques 1960. “La fin du Serapeum d’Alexandrie”, American Studies in Papyrology 1. 97–111. Settis, Salvatore 1972. “Severo Alessandro e i suoi Lari (S. H. A., S. A. 29, 2–3)”, Athenaeum n. s. 50. 237–51. Stein, Ernst 1959. Histoire du Bas-Empire, 1. De l’état romain à l’état byzantin (284–476). Paris. Tantillo, Ignazio 2001. L’imperatore Giuliano. Roma–Bari. Tartaglia, Luigi 1995. “La testimonianza delle Storie di Eunapio”, in: Consolino, Franca E. (ed.) 1995. Pagani e cristiani da Giuliano l’Apostata al sacco di Roma. Catanzaro. 105–14. Van’t Dack, Edmond 1991. “Achille dans l’H. A.”, in: Birley, Eric; Rosen, Klaus (eds.) 1991. Bonner Historia-Augusta-Colloquium 1986/1989. Bonn. 61–81. Wolfram, Herwig 1980. Geschichte der Goten: von der Anfängen bis zur Mitte des sechsten Jahrhunderts. München [1980] 19832.

PART II RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE IN THE ROMAN WORLD

RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE IN THE ROMAN WORLD Attilio Mastrocinque, Università degli Studi di Verona Jörg Rüpke, Universität Erfurt Attilio Mastrocinque/Jörg Rüpke Despite the centrality of experience in the thinking about religion since the end of the eighteenth century, “experience” has not been brought to bear on ancient religion outside Judaism and Christianity despite some recent book titles.1 The very subjectivity of “experience” (pathos,2 unlike the ancient notion of experientia, that is, learning from practising) seems to conflict with the dearth of ancient sources. However, recent analyses of the phenomenon have produced a concept of experience that takes into account the connection between personal experience and communicated meaning, and allows for a historical use of the concept. We quote Matthias Jung, cofellow at the Max-Weber centre: “Personal, lived experience in its qualitative-emotional dimension remains dumb and has no power to transform behaviour as long as it is not articulated symbolically,” and “[…] any system of convictions and practices, that from the first-person-point of view is no longer seen as expressive for qualitative experience, becomes increasingly obsolete.”3 ‘Experience’ could thus stress the observer and user of images, sacred space, and movement towards and in sacred space, that is, pilgrimage.4 For the ancient Mediterranean, however, ‘religious experience’ is a term that is not usually associated with the public temples of cities or villages, but rather confined to ‘mystery cults’ or even attributed to ‘oriental origins’. The ensuing chapters go far beyond this. They explore forms of religious experiences located in or stimulated by sanctuaries and architectural space, by traditional cults as well as religious innovations, for a broad range of religious infrastructures and groups. Given the long tradition of research, the contributions relate to questions of long-distance religious exchange as much as to reflections about the concepts and terminology of the history of religion.

1 2 3 4

Bispham, Smith 2000; Cole 2004. “Emotionality” has gained more attention, but need not be related to individuality: Linke 2003, 84. During the SBL conference in Boston in 2008, Troles Engberg-Pedersen presented an attempt to define and identify religious experiences in ancient texts by this term. Jung 2006, 21; see also Jung 2004 and Schlette, Jung 2005, in particular Jung 2005. For the latter see e. g. Petsalis-Diomidis 2005.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Bispham, Edward; Smith, Christopher 2000. Religion in Archaic and Republican Rome and Italy: evidence and experience. Edinburgh. Cole, Susan G. 2004. Landscapes, gender and ritual space: the ancient Greek experience. Berkeley. Jung, Matthias 2004. “Qualitative Erfahrung in Alltag, Kunst und Religion”, in: Mattenklott, Gert (ed.) 2004. Ästhetische Erfahrung im Zeichen der Entgrenzung der Künste. Epistemische, ästhetische und religiöse Erfahrungsformen im Vergleich. Hamburg. 31–53. Jung, Matthias 2005. “‘Making us explicit’ – Artikulation als Organisationsprinzip von Erfahrung”, in: Schlette, Jung 2005, 103–42. Jung, Matthias 2006. “Making life explicit – The symbolic pregnance of religious experience”, Svensk Teologisk Kvartalskrift, volume ‘Ernst Cassirer’. 16–23. Linke, Bernhard 2003. “Emotionalität und Status: zur gesellschaftlichen Funktion von supplicationes und lectisternia in der römischen Republik”, in: Kneppe, Alfred; Metzler, Dieter (eds.) 2003. Die emotionale Dimension antiker Religiösität (Forschungen zur Anthropologie und Religionsgeschichte 37). Münster. 65–86. Petsalis-Diomidis, Alexia 2005. “The body in space: visual dynamics in Graeco-Roman healing pilgrimage”, in: Elsner, Jas; Rutherford, Ian (eds.) 2005. Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman & Early Christian Antiquity: seeing the gods. Oxford. 183–218. Schlette, Magnus; Jung, Matthias 2005. Anthropologie der Artikulation: begriffliche Grundlagen und transdisziplinäre Perspektiven. Würzburg.

ON RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCES THAT SHOULD NOT HAPPEN IN SANCTUARIES Jörg Rüpke, Universität Erfurt 1 EXPERIENCE I would like to point to observations regarding the presentation of cult images in temples that focus on a lively and overwhelming appearance in a rather intimate space1 in Hellenistic Italy. For the Imperial period, perhaps already Augustan times, Heron of Alexandria describes a wide range of devices to create emotionally intensive and surprising confrontation with the god in the temple by means of mirrors.2 In his Pneumatika the following mechanisms are described: figures around an altar that move and make libations, whenever incense is burnt on the altar (1.12); a trumpet sounding upon the opening of temple doors (1.17); sprinkling of water on – a separate rite – moving wheels (1.32, in Egyptian temples); temple doors opening and closing on the lighting and extinguishing of the fire on the altar in front of the temple in different technical variants (1.38–39). In the second book a transparent altar, made of glass or horn, is described, in the interior of which figures could be seen moving once the fire was lit (1.3). Finally, an even more complex arrangement of figures performing libations and a hissing serpent around an altar (2.21) is mentioned. It should be pointed out, too, that the automaton described in the Automatopoiêtikê of Heron (2.21) indicates not a theatre (with which we are familiar from modern apparatuses of the previous centuries), but a ritual scene around an altar in front of a temple. Even without mechanisation, architectural arrangements could enable intensive experiences. Spectacular encounters are not restricted to exotic deities (as exemplified by the ground plan and furnishing of the so-called sanctuary of Syrian deities on the slopes of the Janiculum at Rome),3 but apply to regular temples, too, as we will see later on.4

1

2 3 4

Hesberg 2007, 454–56. The argument proposed below has been developed in Rüpke 2010 and 2011 and within the framework of the Kolleg-Forschergruppe (KFG) “Religious Individualisation in Historical Perspective” (DFG). I am grateful to Mihaela Holban, Erfurt, for the reference. Goodhue 1975; see also Scheid 1995. E. g. the image of Fortuna huiusce diei.

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2 TEMPLES AND IMAGES Temples usually house images. In his speech in front of the pontiffs, Cicero (106– 43 BCE) protests that Clodius has robbed him of his house without sufficient legal basis for turning it into a sanctuary, that is, that Clodius consecrated his house, built a monument in the place of his house, and dedicated a statue (consecrasse … monumentum fecisse… signum dedicasse).5 Clearly, this is intensification in religious quality. These steps did not necessarily have to follow the consecration. According to the Roman right of property and usual public procedure, a magistrate could dedicate a piece of land to the gods, thus transferring property from the public realm into the power of a god, rendering it sacer.6 A religious monument, the next step, need not house a statue: one could think of an open altar, an enclosure, even a roofed structure. Of course, a statue would undeniably attest that such a structure has to be considered as the “house”, aedes, of a god, a dwelling place of a divinity, not a storage room or a meeting hall, a schola – a building that might also, of course, house statues. Piety and rituals could exist without images. And yet, by the time of Cicero, images were important and ubiquitous. In the case of Clodius’ dubious temple foundation, it is the use of the statue (of which we will learn further details later in his and my speeches) that seals the sacralisation of previously private property, which, I suppose, created unambiguity. Varro (116–27 BCE), Cicero’s contemporary, claims this to be an old but secondary development after one hundred and seventy years of cult without images (deos sine simulacro coluisse),7 even if temples (Varro speaks more precisely of roofed structures – testudines) had already been in use earlier.8 Probably rightly, Varro is pointing to Greek and Etruscan influence in these matters,9 and to the fact that statuary is intimately related to architectural decor. Not the single image or the few images in the temple’s interior, but the many images put on the roof, would have been the more striking innovation, and remained the hallmark of Tuscan temples of this and later periods and of their Roman variants.10 Now, I am not going to discuss the historical significance of a philosophically motivated statement that postulates (because I do not see how Varro could possibly have clear evidence for the lack of images) the absence of large images in a locality before the start of urban monumentalization. And yet, Varro probably was right. With the exception of Egypt, the rise of anthropomorphic images in the mainland and on the margins of the Near Eastern and Greek cultures is datable to the seventh and sixth centuries BCE only according to recent research.11 The religious experience I am addressing is a historically limited one, not a universal one. 5 6 7 8

Cic. dom. 51. See Rüpke 2006. Varro ant. rer. div. fr. 18 Cardauns. Serv. aen. auct. 1,505; Cardauns, comm. ad loc. 1976, 147. Cf. Varro ant. rer. div. fr. 70, where delubrum is associated with images, not templum. 9 Varro ant. rer. div. fr. 38 Cardauns. 10 See Cristofani 1987; Zevi 1987; Izzet 2000. 11 For Greece, Peter Eich, forthcoming; for the Ancient Near East: Ornan 2005, 171.

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As I have already pointed out, central features of Roman religion could function without reference to images. Divine property in space or in time (that is, consecrated land, or feriae, holidays marked in the calendar by NP and attributed to a single god)12 might be seen as rather static features. However, even prayers and sacrifices could be performed without direct address to an image. A temporarily raised altar of grass sods and simple earthenware vessels would do, as Varro points out in the context of his critique of temple luxury.13 But this is no adequate description of the late Republican and Imperial period. In historical perspective, other advantages were more important. The dominance of the iconographic system enabled the easy generation of new gods. Fortuna Muliebris has already been mentioned. The cult of divine qualities or personifications that seems so awkward to modern accounts of ancient religion loses all exceptionality if approached from the visual angle. Temples and statues made them an integral part of the system.14 Judged by the number of prodigies reported for these temples, Salus, Fortuna, or Concordia were not different from Juno or Mars; about one third of the prodigies reported for temples relates to these deities.15 It is from the temple of such a goddess, Fortuna huiusce diei, that we have fragments of one of the largest statues. This sculpture of probably more than eight metres stood on a base more than two metres high, and must have filled the small space of the circular “temple B” in the Largo Argentina.16 The recently popularized concept of “picturing,” of transforming a world by making pictures of it, seems to capture this process neatly.17 3 USING IMAGES It is a truism of the iconic turn18 that images are created by seeing, that by being seen they are perceived as looking at the observer, thus focusing the analysis on the interaction of object and observer, rather than using only a semiotic approach and focusing on inherent qualities of the object.19 The gaze of the temple visitor changes the image, creates, if you like, a new social fact. Varro is right in stating that images made of bronze, earthenware, plaster, or marble20 do not feel and do not demand anything, thus producing neither guilt nor gratitude (fr. 22 Cardauns). And yet the praying visitor makes the god hear, even if the deity refuses to grant the

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

See Rüpke 1995, 472. Varro ant. rer. div. fr. 38 Cardauns. Clark’s notion of “resources” (she adds, e. g., festivals) stresses the creative process, and downplays the individual appraisal. See Clark 2007. Clarke 2007, 184. See ibid., 128–31. See e. g. for geography: Crang 1997. Maar 2004. Briefly Bauer 2007, 105; Bräunlein 2009, 774–77. Cf. Sen. superst. fr. 31 = Aug. civ. 6.10 on the contrast between the inviolability of the gods and the unworthiness of the matter.

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wish. With regard to the practice of depositing votives, Propertius’ poem on Vertumnus in the vicus Tuscus is very much an analysis of this constructive process.21 These habits were reinforced by law. The superior status of an image of the emperor is not affected by the choice of the material; neither gold (still exceptional by Varro’s time) nor plaster makes a difference.22 In reflecting on the limits of appropriate religion, practices related to statues are within the focus of the critique of superstitio or deisidaimonia. Richard Gordon has pointed out the different thrusts of these two concepts: the rather theological critique implied in the Greek, and the more political prohibition implied in the Roman term.23 Not unsurprisingly, parallel arguments appear in Greek and Latin philosophical texts. One of the few fragments known from Seneca’s treatise De superstitione deals with such practices, for instance, people who wash or comb a statue from a distance. In Capitolium perueni, pudebit publicatae dementiae, quod sibi uanus furor adtribuit officii. Alius nomina deo subicit, alius horas Ioui nuntiat: alius lutor est, alius unctor, qui uano motu bracchiorum imitatur unguentem. Sunt quae Iunoni ac Mineruae capillos disponant (longe a templo, non tantum a simulacro stantes digitos mouent omantium modo), sunt quae speculum teneant; sunt qui ad uadimonia sua deos aduocent, sunt qui libellos offerant et illos causam suam doceant. Doctus archimimus, senex iam decrepitus, cotidie in Capitolio mimum agebat, quasi dii libenter spectarent, quem illi homines desierant. Omne illic artificum genus operatum diis inmortalibus desidet. “But if ever you go up on the Capitol, it will make you feel ashamed just to see the crazy performances put on for the public’s benefit, all represented as duties by light-hearted lunacy. So Jupiter has a special attendant to announce callers and another one to tell him the time; one to wash him and another to oil him, who in fact only mimes the movements with his hands. Juno and Minerva have special women hairdressers, who operate some distance away, not just from the statue, but from the mirrors. You find some people who are praying to the gods to put up bail for them, and others again who are handing over their writs and expounding the lawsuits they are involved in. There used to be an old, decrepit but very experienced pantomime artist who put on his act every day on the Capitol as if the gods were enjoying the show of a man whom those human spectators have deserted. Every type of artisanship has settled down there working for the immortal gods.”24

The following fragment, likewise willingly quoted by Augustine, makes the emotional component even more explicit: 21 22

23 24

Prop. 4.2; see Rüpke 2009. Methodius de resurrectione 2.24.1 Bonwetsch: “Straightaway images of emperors, even if they are not made of more valuable matieral – gold, silver, electrum or ivory – nevertheless have honor before all. For men attending to images not fashioned from more valuable material do not think less of them than of others, but they honor them all equally, whether they are made from gypsum or bronze. Furthermore, the one who blasphemes against either is not released because he dishonoured clay nor convicted because he disparaged gold, but is convicted because he displayed impiety toward the emperor and lord himself.” (I owe the reference and translation to Clifford Ando). The reference to gýpsou ê chalchoû with its unnecessary repetition of the question of material seems to point to a connection to Varro. Gordon 2008. Sen. superst. fr. 36 Haase = fr. 69 Vottero (Aug. civ. 6.10), transl. in Beard, Mary; North, John; Price, Simon (eds.) 1998, Religions of Rome. Cambridge, 2.234 (completed by me).

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Hi tamen, inquit, etiamsi superuacuum usum, non turpem nec infamem deo promittunt. Sedent quaedam in Capitolio, quae se a Ioue amari putant: ne Iunonis quidem, si credere poetis uelis, iracundissimae respectu terrentur. “At least the services they offer are not indecent or dishonourable, however unnecessary. But there are some women who hang around on the Capitol because they believe that Jupiter is in love with them, totally undeterred by fear of Juno’s anger and jealousy – formidable enough, if you believe the poets.”25

My quotation of this passage is, of course, not driven by ridicule, as St. Augustine’s is. It is Seneca’s stoicism that criticizes the replacement of reason by emotion, as words like furor, insanire, and dementia indicate. The whole line of argumentation runs from the supposedly fictitious emotions of bereavement and joy, regulated by calendar in the case of Isis (fr. 35), to falling in love with Jupiter at the end. In Seneca’s argumentation, these emotions are located in sanctuaries. This is clear from a somewhat later fragment quoted in the same chapter by Augustine, who, like Seneca, is interested in emotions, but, unlike Seneca, is interested in gods rather than in their temples. Thus the pairing of gods criticized by both26 is not ascribed to mythology, but to temples, as the terms adoramus and cultum demonstrate. A generation later, but perhaps closer in time, Plutarch likewise illustrates his criticism of deisidaimonia by describing behaviour in temples.27 Instead of places of salvation in crisis, sanctuaries become places of punishment (4a). This logic of hate and fear and of seeking proximity to the gods (11) permeates the whole treatise. The proskynesis in front of images instead of a realistic conception of transcendent deities, combining criticism and refuge (6b), is characteristic. To stay at home is a rather mild form of deisidaimonia (7d), while the most severe form is realized in the temples of gods (9b). It is the image of the Carthaginians’ sacrifices of their own children that forms the final climax (13) of the concluding analysis of deisidaimonia as emotional disorder (14), leading to atheism rather than – the final word – eusebeia (14). The sense of divine presence, intensively – but I would claim, also representatively – demonstrated by the aforementioned examples, converges with archaeological findings. Paralleling a development that is visible in the restoration of some Greek temples in Hellenistic and Imperial times28 (but prevalent in Sicily and South Italy), Roman temples seem to have staged this sense of presence in order to enable corresponding experiences. Indicators are the lavish interior of temples,29 the complex architectonic regulations of access, and the very careful presentation of the cult statue. Doors and doorways increased in importance, and floor mosaics or curtains could articulate the structure of the temple interior and the temporal dimen-

25 26 27

28 29

Ibid., fr. 37. Sen. superst. fr. 38 Haase = Aug. civ. 6.10, p. 269 Weiss. Plut. superst. There is no consensus on the dating; an early dating to the 60s had been advocated (Görgemanns 2003, 307, in discussion of Erbse 1952, 297–304). See also Moellering 1963 and Martin 2004 on Plutarch; and on the dating of Seneca see Lausberg 1989, 1897–98. Steuernagel 2009, 124–26. Ibid.

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sion of the process of approaching the statue.30 Positioning the statue directly on the mosaic floor could stress its mobility.31 The combination of different materials could heighten the impression of vividness.32 This does not always combine well with the Greek tradition of an awe-inspiring aesthetic produced by a beautiful and large image at the back wall of the innermost chamber.33 The anecdotal evidence, already referred to above, also gives a similar picture. P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus spent every night before major decisions sitting alone in the cella of Jupiter in the Capitoline temple, as if in dialogue with the god (quasi consultantem de republica cum Iove).34 4 CONCLUSION Greeks and Romans of the Hellenistic and Imperial periods knew of the fear of the gods when thinking about death or divine epiphanies in public as well as private space. Much more regularly, however, emotionally loaded religious experiences took place in temples. Such experiences were not an add-on, confined to lunatics or religious virtuosi, but fundamental for the plausibility of religious actions as well as religious concepts. “Experience” and “emotions” are lacking in the indices of older and recent handbooks on Roman religion, be it Scheid; Beard, North, Price; or Rüpke. In William Warde Fowler’s Gifford Lectures on “The Religious Experience of the Roman People”, first published in 1911, the situation is the same. Starting from the Stoic critique of passions, Fowler lamented the lack of inter-human emotions and the enthusiastic embrace of humanism brought by Christianity35 and mysticism. More broadly discussed is the soul’s yearning for eternity and its imagination, not emotions displayed towards or inspired by gods.36 It’s time for change. BIBLIOGRAPHY Bäbler, Balbina; Nesselrath, Heinz-Günther 2007. “Der Stoff, aus dem die Götter sind: zum Material griechisch-römischer Götterbilder und seiner ideelen Bedeutung”, in: Groneberg, Brigitte (ed.) 2007. Die Welt der Götterbilder. Berlin. 145–168. Bauer, Franz Alto 2007. “Virtuelle Statuensammlungen”, in: Witschel Bauer, Christian (ed.) 2007. Statuen in der Spätantike. Wiesbaden. 79–109.

30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Hesberg 2007. Pliny (NH 36.185) might refer to the installation of mosaics in the Capitoline temple of Jupiter in 146 BCE. Hesberg 2007, 458. Ibid., 456. See Bäbler, Nesselrath 2007, 141. For the aesthetics of colossal images at Rome, see Cancik 2003, 224–48. Gell. 6.1.6; Liv. 26.19.5 (consideret); see Rüpke 2007, 20. Fowler 1911, 375 and 453. Ibid., 380–402.

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Bräunlein, Peter 2009. “Ikonische Repräsentation von Religion”, in: Kippenberg, Hans G.; Rüpke, Jörg; von Stuckrad, Kocku (eds.) 2009. Europäische Religionsgeschichte: ein mehrfacher Pluralismus Bd. 2. Göttingen. 774–77. Cancik, Hubert 2003. Verse und Sachen: kulturwissenschaftliche Interpretationen römischer Dichtung. Würzburg. Cardauns, Burkhart 1976. M. Terentius Varro. Antiquitates rerum divinarum 2. Mainz. Clark, Anna J. 2007. Divine qualities. Cult and community in Republican Rome. Oxford. Clarke, John R. 2007. Looking at laughter: humor, power and transgression in Roman visual culture. 100 B. C.–A. D. 250. Berkeley. Crang, Mike 1997. “Picturing practices: research through the tourist gaze”, Progress in Human Geography 21. 359–73. Cristofani, Mauro 1987. Die Etrusker: Geschichte, Glaube, Kultur. Luzern. Erbse, Hartmut 1952. “Plutarchs Schrift Peri Deisidaimonias”. Hermes 80. 296–314. Fowler, W. Warde 1911. The religious experience of the Roman people: from the earliest times to the age of Augustus. London. Gordon, Richard 2008. “Superstitio, superstition and religious repression in the late Roman Republic and Principate (100 BCE–300 CE)”, in: Smith, Stephen A.; Knight, Alan (eds.) 2008. The religion of fools? Superstition past and present. Oxford. 72–94. Görgemanns, Herwig 2003. Drei religionsphilosophische Schriften: griechisch-deutsch. Düsseldorf. Goodhue, Nicholas 1975. The Lucus Furrinae and the Syrian Sanctuary on the Janiculum. Amsterdam. Hesberg, Henner von 2007. “Die Statuengruppe im Tempel der Dioskuren von Cori: Bemerkungen zum Aufstellungskontext von Kultbildern in spätrepublikanischer Zeit”, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 113. 443–61. Izzet, Vedia 2000. “Tuscan order: the development of Etruscan sanctuary architecture”, in: Bispham, Smith 2000. 34–53. Lausberg, Marion 1989. “Senecae operum fragmenta: Überblick und Forschungsbericht”, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.36.3. 1879–1961. Maar, Christa 2004. Iconic turn: die neue Macht der Bilder. Köln. Martin, Dale B. 2004. Inventing superstition: from the Hippocratics to the Christians. Cambridge. Moellering, Howard A. 1963. Plutarch on superstition: Plutarch’s De superstitione, its place in the changing meaning of deisidaimonia and in the context of his theological writings. Boston. Ornan, Tallay 2005. The triumph of the symbol: pictorial representation of deities in Mesopotamia and the biblical image ban. Fribourg. Rüpke, Jörg 1995. Kalender und Öffentlichkeit: Die Geschichte der Repräsentation und religiösen Qualifikation von Zeit in Rom. Berlin. Rüpke, Jörg 2006. “Communicating with the gods”, in: Morstein-Marx, Robert; Rosenstein, Nathan (eds.) 2006. The Blackwell Companion to the Roman Republic. Oxford. 215–35. Rüpke, Jörg 2007. Religion of the Romans. Cambridge. Rüpke, Jörg 2009. “Der Gott und seine Statue (Prop. 4.2): Kollektive und individuelle Repräsentationsstrategien in antiken Religionen”, Gymnasium 116. 121–34. Rüpke, Jörg 2010. “Representation or presence? Picturing the divine in ancient Rome”, Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 12. 183–196. Rüpke, Jörg 2011. Aberglauben oder Individualität: Religiöse Abweichung im römischen reich. Tübingen. Scheid, John 1995. “Le δεσμός de Gaionas: observations sur une plaque inscrite du sanctuaire des dieux syriens à Rome”, Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome. Antiquité 107. 301–14. Steuernagel, Dirk 2009. “Wozu brauchen Griechen Tempel? Fragen und Perspektiven”, in: Cancik, Hubert; Rüpke, Jörg (eds.) 2009. Die Religion des Imperium Romanum: Koine und Konfrontation. Tübingen. 115–38. Zevi, Fausto 1987. “I santuari di Roma agli inizi della Repubblica”, in: Cristofani, Mauro (ed.) 1987. Etruria e Lazio arcaico: atti dell’incontro di studio (10–11 novembre 1986). Roma. 121–32.

GROUP SETTINGS AND RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCES Marlis Arnhold, Universität Erfurt 1 INTRODUCTION Around 235 CE, the association of the stuppatores1 in Ostia established a new workshop and a sanctuary, which were situated in Insula I x immediately west of the “Tempio Rotondo” and close to the forum of the harbour city [Fig. 1]. The insula consisted of two rows of tabernae aligned back to back, and its southern end accommodated a bath building. Several changes of the existing structures were made upon the construction of the workshop and the sanctuary. The tabernae along the east side of the insula were occupied by the workshop itself, for which purpose the narrow street in front of them was closed to the public and transformed into a corridor.2 The small bath complex to the south was torn down to provide space for the sanctuary. It was set up as a courtyard-sanctuary with the podium-temple itself placed against the rear wall of the enclosure. A colonnade framed the small building on three sides. The main entrance to the precinct faced the temple’s front and thus created an axis. It was flanked by two tabernae which opened to the street running in front of the sanctuary. Several small doorways in between these tabernae and the courtyard, but also between the courtyard and the neighbouring workshops, connected the rooms with each other. Planned in this way, the sanctuary was to resemble the cult places of many other associations, who often used this architectural type. With the main entrance and the temple being aligned, the wealth of the guild could be displayed to the passers-by on the street whenever the doors stood open. The sanctuary of the Ostian stuppatores, however, presents one unique aspect in which it differs from other examples and provides insight into the options a guild had in regard to cult practice. The construction of the temple was never finished. Only its podium was completed, and it never received superstructures. The works were broken off abruptly.3 At a later time, presumably during the third century CE,4 a mithraeum was installed in the podium, as an inscription tells us: […]rius Fructosus patron(us) corp(oris) s[tup(patorum)…//…te]mpl(um) et spel(aeum) M(i) t(hrae) a solo sua pec(unia) feci(t)5 1 2 3 4 5

Stuppa, στύπ(π)α = tow, oakum. See Hermansen 1982, 121. Hermansen 1982, 122. Sudden financial problems have been suggested as a reason: Hermansen 1982, 125. Becatti 1954, 26. CIMRM 2.228; Bloch 1953, 244, n. 9; Becatti 1954, 26. Of the inscription, two blocks belonging to a marble cornice are preserved. The reading as corp(oris) s[tup(patorum)] is ascertained by the character of the workshop (cf. Hermansen 1982, 119), which excludes the completion to corpus scaphariorum previously suggested by Bloch as an altenative reading. For the allocation of the inscription to the workshop sanctuary, cf. Becatti 1954, 26.

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Fig. 1: The sanctuary and workshop of the Ostian stuppatores. General plan (after Calza 1953).

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A Fructosus is also known from other inscriptions listing the members of the Ostian stuppatores, so we may assume that the same person is being referred to here.6 The change of plans from erecting a sanctuary for a deity whose identity we do not know to the installation of a mithraeum is a question both of theology and of forms of ritual praxis. A deity such as Minerva, for instance,7 could be addressed by a group such as the stuppatores as a tutelary of the workshop, the people active in it, and the prosperity of the business pursued. The individual group members may also establish a personal relationship to the deity. The worship of Mithras does not exclude these functions, but differs in regard to the spatial settings of certain parts of the ritual actions. With the central room of the mithraeum, a space is set apart for actions which are supposed to be seen, witnessed, and experienced by the immediate participants only. Others are not granted visual access, although the actions themselves, e. g. meals, may not necessarily have differed in kind from those performed for any other deity. The example of the Ostian stuppatores thus shows two different approaches to the cult practice of a group in which the individual takes different positions by stressing the aspects of in- and exclusion. The case suggests that an individual’s position depended on the cult being worshipped. However, it shall be shown that not only the cult, but also the structure and aim of the group of worshippers, had influence on the spaces and settings of the rituals performed. By looking at the options groups provide for religious experiences, this article aims to shed more light on how the ‘collective’ and ‘individual’ worked together. 2 HOW DO GROUP SETTINGS LOOK? In order to understand how the ‘collective’ and the ‘individual’ function together, we ought to look at the diversity of groups. What are we talking about when referring to ‘groups’? And how do groups use rituals and cultic practices as forms of communication? What role do individuals play within them? To illustrate these aspects, a small number of examples shall be introduced first, before the question of religious experiences is addressed. At first, the focus remains for another moment on the case of the sanctuary of the association of the stuppatores in Ostia. The Ostian stuppatores, who most likely shared a common profession, formed a group for which the worship of a deity served several purposes. The cult and the related rituals strengthened the coherence of the group, which used the cult to communicate its wealth and the prosperity of the workshop. Although the planned temple was small, it, like other courtyard temples of professional associations, would have expressed the claim to certain standards, in terms both of representation and of the association’s economic abilities. Since the actual temple never was completed, we need to assume that the doors to the courtyard never stood open, or – as seems likely – that something else was put up to catch the eye of the passers-by instead. 6 7

CIL 14.257 and 614. Becatti 1954, 26. As worshipped by the stuppatores in Portus: CIL 14.44.

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Fig. 2: The “Caseggiato dei Molini” in Ostia (I iii 1) with the “Sacello di Silvano” (M. Arnhold).

Although the brief excavation reports do not contain any information on this, one might imagine this to be a statue, an altar, or something similar. When the members of the group altered their plans at an unknown date to build a mithraeum instead, its inward focus was emphasized. The axial arrangement of the courtyard’s elements and its entrance did not regain its importance when the mithraeum was installed in the structures of what once was meant to be a temple podium. The mithraeum itself consisted of two rooms placed one behind the other, of which the first was of an elongated shape and stretched across the west side, which was previously going to be the temple-front. The second room covered most of the space and had a broad rectangular shape. Its entrance lay in the middle of its west wall and led into the first room, which served as a vestibule and was to be entered through a door on its north end. The cult room was furnished with benches along the side walls, leaving an aisle in between, which ran from the door to the niche in the wall opposite the entrance of the room.8 With the vestibule placed in front of it, the room used the existing structures without changing them significantly. Another example illustrates a different case. Again in Ostia, the “Sacellum di Silvano” originated as a wall painting of Silvanus in an alley running along the west side of a mill and bakery workshop, the so-called “Caseggiato dei Molini” (I iii 1). A cult formed around the god’s image, and the alley eventually was closed to the public.9 Leaving a taberna-like room facing the “via di Diana”, the alley with the sacellum was then at the beginning of the third century CE incorporated into the mill and bakery workshop, where it formed the rear part of the building complex [Fig. 2].10 8 9 10

Becatti 1954, 24. Steuernagel 2001, 47. Ibid., 43–47.

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It was there situated within an elongated room with the measurements of 2.06 x 6.50 m11 which was accessible from the north. A partition (2.34 m away from the north wall), presumably wooden, divided the room into an anteroom and a rear section, in which the image of Silvanus was to be found.12 The walls of both sections of this room were covered with wall paintings, which were repeatedly renewed throughout the third century CE. In their initial period, during the first quarter of the third century CE,13 when the sacellum had just been incorporated into the workshop, the walls were covered with a white background, on which broad red lines stretched horizontally and vertically. They divided the wall space into bigger and smaller panels and were accompanied by thin, fine lines, also in red, that ran parallel to them and emphasized their framing character. Within the bigger panels, which dominated the middle part of the walls, single objects were painted, such as a bird, a gorgoneion, and a dolphin, which are preserved on the west wall of the sanctuary.14 On the southern end of this wall, the image of Silvanus interrupted this pattern [Fig. 3]. Inside a broad painted frame, the god is shown standing next to an altar to his right, and a dog is seated next to him, to his left. The image of the god is depicted frontally, wearing a short tunic and a cloak. Silvanus stands with his weight on his left foot, his right foot turned forward, and the upper part of his body turned slightly to the right, where the altar stands. His right arm is stretched out, holding a knife, and he holds a branch in the crook of his left arm. The head follows the turn of the body to the right. Next to the figure, which is painted lavishly in quick strokes and on which traces of gilding are preserved, are a few plants, executed in swift brush strokes without giving any details.15 The decoration of the opposing east wall of the room seems to have contained a similar framing pattern of red lines and objects as described above, of which only small traces are preserved.16 Shortly after the first painting of the sacellum, the plaster of the walls was renewed in parts, and the images of further deities were added to the existing ones. The north section of the room, which served as an anteroom, was decorated with the depictions of the two Dioscuri and their four horses, and a row of figures was painted on the east wall. There, an Emperor was followed by depictions of Harpocrates and Isis. To their right a Fortuna and an Annona, as well as a Genius and an image of Alexander the Great, could be seen.17 The image of Silvanus on the west wall was accompanied by at least one further figure, of which only poor remains are preserved.18 All figures are executed in lavish, quick brush strokes in red paint. These paintings cannot have been applied later than 215 CE, as two graffiti attest. The first has been discovered on the painting of Silvanus on the west wall, where inside a tabula ansata can be read: 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Bakker 1994, 146, fig. 19. Ibid., 153. Ibid., 153. Ibid., 259. Ibid., 150. Ibid., 254. Ibid., 255. Ibid., 155.

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Fig. 3: The image of Silvanus from the “Sacello di Silvano” in Ostia (Bakker 2001, fig. 6).

Coh(ors) V[I]I (centuria) Ost(iensis) imp(erante) / An(tonino) co(n)s(ulibus) L(a)eto et Ce/ riale sebarius // Calpurnius // X19

The names of the consuls of 215 CE, Laetus and Cerialis, appear again in a shortened form on the east wall of the room, where the same hand has written CERIALE underneath another graffito recalling the names of a Marius and an Anna.20 The wall paintings were altered in further renovations during the third century CE, presumably during the first half of the century,21 in which they were mostly renewed. Only the image of Isis was replaced with a figure holding a patera who cannot be further identified,22 whereas the general composition of the figures assembled remained unaltered. Bakker suggests that we should understand the combined figures, above all those of Annona, Isis, Harpocrates and the Dioscuri, in relation to the nature of the 19 20 21 22

CIL 14.4530. Bakker 1994, 159–61. Bakker 1994, 160–61. Ibid. 153. Ibid. 163.

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workshop and the corn supply. Whereas Annona provides a direct link to corn, he reads the Egyptian deities as an allusion to Egypt as the place from which large quantities of corn derived, and interprets the Dioscuri in their role as guardians of the shipping trade.23 Besides the wall paintings, the room was furnished with a black and white floor mosaic of a victimarius, placed in front of the image of Silvanus, and an altar.24 Although the connection of the sacellum to the workshop is evident and the cult room resembles a large lararium despite being placed in the rear part of the building, the people maintaining the cult were not all working in the mills and bakery. Moreover, the aforementioned graffito of the sebaciarius Calpurnius attests his access to the cult site in the rear part of the “Caseggiato dei Molini” and his presence there. The position and accessibility of the sacellum forbids perceiving him as a simple passer-by, as Bakker has already pointed out.25 Having originated in the public space of the alley, the cult of Silvanus at this site is very likely also to have been performed by other persons living and working nearby. Its incorporation into the workshop nevertheless reflects the claim on the sacellum by the people working there. As the graffiti attest for the sebaciarius, they may also have allowed others to participate in the rituals which took place in their cult room and the prayers addressed to their deity. The incorporation of the sacellum into the mills and bakery thus must have altered the composition of the group over time. By erecting a room for the god, in which the group could gather for worship, the number of people having access to the site was limited, and the control over it put into the hands of the workshop owners and the people working there. By incorporating the cult site into their building complex, they decided with whom they shared their cultic actions, their knowledge and also their experiences. The latter is above all illustrated by the words ex viso, which the excavators of 1870 were still able to read on the image of Silvanus.26 Whereas the words ex viso on the image of Silvanus point to the influence of an individual in the progress of the formation of worship around the painting, other examples stress this aspect further. The margaritarius Manius Poblicius Hilarus donated a building referred to as basilica Hilariana in the seat of the collegium dendrophorum on the Caelian hill in Rome: Intrantibus hic deos / propitios et basilic[ae] / Hilarianae //27 M(anio) Poblicio Hilaro / margaritario / collegium dendrophorum / Matris Deum M(agnae) I(daeae) et Attis / quinq(uennali) p(er)p(etuo) quod cumulata / omni erga se benignitate / meruisset cui statua ab eis / decreta poneretur28

23 24 25 26 27 28

Ibid. 162. The mosaic cannot be dated. A parallel from Severan times is known from the “Caserma dei Vigili” in Ostia: Bakker 1994, 163. Bakker 1994, 166. CIL 14.54. Bakker 1994, 145. CIL 6.30973a. CIL 6.30973b.

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These two inscriptions indicate another case of a group, here the dendrophori, not being absolutely restricted to members of particular professions, although that is exactly what the name of the group would seem to suggest. As a margaritarius, Hilarus was occupied in the trade of pearls. He held the office of a quinquennalis perpetuus in the collegium dendrophorum, and was hence able to exercise a certain influence on the group’s activities. The combination of office-holding and beneficia, which the example attests, appears particularly striking in this regard. Offices indicate the special positions within the group of the individuals who assume them, and offer opportunities to engage in a group’s actions and decisions. Beneficia create similar situations, because they enable an individual to step forward within the group. Influence may involve participation in the group decision-making process, but a donation may also provide a single person with a prominent role and honorary position within the group. This aspect is even more evident in cases where the donator acts as founder of the cult and assumes the leading role within a group, as is also evident in the next case. From a mithraeum which has been discovered underneath the church of San Lorenzo in Damaso in Rome, an inscription is known which records the name and motivation of its founder: Hic locus est felix sanctus piusque benignus, / quem monuit Mithras mentemque dedit / Proficentio patri sacrorum / utque sibi spelaeum faceret dedicaretque. / Et celeri instansque operi reddit munera grata / (…)29

The poem records that Proficentius30 set up a new cult site in consequence of an encounter with the god. It does not reveal the particularities of the event (whether the experience took the form of a vision, a dream, or something else), but it attests once more a personal relationship with a deity. While the god is said to have instructed him to establish the new sanctuary, it is the experience he has had and the personal relationship which entitle Proficentius to assume the leading role within the group of worshippers. Having set up and furnished what can be regarded as his sanctuary, this role, together with his benefaction, enables him to decide about equipment and physical environment (‘settings’), membership, and offices, and especially about his knowledge, how it is shared and restricted, thus exercising control. In establishing a sanctuary of Mithras, he not only created space for collective actions, but also determined what took place there, how, and in what form. The example of the Mithras cult site founded by Proficentius suggests that the worshippers who gathered around him cannot have been strangers to him. The evidence from the site neither gives their names nor informs us how they were related to the founder of the group, but other cases indicate that social ties, such as patronage and client relations, friendship, and kinship, played a major role in the dynamics of group formation.31 An example which illustrates the role of kinship in particular is a mithraeum which existed in the area of San Silvestro in Capite in Rome, as a number of inscrip29 30 31

CIMRM 423. Aebutius Restitutianus Proficentius signum. Bowes 2008, 38–42; 49–52. This is particularly true for the Imperial period.

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tions from there indicate. Of these, one in particular provides insight into the genealogical relationships of some of the cult participants: Tamesii Augentii / Olympii / olim Victor avus, caelo devotus et astris, / regali sumptu Phoebeia templa locavit. / Hunc superat pietate nepos, cui nomen avitum est: / antra facit, sumptusque tuos nec, Roma, requirit. / Damna piis meliora lucro: quis ditior illo est, / qui cum caelicolis parcus bona dividit heres?32

The epigraphic text recalls the renovation of the cult site by Tamesius Augentius Olympius, referring to its foundation by his grandfather, whose name, Nonius Victor Olympius, is given repeatedly in the other inscriptions.33 It appears often together with the name of the latter’s son Aurelius Victor Augentius, who himself was the father of the later renovator of the sanctuary. A brother of Tamesius Augentius Olympius is likewise mentioned: DD(ominis) nn(ostris) Valente V et Valentiniano / Iuniore primum Augg(ustis) VI Idus April(is) / tradidit hierocoracica Aur(elius) Victor / Augentius v(ir) c(larissimus) p(ater) p(atrum) fi lio suo Emiliano / Corfoni Olympio c(larissimo) p(uero) anno tricesimo / acceptionis suae felic(iter)34

These inscriptions exemplify the foundation of a cult site by an individual and the maintenance of the worship for three generations within the same family. The role of the leading character, which is reflected in his rank of pater patrum,35 was passed on from one generation to the next. Although the epigraphic texts do not reveal the identities of the other cult participants, whose presence is indicated by references to initiations into various Mithraic degrees, the hierarchy and social focus of the group was dominated by the founder of the cult site and his offspring. The worship and the decisions about activities and designing settings, participation, and communication of knowledge hence lay in the hands of these particular members of one familia. The membership of this group can hardly have been an open one, but was supposedly limited, including other relatives, friends and dependants such as clients. The depiction of worship as the matter of a familia, however, is even more emphasised in the case of the second century CE group around Agripinella, who headed the cult of Bacchus pursued by the members of her entire familia.36 These latter two cases illustrate forms of worship that surpass the practice of rituals and cults by the inhabitants of a domus, villa, or insula in their lararia. The understanding of the social entity of the familia as a religious group is highly stressed by the installation of special cult rooms and the adaptation of religious offices. Also, the presentation of these social entities in cult sites through inscriptions and depictions points strongly to their understanding as groups of worshippers and 32 33 34 35

36

CIL 6.754. CIL 6.749, 750, 751a, 752, 753. CIL 6.751b. Aurelius Victor Augentius had assumed the rank of pater patrum by the time CIL 6.751b was set up, in which his father, Nonius Victor Olympius, is not mentioned, probably because he was no longer alive. In the earlier inscriptions including both father and son, the title of pater patrum is connected with Nonius Victor Olympius. Cf. Rüpke 2005, 793; 1181. IGUR 1.160. Scheid 1986, 276–86.

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their wish to present themselves as such.37 Like other groups, for example the worshippers of the “Sacello di Silvano”, they illustrate how cults and sites were appropriated by individuals acting within groups or forming a group around them. This could lead both to the creation of new cult places and to the veneration of particular sets of deities. But the ways in which cult was practiced was also subject to individual decisions within the various groups. The various examples introduced here show different forms of groups, the members of which either share the same profession or are joined in a social relationship such as kinship, friendship, or a relation of dependence. This suggests that the options an individual had in regard to the deities worshipped and the rituals performed would have been limited. However, neither was membership necessarily restricted to one single group, nor did the worship of one deity exclude the veneration of another. When not displaying his or her means of beneficence or holding an office, the individual almost always fails to appear in the sources. We easily get the impression of the single person stepping back behind the collective structures of the groups and their more influential members. However, social and religious aspects of the individual ought to be distinguished here. 3 RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCES AND COLLECTIVE SETTINGS Independent of its particular nature, every kind of experience happens on an individual level. Several persons may witness the same incident at the same time and place, but what every single one of them feels upon doing so always remains a subjective matter. Matthias Jung, in analogy with José C. Nieto, stresses this aspect by pointing out that experiencing is a process: a person defines himself and his relation to the environment by valuing an experience and its meaning. The interpretation of the occurrence thus formed in turn underlies another interpretation, and hence another transformation, when being expressed to others.38 An epigraphic or literary source therefore always presents an interpretation, be it either of an event the author witnessed him- or herself or of a second-hand narration. The ancient sources attesting religious experiences mostly take the form of inscriptions, which occasionally consist of brief texts like the poem written by Proficentius on the wall in his mithraeum, or mostly only of the words ex viso or ex iussu. In either case, they refer indirectly to the experiences by marking them out as the motives which led to the erection of a statue in a sanctuary or the foundation of a new cult site, for instance. Accounts in literature (be it fictional or not), like the one given in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, are rare.

37

38

Such presentations can be found in the inscription of the familia of Agripinella, which lists the single members (IGUR 1.160; cf. Rüpke 2006, 24), and also in the wall painting of the thiasos in the mithraeum under Santa Prisca in Rome, which formed part of a domus complex. Furthermore, several household shrines are equipped with paintings of the familia, for instance the kitchen shrine in house I 13,2 in Pompeii. Nieto 1997, 103–06; Jung 1999, 12–14.

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As experiences are always subjective, they take plural forms. Their religious character lies in the awareness of a transcendent otherness. Proficentius, e. g., does not give any details about the time, the place, or the form of the encounter he had, but clearly states that Mithras instructed him. Hence, he experienced a transcendent otherness which he related to Mithras. Apuleius describes a religious encounter during the initiation of his fictional character Lucius as a priest into the cult of Isis: Accessi confi nium mortis et, calcato Proserpine limine, per omnia vectus elementa remeavi; nocte media vidi solem candido coruscantem lumine; deos inferos et deos superos accessi coram et adoravi de proximo “I came to the boundary of death and, having trodden the threshold of Proserpina, I travelled through all the elements and returned. In the middle of the night I saw the sun flashing with bright light. I came face to face with the gods below and the gods above and paid reverence to them from close at hand.”39

The passage recalls sensations like the flash of light, the divine presence, and the perceived closeness to death, which in the first place form part of the fictive story only, but could likewise be real sensations. How they are explained and whether they are attributed to an encounter with a divine otherness at all, however, depend on the individual’s disposition. Somebody who feels particularly close to a specific deity may be inclined to refer the incident to this divine being, whereas someone else may be more likely to attribute the sensations to a different source, e. g. of natural kind, particularly since the process of interpretation does not only start after the experience, but is already in progress while it is going on. The collective setting of groups engaged in worship and religious practices is not without importance for both the aspect of self-definition and the disposition of the individual. The kind of deity regularly worshipped, the method of its veneration, specific sounds like frequently heard hymns or instruments, but also the well known design of a cult site and its illumination and scents, form part of the memory of each participant of a group. As such, the decision made by one individual, e. g. regarding the ‘settings’, has consequences for what others might experience. On the other hand, the joint cult practice allows people to perform rituals together, during which all participants may act on the same level or take over different positions according to a fixed hierarchy. The experiences which Lucius has during his priestly initiation, as Apuleius describes them, for instance, would be unthinkable without others performing the rituals centred on him. This does not imply that a collective setting is necessarily required to create an atmosphere in which one might have a religious experience. It nevertheless reveals the impact a collective setting might have. It contributes importantly to creating situations in which the individual’s sensations can be stimulated, which may lead to experiences. These can take place immediately during the rituals, or later on, e. g. during a dream at night. In contrast to public sanctuaries which were accessible to everyone, the limited accessibility of groups provided settings of an intensified worship, the centre of which was the relationship to the deity. The choice of a deity and a cult practiced 39

Apul. met. 11.23. Transl. by J. Arthur Hanson, Cambridge, Mass. and London 1989. All the following translations of Apuleius are from this edition.

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presented not only a decision in favour of Mithras or Fortuna, for instance, but also involved options of certain notions of the god and cult in question. Two groups engaged in the cult of Mithras did not worship one and the same form of the god, but rather two forms of him, which came into existence through the imagination of the worshippers. As experiences, the construction of images and understanding of divine beings are likewise processes, and of an individual nature. Hence the formation of groups always implies a certain communication about the image favoured, even if the leading figure of the group exerted a strong influence. Here again, the roles of those holding offices, assuming leadership, acting as founders, and having the means for donations need to be taken into account. Restricted access to a group and its cult site also provided the members of the group with access to this specific, personalized form of a deity, from which others were excluded. The exclusion of others grants the participants prominent positions in regard to the relationship with the god. The individual self is accentuated. Religious experience, which is attested to have led to the foundation of new cult sites and groups, the renovation and refurnishing of existing ones, and vast numbers of dedications, contributed both to the construction of such personalized images of the deities, and to the intensification of the relationship between the individual and the god. Having a religious experience brought the individual closer to his or her god and distinguished him or her from the rest of the group. Worshiping jointly with those who had had such experiences, however, offered opportunities for those who had not to establish a closer relationship to the deity themselves – be it either by the mere presence of the experienced or by sharing their knowledge. Nevertheless, as attractive as religious experiences appear in these thoughts, they were only means of emphasizing relationships to the divine. The joint worship of those who had and those who had not had religious experiences yielded no guarantee of experiencing transcendent otherness, since religious experiences cannot be intentionally evoked.40 Yet environments and situations which tackle the sentiments and emotions of individuals could be created, and the chances of having a religious experience consequently increased. Thus the following examples can only be analysed in regard to their potential to evoke emotions. I begin with Apuleius’ account of Lucius’ initiation as a priest of Isis which the author gives in his Metamorphoses. Though Apuleius neither reveals how the part of the sanctuary in which Lucius’ experience during his initiation ceremony took place was furnished, nor whether the flash of light he encountered was actually performed or rather describes an emotion, he does give a few details. After outlining the preparations involving rituals like prayers and bathing, the acquisition of things, and the abstinence from meat and wine for a set time, the text proceeds with the narration of the initiation: (…) iam dies aderat divino destinatus vadimonio, et Sol curvatus intrahebat vesperam. Tum ecce confluent undique turbae sacrorum ritu vetusto variis quisque me muneribus honorantes. Tunc semotis procul profanes omnibus, linteo rudique me contectum amicimine arrepta manu sacerdos deducit ad ipsius sacrarii penetralia. Quaeras forsitan satis anxie, studiose lector, quid deinde dictum, quid factum. Dicerem si dicere liceret, cognosceres si liceret audire.

40

Nieto 1997, 124.

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“Now it was the day appointed for my appearance before the gods, and the sun was on its downward curve, drawing in the dusk. Suddenly crowds flowed in from every direction, in accordance with the ancient practice of the mysteries, to honour me with their various gifts. Then all the uninitiated were dismissed, I was wrapped in an unused linen robe, and the priest took me by the hand and led me to the innermost part of the sanctuary. Perhaps, my zealous reader, you are eager to learn what was said and done next. I would tell you if it were permitted to tell; you would learn if it were permitted to hear.”41

The text then continues unfolding the brief description of the emotions felt during the experience, and leaps to the events after the initiation: Mane factum est, et perfectis sollemnibus processi duodecim sacratus stolis, habitu quidem religioso satis, sed effari de eo nullo vinculo prohibeor, quippe quod tunc temporis videre praesentes plurimi. “When morning came and the ceremonies were completed, I came forth wearing twelve robes as a sign of consecration. This is a very holy attire, but no obligation prevents me from talking about it, since at that time a great many people were present and saw it.”42

Lasting for several weeks, the preparations alone must have already had a heightening effect on the sensitivity and anxiety of the initiate, to which the settings and procedure of the ceremony contributed. Attendants were admitted only at points during the rituals, whereas these were performed under utmost exclusion from any public at other moments. What makes the case peculiar is the fact that the ceremonies are located in a public Isis sanctuary frequented by various forms of collective agents: the ritual brings them together and seperates them again during its various stages. The actual group constitutes itself out of those being initiated and allowed to enter certain rooms and witness particular actions which are defined as not accessible to a broader public. Hence, the group defines itself at specific moments by excluding some individuals from certain rituals.43 It constitutes itself out of these temporally limited situations, during which the initiate is being removed entirely from everyday life. The ceremonies described by Apuleius are scheduled at night, and confront Lucius with both an unknown situation and unknown sentiments created through the settings and actions. The emotions stressed were also emphasized by the change of his clothing during the ceremony. The pointed usage of various means, visible in the alteration of spaces, people present in the various rooms and excluded from others, the change of clothing, and the temporal setting, all contributed to creating a special atmosphere in which religious experiences well might have been had. In another case, the in- and exclusion of people is realized through not only a limitation of access, but also a restriction of knowledge of the character of the cult site. To those unfamiliar with all the particular spatial settings in the following case, the site reveals only what is visible on first glimpse: a shrine with the busts of many

41 42 43

Apul. met. 11.23. Ibid. 11.24. We cannot exclude the possibility that the status of the individual group members was marked out by a certain way to dress or wear a piece of clothing or one’s hair, or particular signs like amulets, etc. However, we do not have sources attesting this.

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Fig. 4: The mithraeum discovered in via Giovanni Lanza, 128 in Rome (Gallo 1979, fig. 1).

deities. Its full character is reserved for those invited to enter and share the knowledge of the further rooms under ground. Situated in the context of a fourth century CE domus complex on the Esquiline Hill in Rome, the cult site known as the mithraeum of Via Giovanni Lanza 128 was discovered in 1883.44 As an underground room, the mithraeum was set below a garden lararium which itself contained representations of a vast number of deities, assembling Diana, Dionysus, Hercules, Horus, Isis, Jupiter, Mars, Mithras, Serapis, Venus, two lares, and a genius. Of these, the life-size image of Isis dominated the sacellum, whereas the others were smaller statuettes and busts.45 To the right of this sacellum, a door gave way to the stairs leading down into the mithraeum. It was constructed in two flights placed one behind the other [Fig. 4]. At the upper end of the lower one, two niches are preserved in the walls, one on either side of the stairway, in which the statuettes of Cautes and Cautopates were found.46 The actual cult room was small. It was furnished with a marble relief placed against the left wall, which depicted the god sacrificing a bull. An altar, formed from a re-used ionic capital, was placed in the middle of the room and was lit by torches.47 The cult site presents an interesting example for the design of ‘settings’. Associated with the domus complex, the people visiting the small sanctuary presumably were the inhabitants and visitors of the house. They used the lararium for their worship, having furnished it with a vast number of deities, of which Mithras was but 44 45 46 47

Gallo 1979, 249. Griffith 2000, 4. Gallo 1979, 249. Ibid., 249–59.

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one. The preeminence of his cult, however, was only known to those who were aware of the underground cult room, and the entrance to it at the back next to the lararium appeared to be a simple door, unless it was marked by a sign no longer preserved. Even for those who knew the place, after they stepped through this door, the interior of the mithraeum was not revealed immediately. Upon entering, it was necessary first to turn about-face and then descend both flights of stairs. Only when reaching the top of the second flight did the statuettes of Cautes and Cautopates set into the wall niches become visible, and only when one entered the cult room itself and turned left did the relief depicting the god come into sight. The access to the mithraeum was arranged in a way that prepared the visitor, enhancing his consciousness for the place and the rituals performed there, into both of which he was about to enter. His emotions were thus played upon, though the effect of the setting depended on the individual coming there to worship his god. Nevertheless, the spatial setting of the mithraeum does not allow us to make judgments about the total secrecy of its existence and that of the actions performed there. Its combination with the sacellum, in fact, rather hints at a similarly representative function of the small cult room. The collection of divine images in the above-ground part of the structure and its composition are reminiscent of the accumulation of priestly offices by individuals like P. Vettius Agorius Praetextatus48 and the display of piety through them. Here, too, piety to the gods is being displayed and, what is more striking, visible to a visitor, who likewise may have been led into the underground cult room which then served to stress this piety further. What merges in this case are not only two different forms of cult groups, but also the boundary of what we may call a religious connotation and the entertaining aspect of the underground structures: a visitor’s senses are addressed pointedly when the existence of the additional structures and their character are being revealed. Whether he or she perceives them in awe or experiences them as part of an evening’s entertainment entirely depends on his or her personal disposition. Even taking into account the option of exposing the mithraeum to visitors on occasion, not only does the circle of regular cult attendants seem to have been rather small, as is already indicated by the comparatively small size of the structures, but also the question arises as to what kind of actions actually took place in these rooms. How often were they performed, and on what occasions? If we assume a solely representative function of the cult place, one would think only of an occasional use, e. g. for small banquets. If, however, we allow for a sincere piety on the part of the proprietor of this site, as I am disposed to do, meetings of a small group at more regular intervals appear likely without excluding a representative function. A visitor may have been invited at any time to take a look at the mithraeum or even participate in the occasional ritualized actions. How he experienced what he saw and witnessed depended both on his personal disposition and the situation, that is the time of day, presence of others, scents, sounds, illumination, temperature, air, and actions performed. The arrangement not of the actual rooms, but of space in an abstract, that is imagined, sense, presents the peculiar feature of the next case, which illustrates 48

Cf. CIL 6.1779.

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Fig. 5: The mithraeum at Marino. Plan (after Ghini 1994, 72).

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how far one could stress the design of ‘settings’ to create a specific atmosphere and influence emotions. Not far from the northern edge of the Lago di Albano in Marino, a mithraeum was discovered in 1962.49 It has been placed within the structures of a late Republican or Augustan building which functioned as a cistern.50 The room was of a very elongated, tunnel-like shape, being 29 m long, but only 3.10 m wide and reached a height of 3 m at the crest of its vault [Fig. 5].51 The position of the entrance, and the question of whether the room was provided with an anteroom, cannot be clarified.52 Upon entering the tunnel, the painted images of Cautes, on the right wall, and Cautopates, on the left, indicate a transitional point in the room structure, at which the actual cult room was entered. The benches along the walls only started after several more meters, as the traces of the bench on the right side of the room indicate. Each was 10 m long, approximately 0.50 m high, and reached 1.05 m into the room, leaving an aisle of about 1 m width in between them.53 At their rear end, the altar of the sanctuary was placed in the middle of the room. Resembling a pilaster in shape, it was 1.20 m high and both 0.43 m wide and deep. On it could be read the following inscription:54 Invicto deo / Cresces / actor / Alfi / Seberi / d(onum) p(osuit)

Behind it, the mensa, a bench-like structure 0.88 m high and 0.85 m wide, followed to the right of the room, set against the rear and side walls. The rear wall was covered with the painting of the tauroctonia. The rectangular picture presents the main scene with the bull sacrifice in its centre, framed on either side with panels depicting further scenes from the myth of Mithras [Fig. 6]. To the left, they show from top to bottom the battle between Jupiter and the Giants, Saturn, the rock-birth of Mithras and, finally, the god riding the bull. To the right, the sequence starts in the top panel with the taurophoria, and the second shows Sol kneeling down in front of Mithras. The treaty scene between the two gods is the subject of the next panel, and the last at the bottom is reserved for the water-miracle. Above the side panels, which are each framed by a broad dark line, Sol (on the left) and Luna (on the right) fill in the upper corners of the painting. Between them, the clouds of the sky are difficult to distinguish from the light coloured rock of the cave, which opens behind the sacrificial scene in the central part of the painting. Set in front of the dark coloured opening of the cave, Mithras kneels on the white bull, whose head he pulls back with his right hand while stabbing its neck with the knife in his left. The god turns his head up towards his right, directing his eyes to Sol, from whom a beam of light extends to his face. Below it, Mithras’ cloak is blown back to reveal the blue of the sky and the stars covering it on its inside. The sacrifice is accompanied by the dog and the snake stretching towards the 49 50 51 52 53 54

Ghini 1994, 51. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 60. The tunnel-like room is preceded by an anteroom, for which a date cannot be fixed. Ghini 1994, 51. The bench stretching along the left side of the room and measuring l. 19.80 m, h. 0.50 m and w. 0.48 m is of modern date. Vermaseren 1982, 5.

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Fig. 6: The tauroctonia painting on the rear wall of the mithraeum at Marino (Vermaseren 1982, pl. 3).

bull’s open wound and the scorpion pinching the testicles, whereas the raven is placed below Sol at the edge of the cave’s mouth. Framing the sacrificial scene, Cautes (on the left) and Cautopates (to the right) stand on either side of the cave’s entrance. Since they are also depicted in the paintings on the side walls in the front section of the mithraeum, their placement on either side of the cave entrance creates the illusion of a second transitional point, behind which the tunnel-like room seems to continue into the darkness of the cave opening. The sacrificial scene appears to obstruct the continuing way, but to blaze the trail instantly. With Mithras’ head turned to Sol and the beam of light coming from the latter, the outcome to be expected from following the god’s example is unveiled. Designed as such, the layout of the mithraeum in Marino exceeds the mere evocation of sentiments, for instance visible in the extremely elongated room with its tunnel-like appearance and its division into sections. The visitor to the sanctuary is individually addressed, with Mithras being presented to him as a role model. A highly personalized relationship of the single worshipper with the god is alluded to. Within this particular setting, the single attendant of the rituals performed here is not understood merely as part of the group of worshippers, but as an individual among others, with the focus of the worship and the rituals and actions performed lying on the individual self and its relation to the deity. The centre of the cult prac-

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tice is not the adoration of the god, but the constant redefinition of the individual self of every single cult attendant through the relationship with the god. As a collective entity, the cult attendants take a special position within the spatial organization of the sanctuary. Having taken their places on the benches, they have passed the images of Cautes and Cautopates nearby the entrance. These images mark a transitional line which sets the group apart from the world outside and from those not involved in the cult. A second point of transition is indicated through the images of Cautes and Cautopates framing the sacrificial scene with the god at the far end of the mithraeum. The image of Mithras does not just depict the god as a divine power as recipient of worship, but rather shows him as an exemplum to be followed. The way to do this is indicated both in the sacrificial scene of the image and in the actions performed by the cult attendants within the room stretching in front of the picture. Both the spatial organisation and the imagery of the sanctuary function together in order to continuously stress the particular relationship of the single cult attendant with the cult and the divine force venerated. To experience it must have been the central focus of the collective actions. We may expect them to have taken place on a regular basis, although, again, the sources do not reveal the number of times or occasions the group actually met. In tackling sentiments, the three cases introduced here reveal a handling of time and space in designing ‘settings’ which can also be seen in the other examples referred to. In the spatial arrangements of the cult sites, often hierarchies of entire rooms or sections within one room are adapted to emphasize the sacred character of the cult rooms. Vestibules, corridors, staircases, and entire sequences of rooms preceding the actual cult rooms set these apart from the surrounding architectures and their various (everyday) functions. Having to pass through such anterooms, a cult attendant was prepared and requested to enter the sanctuary consciously. This aspect is also mirrored in Lucius’ careful preparation before undergoing the initiation ceremonies. Also his consciousness of the ritual lying before him is required. The example from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses demonstrates how emotions are furthermore evoked in the activities and rituals taking place within the cult rooms, of which only a few sources inform us. As has been pointed out before, the collective setting of a group of worshippers, especially when carefully defined, makes it possible to create atmospheres stressing the individual’s relationship with a deity. Although this personalized relationship is especially visible in the settings of the mithraeum in Marino, a visual depiction and understanding of a deity as a role model is not required to generate such an ambience. Sounds, lights and darkness, as well as tactile sensations appeal to the senses without having been recorded. The group setting contributes to the stimulation of sensations by excluding others from these experiences of various atmospheres, which can function as settings for experiencing a transcendent otherness. However, how a sensation is experienced depends once more on the individual.

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4 CONCLUSIONS This article started with the case of the Ostian stuppatores, who after an interruption of the construction process transformed their courtyard sanctuary into a mithraeum. It was stated that the change of plans presented two different approaches to cult practice, in which the individual took different positions in relation to the deity. The discussion of how collective ‘settings’, individual cult attendants, and individual experiences of transcendence impact each other illustrated that the relation of an individual to a deity relies on his or her self-definition and disposition to establish such a personalized relationship. His or her participation in a group, and hence at times his or her influence on the decision of which deity/deities should be worshipped, appear to have been restrained by various social and economic ties, such as kinship, social relationship, and common profession. However, the participation in one group did not exclude the possibility of also being a member of another. Thus, an individual had the option either to regard him- or herself as part of the collective entity of a group (e. g. the familia), or to define him- or herself as an individual among other individuals who are joined in worship, thus personalising and heightening his or her relationship to the deity in question. The awareness of the self in the latter sense could also occur in the form of an experience, and as such could be temporarily and spatially confined. The resulting experience of self-transcendence is, like every other experience, not retrievable. These considerations indicate that the personalized relationship to a deity is confined neither to a certain form of group, nor to a particular deity and his cult. The change of plans in the case of the Ostian stuppatores hence has to be understood primarily as an alteration of the way the association represented itself. In a second sense, the transformation and adaptation of the worship of Mithras reveal an altered focus on the cult practice, but the original plan genuinely also offered the opportunity for religious experiences and for establishing a personalized relationship to the deity, whose identity is not known. The outward focus that the stuppatores initially pursued, and their aim to display themselves, point to an original inclination to present themselves as a group in the sense of a collective entity behind which the individual members stood back. When the stuppatores later turned the focus to the cult of Mithras, an alteration of the definition of the individual selves may be assumed. How far it took place indeed depended on the individual participants, and the disposition towards personalized relationships to individual deities. BIBLIOGRAPHY Bakker, Jan T. 1994. Living and working with the gods. Studies of evidence for private religion and its material environment in Ostia (100 BC–500 AD). Amsterdam. Bakker, Jan T. 2001. “Les boulangeries à moulin et les distributions de blé gratuites”, in: Descoeudres, Jean-Paul (ed.) 2001. Ostie. Port et porte de la Rome antique. Genf. 179–85. Becatti, Giovanni 1954. Scavi di Ostia. 2. I Mitrei, Roma. Bloch, Herbert 1953. “IX. Ostia. Iscrizioni rinvenute tra il 1930 e il 1939”, Notizie degli scavi di antichità 7. 239–306. Bowes, Kimberly 2008. Private worship, public values and religious change in Late Antiquity. New York.

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Calza, Giovanni 1953. Scavi di Ostia. 1. Topografia generale. Roma. Gallo, Daniela 1979. “Il Mitreo di via Giovanni Lanza”, in: Bianchi, Ugo (ed.) 1979. Mysteria Mithrae. Atti del Seminario Internazionale su ‘La specifi cità storico-religiosa dei Misteri di Mithra con particolare riferimento alle fonti documentarie di Roma e Ostia’ (Rome and Ostia, March 28–31, 1978). Leiden. 249–58. Ghini, Giuseppina 1994. “Il Mitreo di Marino: considerazioni sul culto e sull’iconografia”, in: Devoti, Luigi; Antonelli, Vincenzo (eds.) 1994. Il Mitreo di Marino. Velletri. 51–84. Griffith, Alison B. 2000. “Mithraism in the private and public lives of 4th c. senators in Rome”, Electronic Journal of Mithraic Studies 1. 1–27: (19.05.2010). Hermansen, Gustav 1982. “The stuppatores and their guild in Ostia”, American Journal of Archaeology 86.1. 121–26. Jung, Matthias 1999. Erfahrung und Religion. Grundzüge einer hermeneutisch-pragmatischen Religionsphilosophie. München. Nieto, José C. 1997. Religious experience and mysticism. Otherness as experience of transcendence. Lanham. Rüpke, Jörg 2005. Fasti sacerdotum. Die Mitglieder der Priesterschaften und das sakrale Funktionspersonal römischer, griechischer, orientalischer und jüdisch-christlicher Kulte in der Stadt Rom von 300 v. Chr. bis 499 n. Chr. Stuttgart. Rüpke, Jörg 2006. “Organisationsmuster religiöser Spezialisten im kultischen Spektrum Roms”, in: Bonnet, Corinne; Rüpke, Jörg; Scarpi, Paolo (eds.) 2006. Religions orientales – culti misterici. Neue Perspektiven – nouvelles perspectives – prospettive nuove. Stuttgart. 13–26. Scheid, John 1986. “Le thiase du Metropolitan Museum (IGUR I 160)”, in: L’association dionysiaque dans les sociétés ancienne. Actes de la table ronde organisée par l’École Française de Rome (Rome 24–25 mai 1984). Rome. 275–90. Steuernagel, Dirk 2001. “Kult und Community. Sacella in den Insulae von Ostia”, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 108. 41–56. Vermaseren, Maarten J. 1982. Mithriaca III. The Mithraeum at Marino. Leiden.

DIONYSOS AND RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCES IN BONA DEA RITUALS Attilio Mastrocinque, Università di Verona As a rule, the Roman sarcophagi with Dionysiac imagery have been considered as a triumph of fantasy, part of the realm of Greek mythology, which was a product of the second and third centuries CE. Our task is now to discover reliable links between this Dionysiac imagery and Roman rituals. If these sarcophagi did not represent just “imagery”, they are also a form of evidence of true religious experiences in Roman culture. Burial is a serious thing, and stories of the afterlife from sheer Greek literature could not be appropriate. Dionysiac sarcophagi, however, bear witness both to religious experiences and to hopes for the afterlife. The invaluable studies by Matz1 and Turcan2 allow us to proceed on a solid basis of archaeological evidence. The floruit of these monuments is placed between the age of Trajan and the early Christian empire. Many Dionysiac sarcophagi were carved by Greek artists, and the clientele comprised both Roman and Greek wealthy people. Our concern is now with studying a series of details, which could provide us with a key to enter the world of rituals and to leave the speculative world of mythology. In other words, we will try to demonstrate that the Dionysiac imagery of these sarcophagi was definitely linked to the religious life of men. The majority of Dionysiac sarcophagi of the middle Imperial period depicts Dionysos discovering Ariadne, or their wedding3 among a parade of Maenads and Satyrs, music and dance. One can also notice a snake which is crawling out of a basket onto the ground. Another detail which is worth mentioning is that Ariadne is discovered not by Dionysos, but by Pan, i. e. Faunus, if we prefer to use his Roman name. On the contrary, in Greek mythology she was met by Dionysos, and not by Pan, even though the scene of Satyrs discovering the heroine asleep is present in Greek iconography.4 Such a theme could have been appropriated from a Satyr play like Aeschylus’ Diktylkoi. A Satyr discovering Ariadne appears very rarely on the Roman sarcophagi,5 whereas Pan is omnipresent. Another important feature of Dionysiac sarcophagi is the role of Omphale. A sarcophagus in the Vatican Museum6 [Fig. 1] shows the heroine dressed in the 1 2 3 4 5 6

Matz 1968–1969. Turcan 1966. See C. Gasparri, LIMC 3, s . v. Dionysos/Bacchus, nos. 193–207. M.-L. Bernhard, LIMC 3, suppl., s. v. Ariadne, no. 112. Matz 1968–1969, 1.2 (in Istanbul, from Thessaloniki). It was once kept in the Cortile della Pigna. Matz 1968–1969, 1, n. 41, pl. 40; Turcan 1962, 595–604.

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Fig. 1: Dionysiac sarcophagus in the Vatican Museum depicting Omphale.

leonté. Turcan7 connected this monument to a statue of a noble woman of Severan age, wearing the leontè, like Omphale.8 We should underline here the role of Hercules in Dionysiac imagery. The Greek hero can be depicted holding a cup of wine9 or the wedding’s torch,10 or with a 7 8 9 10

Turcan 1962. Cf. Zanker 1999. Matz 1968–1969, 2, n. 45, pl. 49, from Bolsena. Matz 1968–1969, 2, n. 98, pl. 121, from Rome, Palazzo Giustiniani; Matz 1968–1969, 1, n. 99, pl. 124–25, from Cliveden.

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Fig. 2: Sarcophagus in the National Museum of Naples.

kantharos and a rope with many knots over his shoulder,11 or playing the lyre.12 It is noticeable that Hercules is often approached, touched, or caressed by PanFaunus,13 or is wearing a necklace and being embraced by a Satyr [Fig. 02],14 or is stopping the hand of a Satyr who approaches him.15 We know a myth that fits perfectly with this rich series of iconographies. It is narrated by Ovid in a passage which explains the nudity of the Luperci during the Lupercalia. According to Ovid’s Fasti 4.313–30, “To this day the naked priests recall the memory of old customs, and testify to those ancient ways. But why Faunus, especially, shunned clothing, is handed down in an old tale full of laughter. By chance Tirynthian Hercules was walking with Omphale, his mistress, and Faunus saw them from a high ridge. He saw and burned. ‘Mountain spirits,’ he said: ‘No more of your company: she will be my passion.’ As the Maeonian girl went by her fragrant hair streamed over her shoulders, her breast was bright with gold: a gilded parasol protected her from warm sunlight, one Herculean hands, indeed, held over her. Now she came to Bacchus’ grove, and Tmolus’ vineyard, while dew-wet Hesperus rode his dusky steed. She entered a cave roofed with tufa and natural rock, and there was a babbling stream at its entrance. While her attendants were preparing food and wine, she clothed Hercules in her own garments. She gave him thin vests dyed in Gaetulian purple, gave him the elegant zone that had bound her waist. She took up his heavy club, and the lion’s pelt, and those lesser weapons lodged in their quiver. So dressed, they feasted, and gave themselves to sleep, resting on separate couches set next to one another, because they were preparing to celebrate the rites of the discoverer of the vine, with purity, at dawn.

11 12 13 14 15

Matz 1968–1969, 2, n. 100, pl. 126, from Woburn Abbey. Matz 1968–1969, 2, n. 126, pl. 137, from Ostia; n. 54, pl. 53, from Ostia; n. 60, pl. 75, from Cadenet; Matz 1968–1969, 3, n. 222, pl. 234, 239–240, from St. Médard – d’Eyran (Bordeaux). Matz 1968–1969, 1, n. 47, pl. 56, from Moscow; n. 45, pl. 46, from Benheim (Oxfordshire). Matz 1968–1969, 2, n. 118, pl. 138, from Naples; n. 101, pl. 127, from Lyon. Matz 1968–1969, 2, n. 140, pl. 161, from Rome, Villa Doria Pamphili.

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Attilio Mastrocinque It was midnight. What will unruly love not dare? Faunus came through the dark to the dewy cave, and seeing the servants lost in drunken slumber, had hopes of their master also being fast asleep. Entering, as a reckless lover, he roamed around, following his cautious outstretched hands. He reached the couches spread as beds, by touch, and this first omen of the future was bright. When he felt the bristling tawny lion-skin, however, he drew back his hand in terror, and recoiled, frozen with fear, as a traveller, troubled, will draw back his foot on seeing a snake. Then he touched the soft coverings of the next couch, and its deceptive feel misled him. He climbed in, and reclined on the bed’s near side, and his swollen cock was harder than horn. But pulling up the lower hem of the tunic, the legs there were bristling with thick coarse hair. The Tirynthian hero fiercely repelled another attempt, and down fell Faunus from the heights of the couch.”16

Le Bonniec17 stressed the inconsistency of the link between the myth of Omphale and the rite of the Lupercalia, but he discovered an important factor that connects them: the race of the Luperci Fabiani at the Lupercalia was created by Romulus and his companions the Fabii, who run in competition with Remus and his Luperci Quinctilii. According to the Roman legend, the Fabii are descended from a son of Hercules. Robert Turcan,18 on the other hand, thought that Ovid was describing the preliminary rituals of Dionysiac initiations. The comparison between the Ovidian myth and the iconography on the sarcophagi is impressive, and every feature we have noted can be found in the ritual which Ovid describes. I think that a link should be made between Omphale’s ritual and the Roman Faunus. The Lupercalia were indeed a festival in which the naked ministers of the savage god were supposed to make Roman women fertile. But a stronger link is to be found in the rituals of Faunus’ female counterpart, i. e. Fauna, also called Bona Dea. Plutarch’s account of Clodius’ unlawful attendance at the festival of Bona Dea is very interesting, and can be compared with Roman Dionysiac iconographies. Plutarch writes, “Now, the Romans have a goddess whom they call Bona, corresponding to the Greek Gynaeceia. The Phrygians claim this goddess as their own, and say that she was the mother of King Midas; the Romans say she was a Dryad nymph and the wife of Faunus; the Greeks that she was the unnameable one among the mothers of Dionysus. And this is the reason why the women cover their booths with vine-branches when they celebrate her festival, and why a sacred serpent is enthroned beside the goddess in conformity with the myth. It is not lawful for a man to attend the sacred ceremonies, nor even to be in the house when they are celebrated; but the women, apart by themselves, are said to perform many rites during their sacred service which are Orphic in their character. Accordingly, when the time for the festival is at hand, the consul or praetor at whose house it is to be held goes away, and every male with him, while his wife takes possession of the premises and puts them in due array. The most important rites are celebrated by night, when mirth attends the revels, and much music, too, is heard. At the time of which I speak, Pompeia was celebrating this festival, and Clodius, who was still beardless and on this account thought to pass unnoticed, assumed the dress and implements of a lute-girl and went to the house, looking like a young woman. He found the door open, and was

16 17 18

Transl. A. S. K line. Le Bonniec 1962. Turcan 1959.

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brought in safely by the maid-servant there, who was in in the secret; but after she had run on ahead to tell Pompeia and some time had elapsed, Clodius had not the patience to wait where he had been left, and so, as he was wandering about in the house (a large one) and trying to avoid the lights, an attendant of Aurelia came upon him and asked him to play with her…”19

On the Roman Dionysiac sarcophagi no man is to be seen, except Hercules, who wears a necklace or plays the lyre. The Maenads are accompanied by Satyrs. Hercules is not sexually active, and is even the object of Faunus’ lust. This sort of Hercules is perfectly fitting for Omphale’s ritual. Hercules had been invited by Omphale, the Lydian queen. Apparently the ceremonies of Bona Dea should exclude every man, but we actually know that men were not totally excluded from Bona Dea’s ceremonies. Ovid writes: “Bona Dea bars the eyes of men from her temple, except those she bids come there herself.”20

It is probable that these men were sexually inactive. For example, young men are depicted on a sarcophagus in the Metropolitan Museum in New York,21 but if we look carefully, they appear to be winged Genii of the four seasons, who produce agricultural fertility. On other Dionysiac sarcophagi an old man is depicted, clothed in a female chiton, who has been interpreted as Dionysos himself.22 On the contrary, male gods are particularly active; in fact, the ceremony represented on the sarcophagi is the wedding of Dionysos and Ariadne, where Faunus was sexually very active. The myth of Bona Dea is quite rich in details about her rape by Faunus. Macrobius narrates, “Bona Dea is also said to be the daughter of Faunus. The story goes that her father was fond of her and lusted after her, but she resisted. He beat her with a myrtle branch because she did not yield to his wishes, even when he urged her by making her drink wine. It is believed that the father transformed himself into a snake and had a sexual intercourse with his daughter. In support of all this, the evidence is adduced that myrtle branches are not allowed to be brought into the sacred precinct, and a vine (by means of which her father attempted to deceive her) spreads its branches over her head. Moreover, it is adduced the custom that the wine could not to be brought into the precinct under its true name, but the vase which conceals the wine is called a honey pot and the wine is called milk, and snakes appear in her precinct, which neither cause nor feel fear.”23

Plutarch24 adds that a snake was placed close to the statue of Bona Dea in the house of the Roman magistrate. On the sarcophagi the basket with the snake is often placed under Pan’s legs, and sometimes this animal leaps towards the genitals of the god.25 Therefore, it is possible to explain the role of Faunus on Dionysiac Roman sarcophagi thanks to Roman mythology and rituals relating to Fauna/Bona Dea and Faunus. 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Plut. Caes. 9–10, transl. by C. Perrin. Ovid. ars amat. 3.633–8. Picòn et al. 2007, 400 and 497, n. 469. Turcan 1958. Macrob. (after Varro) 1.12.22. Caes. 9. Matz 1968–1969, 1, n. 58, pl. 77.

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Fig. 3: Dionysiac sarcophagus in the Paul Getty Museum.

A sarcophagus from Vigna Casali near Porta San Sebastiano in Rome,26 now in the Getty Museum [Fig. 3], proves that these myths and rituals were deeply rooted in the personal beliefs of the Romans. The imagery is that of the wedding of Dionysos and Ariadne, whose face is not carved, because the features of the girl contained in the sarcophagus were supposed to be depicted there. The same phenomenon occurs on a magnificent sarcophagus from St. Médard-d’Eyran (Bordeaux) in the Louvre Museum,27 and on many others. Sometimes the face of Dionysos’ bride was carved with the features of the deceased woman after the carving of the rest of the sarcophagus [Fig. 4].28 The inscription on the Getty specimen reads: D(iis) M(anibus) / Maconianae Severianae / filiae dulcissimae / M(arcus) Sempronius Proculus / Faustinianus v(ir) c(larissimus) et / Praecilia Severiana c(larissima) f(oemina) / parentes. “To the divinized soul of the deceased. For Maconiana Severiana, the sweetest daughter, Marcus Sempronius Faustinianus, vir clarissimus, and Praecilia Severiana, clarissima foemina, her parents (had this made).”

This girl was not married, and her parents, of senatorial rank, represented her as Dionysos’ bride, lusted after by Faunus, as in the rituals of Bona Dea. To conclude, we stress that the Dionysiac sarcophagi represented the encounter of a noble girl with Dionysos. In this encounter, Faunus played an important role, namely that of making the bride fertile, directly or in the form of a snake. The encounter took place in a cave during the night, as Ovid tells us, and as the use of torches evidently proves. Omphale and Hercules were expecting Bacchus’ arrival. 26 27 28

Matz 1968–1969, 3, n. 47 and n. 214, pl. 223 (previously in Hever Castle, Kent). Matz 1968–1969, 3, n. 222, pl. 234. See Matz 1968–1969, 3, n. 212, pl. 220, 382–83: a sarcophagus in the Hermitage Museum.

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Fig. 4: Dionysiac sarcophagus in the Puskin Museum depicting Hercules and Faunus.

In fact, the ancients supposed that Dionysos encountered Ariadne in the sacred cave, which was a sanctuary on Naxos.29 The house of the Roman consul (or praetor) was disguised as a wild place on a wintery night, where the wife of the most important Roman statesman invited several women to perform the secret ritual, exactly as Omphale invited her faithful followers. She also invited Hercules, in the 29

Porphyr. de antro 20.

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same way as Pompeia invited Clodius, who went to play the lyre, disguised as a girl. As I have already underlined in another work,30 ancient accounts of Clodius and Bona Dea are strongly biased, because the Ciceronian description was aimed against Clodius, his political enemy, and the later authors mostly depend on Cicero. If we take into account several elements of the description, we will see that many details are missing. 1) Clodius, according to Cicero, intruded into Caesar’s house during the festival only because of a love affair with Pompeia. In order to do that, he disguised himself as a girl. But it is very unlikely that he had no better reason, because Pompeia was then busy with the festival rather than with her alleged boyfriend. 2) The appearance of Clodius, cross-dressed and playing the lyre, is similar to that of Hercules Musarum as he appears on the denarii of Pomponius Musa31 and elsewhere. Hercules is also represented as playing the lyre on Roman Dionysiac sarcophagi. A suspicion thus arises that Cicero and other authors did not tell all the truth, or that they did not know Clodius’ true aims. The modern hypothesis,32 that Clodius wanted to discard aristocratic rituals, probably lacks foundation. Clodius did not want to be discovered, and therefore it is difficult to understand how his performance could have political value. It is possible that he wanted to represent the cultivated Hercules, and eventually to be recognized in this guise only by Pompeia. Dionysiac imagery was not only carved or painted by artists: it was sometimes related to the private religious experiences of some Romans. Clodius for a short time probably had the experience of representing Hercules at a festival of Bona Dea, and probably wanted Pompeia to experience a vision similar to what we see on Roman reliefs. In the nineteenth century, agrarian and human fecundity was thought to be the aim of many ancient cults. Nowadays, such a form of interpretation is often labelled as old-fashioned and confined to the history of scholarship. The case of Roman Faunus and Fauna, however, is explained as a fecundity cult by the ancient authors themselves. The Romans adopted the Greek iconography of Pan in order to represent Faunus as an ithyphallic god. The Lupercalia were admittedly a festival which allowed women to improve their generative capacities. On the other hand, Fauna/ Bona Dea was presented as a goddess who was both never seen by men, and also raped by Faunus. On Roman sarcophagi, Faunus discovers the sleeping Ariadne. In my opinion, this is a mythological and artistic means to represent a religious experience which granted fecundity, as in the case of rituals of the Lupercalia. In this festival, Faunus was represented by the Luperci, wild young men who whipped women instead of making them be made fertile by the “sacred he-goat” (i. e. Faunus himself).33

30 31 32 33

Mastrocinque 2011. Crawford 1971, no. 410/1. Put forward especially by Gallini 1970. Ovid. fasti 2.425–448.

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Faunus, also called Inuus or Incubus, appeared to women in dreams, and granted them fecundity in this way.34 The Roman and Italic cultures knew of ways to avert Faunus’ or Silvanus’ appearances. Pliny the Elder writes, “Natrix is the name of a plant the root of which, when pulled up, gives out the foul smell of he-goats. In Picenum they use this plant to drive away from women what are, with a strange credulity, called Fatui”.35

Saint Augustine, in a derogatory Christian account, confirms those beliefs and those true experiences: “There is, too, a very general rumour, which many have verified by their own experience, or which trustworthy persons who have heard the experience of others corroborate, that Sylvans and Fauns, who are commonly called ‘incubi’, had often made wicked assaults upon women, and satisfied their lust upon them”.36

The link between Faunus and Ariadne is a typical feature of Roman Dionysiac sarcophagi which seems to have no roots in Greek mythology. In these sarcophagi were buried Romans who left their names in some Latin inscriptions. The appearance of Faunus to Ariadne was by no means a simple artistic device, or part of Greek Dionysiac imagery; it was rather a representation of true beliefs and religious experiences of ancient women. Faunus or Silvanus kept appearing to humans for centuries, and beliefs in the appearances of Salvanel and similar demons still survive in several areas of Europe. BIBLIOGRAPHY Crawford, Michael H. 1971. Roman Republican coinage. Cambridge. Gallini, Clara 1970. Protesta e integrazione nella Roma antica. Bari. Le Bonniec, Henri 1962. “Hercule et Omphale dans les Fastes d’Ovide”, in: Renard, Marcel (ed.) 1962. Hommage à Albert Grenier, 2. Bruxelles. 974–80. Mastrocinque, Attilio 2011. “Religione e politica: il caso di Bona Dea”, in: Cecconi, Giovanni; Gabrielli, Chantal (eds.) 2011. Politiche religiose nel mondo antico e tardoantico. Poteri e indirizzi, forme di controllo, idee e prassi di tolleranza. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi (Firenze, 24–26 settembre 2009). Bari. 165–72. Matz, Friedrich. 1968–1969. Die dionysischen Sarkophage. 1–3 (Die antiken Sarkophagreliefs 4.1–3). Berlin. Picòn, Carlos A. et al. 2007. Art of the classical world in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New Haven–London. Turcan, Robert 1958. “Dionysos dimorphos. Une illustration de la théologie de Bacchus dans l’art funéraire”, Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome. Antiquité 70. 243–93.

34 35 36

Plin. nh 27.107; Serv. Aen. 6.775; Isid. 8.11.103. Plin. nh 27.107: Natrix vocatur herba, cuius radix evulsa virus hirci redolet. Hac in Piceno feminis abigunt quos mira persuasione Fatuos vocant. Augustin. de civ. dei 15.23: Et quoniam creberrima fama est multique se expertos vel ab eis, qui experti essent, de quorum fi de dubitandum non esset, audisse confi rmant, Silvanos et Panes, quos vulgo incubos vocant, inprobos sæpe extitisse mulieribus et earum adpetisse ac peregisse concubitum. I will deal more thoroughly with those topics in a forthcoming book.

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Turcan, Robert 1959. “À propos d’Ovide Fast. 4.313–330”, Revue des Études Latines 37. 195–203. Turcan, Robert 1962. “Somnus et Omphale. Note sur un sarcophage mutilé”, Mèlanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome. Antiquité 74. 595–606. Turcan, Robert 1966. Les sarcophages romains à représentations dionysiaques. Paris. Zanker, Paul 1999. “Eine römische Matrone als Omphale”, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 106. 119–131 (= Un’arte per l’impero, ital. transl. Milano 2002. 198–211).

FROM THE CURIA ON THE PALATINE HILL TO THE REGIA ON THE FORUM: THE ITINERARY OF THE SALII AS A WAR RITUAL Charles Guittard, Université Paris Ouest Nanterre The Salii form one of the oldest collegia in the religious life of the Roman city, a priesthood related to the sacred rhythm of war, with spectacular rites at the beginning of March and in October. In March and October they would process through the city for several days. They were divided in two groups of twelve: the Palatini, whose seat was on the Palatine Hill, associated with the worship of Mars; and the Collini, also called Agonenses, or Agonales or Quirinales, on the Quirinal Hill,1 associated with the worship of Quirinus. The clothing of the Salii clearly characterizes them as warriors: these war priests, equipped with breastplates and weapons, walked in procession through the city carrying their figure-eight shields called ancilia, with dances and songs, the famous carmina Saliorum. When they stopped at fixed places, the Salii performed a highly rhythmical dance in triple time (tripudium), while brandishing the sacred shields and singing the hymn named after them, the famous carmen Saliare, a monument of archaic Latin, of which we possess only a few obscure fragments.2 The cult of Mars in ancient Rome was celebrated by a flamen, the flamen Martialis.3 The God of War could not have a temple inside the pomoerium, inside the city itself: he had an altar on the Campus Martius and a temple near the Porta Capena,4 consecrated at the beginning of the fourth century, where the great religious parade of the transvectio equitum started.5 This rule requiring any temple of Mars to be outside the pomoerium was followed until the building of the temple of Mars Ultor.6 The ritual centres of the Salii were the Curia on the Palatine Hill and the Regia, and the ritual of the armed dance was a procession through the city. Let us consider the calendar, the topography, and the significance of the sites of this ritual.

1 2

3 4 5 6

Cirilli 1913; Gerschel 1950. Corssen 1846; Müller 1885; Zander 1888; Maurenbrecher 1894; Hempl 1900; Helbig 1906; Reichardt 1916; Ribezzo 1917; Cocchia 1917; Bayard 1945; Gerschel 1950; Giglioli 1949– 1951; Bloch 1958a and 1958b; Radke 1961, 1972 and 1981; Baehrens, Morel 1927, 1–5; Camporeale 1987; Rüpke 1990, 23–25, 61, 64, 86, 115; Guittard 2001, 2007a and 2007b. Scholz 1970. Livy 7.23.3. Dionys. Hal. 6.13.4. Dumézil 1971, 364–71; contra Scholz 1970, 27–31.

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1 THE CALENDAR: THE WAR CYCLE IN MARCH AND OCTOBER The calendar of the ritual is well known to us. The rite of the Salii, recurring twice a year, is a war liturgy: the time for violence and campaigning begins in March and ends in October. The war cycle began on the first of March, the day the Salii, after gathering in the Curia on the Palatine Hill, would proceed to the Regia on the Forum to hold a sacrifice with the Pontifex Maximus and the Virgines Saliae7 in the sacrarium Martis, in honour of the god of war. Whether the Salii then brandished their sacred shields and performed ritual dances and songs is unknown. The dances and songs, according to the Calendar of Praeneste, certainly began on the nineteenth.8 The whole month is marked by a series of feasts related to the warfare: on the fourteenth fell the Mamurralia, the Equirria celebrated with horse-races, during which the cavalry devoted itself to Mars; on the nineteenth, the day of the Quinquatrus, the armies cleansed themselves (Armilustrium); on the twenty-third was celebrated the purification of the trumpets, the Tubilustrium. In October, when the campaigning season came to an end, the rituals were performed in the reverse order. On the fifteenth, the Ides, the mysterious rite of the October Equus was performed, a violent and spectacular ceremony nicely described by Polybius and Plutarch,9 which goes back to primitive Rome and attracted great attention from scholars of archaic religion. The nineteenth of October10 closed the cycle with the purification of the weapons stained with the enemy’s blood, and the shields of the Salii were put away until the next spring. 2 TOPOGRAPHY: THE CURIA SALIORUM The city’s topography should now be taken into consideration. Two buildings have to be considered: the Curia Saliorum and the Regia. Strangely, while our sources do not say anything about the temple or the altar of Mars, the itinerary of the Salii is well known. The Curia Saliorum on the Palatine Hill was the seat of the Salii Palatini, where Romulus’ lituus was kept, according to the sources: we can therefore reasonably suppose that the Curia was near the Auguratorium, where Romulus took the auspices for the foundation of the new city. The exact location of the Curia on the Palatine is unknown. It was an administrative and religious building used by the religious fraternity. Whether the twelve shields were kept in the Curia cannot be asserted. The books of the priests (Libri) were kept in the Curia. A Curia, according 7

8 9 10

Fest. 439, 18–22: Salias uirgines Cincius ait esse conducticias quae ad Salios adhibeantur cum apicibus paludatas; quas Aelius Stilo scribit sacrificium facere in Regia cum pontifice paludatas cum apicibus in modum Saliorum. Fast. Praen. on March 19: [Salii] faciunt in Comitio saltu [astantibus po]ntificibus et trib(unis) celer(um) (Degrassi 1963, 426). Pol. 12.4b; Plut. quaest. rom. 97; Fest. 190.11–30 Lindsay; Fest. 191.3–8 Lindsay; Fest. 246.21–24 Lindsay. Cf. Dumézil 1966, 225–35. Varro ling. 6.22; 5.153. Cf. the calendar on October 19.

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to Varro’s definition, is not a temple, but can be a place of worship, a sacrarium where the priests could fulfil res divinae.11 Plutarch, corroborated by Cicero12 and Valerius Maximus,13 provides us with a fairly interesting piece of evidence in his Life of Camillus14 when he writes about the reconstruction of Rome following the fire of 390 BCE: the sacrarium Martis on the Palatine Hill had burned down and was destroyed, but, under the ashes, Romulus’ famous lituus was recovered. So, a sacrarium situated next to the Curia housed one of the pignora imperii. But nothing is said about the shields of the priests or about a Curia for the other fraternity of the Salii Collini. The name should make us assume it was located on the Quirinal Hill. If it was possible to undertake res divinas inside the Curia, the Curia can be considered a sacrarium. 3 THE REGIA The Regia is a very complex building. It was identified in 1886, first excavated by Jordan and Huelsen in 1886 and 1889, and by Boni from 1898 to 1901; new investigations were undertaken by Brown, and the building was also studied by Coarelli.15 Inside the Regia were a sanctuary of Mars and a sanctuary of Ops Consiva; besides these, it held the precious archives of the pontiffs, the city calendar, and the annals. On the South side, along the Via Sacra, the building consisted of a rectangular part divided in three rooms: an entrance, the sanctuary of Ops in the East, and the sanctuary of Mars, with a central altar, in the West. In the North there is a trapezoidal room with a double portico. This room is not isolated, and offers precise similarities with buildings like the ones excavated in Acquarossa and Murlo, but which also had monumental graves, as in Tuscania.16 The building was in some way connected with the temple of Vesta and the House of the Vestals in the South. The Regia is the domus Regis, the house of the king, and later of the rex sacrificorum, and constitutes the most ancient core of a royal residence, which was to be extended later: it is the king’s home, and according to tradition could be linked with Numa. The Regia was in early times a private building; some cults, like that of the Penates, the Lares, and Vesta, were associated with the private area, and became public in a later period. During the Republican period, the Regia was no longer inhabited, but functioned only as a place of worship, administrated by the rex sacrorum, the pontifex maximus. and the Vestals. This function was already present at the very beginning 11

12 13 14 15 16

Varro ling. 5.155: curiae duorum generum: nam et ubi curarent sacerdotes res divinas, ut curiae ueteres, et ubi senatus humanas, ut curia Hostilia. Cf. Lugli 1946, 85–86; Coarelli 1983, 141–43, 152–59, 263, 265. Cic. diu. 1.17.32. Val. Max. 1.8.1. Plut. cam. 32. Dumézil 1966, 183–86. Cf. Brown 1935, 67–88; id. 1967, 47–64; Coarelli 1983, 56–79. Concerning the sacraria, cf. Van Doren 1958, 35–36. Colonna 1967, 87–93.

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Fig. 1: Soundings in the Regia. The excavations of 1964–1965: general plan (Brown 1967).

of the building’s history, considering the king’s religious function. The Regia is part of a more important religious complex along the Via Sacra, composed of the temple of Vesta, of the Atrium Vestae, and the House of the Vestals itself. There were two places of worship for the Salii: a sacrarium Martis, the most important, and a place of worship for Ops Consiva.17 In the rite of October Equus, after the sacrifice of the right-hand horse of the victorious chariot performed by the flamen Martialis on the ara Martis on the Campus Martis, the tail of the horse was carried to the Regia, where its blood was sprinkled on the hearth of the sacrarium Martis. The Regia appears in other occasions in the life of the city, in which the vibrations of spears have a religious meaning. At the beginning of a campaign, the general would go into the sacrarium and make the shields move (primo ancilia commouebat), then speak to the statue of the god by saying ‘Mars vigila!’18 The spear 17 18

Varro ling. 6.21; Fest. 354 Lindsay. Serv. ad aen. 7.603: moris fuerat indicti bello in Martis sacrario ancilia commouere; 8.3: is qui belli susceperat curam, sacrarium Martis ingressus, primo ancilia commouebat, post hastam simulacra eius, dicens Mars uigila! Servius here describes an advanced form of the rite involving a statue. In an earlier time, the spear was enough, and was the object the general touched.

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or spears had to vibrate. These spears also intervened to announce dangers when they wonderfully vibrated by themselves: these wonders were reported in the annual lists in the works of Livy and Julius Obsequens [hastae Martis in Regia (sua sponte) motae].19 This place of worship constitutes a sacrarium. The most significant study of the concept of the sacrarium is that of Van Doren, who studied this little known category of religious buildings, to be distinguished from templa, delubra, or fana. A definition can be found in Ulpian: “It must be observed that a sacred place is one thing, and a sacrarium another. A sacred place is a consecrated place, a sacrarium is a place where sacred objects are kept, which can also happen in a private building.”20

The sacraria were not consecrated places, could be included within private buildings, and were characterized by the sacred objects they contained. The definition of sacrarium applies correctly to both sacraria of the Regia, the one of Mars, where the shields and spears were kept, as well as the one of Ops, where particular sacrificial instruments (praefericulum, secespita) were kept. 21 4 ITINERARY OF THE SALII The Salii are related to two places of worship, the Regia and the Curia, but their most spectacular characteristic is their ritual procession through the city, which looks like an initiatory journey. The itinerary followed by the Salii is well known: the Curia (or rather the Regia, if the priests armed themselves there and not in the Curia) had to be the starting point for the Salii Palatini; for the Salii Collini, we can assume they started at the temple of Quirinus. Then the Salii, according to Dionysius,22 went through the city to the Forum and the Capitoline Hill, along the Via Sacra. The peak of the ceremony must have been reached in the Comitium.23 A

Preller’s hypothesis (Preller, Ludwig 1881. Römische Mythologie, 1. Berlin. 339), which assumes that there were two spears, one devoted to Mars, the other to Quirinus, was considered attractive by Bayet, 1935, 23, n. 5 and 26. See also Rüpke 1990, 106, 133, 235, 242; Guittard 2007c. 19 Iul. Obs. 6: hastae Martis motae (181 BCE); 96: hastae Martis in Regia motae (117 BCE); 104: hastae Martis in Regia sua sponte motae (102 BCE); 107: hastae Martis in Regia motae (98 BCE); 110: hastae Martis in Regia motae (95 BCE). 20 Ulpian. dig. 1.8.9.2: illum notandum est aliud esse sacrum locum, aliud sacrarium. Sacer locus est locus consecratus, sacrarium est locus, in quo sacra reponuntur, quod etiam in aedificio privato esse potest. 21 Fest. 192.31–33 Lindsay: praefericulum uas aeneum salut peluis, rio Opis Co; 472.19 Lindsay: ecespitam esse Antistium ferreum, oblongum manio, solido, uincto ad ca fi xum clauis aeneis, aenes, flaminicae, uirgicrificia ututur. 22 Dion. Hal. 2.70. 23 Varro ling, 5.85.

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gloss of Festus about the terms amptruare and redantruare24 seems to hint at a pendular back-and-forth movement executed by the armed dancers, led by the praesul and the vates. They mimed a fight in opposite directions along the Via Sacra. An analogy has been observed between this ceremony and the mythical narration of the war between Romans and Sabines, who had to be identified with the Salii Palatini and the Salii Collini. The battle consists in a double movement from the Arx to the Porta Mugonia, and vice versa. The dance in the Comitium corresponds to the final phase, which symbolizes the peace between Romulus and Titus Tatius. The rite of armed dances could have been a model for the narration of the mythical conflict in annalistic pseudo-history.25 The initiatory character of the college of the Salii has already been recognized by various scholars:26 it is about the hypostatisation of an age group, the recently initiated young men, admitted for the first time to military life. From an ethnological point of view, comparisons with this conflict between two groups can be found particularly in Greece, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus noticed the similarity between the Salii and the Curetes.27 It is a noteworthy fact that the Liberalia feast, on March seventeenth, when the young Romans donned the toga virilis, took place during the ceremonies of the Salii. We have therefore the Palatine Hill, the Quirinal Hill and the Forum. But what was the itinerary? What were the mansiones? Every evening the Salii halted in the mansiones,28 put down their shields and spears, and celebrated a banquet. Although some points of the itinerary are known, we do not know where the priests used to stop. The Pons Sublicius is mentioned, especially by Catullus.29 A parallel has been drawn with the Argei, a mysterious feast celebrated on May fourteenth or fifteenth; after a first procession to the sacraria of the Argei on the sixteenth and seventeenth of March, in May the Vestals threw rush puppets in the Tiber, performing a substitution ritual in which the dolls took the place of human victims. Varro, who relates the name Argei to the Argives and Hercules, mentions twenty-seven sacraria spread over four regions of the city.30 The ritual of the Salii is unique. The Regia is a particular religious building with two divinities, and its religious nature has much to do with the attributes of the kings at the beginning of the history of Rome. There are many elements of a place of worship in the Regia. It is neither a templum, nor a delubrum, nor a fanum, but 24 25 26 27 28 29

30

Fest. 334.19–21 Lindsay: redantruare dicitur in Saliorum exultationibus, cum praesul amptruauit, quod est motus edidit, ei referuntur inuicem idem motus. Coarelli 1982. Illuminati 1961; Torelli 1984, 106–12. Dion. Hal. 2.70.3. CIL 6.2158; Suet. claud. 33; Fest. 482.6 Lindsay s. v. Salios. Catull. 17.5. Cf. Varro ling. 5.85. According to Servius (ad aen. 2.166), the Salii mentioned the bridge in their carmina: quidam pontifices a ponte Sublicio qui primus Tybre impositus appellatos tradunt sicut saliorum carmina loquuntur (frag. 17, Maurenbrecher 1894). Varro ling. 5.45: reliquia urbis loca olim discreta, cum argeorum sacraria septem et viginti in quattuor partis urbis sunt disposita. Argeos dictos putant a pricipibus, qui cum Hercule Argiuo uenerunt Romam et in Saturnia subsederunt. E quis prima scripta est Suburana, secunda Esquilina, tertia Collina, quarta Palatina.

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the most adequate term is sacrarium. In the sacrarium Martis, there was not only an altar and the statue of the divinity, but also the spears and the shields. The sacrifice at the beginning of March was performed by the Pontifex maximus and the Virgines Saliae. The ritual, referring to the origins of the city, has an initiatory aspect. Nobody understood the meaning of the songs of the Salii, but the emperors considered it a great honour to be part of this religious fraternity. Such a ritual defines and demarcates a religious space and has an important place in the calendar of the city.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Baehrens, Emil; Morel, Willy 1927. Fragmenta poetarum Latinorum epicorum et lyricorum, praeter Ennium et Lucilium. Leipzig. Bayard, Louis 1945. “Le Chant des Saliens. Essai de restitution”, Mélanges de science religieuse des facultés catholiques de Lille 2. 45–58. Bayet, Jean 1935. “Le rite du fécial et le cornouiller magique”, Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome 52. 29–76 (= Id. 1971. Croyances et rites dans la Rome antique. Paris. 9–43). Bloch, Raymond 1958a. “Une tombe villanovienne près de Bolsena et la danse guerrière dans l’Italie primitive”, Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome 70. 7–37. Bloch, Raymond 1958b. “Sur les danses armées des Saliens”, Annales ESC 13.4. 706–15. Brown, Frank E. 1935. “The Regia”, Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 12, 67–88. Brown, Frank E. 1967, “New Soundings in the Regia”, in: Gjerstad, Einar et al. (eds.) 1967. Les origines de la République romaine (Entretiens de la Fondation Hardt 13). Vandoeuvres– Genève. 47–60. Camporeale, Giovanni 1987. “La danza armata in Etruria”, Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome 99.1. 11–42. Cirilli, René 1913. Les prêtres danseurs de Rome. Etude sur la corporation sacerdotale des Saliens. Paris. Coarelli, Filippo 1982. “Topographie antique et idéologie moderne: le Forum romain revisité”, Annales ESC 37. 727–40. Coarelli, Filippo 1983. Il Foro Romano, 1. Periodo arcaico, Roma. Cocchia, Enrico 1917. “Saliare Numae carmen”, Rivista Indo-Greco-Italica 1. 255–270. Colonna, Giovanni 1967. “Tuscania. Monumenti estruschi di epoca arcaica”, Archeologica 6. 87– 93. Corssen, Wilhelm P. 1846. Origines poesis Romanae. Berlin. 15–86. Degrassi, Attilio 1963. Inscriptiones Italiae 13.2. Fasti anni Numani et Iuliani. Roma. Dumézil, Georges 1966. La religion romaine archaïque. Paris [1966] 19742. Dumézil, Georges 1971. Mythe et épopée, 2. Paris. Gerschel, Lucien 1950. “Saliens de Mars et Saliens de Quirinus”, Revue de l’histoire des religions 138. 145–51. Giglioli, Giulio Q. 1949–1951. “Due monumenti inediti del Museo Lateranense. La processione dei Salii”, Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia. Rendiconti s. III, 25–26. 95–103. Guittard, Charles 2001. “Les chants des Saliens et la naissance d’une poésie religieuse à Rome: carmina, uersus, axamenta”, in: Decorps, Micheline; Foulon, Eric (eds.) 2000. Actes du Congrès de l’APLAES. Clermont-Ferrand. 69–85. Guittard, Charles 2007a. “La lance ou les lances de Mars?”, in: Bonnet, Guillaume (ed.) 2007. Dix siècles de religion romaine: à la recherche d’une intériorisation? Hommage à Nicole Boels. Dijon. 76–92.

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Guittard, Charles 2007b. Carmen et prophéties à Rome (Recherches sur les Rhétoriques Religieuses 6). Turnhout. Guittard, Charles 2007c. “Objets sacrés, objets magiques: le rituel des fétiaux”, in: Delattre, Charles (ed.) 2007. Objets sacrés, objets magiques de l’Antiquité au Moyen Age. Paris. 11–21. Helbig, Wolfgang 1906. “Sur les attributs des Saliens”, Mémoires de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres 37.2. 205–76. Hempl, George 1900, “The Salian Hymn to Janus”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 31. 182–88. Illuminati, Augusto 1961. “Mamurius Veturius”, Studi e materiali di storia delle religioni 23. 41–80. Lugli, Giuseppe 1946. Roma. Il centro monumentale. Roma [1946] 19682. Maurenbrecher, Bertold 1894. Carminum saliarium reliquiae. Leipzig. Müller, Lucian 1885. Der saturnische Vers und seine Denkmäler. Leipzig. Radke, Gerhard 1961. “Das Zitat aus dem Saliarlied bei Terentius Scaurus”, in: id. (ed.) 1961. Gedenkschrift für Georg Rohde. Tübingen. 215–25. Radke, Gerhard 1972. “Die Ueberlieferung archaischer lateinischer Texte in der Antike”, Romanitas 11. 189–264. Radke, Gerhard 1981. Archaisches Latein. Darmstadt. 115–23. Reichardt, Alexander 1916. Die Lieder der Salier und das Lied der Arvalbrüder. Leipzig. Ribezzo, Francesco 1917. “Indigitamenta Pompiliana ed il carmen saliare di Numa”, Rivista IndoGreco-Italica 1. 379. Rüpke, Jörg 1990. Domi militiae. Die religiöse Konstruktion des Kriegs in Rom. Stuttgart. Scholz, Udo W. 1970. Studien zum altitalischen und altrömischen Marskult und Marsmythos. Heidelberg. Torelli, Mario 1984. Lavinio e Roma. Riti iniziatici e matrimonio tra archeologia e storia. Roma. Van Doren, Marcel 1958. “Les sacraria: une catégorie méconnue d’édifices sacrés chez les Romains”, Antiquité Classique 27. 31–75. Zander, Carl M. 1888. Versus Italici. Carminis saliaris reliquiae. Lund.

STAGING RELIGION CULTIC PERFORMANCES IN (AND AROUND) THE TEMPLE OF ISIS IN POMPEII Valentino Gasparini, Universität Erfurt Heil sey euch Geweihten! Ihr drängt durch die Nacht, Dank sey dir, Osiris und Isis, gebracht! Es siegte die Stärke, und krönet zum Lohn Die Schönheit und Weisheit mit ewiger Kron’. (W. A. Mozart – E. Schikaneder, Die Zauberflöte, II 30)

When Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had the opportunity to visit the Temple of Isis in Pompeii in May 1770, he was only fourteen years old. The excavations of the sanctuary had been completed not much more than three years before1 [Fig. 1], and the building emanated a still intact charm which no doubt fascinated the fervid imagination of the little prodigy. The Magic Flute, the last masterpiece of the composer, was premiered as many as twenty-one years later on 30 September 1791, but the plot and especially the setting of the opera, although filtered through a Masonic perspective, drew inspiration directly from the emotions arising from that far-off episode.2 Furthermore, the exoticism and the “scenic virtues” that distinguish the Pompeian shrine [Figs. 2–3] consecrated it throughout the nineteenth century as a picturesque backdrop for several pieces of fictional literature.3 The goal of the following pages is to explore the meaning of the sense of intimate theatricality that still strongly emanates from this temple, and to analyse how in ancient times the ritual dynamics experienced inside and all around the sanctuary shaped its architecture as well as its insertion into the local urban fabric.4

1 2 3 4

For a succinct history of the excavations, see De Caro 1992, 3–7 and 2006b, 9–12. Passim Baltrušaitis 1967, 44–58; Bastet 1979; Pesando 2003, 35–36; Pappalardo 2006; Assmann 2008. De Caro 1992, 15–18; De Caro 2006b, 16–18; and more generally Aubaude 2000; Martorelli 2006; Romero Recio 2011. Thanks to its exceptional state of preservation, the Pompeian shrine represents a virtually unique case for the analysis of Egyptian cults in Italy, with which only the Serapeum in Ostia can be compared. Cf. Mar 2001, with further comments by Coarelli 2005, 90–95. The casestudy of Ostia is very revealing, especially in the light of the recent studies of Dirk Steuernagel, concerning the role played by sacred spaces in the processes of formation and as catalysts of associative-corporative structures in an urban framework: Steuernagel 2001; 2004; 2005a and 2005b.

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Fig. 1: The Temple of Isis in Pompeii. a) The excavations in a watercolor by P. Fabris, 1776–9 (above, from De Caro 2006b); b) The building (below, photo Alinari).

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Fig. 2: a) Frontal view of the temple by J.-L. Desprez, 1778–9 (above, from Sampaolo 2006); b) Watercolor by A. Niccolini (below, from Sampaolo 2006).

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Fig. 3: a) Etching by G. B. Piranesi (above, from Sampaolo 2006); b) Reconstruction of a night ceremony in the sanctuary by J.-L. Desprez in Abbé de Saint-Non’s Voyage pittoresque, 1781–6 (below, from De Caro 2006b).

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1 THE “THEATRES QUARTER” The so-called “Theatres Quarter” of Pompeii [Fig. 4] to which the Temple of Isis belongs is a very complex district,5 basically intended to host public buildings: the obviously private function of some domus located along its eastern sector should not lead us to forget the temple’s close functional relationship with the surrounding monuments.6 The heart of the district (an emporium pole of Greek foundation) was constituted by the so-called “Triangular Forum”, built as a sort of frame around the archaic “Doric Temple”:7 the latter is a peripteral building, dating back to 550–525 BCE and probably dedicated to the worship of Athena and Hercules. Its structure recalls other sanctuaries linked with the cult of Hercules, the fora pecuaria, and the trade of salt.8 During the second century BCE, the shrine was provided with a theatre, which for topographical reasons could not be built axially in relation to the temple,9 as in other Hellenistic examples. Nevertheless, their close relationship was monumentalized (just like in Palestrina) by a massive ramp over arches which connected the sanctuary to the porticus pone scaenam and established a ritual path, probably used during processions. Before the construction of the great Augustan palaestra (and probably of the theatre’s porticus pone scaenam itself), the iuventus pompeiana could find in the “Triangular Forum”, under the tutelage of Hercules, the place appointed to perform the functions of a campus (or, better, gymnasium):10 the xystus11 along the eastern portico hosted gymnastic practises; a labrum12 collected the water employed during the cooling ablutions of the young athletes; a statue of Marcellus13 embodied ante litteram his role as princeps iuventutis. The nearby “Republican Baths”14 were without any doubt part of this system, whose topographical and architectural unity mirrors a precise functional logic:15 basically, the complex represents the Pompeian analog of the Campus Martius in Rome. Therefore, it was very wellsuited to accommodate not only the villa publica16 and the palaestra of the local 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Zanker 1993, 52–60; Coarelli 2001; De Waele 2001, 315–34; Coarelli 2006, 62; Marcattili 2006, 20. See, e. g., some reflections upon the “Casa dello Scultore” and the domus VIII 7, 26–27: Marcattili 2006, 63–68. De Waele 2001, 111–314; Barnabei, Cassetta 2007, 21–34; D’Alessio 2009, 22–34; Carafa 2011. Coarelli 2001, 98. Ibid., 99. Della Corte 1947; De Waele 2001, 328–32; Borlenghi 2011, 217–19. De Waele 2001, 315. Ibid., 328. Ibid., 327–28. Pesando 2002–2003; Marcattili 2006, 18. See Filippo Coarelli in Adamo Muscettola, De Caro 1994, 163; Coarelli 2001, 97; Marcattili 2006, 18. Pesando 1997; Coarelli 2001, 101–03. Skeptical Carafa 2011, 98.

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Fig. 4: The so-called “Theatres Quarter”. a) Location (above); b) General plan (below).

Samnite vereia,17 but also (and particularly) several foreign deities, such as Hercules (hosted, as mentioned above, alongside Athena in the “Doric Temple”), Aes17

Pesando 2000; Coarelli 2001, 103–06; De Waele 2001, 325–27.

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culapius, Mâ-Bellona and Magna Mater (worshipped in the so-called “Temple of Jupiter Meilichios”),18 and the Egyptian gods.19 This does not mean that these deities were “relegated” or “ghettoized” far from the political and administrative centre of the town (that is, the Civil Forum): on the contrary, they were totally perceived as Roman gods, as clearly suggested by recent studies of Ludivine Beaurin20 and Francesco Marcattili.21 Specifically, the fresco decorating the frieze of the “Casa delle Nozze di Ercole” presents Venus standing inside a building which can be identified with the so-called “Temple of Jupiter Meilichios” (the Asklepieion of Pompeii).22 To the left of the goddess, Hercules is leaving the temple with his pompa, while, to the right, another procession guided by Isis is approaching Venus in order to honour the eponymous goddess of the Colonia Cornelia Veneria Pompeianorum. The occasion connecting the three deities should probably be recognised in the festival of 12 August, dedicated to Hercules Invictus and Venus Victrix. The festivity at the same time commemorated both the dedication by Pompey of the theatrum marmoreum in the Campus Martius at Rome, and the re-dedication of the temple of Hercules near the Ara Maxima, in the Forum Boarium. The presence of Isis in the Pompeian fresco is justified not just by the location of her shrine (situated west of the “Temple of Jupiter Meilichios” and north of the theatre) or by the strong links which connected her with Aesculapius,23 Hercules,24 Magna Mater – Mater Deum25 and Venus,26 but particularly by the fact that, according to the Calendar of Philocalus, 12 August was the date of the celebration of the Lychnapsia27 (or Λυχνάπτρια28 or Λαμπαδεία29), a night festival commemorating the birth of Isis.30 From the analysis of the fresco of the “Casa delle Nozze di Ercole”, it is possible to infer that on 12 August in Pompeii (as in Rome) the three main deities of the “Theatres Quarter” were probably worshiped through processions, sacrifices, and magnificent ludi.31 More generally, it is useful to underline the constant persistence of some topographical links which bound Athena, Hercules, Aesculapius, Isis, and often Hermes in (mostly peripheral) urban contexts (usually with trade functions), where the presence of theatres and gymnasia was functionally related to a hero-cult.32

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

Passim Marcattili 2006. See Vitr. de arch. 1.7.1: Mercurio autem in foro aut etiam, ut Isidi et Serapi, in emporio. Beaurin 2008. Marcattili 2002; Marcattili 2006, 56–62. Marcattili 2006; Barnabei, Cassetta 2007, 64–67. Marcattili 2006, 39–43; Barnabei, Cassetta 2007, 64–67; D’Alessio 2009, 56–67. Clerc 1994. Gasparini 2009, 351–53; Bricault 2010; Gasparini 2010a, 246–47. Malaise 2005, 181–86, with references. RICIS 501/0221. RICIS 101/0221. RICIS 304/0802. 58 lamps have been found in the sacrarium of the Temple of Isis in Pompeii. Marcattili 2002, 328. Marcattili 2006, 20.

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As for the Isiac cults, the purpose of this contribution is not to explore the reasons behind the topographical and ideological relationship that seems to have significantly connected them with gymnasia. What is important here is to emphasize some aspects that inextricably bound the theatre of Pompeii not only, as already mentioned, with the “Doric Temple”, but also (and above all) with the Iseum,33 which in some ways represented a sort of temple in summa cavea. In my opinion, a more detailed analysis of some architectural features adds crucial details to this perspective. The Temple of Isis [Fig. 5] had three entrances: the front door (VIII 7, 28) along the so-called “via di Iside”, the back door of the “sacrarium”, and a third entrance connecting the kitchen of the sanctuary with what is usually defined as an alley along the eastern side of the building, which has been interpreted as a path for free pedestrian traffic between the “via di Iside” and the theatre. This interpretation, however, is not correct. On the one hand, the “alley” was covered, as suggested by the holes along the external wall of the building, which held the beams of a roof. So it was a via tecta, rather than an “alley”. And, on the other hand, this corridor actually did not function as a free passage: in fact, the two blocks of lava that made it possible to overcome the difference of level between the “via di Iside” and the cavea of the theatre were not steps, but thresholds. At present, because of the dust and soil accumulated by the continuous transit of tourists, the detail is not visible anymore. Nevertheless, the blocks contain the hole that housed the hinge as well as the leaf of the door. And the leaves of the two doors are intended to function symmetrically: the northern door gave access to the south, and the southern one to the north. This means that they were functionally related to the unique entrance in the middle, i. e. the exit door of the Temple of Isis. In essence, from the “via di Iside” it was not possible to freely walk beyond the entrance of the domus VIII 7, 27. At that point, the hypothetical customer found two closed doors: the one belonging to the house itself, and the other controlling the aforementioned inner roofed corridor. It was possible to reach the latter only through the service rooms of the Iseum, exiting through the back door of the kitchen. In this way, by turning left, it was possible to reach and open the door giving onto the “via di Iside”; by turning right, on the other hand, it was possible to open (once again from the inside) the southern door which allowed one to enter the theatre. Without exception, all the doors separating the Temple of Isis from the theatre, along the entire perimeter of the cavea, open towards the temple (not the theatre). We can infer that the theatre was easily accessible from the temple through a corridor and, moreover, that temple and theatre constituted a single building, where the “inside” was the temple and the theatre was a functional appendix. I like to imagine, in plain words, that the priests of the temple possessed the keys of the theatre. This essentially trivial architectural logic amplifies considerably, I believe, the understanding of the role of the theatre and of its topographical interaction with Isiac cultic practice. 33

Contra Fontana 2010, 73: “A Pompei l’Iseo, infatti, l’unico di cui si conservi l’alzato, è ubicato nella parte centrale del lato settentrionale del cosiddetto ‘quartiere dei teatri’, ovvero il Teatro Grande e l’Odeion, ma non esiste, a quanto sembra, un rapporto funzionale tra le due strutture, che non sono, in alcun modo, comunicanti […]. Parlare, dunque, di un rapporto strutturale intenzionale sembra, quanto meno, poco documentabile”. See Gasparini 2010b, 197–98.

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Fig. 5: The so-called “Theatres Quarter” (Blanc et al. 2000). a) The northern sector of the theatre (above); b) The temple of Isis (below).

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2 THE “GREAT THEATRE” The use of theatrical establishments in accommodating ritual practices is well known in antiquity. A recent work by Inge Nielsen is quite interesting in this regard.34 Ritual dramas and cultic theatres were already widespread in Egypt:35 holy plays were often staged in the temene of the temples, in front of the entrance’s monumental pillars and gates, or inside the sanctuaries and near their sacred ponds. Similar rites were also popular in the Near East (in honour of Inanna-Ishtar in Mesopotamia, Atargatis in Syria, Astarte in Phoenicia and Palestine) and, therefore, in Minoan Crete and Greece, e. g. in the Asklepieia of Messene and Epidaurus, in the temple of Kabeiros at Thebes, and of the Great Gods at Samothrace. In Italy, these practises are archaeologically attested in Cagliari, Gabii, Lanuvium, Pietrabbondante, Praeneste, and Tivoli. Nielsen defines the “ritual drama” that is the subject of her study as “a dramatic performance with a plot taken from the myth of the god in whose honour it was enacted as a ritual during the festive liturgy, often with the active participation of the worshippers”.36 She points out that “stationes (ritual stops) for such performances were often integrated into the great processions that invariably formed part of the festivals and normally involved the carrying of the image of the god from one place to another, while other mythical localities existed in the sanctuaries themselves”.37 The ludi scaenici were usually supposed to represent the final act of the stational pompae, i. e. processions marked by stationes which mostly coincided with places of worship (belonging to the same god or to other closely related deities): during the major festivals and assemblies, divine images (either in the form of cultic statues or of masks worn by priests), symbolic objects, and paintings showing mythical episodes were transported from the temple to the theatre by human hands or by means of animals, chariots, fercula, baldachins, etc. This ceremonial epiphany of the god allowed a wider audience of devotees to become involve in the rite, and they became an integral part of the show and were spontaneously transformed from spectators to players. These practices were very frequent in the whole of traditional Greco-Roman religion. An inscription from Ephesus testifies the existence of a slave in charge of cleaning the precious statues consecrated by Caius Vibius Salutaris when they were carried on specific occasions from the temple of Artemis to the theatre.38 According to Philo of Byblos,39 it is possible to detect in the East the origin of these ancestral practises, later introduced in Greece (probably already in the Bronze Age) and then in Italy. In Rome, the ludi megalenses dedicated to Magna Mater had a

34 35 36 37 38 39

Nielsen 2002. Gillam 2005. Ibid., 12. Ibid., 13. IEphes Ia, n. 27. Cf. ThesCRA II 2004, 423, n. 33. PhBybl, FHG 790 F 4.

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great reputation: they comprised a complex sequence of processions, sacrifices, public banquets, and ludi, both circenses and scaenici.40 The epigraphical testimonies also certify the existence of similar dynamics during Isiac festivals, which provided athletic ludi (as shown by the inscription of Puteoli, concerning the organisation of the Eusebeia in the local Iseum in the third century CE41), as well as ludi scaenici (see the Sarapieia which took place at Tanagra in Boeotia around 90–85 BCE42). Therefore, sanctuaries needed to have adequate facilities and spaces in order to host such activities: this is the reason why they are not unusually located near theatres.43 The possible identification of the theatre-temple of Syracuse with the Sarapaeum mentioned by Cicero would be one example of this phenomenon.44 Nor is it uncommon to find within sanctuaries of Egyptian deities elements which make reference to the theatrical world: e. g., in the case of Pompeii, the bronze herm atop a marble pillar, found in the portico of the Iseum and belonging to Norbanus Sorex.45 He was an actor, specializing in partes secundae, and probably a direct descendant of the homonymous archimimus (a close friend of Sulla during his seclusion in Puteoli in 78 BCE46). Isiac rites also included periodical pompae. A good example is the processions testified in the inscription found in Dionysopolis (Moesia Inferior) and dating back to circa 48 BCE.47 A specific class of priests was in charge of marking the stops (pausae) during the Isiac pompae: their name was pausarii.48 Literary sources and archaeological evidence provide quite rich documentation, but, without doubt, the most vivid image concerning ritual Isiac processions is handed down by Apuleius,49 whose description is magnificently transposed into images in the paintings of the Temple of Isis in Pompeii.50 Indeed, the upper sector of its portico was decorated51 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49

50 51

Tert. de spect. 10.1–2; Dion. Hal. ant. rom. 2.71; Liv. 34.54. Gialanella 2001; Bricault 2008, 116 (RICIS 504/0407). RICIS 105/0201. Gasparini 2007, 87. Coarelli, Torelli 1984, 241–43. MANN n. inv. 4991; RICIS 504/0207. Cf. Tran tam Tinh 1964, 47–48; Malaise 1972, 266; Mora 1990, 1.421; Adamo Muscettola 1992, 67–68; Bricault 2001, 160; De Caro 2006b, 67; Sampaolo 2006, 113. Two other herms of the same person have been found in Pompeii, in front of the so-called “Building of Eumachia” (Zevi 1994, 56), and in Nemi, near the temple of Diana (AE 1990, 125; cf. Granino Cecere 1988–1989, where Norbanus Sorex is mentioned as parasitus Apollinis). Plut. Sull. 36.2. RICIS 618/0801. RICIS 501/0136, 605/0402, 609/0508–10 (Suppl. I). Cf. SHA. Ant. Car. 9.11; Pesc. Niger 6.9. On this topic see recently Bricault 2012, 97–98. Ap. met. 11.8–17, where the procession takes place during the Ploiaphésia or Navigium Isidis, the Isiac festival on 5 March which sanctioned the end of the period of mare clausum and the opening of the sailing season. Bricault 2006, 134–50; Sampaolo 2006, 89; more cautious, in this regard, is Saragoza forthcoming. Tran tam Tinh 1964, 92–101, 135–46; Sampaolo 1992; Sampaolo 1994; De Caro 2006b, 41– 65; Sampaolo 2006, 88–89, 98–105; Brenk 2009; Swetnam–Burland 2011, 341–46; Brenk 2012.

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Fig. 6: Isiac priests painted in the portico of the Iseum (De Caro 2006b).

with a series of red panels (framed by candelabra and garlands), showing landscapes of Egyptian inspiration, naval battles,52 still life compositions53 and several characters of the pompa Isidis: eight of the twelve original painted priests have

52

53

Avilia, Jacobelli 1989, 139–41, 144. According to Croisille 1988, 131, even these would belong to the figurative context of Apuleian Navigium Isidis. Contra Bricault 2006, 142; Moormann 2007, 150. Croisille 1988.

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survived [Fig. 6]. Another one54 emblazoned the niche55 located along the eastern wing of the portico, on the axis of the front stairway of the temple. Abandoning (but only for a while) the description of the ludi scaenici and pompae which framed the Isiac rites and coming back to the specific case-study of the theatre of Pompeii, it may be useful to highlight some additional but little-known features, which could contribute to a better understanding of the meaning of the shows that took place there. Several pages of a recent work by Anne Berlan-Bajard are devoted just to this monument.56 The Pompeian theatre seems to represent the oldest example in Italy of a spectacle building provided, within the orchestra, with a wide permanent water basin. A duct of lead and an evacuation channel were already found during the excavations of the theatre on 25 August 1764. North-west of the cavea was a big tank fed by the Augustan aqueduct of Mount Serino. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Domenico Romanelli57 claims to have detected under the pulpitum of the theatre and in various points of its cavea some cavities and tunnels, which he explained as part of a hydraulic system. Finally, further excavations conducted in the orchestra in 1902–1904 discovered the traces of as many as seven basins [Fig. 7], coated with cocciopesto and fed by the aforementioned tank through fistulae. The first one was circular, with a diameter of 7.10 m and a depth of 0.75 m, placed right in the centre of the orchestra, which it occupied almost entirely. Two channels connected it with the pulpitum. The second basin was circular too, but smaller, and concentric with the first one, with a diameter of 5.90 m and a depth of 1.30. All the other basins were rectangular: the third one measured 6.60 x 0.75 m; the fourth 5.90 x 1.48 (with a depth of 0.25 m); the fifth 9 x 1.68 m (with a depth of 0.17); the sixth 5.90 x 3.90 (1.65 m deep and with rounded corners); the seventh and last one only 0.30 x 0.34 m (with a depth of 0.30 m). The latter was provided with a 0.16 m wide channel connected to the stage, and was probably built after the destruction of the others in order to collect storm water. The case of Pompeii does not seem to be isolated within Campania: the cavea of the Julio-Claudian theatre58 of Posillipo, in the villa which may previously have belonged to Vedius Pollio (dead in 15 BCE), had a diameter of 47 m and could host two thousand spectators. Like the Pompeian theatre, the building was connected to the Serino aqueduct, and the orchestra, paved with white marble, hosted a rectangular basin (6 x 4 m, 0.60 m deep). The Claudian theatre-nymphaeum of the “Baths of Sosandra”59 at Baiae had a circular basin which could be entered through four steps. The orchestra of the Julio-Claudian small theatre60 of Bacoli (the so-called 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

MANN n. inv. 8975. Tran tam Tinh 1964, 135; Adamo Muscettola 1992, 41; De Caro 2006b, 25 and 41; Sampaolo 2006, 98–99; Gasparini 2008. Near the niche, a bank of wooden boards provided the possibility of taking a seat: Fiorelli 1875, 359. Berlan-Bajard 2006, 446–53. Romanelli 1811, 151–52. Berlan-Bajard 2006, 218–34, 444–46. Ibid., 456–57. Ibid., 454–55.

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Fig. 7: The basins found during the excavations of the theatre (elaboration after Berlan-Bajard 2006).

“theatre-nymphaeum” or “exedra-belvedere”) was transformed into a basin (16 m in diameter) at the end of the first or the beginning of the second century CE. From a functional point of view, the basins of the Pompeian theatre have been interpreted in different ways. Some scholars61 considered them to be intended for sparsiones of scented water and refreshment of the spectators; according to others,62 they had a simply decorative function, inspired by the eastern Hellenistic 61 62

Romanelli 1811, 151–52; De Vos 1982, 66; Richardson 1988, 79. Spano 1913.

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tradition of nymphaea with fountains. Yet Amedeo Maiuri63 already noticed that these interpretations were not at all satisfactory to justify the presence of some of these basins. His criticism applies in particular to the first (very cumbersome and located right at the centre of the orchestra) and to the sixth (oriented perpendicular to the frons pulpiti). On this basis, Gustavo Traversari64 was the first to relate the installations of the Pompeian theatre to the so-called “hydromimes” (holy dramas connected with the cult of water) which were particularly widespread in the East and popular in the cult of Atargatis. At Hierapolis, the temple of the goddess was provided with a pond of 100 m in diameter, steps for entering it, a stone altar at the centre, and sacred fishes; at Heliopolis, the altar was surrounded by two rectangular basins intended to accommodate the sacred fishes, the ablutions of the devotees, and water rituals linked to the “descent to the lake”; finally, at Delos the sanctuary of Atargatis possessed a small theatre, where the stage was substituted by a terrace with an altar and a little basin. Lavationes65 (accompanied by holy dramas or not) represented a crucial component of the cults of Athena (in Argolis), Cybele (at Pessinunte, Magnesia, and Cyzicus), Hera (at Nafplion), Demeter Louisia (in Arcadia) and Artemis Daitis (at Ephesus), as well as Venus and Cybele in Italy. In addition to “hydromimes” and lavationes, more sophisticated theatrical representations could also be organised for religious purposes, such as naval battles, water venationes, and shows based upon mythological themes,66 and in order to stage them it was not uncommon to “flood” theatres and amphitheatres. Theatres with kolymbèthra (that is, with a pond contained in the orchestra) are a specific phenomenon mostly of third to fifth centuries CE,67 but its roots date back to far more ancient times. Naval battles68 within amphitheatres are attested since 46 BCE; water venationes69 (the first one took place in 58 BCE) could be hosted in amphitheatres at least under the reign of Nero, and centuries later, a letter by Symmachus70 records the authorization granted by Stilicho regarding the organisation of ludi apollinares, which required the flooding of the theatre (aquae theatralis impetratio). Other letters refer to crocodillos functio theatralis71 and crocodillos theatrali spectaculo publicatos;72 several testimonies concerning water shows with mythological themes73 (at least since 80 CE) are collected in Claudian,74

63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74

Maiuri 1944, 39. Traversari 1960, 68–72. ThesCRA 2, 2004, 425–26; Berlan-Bajard 2006, 289–92. Berlan-Bajard 2006, 83–86, 126–29. Ibid., 255–73, 480–553. Ibid., 401–20. Ibid., 421–32. Symm. ep. 4.8.1–2. Ibid., 9.141. Ibid., 6.43. Berlan-Bajard 2006, 432–37. Claud. de cons. theod. 311–32.

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Fronto,75 John Chrysostom,76 and Saint Augustine77 (mare in theatro) and, on a iconographical level, in a mosaic from Yakto (Antakya – Turkey).78 From a chronological point of view, unfortunately we do not have enough elements to create an absolute sequence for the seven basins found in the theatre of Pompeii. August Mau79 suggested dating the first one to the Sullan epoch, followed by Giuseppe Spano80 and Traversari himself,81 while Lawrence Richardson82 opted for an Augustan date. Anyway, Traversari’s fascinating hypothesis, according to which the installations of the theatre were supposed to accommodate spectacles linked with water cult, has brought Berlan-Bajard herself to conclude that at least “les deux bassins rectangulaires, celui de Pompéi et celui du théâtre du Pausilype, furent certainement destinés explicitement aux spectacles aquatiques. Que leur forme ait pu être influencée par des installations romaines, notamment la naumachie d’Auguste, ne s’oppose pas à la probable origine campanienne des hydromimes eux-mêmes, suggérée par tant de témoignages littéraires ou iconographiques.”83 Now, the importance of the liquid element in Isiac rituals is well known.84 Firstly, Robert Wild’s work highlights the true extent of the presence in Isiac sanctuaries of infrastructures which ensured the collection and use of holy water. Wild estimates that at least sixty percent of Isiac sanctuaries had water facilities, although the incompleteness of many excavations, the often bad conditions of preservation of the structures and, finally, the strict selectiveness used by the author himself in his analysis suggest a much higher percentage. These installations mostly consisted of crypts receiving the “water of the Nile” or, simply, storm water. They probably originally arose in Egypt, with the very practical function of measuring changes in the level of the Nile, but they soon assumed a symbolic value, serving as a source of holy water for liturgical rites. Usually, these basins did not provide continuous access to water for “baptismal” purposes: they essentially consisted of underground tanks, surrounded by a more or less monumental structure and without drains, intended to preserve the water employed in sacred ritual practices. Instead, other structures (e. g. περιρραντήρια with drains) provided the possibility of purifications through the sprinkling of water over the heads of devotees (a practice with Egyptian antecedents). Wild neglects another crucial aspect, namely the aforementioned importance of ritual representations. The festival of Navigium Isidis or Ploiaphesia was celebrated with shows and naval battles, as recorded by Vegetius (in addition to the sources

75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84

Fronto ep. 3.14.3–4. Joann. Chrisost. hom. 7.5–7. August. enarr. in psalmos 80.23. Berlan-Bajard 2006, pl. XV. Mau 1906. Spano 1913, 112–14. Traversari 1960, 68–72. Richardson 1988, 218. Berlan-Bajard 2006, 299. Wild 1981; Genaille 1983; Koemoth 1999; Malaise 2005, 59–66; Bricault 2006; Kleibl 2007a and 2007b; Siard 2007, 434–47.

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already cited).85 Many of these could take place on the sea: Apuleius’ account is located at the harbour of Kenchreai (Corinth) and culminates with the launch of a small ship filled with gifts dedicated to the goddess.86 The ritual included the involvement of devotees with specialized roles, as several epigraphical testimonies related to Isiac navarchi and trierarchi seem to suggest.87 Other ritual representations could be performed on lakes: it has been proposed that the ships of Caligula found in the lake of Nemi (over which a sistrum has been found) could have had this function.88 Finally, as I have already noted, where no natural basins existed, these could be constructed. In conclusion, it seems that all the elements gathered so far do not exclude, but rather support the hypothesis that the theatre of Pompeii was structurally designed to accommodate sacred water spectacles and that at least some of these were organized in connection with the cult of Isis, which was closely linked to the theatre, on the one hand, and to the liquid element, on the other. Yet the facilities in entering the theatre, the probability that they could be related to the sacred representations held there, and even the use of large quantities of water are not the only elements contributing to the complexity of the ritual dynamics involving the Temple of Isis in Pompeii. In particular, the esoteric nature of Egyptian cults required another series of devices designed to enable the correct execution of the rituals related to the mystery cult, which evidently could not be performed in a place such as the theatre or during public events like processions, and which consequently had to be safeguarded in the recesses of the sanctuary. 3 THE SANCTUARY OF ISIS The témenos of the sanctuary89 had to provide spaces that were suited for the reception of the devotees (e. g. with a portico) and segregated as much as possible (in order to preserve the magna religionis silentia90). This is probably the reason for the almost “fortified” aspect of the external walls of the Pompeian sanctuary,91 which had no windows and a small front door located in a very unusual position, at the corner of the sacred enclosure. Before entry, the devotees, whom we can imagine eagerly awaiting the templi matutinae apertiones,92 were required to purify themselves with an ablution: circular grooves93 along the jamb of the main door still indicate the original presence at the sides of the door of two water sources, now lost, placed there by the duovir 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93

Veget. mil. 4.39. Ap. met. 11.16. Passim Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2000. Bricault 2006, 144–50. Ghini 1997, 337. Kleibl 2009, 277–86; Gasparini 2011. Ap. met. 11.21. Cf. Coarelli 2006, 63. Coarelli 2005, 90. Ap., met. 11.20. Dessales 2010, 239–40, 241, fig. 14 and 246.

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Fig. 8: Head of Isis. Acrolith of the cult statue (De Caro 2006b).

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Longinus.94 Another small fountain with a cista of lead decorated with Isiac themes95 was placed near the column at the north-western corner of the inner portico. The deae matutina salutatio96 included rites of exposure, cleaning, and dressing of the cult statue. The area in front of the cella therefore had to remain free as much as possible. This was probably the reason why the altar of the Pompeian shrine was not placed axially in front of the stairway of the temple as usual. It was moved slightly laterally (next to the so-called Purgatorium) and with its short side parallel to the facade of the temple. This could also be related to the custom, attested by Apuleius,97 of erecting a platform just in front of the cella and the cult statue, where the devotee who was to be initiated could appear visibly among the other devotees and priests. The architectural design of the temple was planned with great technical attention, so that the central point of the pronaos would coincide with the intersection of the diagonals of the court, and so that the length of the temple would correspond to half the length of the short side of the portico and its width to half the length of the long side. This arrangement therefore significantly stressed a front view of the building, almost like a theatrical backdrop. With the purpose of further facilitating the visibility of the cult statues, the four Corinthian tufa columns of the pronaos were placed so that the central intercolumniation was twice as wide as the lateral ones, and the statues were put on a 1.75 m tall base. The latter, hollow inside, served also as a repository for the sacred books taken de opertis adyti98 and used during the ceremonies. The priests could enter the cella directly through a special side staircase and a small service door. All these architectural features and devices were widespread in Hellenistic and Roman Isiac sanctuaries in the western Mediterranean as well as in Egypt.99 The cult statue of Isis probably had the shape of an acrolith,100 of which only the head with golden earrings [Fig. 8] and the sistrum in the right hand have been preserved. It was subject101 to more or less regular cleanings, sprinklings, unctions and, as mentioned above, even real baths. The particular significance of this kind of ablutions is clearly emphasized by Apuleius.102 The so-called Purgatorium103 [Fig. 9] consisted of a small roofless temple-shaped building, inside of which a narrow staircase led to a small underground room where a basin without drains collected the water piped in from a channel in the portico. The external walls were 94 95 96 97 98 99 100

Fiorelli 1875, 360. Adamo Muscettola 1992, 74–75; De Caro 2006b, 73; Sampaolo 2006, 117. Ap. met. 11.27. Ap. met. 11.24. Ap., met. 11.22. Cf. Coarelli 2006, 65. Golvin 1994. Tran tam Tinh 1964, 157; Adamo Muscettola 1992, 68–69; D’Errico 1997; De Caro 2006b, 73; Sampaolo 2006, 114. 101 Kahil 1994; ThesCRA II 2004, 419–27. 102 Ap. met. 11.1; 7; 23. 103 Passim Wild 1981, 44–47, 76–85, 136, 180. Some scholars identify the little building with the megarum attested by an inscription from Portus: RICIS 503/1221–22.

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Fig. 9: The so-called Purgatorium.

plastered and decorated with Isiac symbols (snake, situla, sistrum, and palm branch), ritual scenes, and traditional themes drawn from myth (such as Ares and Aphrodite or Perseus and Andromeda).104 Usually thought of as a monumental tank designed to collect the sacred water used in the ceremonies, recently some have preferred105 (based on the considerations of Hélène Siard106 concerning the Hydreion of Delos’ Serapeum C) to interpret the building as a real shrine, a naiskos, or better, according to Siard’s definition, a “temple réservoir” or “temple de l’eau”.107

104 105 106 107

Provenzale 2008, 196–200; Saragoza forthcoming. Saragoza forthcoming. Siard 2007. Ibid., 429.

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The lavatio was followed by the dressing of the cult statue. It was adorned with crowns, garlands, twigs, or bandages108 and dressed with real cloths as well as ornaments.109 Only in this way we can understand, for example, the meaning of the episode of Petronius’ Satyricon110 when the sistrum and the vestis of the simulacrum of Isis are stolen.111 The custom of washing, dressing, adorning, and even combing112 the cult statue during daily or periodical ceremonies, already widely attested in Pharaonic Egypt113 (where the cult statues were considered real living divine presences or, as Apuleius would prefer to say, simulacra spirantia114), is supported by several pieces of evidence for specialized Isiac priests such as the στολιστής,115 the ornatrix fani,116 and the vestitores deorum117 and divinorum simulacrorum.118 In addition to these,119 other practises obviously provided for libations, sacrifices, and common banquets. The lectisternium represented in the Greek120 and Roman121 epochs a very integral component of this complex ritual system: the banquets organized in honour of the god Serapis are quite well attested by literary and epigraphical sources.122 The possibility of offering sacrifices and banquets in the sanctuaries implied the necessary presence of adequate infrastructures: tabernae, kitchens, stores, etc. In the Temple of Isis in Pompeii, indeed, there were a cubiculum, a triclinium, a sacrarium, a kitchen with an oven, and a latrine. Even the area between the sanctuary and the theatre, which initially was open to external traffic, was later closed and became a further service hall. The so-called Ekklesiasterion, finally, represented a suitable schola for hosting sacred banquets. Sanctuaries also usually provided baths123 (the “Republican Baths” of Pompeii are not far away from the Iseum) and accommodation.124 In this regard, it is important to underline that the Temple of Isis probably had a second floor: a wooden staircase along the eastern wall of the kitchen seems to be reported in the plans of J. A. Renard and F. La Vega, and another one along the western external wall of the cubiculum appears on L. Rossini’s plan. 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122

ThesCRA II 2004, 451–56. Ibid., 427–37. Petron. sat. 114.5. Rodríguez Morales 1999a and 1999b. Ap. met. 11.9. Hani 1976, 280–83. Ap. met. 11.17. RICIS 101/0215, 0221–22, 0227, 0229; 515/0125. Cf. Malaise 2003. RICIS 605/0103. Firm. Mat. 1.182.30. Firm. Mat. 1.170.12. Estienne 2001; ThesCRA II 2004, 417–507. ThesCRA II 2004, 437–44. Ibid., 444–51. Tert. apol. 39.15; RICIS 113/0575, 610/0104. Cf. Youtie 1948; Gilliam 1976; Veyne 2000; Alvar 2001, 177–80; Bevilacqua 2003; Coarelli 2006, 63; Steimle 2006; Campanelli 2007. 123 In Apuleius’ account, Lucius is brought to the baths near the temple before his initiation: Ap. met. 11.23. 124 Lucius, while waiting for his initiation, rents accommodation within the sanctuary: Ap. met. 11.19.

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4 CONCLUSIONS To sum up, these pages represent an attempt to offer some ideas of the complexity of the rites gravitating around the Temple of Isis in Pompeii. By highlighting some architectural and topographical features of this shrine by taking an archaeological perspective, I tried to show that the concept of experiencing cultic performances does not have to fall into the idea of a simple mechanical repetition of a few standardized practises related to an institutionalised cult. Archaeology of religion allows us to detect signs of both everyday and periodic cultic experience based on a very subjective communication between gods and devotees (including religious specialists). With the support of literary and epigraphical sources, it is possible to strongly enhance our comprehension of Isiac rituals, recreating a kaleidoscopic world made of a very variegated emotional and even “physical” appropriation, where music, dance and scenic representations (which Plutarch125 called μιμήματα and which are partially comparable with medieval sacred dramas) transformed the sanctuary itself into a theatrical orchestra, and the staircase, altar and pronaos into a sort of stage.126 Two well-known frescoes from Herculaneum127 beautifully represent these moments, probably in the context of the celebrations of the Inventio Osiridis, corresponding in the Roman epoch to Ptolemaic Kikellia, which took place from the 29th of the month of Choiak.128 In these occasions, Firmicus Maternus129 and Plutarch130 describe the devotees desperately looking for the missing pieces of Osiris’ body and, after reuniting them, becoming drunk with joy. The festival of the Inventio Osiridis was annually celebrated in the Roman epoch from 28 October. I would like to conclude these digressions by considering that, if the eruption of Somma-Vesuvius really took place from October 24 to 25 in 79 CE131 (and not in August, as according to the traditional studies), then we can really imagine the Isiac devotees at Pompeii engaged in fervent preparations on the eve of that celebration, tragically interrupted by the catastrophic event which marked the end of their lives. Der, welcher wandert diese Strasse voll Beschwerden, Wird rein durch Feuer, Wasser, Luft und Erden; Wenn er des Todes Schrecken überwinden kann, Schwingt er sich aus der Erde Himmel an. Erleuchtet wird er dann im Stande seyn, Sich den Mysterien der Isis ganz zu weih’n. (W. A. Mozart – E. Schikaneder, Die Zauberflöte, II 28)

125 126 127 128 129 130 131

Plut. de is. et os. 27 (361e). Coarelli 2006, 63. Gasparini 2006, 123–24; Gasparini 2009, 351–53; Gasparini 2010a. Merkelbach 1969. Firm. Mat. 2.3. Plut. de is. et os. 39 (366e–f). Cf. Ciarallo, De Carolis 1998; Borgongino, Stefani 2001–2002; Ciarallo 2003; Savino 2004; Borgongino, Stefani 2007a and 2007b; Stefani 2011.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Adamo Muscettola, Stefania 1992. “La decorazione architettonica e l’arredo”, in: Cantilena, Prisco 1992. 63–75. Adamo Muscettola, Stefania; De Caro, Stefano (eds.) 1994. Alla ricerca di Iside. Atti della giornata di studio (Napoli, 4 giugno 1993), La Parola del Passato 49. 1–168. Alvar, Jaime 2001. Los Misterios. Religiones “orientales” en el Imperio Romano. Barcelona [recently translated in Alvar, Jaime 2008. Romanising Oriental Gods. Myth, Salvation, and Ethics in the Cults of Cybele, Isis and Mithras (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 165). Leiden– Boston, and carefully reviewed in Hidalgo de la Vega, Maria José 2009. “Misticismo y misterios. Reflexiones à proposito de la edición inglesa de un libro reciente”, Studia Historica. Historia Antigua 27. 207–27]. Arslan, Ermanno A. (ed.) 1997. Iside. Il mito, il mistero, la magia. Catalogo della mostra (Milano, Palazzo Reale, 22 febbraio – 1 giugno 1997). Milano. Assmann, Jan 2008. Die Zauberflöte. Oper und Mysterium. Frankfurt am Main. Aubaude, Camille 2000. “Isis romantique. La grandeur du mystère”, in: Bricault 2000. 147–61. Avilia, Filippo; Jacobelli, Luciana 1989. “Le naumachie nelle pitture pompeiane”, Rivista di Studi Pompeiani 3. 131–54. Baltrušaitis, Jurgis 1967. La Quête d’Isis: essai sur la légende d’un mythe. Introduction à l’Égyptomanie. Paris [1967] 20102 (second it. ed.: La ricerca di Iside. Saggio sulla leggenda di un mito. Milano). Barnabei, Lorenza; Cassetta, Roberto 2007. “I culti di Pompei. Raccolta critica della documentazione”, Contributi di Archeologia Vesuviana 3 (Studi Soprintendenza Archeologica di Pompei 21). Roma. 11–88. Bastet, Frédéric L. 1979. “Mozart in Pompeii”, Hermeneus 51. 284–95. Beaurin, Ludivine 2008. “Isis-Fortuna à Pompéi. Le succès d’une déesse intégrée”, Oebalus 3. 267– 93. Berlan-Bajard, Anne 2006. Les spectacles aquatiques romains (Collection de l’École Française de Rome 360). Roma. Bevilacqua, Gabriella 2003. “Topos labyrinthos. Serapide e il Marmararion Ghenos”, in: Epigraphica. Atti delle Giornate di Studio di Roma e di Atene in memoria di Margherita Guarducci (1902–1999), Opuscola Epigraphica 10. 217–27. Blanc, Nicole; Eristov, Hélène; Fincker, Myriam 2000. “A fundamento restituit? Réfections dans le temple d’Isis à Pompéi”, Revue Archéologique 2. 227–309. Borgongino, Michele; Stefani, Grete 2001–2002. “Intorno alla data dell’eruzione del 79 d. C.”, Rivista di Studi Pompeiani 12–13. 177–215. Borgongino, Michele, Stefani, Grete 2007a. “Ancora sulla data dell’eruzione”, Rivista di Studi Pompeiani 18. 204–06. Borgongino, Michele; Stefani, Grete 2007b. “La question de la date de l’éruption du Vésuve”, in: Petit, Jean-Paul; Santoro, Sara (eds.) 2007. Vivre en Europe romaine. De Pompéi à BliesbruckReinheim. Paris. 43–45. Borlenghi, Aldo 2011. Il campus. Organizzazione e funzione di uno spazio pubblico in età romana. Le testimonianze in Italia e nelle Province Occidentali. Roma. Brenk, Frederick 2009. “‘Great Royal Spouse Who Protects Her Brother Osiris’: Isis in the Isaeum at Pompeii”, in: Casadio, Giovanni; Johnston, Patricia A. (eds.) 2009. Mystic cults in Magna Graecia. Austin. 217–34. Brenk, Frederick 2012. “Image and religion: a Christian in the Temple of Isis at Pompeii”, in: Cissé Niang, Aliou; Osiek, Carolyn (eds.) 2012. Text, image and Christians in the Graeco-Roman world, A Festschrift in Honor of David Lee Balch. Eugene. 218–38. Bricault, Laurent (ed.) 2000. De Memphis à Rome. Actes du Ier Colloque International sur les études isiaques (Poitiers-Futuroscope, 8–10 avril 1999) (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 140). Leiden–Boston–Köln.

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213

GENERAL INDEX Compiled by Maximilian Gutberlet Abdera: 44 Abonouteichos: 72 abstinence, from meat and wine (mysteries of Isis): 156; sexual (mysteries of Isis): 169 Achaia: 55, 127 Acheloos: 93; sacrifice for (pig): 93 Achilleion (Troades): 117 Achilles, agalma of (Parthenon): 115; cult of: 117; orge of: 115, 117; saving Athens from Alaric: 115–120, 127; statue of: 117; tumulus of: 117 adultery (by Aphrodite, with Ares): 38 Aegean: 35, 86 Aegilia: 67 Aegina: 21, 24–26, 28–31, 43, 45, 47 Aelian: 91 Aelius Stilo: 178 Aepytus: 71 Aesculapius: 190–191 Aetolia: 90 Aetolian league: 95 afterlife, hopes for: 167 Agamemnon: 39 Agetos: 25 agon, gymnastic: 83; musical: 83 Agripinella: 153–154 Aigai: 86–88 Aischylos: 90 Aizanoi: 90 Ajax: 39, 67 Akkadia: 35 Akmoneia: 90 Alaric: 115, 117–121, 123–128 Alcinous: 36 Alcmene: 27 Aletes: 90 Alexander of Abonouteichos: 72, 92 Alexander the Great: 29, 76, 88, 117; depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151 Alexandria: 122–123, 125 Amasis: 42 Ambrosia: 97 Amphitryon: 27 Anatolius: 127 ancilia: 177 Andania: 64–66, 68–69, 71, 76 Andromeda, depiction of (together with Perseus, in the temple of Isis in Pompeii): 204 Andros: 98

Aneristus: 43–44 annals, of Rome: 179 Annona, depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151 anonymity: 36, 40, 49; connection with oath-taking: 36–38; endangering social order: 37 anonymous deities: 37, 48, 67 Antheia: 56 Antigonos Doson: 88 Antiochos of Aigai: 86–87 anti-pagan policy (Theodosius): 121–125 Antoninus Pius: 88, 122, 125; time of: 64 Anubis: 98–99 Apameia: 90 Aphareos: 68, 71 Aphrodisias: 89 Aphrodite: 38; depiction of (together with Ares, in the temple of Isis in Pompeii): 204 Apollo: 34, 38, 41, 45, 47, 68, 85, 88–89, 100, 195; epiphany of: 84, 91–92; sanctuary of: 26; temple of (Sicyon): 95 Apollo Lykeios, cult of: 87; sanctuary of: 87–88 Apollo Karneios: 68 Apollo Pythios: 83 Apollonios: 98–99 Arabia: 101 Arai: 23 ara maxima: 191 Araxe: 84–85 Arcadia: 57, 64, 118, 199 archaiotes: 82, 85, 89, 95, 102 archimimus: 195 architectural features of a temple, facilitating impression of divine presence: 141–142 archives of the pontiffs (Rome): 179 Ares: 38; depiction of (together with Aphrodite in the temple of Isis in Pompeii): 204 aretalogy: 97–98, 100; of Isis: 98 Argei: 182 Argolis: 199 Argos: 64, 69–70, 86–88, 102 Ariston: 25–28, 38 Arene: 68 areopagus: 72 Ariadne: 167–168, 171–175 Aristomenes: 64–69, 71; cult of: 71; tomb of: 71

214

General Index

armilustrium: 178 army: 39 Aroe: 56–57 Artemis: 67, 85, 88–89, 91; cult of: 55; epiphany of: 84; rites of: 55; sanctuary of: 55, 59; temple of: 56 Artemis Daitis, cult of: 199; temple of (Ephesus): 194 Artemis Ephesia, statue of: 58 Artemis Laphria, cult of: 58–60, 71 Artemis Leukophryene: 84, 89; epiphany of: 83; panhellenic festival of: 83 Artemis Limnatis: 68; sanctuary of: 60 Artemis Mounichia, cult of: 59; statue of: 59 Artemis Orthia, cult of: 59–60; shrine of: 58; temple of: 58–60 Artemis Phosphoros: 60; statue of: 58 Artemis Soteira, statue of: 57–58 Artemis Taurica, epiphany of: 86 Artemis Triklaria, festival of: 57; ritual of: 56; temple of: 57 asklepieion: 58, 60, 96; in Epidauros: 97; in Epidauros, connected with ritual drama: 194; in Lebena: 93; in Messene, connected with ritual drama: 194; in Pompeii: 191 Asklepios: 68, 72, 88, 93; cult of: 96; epiphany of (healing in dreams): 97 Ashera: 73 Asia Minor: 86, 89–90, 101 association of stuppatores in Ostia: 145, 147–8, 164; sanctuary of: 145, 147–8, 164 Assyria: 72 Astarte: 73; connected with ritual drama: 194 Astrabacus: 27 Atarantes: 36 Atargatis, connected with ritual drama: 194; cult of: 199; sanctuary of (Delos): 199; temple of (Hierapolis): 199 Ate: 40 Athamas: 45 atheism: 141 Athena: 190–191; compared with Virgin Mary: 126; cult of (Argolis): 199; cult of (Argos): 87; epiphany of, in dreams: 90–91, 94–96; intervening in war: 95–96; temple of (Argos): 87; statue of: 126; statue of (Argos): 87; statue of (Parthenon): 115 Athena Ilias, temenos of: 117 Athena Polias: 94–95 Athena Promachos, saving Athens from Alaric: 115, 119

Athens: 21, 24–26, 28–32, 42–43, 45–48, 68–69, 71, 91, 97; saved by Achilles and Athena Promachos from Alaric: 115–121, 124, 127–128 atrium vestae: 180 Attica: 44, 89, 115–116 Attis: 151–152 auguratorium: 178 Augustus: 189; time of: 59, 71, 81, 121, 200 Aurelia: 171 Baal: 73 Babylon: 35, 73 Babylonian exile (Israel): 73–75 Bacchus: 172; cult of: 153; grove of: 169 banquet, in the cult of Isis: 205; in the ludi megalenses: 195 basileus: 23 Basilica Hilariana: 151–152 bath (mysteries of Isis): 156, 205; ritual: 57 beneficium: 152, 156 Bethel: 73 Bible: 96 Bisanthe: 44 Boiotia: 89 Bombos from Alexandria Troas: 87 Bona Dea, ritual of: 170–172, 174; temple of: 171 Book of the Law: 65, 72–76 books, sacred (cult of Isis): 203 Bosporos: 86 Bulis: 43–47 burial: 37, 39, 167, 175; of Theodosius: 123 Cadmos: 95 Caelian Hill: 151–152 Cagliari: 194 calendar, of Philocalus: 191; of Praeneste: 178; of Rome: 179 Caligula: 201 Campus Martius: 177–178, 180, 189–191 Canaan: 73–75 Canopos: 99 Capitol: 140–142 Capitoline Hill: 181 Capitoline temple: 142 Caracalla: 117 carmina saliorum: 177, 182–183 Carnasian grove: 65, 68–69, 71 Caucon: 68–70 Cautes and Cautopates, on tauroctony (mithraeum in Marino): 162; images of

General Index (mithraeum in Marino): 161, 163; mithraeum on Esquiline Hill: 158–159 ceremony, facilitating invented tradition: 18 Cecropias: 118 Cerialis: 150 Chersonesos: 85 Chiron: 116 Christianity: 7; religious experience in: 135 Christianisation: 119; of the Goths: 125 Chrysaor: 90 Cicero: 116–117 Cilicie: 87–88 Cincius: 178 citizenship: 27, 55, 57 Cleomenes: 21, 24–26, 28, 30, 48 Clodius: 138, 170–171, 174 collegium dendrophorum (Caelian Hill): 151–152 comedy: 49 Commandments, Ten: 73 communication between men and gods: 206 comparative approach, in the history of religions: 65 Concordia (deity): 139 Constantine: 117 Constantinople: 126–127 Constantius: 116 contingency: 48; dealing with through memory: 17–18 Corinth: 118, 201 Coronis: 88 Cos: 92 Covenant, between Israel and Yahweh: 73–75 cow: 27 Cresphontes: 71 Crete: 84, 93, 194 Croesus: 42 Cronos: 38, 40, 67 cult, communicating a group’s wealth: 147 cult form, influencing setting of ritual: 147; influencing quality of religious experience: 147 cultural object (Griswold): 30, 48 cultural studies: 7 curia: 126, 178–179; Palatine Hill: 177–179, 181 curetes: 94, 182 cures, by Sarapis (Canopos): 99 curse tablets: 40 Cybele, cult of (Cyzicus): 199; cult of (Magnesia): 199; cult of (Pessinunte): 199 Cyrene: 93, 98 Cytenion: 88

215

Cytissorus: 45 Cyzicene: 91 Cyzicus: 199 damnatio memoriae: 69 Danaos: 87–88 dance (myth of Dionysos and Ariadne): 167 Danube: 125–126 Darius: 25, 43, 45, 95 Datis: 97 David: 73 Deadly Night (deity): 23 deae matutina salutatio (of Isis): 203, 205 Dea Syria: 101 death: 56–57, 142; return from: 57 dedication, of the temple of Hercules (Rome): 191; of the theatrum marmoreum (Rome): 191 Delos: 38, 89, 98–99, 199, 204 Delphi: 25–26, 34, 37, 40–42, 45, 47–49, 83–84, 92 Demaratus: 21, 24–29, 34, 38, 40 Demeter: 67, 71 Demeter Louisia, cult of (Arcadia): 199; sanctuary of (Aegilia): 67 Demodocus: 36 demon: 35, 175 Denthaliate, district: 103 desecration: 73 deisidaimonia, difference from superstitio: 140–141 Deucalion: 93 Dexippus: 122 Diana, representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159; temple of (Nemi): 195 Diana Limnatis, temple of: 103 diasporic religion: 72 Didyma: 89 Diocletian: 123 Diomedes: 32 Dionysios of Halicarnassos: 82–83 Dionysopolis: 195 Dionysos: 89–90, 167–168, 171–174; image of: 56; mysteries of: 170; representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159; statues of: 57 Dionysos Aisymnetes, sanctuary of: 56–57 Dionysos Antheus: 56 Dionysos Aroeus: 56 Dionysos Mesateus: 56 Dioscuri: 68, 70; cult of: 71; depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151; wrath of: 69

216

General Index

disenchantment: 47–49 divine, intervention: 21; in war: 66–67, 91–92, 95–96 divine, presence, in a sanctuary (impression of, facilitated by architectural features): 141–142; in a statue (Isis): 205 divine, protection, by Yahweh: 75 dog, accompanying Silvanus: 149–151; on tauroctony (mithraeum in Marino): 161 dolphin, depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151 Dorians: 65, 68, 71, 88–90; from Laconia: 59–60; from Messene: 60 Doric temple (Pompeii): 190–192 Dorus: 88 drama, ritual: 194–195 dream: 64, 69, 98–99; carrying divine orders: 115, 120; carrying divine orders (Sarapis): 98–99; causing healing by a deity (Asclepius): 97; with epiphany of a deity (Athena): 90–91, 94–96; with epiphany of a deity (Faunus): 175; with religious experience: 155 drunkenness (myth of Hercules and Omphale): 170 Dryad nymph: 170 earthquake: 88, 115, 119; caused by Apollo: 92; caused by Zeus: 91–92 Elektra: 39 Eleusis: 120, 127 emperor, depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151 entrails: 27 Epameinondas: 57–58, 63–64, 68–69; statue of: 71 Ephesos: 89, 194, 199 Ephors: 25 epic (archaic/Homeric): 47, 49 Epicydes: 24, 31, 33–34 Epidauros: 93, 97, 100, 194 epiphany: 90; of Apollo: 84, 91–92; of Artemis: 84; of Artemis Leukophryene: 83; of Artemis Taurica; 86; of Asclepius, healing in dreams: 97; of Athena, in dreams: 90–91, 94–96; of Faunus, in dreams: 175; of Heracles: 91; of Isis: 98; of Mithras: 152, 154; of Zeus: 91–92 Epiteles: 64, 69 Epitides: 65, 68 equirria: 178 Erinyes: 23–24, 38–39; as anonymous goddesses: 37

Eris: 23–24 Erulean invasion: 118 esoteric nature of a cult (Egyptian cults): 201 Esquiline Hill: 158–159 Eudoxia: 119, 126 eugeneia: 82, 85, 88–89, 102 Eumelos: 57 Euronomos: 98 Eurymedon: 123 Eurypylos: 56–57 Eurytus: 68, 71 eusebeia: 141, 195 Eutropius: 121 exclusiveness of a cult, enhancing religious experience and group identity: 147, 151, 153–159, 163; in the mysteries of Isis: 201 exodus, of Israel from Egypt: 73 experience, idiosyncratic and processual: 154–156, 158, 163; religious: 7–8, 11; religious, in Christianity: 135; religious, individual: 135; religious, in dream: 155; religious, in Judaism: 135; religious, on pilgrimage: 135; religious, quality of, influenced by cult form: 147; religious, quality of, influenced by group structure: 147, 151, 155, 163–164; religious, quality of, influenced by setting (including sensual stimulation): 155, 157–159, 161–164; religious, symbolical articulation of: 135 Faistos: 84 fate: 48 Fatui: 175 Fauna: 174; rituals of: 170 Faunus: 167, 169–172, 174; epiphany of, in dreams: 175 fertility, of the fields: 56 fire, of 390 BCE (Rome): 179 fish, sacred (cult of Atargatis): 199 flamen martialis: 177, 180 folktales: 116 forum (Rome): 177–182 Fortuna: 156; depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151 Fortuna huiusce diei, statue of: 137, 139 Fortuna Muliebris: 139 Gabii: 194 Galatia: 92 Genius, depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151; representation of

General Index (Esquiline Hill): 158–159; winged, connected with fertility: 171 genos: 29, 32, 35, 40, 42, 47 German, provinces: 92 Gerontius: 124 ghost: 91 gigantomachy, representation of (mithraeum in Marino): 161 Glaucos: 84 Glaucus: 21, 24–25, 28–29, 31–37, 40–43, 45–49; the Lycean: 32 Glycon: 72 gods, relationship with men: 34, 42, 45–46, 49 gorgoneion, depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151 Gorgons: 38, 87 Gortina: 84 Graiai: 38 grain, cultivation of: 57 Gratianus: 123 Great Goddesses, mysteries of: 64–65, 68–70, 120, 127 Great Gods, connected with ritual drama: 194 gynaeceia: 170 Hades, having many names: 38 Hadrian: 87–88, 117 Hadrianople, Battle of: 115, 120–121 Harpocrates, depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151 healing, by epiphany of a deity in a dream (Asclepius): 97 health: 55 Hector: 67; heroon of: 117 Hekate: 91; sanctuary of: 91 Helios: 100 Hellespont: 44 henotheism (Isiac cult): 98 Hephaestus: 38 Hera: 70; cult of (Nafplion): 199 Herakles: 71; epiphany of: 91 Heraklidas: 85–86 Herculaneum: 206 Hercules: 168–172, 174, 182, 189–190; depiction of (Pompeii): 191; descendants of: 103; representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159; temple of (Rome): 191 Hercules Invictus, festival of (together with Venus Victrix): 191 Hercules Musarum: 174 Hermes: 191 Hermokles from Chios: 87 hero, connected with polis-identity: 71

217

Herodotus, concept of religion: 46; understanding of history: 48–49 Heruls: 119 Hierapolis: 199 hierophant: 69, 115 hierothysion: 71 Hilarius: 121 Hinnom, Valley of: 73 Hippolytus: 36 history, constructed nature of: 27, 49, 17–18 history of religions: 7, 11; comparative approach in: 65 Horkos (deity): 23–24 Horus, representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159 hybris: 116 Hydarnes: 43 hydreion, in the Serapeum of Delos: 204 hydromimes: 199 iamata: 96, 100 iconic turn: 139–140 identity, Greek: 64, 89; oblivion of people‘s identity: 74; of people: 67; of a polis, connected with local heroes: 71; of a polis, connected with myth: 55–60; of a polis, connected with sacred objects: 71; of a polis, perpetuated by ritual: 55–60; political: 7; related to memory: 74–77; representational: 65; social: 26–27, 34 Ilion: 90–91 Illyricum: 127 image, role in Roman sanctuaries: 138; of a deity, interacting with the worshipper: 139–140 impiety, pagans accusing Christians of: 125 incest (Faunus with his daughter Bona Dea): 171, 174 Incubus, alternative name for Faunus: 175 individual, methodological focus on: 7–8; under-representation of, in sources: 154 infernal, gods: 67 initiation, into Andanian mysteries: 64, 76; into mysteries of Dionysos: 170; into mysteries of Isis: 155–157, 163, 203, 205; into mysteries of the Great Goddesses: 70, 127; rites of: 55–57, 60 Inanna, connected with ritual drama: 194 inscriptions, confessional: 100–102 integration, social: 7 intentional history (Gherke): 82, 89 intercourse with animals: 171 interpretatio graeca: 89

218

General Index

Inuus, alternative name for Faunus: 175 invasion of Greece and Thrace by Alaric: 115, 117–121, 123–128 invented tradition: 17–18 inventio Osiridis: 206 Ionia: 31, 35, 56, 90 Ionic revolt: 32 Iphigenia: 37 iseum (Puteoli): 195 Ishtar, connected with ritual drama: 194 Isis: 101, 141; aretalogy of: 98; cult of: 93, 195–197, 200–201, 204–205; depiction of (Pompeii): 191; epiphany of: 98; festivals of: 195; henotheistic character of her cult: 98; mysteries of: 155–157, 163, 203, 205; representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159; representation of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 149–151; sanctuary of: 157; temple of (Cyrene): 98; temple of (Pompeii): 185, 189, 191–192, 195–197, 201, 203–206 Israel: 72–77; Covenant of (with Yahweh): 73–75 Ithome, Mount: 60, 64, 66, 69, 89 ivy, wreath of: 57 Jason: 35 Jerusalem: 72–75; temple of: 73 John Chrysostom: 119, 126 Josiah: 65, 72–77 Jovian, time of: 121 Judah: 72–74 Judaism, religious experience in: 135 Julian: 119, 125, 127; time of: 116, 123 Julius Caesar: 103 judicial oratory: 35–36 Juno: 139–141 Jupiter: 140–141; representation of (Esquiline hill): 158–159 Jupiter Capitolinus: 142 Jupiter Meilichios, temple of (Pompeii): 191 Justice (deity): 35, 39 justice, international and private: 32 Kabeiros, temple of (Thebes): 194; connected with ritual drama: 194 Kabirion: 95 Kalydon: 58, 60 Kalymnos: 89 kantharos: 169 Kenchreai: 201 kid, sacrificed for Nymphs: 93 komai: 56–57

Komaitho: 56–57 Labienus: 91 Laconia: 59–60 Laetus: 150 lampadeia: 191 Lanuvium: 194 Laodicea: 90 lararium: 151, 153; on the Esquiline Hill: 158–159 Lares, cult of: 179; representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159 larnax: 56 lavationes: 199 Lebena: 93 Lemnos: 95 Leotychidas: 21, 24, 26–32, 42–43, 47–48 leprosy: 35 Lethe: 23 Leto: 38, 88–89 Letoon (Xanthos): 89 Leucippus: 84 Leuktra, Battle of: 57, 63, 68 libation (cult of Isis): 205 liberalia: 182 Libya: 68 lightning, caused by Apollo: 95; caused by Zeus: 91–92 Lindos, chronicle of: 93–96 lituus, of Romulus: 178–179 Longinus: 201, 203 love, forbidden: 56 ludi megalenses: 194–195 ludi saeculares: 123 Luna, on tauroctony (mithraeum in Marino): 161 lupercalia: 170, 174; connected with memory: 169 Luperci Fabiani: 170; Quinctilii: 170 lychnapsia: 191 Lycia: 84–85, 89 Lycos: 66, 68, 90 Lydia: 92, 97, 100–101, 171 lyre (myth of Dionysos and Ariadne): 169, 171, 174 Mâ-Bellona: 191 Macedonia: 29, 103, 120 madness: 56 Maenads: 167, 171 Maeonia: 169 magic: 94 magistrate: 58

General Index Magna Mater: 151–152, 191; connected with ludi megalenses: 194–195; connected with ritual drama: 194–195 Magnesia: 82–84, 89, 102, 199 mamurralia: 178 Manasseh: 74 Manes: 172 Marc Antony: 103 Marc Aurel: 88 Marcellus, statue of (Pompeii): 189 Mardonius: 76 mare clausum: 195 marriage: 55 Mars: 139, 179, 181; altar of: 177–178, 180, 183; representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159; temple of (Porta Capena): 177–178 Mars Ultor, temple of: 177 Mary, Virgin, compared with Athena: 126 Maximus: 116 Medes: 44 Megalopolis: 57–58; personification of: 57–58; statue of: 57 Meilichos: 56–57 Melaneus: 68 Melanippos: 56 melodrama: 49 memory, ambivalent nature of: 17–18; collective: 71, 73, 75; connected with lupercalia: 169; constructed nature of: 27, 75–76; cultural: 11, 18, 66, 75; dealing with contingency: 17–18; divine: 46; fragility of: 33, 39, 45; interaction of individual and social memory: 8; intergenerational: 34, 47; interplay of, with oblivion: 18; management: 75–77; museumization of: 71; objectification of: 65; of a polis, linked to myth: 55–60; of a polis, perpetuated by ritual: 55–60; of archaic culture in late antiquity: 115–120, 126–127; related to identity: 74–77; relationship with religion: 55; religious: 7–8, 71–77; religious, connected with ritual: 68; restitution of: 42; sacred, preserved and divulged through sanctuaries: 83, 95; social, eradication of: 42; spatialisation of: 75 Memphis: 98 Mesatis: 56 Mes Axiottenos: 100–101 Mesopotamia: 194 Messene (polis): 57–60, 63–72, 74–77, 89, 103, 194

219

Messene (hero): 71; cult of: 71; temple of: 71 miasma: 37 Midas: 170 Miletus: 31, 33–35, 41–42, 47, 89 Minerva: 140 Minos: 95 mithraeum, of Esquiline Hill: 158–159; Marino: 161–163; Ostia: 145, 147–8, 164; Rome: 152–154 Mithras: 147, 156, 164; epiphany of: 152, 154; killing the bull (mithraeum in Marino): 161–163; personal relationship with: 152, 162–163; representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159; riding the bull (mithraeum in Marino): 161; rock-birth of (mithraeum in Marino): 161; shaking hands with Sol (mithraeum in Marino): 161; taurophorus (mithraeum in Marino): 161; water-miracle of (mithraeum in Marino): 161; with Sol kneeling in front of him (mithraeum in Marino): 161 Moirai, as anonymous goddesses: 37 Moloch: 73 music, in the myth of Dionysos and Ariadne: 167; during rituals of Bona Dea: 170 myrtle: 69, 76, 171 mysteries, Andanian: 64, 68, 76; of Dionysos: 170; of Isis: 155–157, 163, 203, 205; of the Great Goddesses: 64–65, 68–70, 120, 127 myth, linked to memory and identity of a polis: 55–60; perpetuated by ritual: 55–60 Nanna: 35 natrix: 175 Naupaktos: 58, 60, 71 Nauplion: 199 navarchi: 201 navigium Isidis: 195, 200–201 Naxos: 173 Nebuchadnezzar: 73 Necho: 73 necromancer: 73 Nemea: 70 Nemi: 195, 201 Neoplatonism: 119, 124, 126–127 Nero, time of: 199 Nestorius: 115, 120 Nicolaus: 43–44 nomoi: 33, 44, 48 Norbanus Sorex, Caius: 195 nudity, of Luperci: 169–170 Numa: 179

220

General Index

Nymphodorus: 44 Nymphs, sacrifice for (kid): 93 Nysa: 89 oath: 21, 27, 30, 32–38, 41, 45, 48–49; fragility of: 39; of the gods: 38; stabilising social group: 22–23 Oath (deity): 38–39 oblivion: 21, 23–24, 37, 39, 49, 64; cultural: 69; intentional: 33, 41, 49, 69, 75–77; interplay of, with memory: 18; of people‘s identity: 74; social: 37 Oblivion (deity): 23–24 october equus: 178, 180 Odysseus: 36 oechalia: 65, 68–69, 71 oikos: 27, 31, 40, 42, 47 Olympic, panhellenic festival: 83 Olympus: 38 omen: 39, 64; bad: 43; myth of Hercules and Omphale: 170 Omphale: 167, 169–170, 172; ritual of: 171 Ops Consiva, sacrarium of (Rome): 179–181 Opus: 98 oracle, of Apollo (Delphi): 83–84, 92; of Sarapis (Canopos): 99; of Yahweh: 73; of Pythia: 66 Orestes: 37, 39 Oribasus: 117 ornatrix fani: 205 Orphism: 170 Ostia: 145, 147–151, 164, 185 Pactyes: 43 Paedra: 36 Palatine Hill: 177–179, 181–182 Palestine: 194 Palestrina: 189 palladion (Troy): 87 palm, branch (cult of Isis): 204 Pamphylia: 84 Pan: 58, 167, 169–171, 174 Pandion: 66, 68 panhellenic festival, of Artemis Leukophryene: 83; Olympic: 83; Pythic: 83 Panhellenion: 87–88 Pan, statue of: 58 Paphlagonia: 72 partes secundae: 195 Parmenon: 86 parody: 49 Parthenon: 115, 118 Parthia: 91

Patras: 55–58 Patroclus, death of: 115 Pausanias, general agenda of: 64 pausarii: 195 Peloponnese: 55, 59, 63, 68, 103 Peloponnesian, War: 44 Penates, cult of: 179 Pergamon: 89 Pericles: 43 Perieres: 68 perjury: 23–49; endangering social structure: 42 Perseus: 87–88; depiction of, together with Andromeda (temple of Isis in Pompeii): 204 Persia: 26, 29, 43–45, 76, 97 Persian, conquest: 32; expedition: 116; Wars: 59 personal relationship with a deity: 147, 156, 163–164; with Mithras: 152, 162–163 Pessinunte: 199 phallus, of Pan: 170–171, 174 phenomenology: 11 philanthropia: 117 Philip of Macedonia: 103 Philostorgius: 118 Phlegyas: 88 Phoenicia: 95, 194 Phoenix (educating Achilles): 116 Phrixus: 45 Phrygia: 92, 97, 100–101, 170 physical deformity: 38, 40 Picenum: 175 picturing (concept of transforming a world by making pictures of it): 139 Pietrabbondante: 194 piety: 72 pignora imperii: 179 pig (sacrificed for Acheloos): 93 pilgrimage, as religious experience: 135 Piraeus: 59, 118 Platea, Battle of: 29 ploiaphesia: 195, 200–201 Poblicius Hilarus, Manius: 151–152 polemic, anti-Christian: 123–126 pole, sacred (Jerusalem): 73 Polycrates: 42 Polyzalos: 95 pomoerium: 177 Pompeia: 170–171, 174 Pompeii: 185–206; depiction of its eponymous goddess (Venus): 191 Pompey: 191 Pomponius Musa: 174

General Index pontifex maximus: 178–179, 183 pontiffs, archives of (Rome): 179 Poseidippos: 96 praefericulum: 181 Praeneste: 194; calendar of: 178 prayer, in preparation of initiation (mysteries of Isis): 156; secret, without naming the god(s): 66–67 Prexaspes: 23 priestess, of Demeter (Aegilia): 67 priestly class, prestige of: 70 procession, in the cult of Isis: 195–197; ludi megalenses: 195; lychnapsia/lampadeia: 191 pronoia: 119, 126–127 Proserpina: 155 psychologism: 11 Ptolemaios: 99 Pulcheria: 119 Punics: 73 purification, before entering a sanctuary (temple of Isis in Pompeii): 201, 203 Puteoli: 195 Pytheas: 44 Pythia: 26, 34, 36, 38, 41, 47, 56, 66; panhellenic festival of: 83 Quinquatrus, day of: 178 Quirinal Hill: 177, 179, 182 Quirinus: 177, 181; temple of: 181 rape, of Bona Dea by Faunus: 171, 174 raven, on tauroctony (mithraeum in Marino): 162; white, apparition of: 84 reading, public (akroasis): 81, 86, 88, 90 regia (Rome): 177–183 religion, as a cultural product: 7; broad concept of: 7; diasporic: 72; distinction of historical and traditional religion: 18; relationship with memory: 55; strengthening/ emphasising coherence of a group: 147, 153–154, 164; religious, quality of experience (transcendent otherness): 155, 163; studies: 7, 11 Remus: 170 rex sacrificorum: 179 rex sacrorum: 179 Rhianus of Bene: 66 Rhodes: 94–96 rite, of passage: 57; of the discoverer of the vine: 169–170, 172 ritual, connected with religious memory: 68; ethical function of: 57; influencing

221

architecture and location of a temple (temple of Isis in Pompeii): 185, 195, 203–206; of spear-shaking: 180–181; perpetuating myth, memory and identity of a polis: 55–60; setting of influenced by group structure: 147, 155, 163; setting of influenced by cult form: 147 Rome, mythical foundation of: 182–183; occupied by Alaric: 123–124, 127 Romulus: 170, 178–179 sacellum, of Silvanus (Ostia): 148–151, 154; on Esquiline Hill: 158–159 sacrarium: 181–183; Martis (Rome): 178–183 sacrifice, in the cult of Isis: 205; ludi megalenses: 195; lychnapsia/lampadeia: 191; october equus: 180; rite of Salii: 178, 183; bloody: 22, 58–59; for Acheloos (pig): 93; for Athena: 115; for Nymphs (kid): 93; human: 56, 141; human, to Moloch: 73 sacrificial entrails: 28 sacrilege: 43; pagans accusing Christians of: 125 Salamis, Battle of: 59 Salii: 179, 180; Collini: 177, 179, 181–182; Palatini: 177–178, 181–182; rite of: 177–178, 181–183 Salus (deity): 139 Salvanel: 175 Šamaš: 35 Samaria: 72–73 Samnites: 190 Samos: 89 Samothrace: 194 sanctuary, foundation of, ordered by a deity (Mithras): 152, 154; preserving and divulging sacred memory: 83, 95 sarapeion: 98–99; Alexandria, destruction of: 122–123, 125; Delos: 204; Ostia: 185; Syracuse: 195 sarapieia: 195 Sarapis: 191, 205; cult of (Delos): 98; cult of (Opus): 98; epiphany of: 98–99; oracle of (Canopos): 99; representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159 sarcophagus, Dionysiac: 167–175 Sardis: 90 Saturn, in the mithraeum in Marino: 161 Satyr: 167, 169, 171 Scipio Africanus, Publius Cornelius: 142 scorpion, on tauroctony (mithraeum in Marino): 162 Scylla: 38

222

General Index

secespita: 181 Semos from Delos: 89 Seneca, Stoicism of: 141 Severus, time of: 168 sexuality, uncontrolled: 170–172 Sibotas: 68 Sicily: 68, 141 Sidyma: 84–85, 92, 102 Sikyon: 59, 95 Silvanus: 175; cult of (Ostia) 151; depiction of (sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia): 148–151 simulacra divina: 205 sin: 35 Sin (deity): 40 Sirens, as anonymous goddesses: 37 sistrum, of Isis: 201, 203–5 Sitalces: 44 situla (cult of Isis): 204 sleep: 94–99, 169–170, 174 snake, in the cult of Isis: 204; Faunus transforming into: 171–172; myth of Dionysos and Ariadne: 167; on tauroctony (mithraeum in Marino): 161; sacred (ritual of Bona Dea): 170 Sol (in the mithraeum in Marino), kneeling in front of Mithras: 161; on tauroctony: 161; shaking hands with Mithras: 161 Solon: 29, 42 Son of Oath (deity): 34, 36–38, 40, 47 Sophism: 127 Sophistic, Second: 102 sorcery: 94 sources, reflection on: 154 Sparta: 21, 24–26, 30–35, 41–48, 58–60, 63–66, 68–72, 76–77, 103, 118 Sperthias: 43–47 statue, bearing divine presence (Isis): 205 Stilicho: 199 Stoicism, criticising passion: 142; of Seneca: 141 stolistes: 205 Stratonikeia: 92 suicide: 37, 39 Sulla: 195; time of: 101, 200 sun, veneration of: 73 superstitio, difference from deisidaimonia: 140–141 supplication: 27–28, 34 symbola: 31–34, 41, 48 syngeneia: 83–84, 86–88, 90, 102 synoecism: 56–57 Syracuse: 195 Syria: 195

Syrian deities: 137; sanctuary of (Rome): 137 Syrianos: 115, 119–120, 128 Syriskos: 85–86 tabula ansata, in the sacellum of Silvanus in Ostia: 149–150 Tanagra: 195 Tarsi: 100–101 Tarsos: 87 tauroctony, in the mithraeum in Marino: 161–163; in the mithraeum on Esquiline Hill: 158 Tecmessa: 39 Tegyra: 89 temple, architecture and location of, influenced by ritual (temple of Isis in Pompeii): 185, 195, 203–206; as place for emotionallyloaded religious experiences: 142; theatricality of (temple of Isis in Pompeii): 185, 194–195, 201, 203–204, 206 teraphim: 73 ‘Theatres Quarter’ (Pompeii): 189–192 theatricality of a temple (temple of Isis in Pompeii): 185, 194–195, 201, 203–204, 206 theatrum marmoreum (Rome): 191 Thebes: 57, 59, 63–64, 68, 194 Telchines: 94 Teos: 89 Tereus: 44 Thalatta: 94 Thaltybiadae: 43 Thaltybius: 43–44; sanctuary of: 43 themistes: 23 Themistokles from Ilion: 87, 90 Theodosius: 116–117; anti-pagan policy: 121–125; burial of: 123; time of: 126 Theophilus: 123 Thermopylae: 124, 126 Theseus: 36 Thessalia: 84, 120 Thrace: 44, 85, 120 thunder, caused by Apollo: 92; caused by Zeus: 91–92 Tiber: 182 Timolus, vineyard of: 169 Titus Tatius: 182 Tivoli: 194 Tlapolemos: 95 Tlos: 84–85 toga virilis: 182 tophet: 73 topos epiphanestatos: 84

General Index torch: 58, 60 tragedy: 35–36, 49 Trajan, time of: 167 transformation into animal (Faunus transforming into snake): 171–172 transvectio equitum: 177 travesty (myth of Hercules and Omphale): 169–171, 174 Trebigild, revolt of: 121 trierarchi: 201 Triopas: 69 Triptolemos: 56 Troades: 117 Trophonios, shrine of: 99 Troy: 56, 67, 87, 117 tubilustrium: 178 Tuscan, temple style: 138 Ugarit: 35 underworld: 34, 37, 39 Valens, time of: 121 Valentinian: 115 Varro, time of: 140 Venus, cult of (in Italy): 199; depiction of (Pompeii): 191; representation of (Esquiline Hill): 158–159 Venus Victrix, festival of (together with Hercules Invictus): 191 Vertumnus: 140 Vesta, cult of: 179; temple of: 179–180 vestals: 182; house of: 179–180 vestitores deorum: 205 Vesuvius, eruption of (79 CE): 206 Vettius Agorius Praetextatus, Publius: 159 via sacra: 179–182

223

Vibius Salutaris, Caius: 194 virgines saliae: 178, 183 wandering, poets and historians: 86 war: 67, 69; divine intervention in: 66–67, 91–92, 95–96; sacred rhythm of: 177–178 War, Messenian (First): 67; Messenian (Second): 64–66; Peloponnesian: 44; Persian (First): 95; Trojan: 84 water, holy (cult of Isis): 200–201, 204 wheat, wreath of: 56–57 wonder, by Artemis: 84; by Apollo: 84; by Zeus Panamaros: 91 wrath, of Dioscuri: 69; of Yahweh: 74–75 Wulfila: 125 Xanthos: 88–90, 102 Xenainetos: 98 Xerxes: 43–45, 76, 117 Yahweh, Covenant of: 73–75; divine protection by: 75; oracle of: 73 Yakto: 200 yew: 69, 76 Zeus: 27, 39–40, 90; epiphany of: 91–92; far-seeing: 35; as god of oaths: 36; sanctuary of: 91; statue of: 126 Zeus Herkeios: 27 Zeus Ithomata: 66–68, 70, 89; cult of: 71 Zeus Ktesios: 27 Zeus Panamaros: 91; wonder by: 91 Zeus Polieus: 94–95 Zeus Soter, statue of: 56; temple of: 57–58 zodiacal signs: 73 Zoilos: 99

p o t s da m e r a lt e rt u m s w i s s e n s c h a f t l i c h e b e i t r äg e

Herausgegeben von Pedro Barceló, Peter Riemer, Jörg Rüpke und John Scheid.

Franz Steiner Verlag

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ISSN 1437–6032

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