Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art 0198855621, 9780198855620

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Motion in Classical Literature

Motion in Classical Literature Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art G. O. HUTCHINSON

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © G. O. Hutchinson 2020 The moral rights of the author have been asserted First Edition published in 2020 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2019954852 ISBN 978–0–19–885562–0 Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

To Otto Zwierlein

Preface Bleak experience has taught me that the subject of this book is not easily ‘sold’ in a few sentences. The curious reader will have to advance a little further, into the Introduction. I will only say here that the subject has considerably affected my own reading of classical texts; I hope it may be found of interest. The book has been written, with much enjoyment, in a year of sabbatical leave; I am grateful to Felix Budelmann for taking on my Faculty jobs so ably. The preceding year launched the topic with a graduate seminar on Motion and Thought. Lindsay Judson and Bert Smith gave exciting talks to the seminar; admirable presentations were offered by Visala Alagappan, Adam Asher, Emily Barradell, Phillip Bone, Xavier Buxton, Alberto Corrado, Meg Dyson, Estella Kessler, Nikoletta Kokosiouli, Davide Massimo, Emily Mitchell, Nik Nicheperovich, James Oakley, Il-Kweon Sir, Winnie Smith, Ollie Thicknesse, and Bridie Thompson. The engagement of the participants much encouraged me; so did sympathetic attention and discerning questions from audiences in Athens, Bari, and Freiburg. I warmly thank Efi Papadodima, Rosalba Dimundo, Piero Totaro, and Bernhard Zimmermann, for generous hospitality and enlightening discussion. I am very greatly indebted to three scholars, only one of whom I can name. Hugo Shakeshaft read the chapter on art with conspicuous expertise, and made many valuable suggestions. The two masterly readers for the Press much improved the presentation, and in the sample chapter on Ovid offered numerous acute points; their encouragement and understanding heartened me immensely. Various scientists have patiently talked about motion with an absolute ignoramus. Three astrophysicists have been particularly helpful, Roger Davies, James Allison, Fabian Schneider. Philip Bullock has kindly looked at the pages on Tolstoy. Constanze Güthenke and Philomen Probert have each pointed me to a significant item of bibliography. At the Press, Charlotte Loveridge, Karen Raith, and Henry Clarke have been models of helpfulness and good sense; Georgina Leighton has been tireless, and spectacularly quick. Tim Beck copy-edited with a light and skilful touch. Kabilan Selvakumar organized production most effectively. Christopher de L’isle masterminded the videos on the companion website, with able direction of his less than able performer. Jaś Elsner, Bert Smith, and Manolis Papadakis (Corinth and Athens) have helped me in obtaining images and permission to use them.

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My wife has, as ever, shown much tolerance and has sustained the writing of this work; she has also shared in the great adventure of this sabbatical year, a trip to see puffins on the Isles of Scilly. The book is dedicated to an outstanding scholar, my friend over many years. Gregory Hutchinson Christ Church Oxford

Contents List of Illustrations List of Abbreviations

Introduction

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1. Visual Art Purwias Jumps Olyseus at Sea Dexileos in Action Dionysus Sails through a Sea of Red Pentheus and his Family Hades Abducts Persephone A Discus-Thrower Medea Ponders

6 6 8 10 12 14 16 18 20

2. Homer, Iliad One Snake, Nine Birds (2.308–21) Helen Speaks her Mind (3.399–412) At the Edge (5.434–44) A Stallion Unbound (6.495–6, 503–14) Goddesses Kept in Line (8.399–408) Litai Limping (9.502–12) Horses Fly (11.280–5, 288–90) Beast at Bay (12.37–53) The Advent of Poseidon (13.17–31) A Wave Poised (14.13–24) The Boar-Like Ajax (17.274–87) Slow Survivors (19.40–53) Apollo’s Trick (21.601–22.6) The Body Brought Back (24.703–18) Leaping and Falling from a Chariot (16.726–76) Hector Waits (22.90–144)

32 42 43 45 47 48 50 51 53 55 56 58 60 61 63 65 70

3. Ovid, Metamorphoses The Fall of Phaethon (2.304–22) River Rage (3.566–71) Petrification (6.301–12) Strange Seas (7.62–74) Puzzle (7.772–86)

78 87 90 92 93 96

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 Isis Rescues Iphis (9.780–7) Better than Heaven (10.529–36) Snake and Birds Once More (12.11–18, 22–3) Everything Is in Motion (15.176–95) Defying Dis (5.391–424) Myrrha: Small Steps and Large (10.437–89)

98 99 101 103 106 110

4. Tacitus, Annals The Twentieth Redeem Themselves (1.51.3–4) Terrain Hinders, Not Helps (2.17.2–6) The Dead Germanicus Is Brought Back to Italy (3.1.3–4) Obsequious Exodus (4.74.3–4) Royal Trickery (12.47.2–4) Isolating Agrippina (13.18.3–19.1) Startling Britons (14.30.1–2) Fire (15.38.2–6) Father and Daughter on Trial (16.32.1–2) Tiberius Meets his End (6.50) A Party Does Not Go Well (11.31.2–32)

118 127 129 131 133 134 136 138 140 142 144 147

5. Sophocles, Philoctetes and Oedipus at Colonus Abandonment (Phil. 268–80, 287–92) Neoptolemus Must Be Going (Phil. 459–67) All Is to Change (Phil. 712–30) Leaving (Phil. 886–903) Philoctetes’ Agonies (Phil. 779–842) Oedipus Sits on a Ledge of Rock (OC 195–202) Antigone Is Carried Off (OC 822–47) Old Age Assailed from All Quarters (OC 1239–48) A Journey Robbed of Purpose (OC 1393, 1397–1404) Missing Motion (OC 1638–52) Oedipus Arrives (OC 1–52)

153 162 165 166 168 170 176 177 180 181 182 184

6. Parmenides, On Nature A Fast Ride with Goddesses (B 1 Diels-Kranz, D4 Laks-Most (1 Coxon)) Only Two Roads (B 2 Diels-Kranz, D6 Laks-Most (3 Coxon)) No Splitting Reality (B 4 Diels-Kranz = D10 Laks-Most ( Coxon)) The Goddess Can Start Anywhere (B 5 Diels-Kranz = D5 Laks-Most (2 Coxon)) A Third Way Not Recommended (B 6 Diels-Kranz = D7 Laks-Most (5 Coxon)) Truth (B 7–8 Diels-Kranz = 8 Laks-Most (7–8 Coxon)) Prefatory Promises (B 10 Diels-Kranz = 12 Laks-Most (9 Coxon)) Heavenly Births (B 11 Diels-Kranz = D11 Laks-Most (10 Coxon)) Love and Rings (B 12 Diels-Kranz = D14b Laks-Most (12 Coxon))

191 195 199 200 201 202 203 209 210 211

 The Inadequate Moon (B 14 Diels-Kranz = D27 Laks-Most (14 Coxon)) Thought and the Limbs (B 16 Diels-Kranz = D51 Laks-Most (17 Coxon))

7. Seneca, Natural Questions Throwing Stones (1.2.1–2) Deceptive Speed (1.14.2–4) Can Fire Fall? (2.13.1–4) Two Active Old Men (3.pr.1, 4, 6–7) Roundness (4b.3.3–5) Winds Got Wrong (5.2) A Typology of Earthquakes (6.21.2) Comets Sure and Steady (7.23.2–3) Sailing to War (5.18.5–10) A Whirlwind Gets above Itself (7.8.1–9.1, 10.2) Conclusion Bibliography Index of Passages and Works of Art General Index

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212 213

215 222 224 225 227 230 232 233 235 237 240 246 261 285 299

List of Illustrations Grateful acknowledgements are given here for the images used; in the text can be found references to further pictures of the same works, including images in colour, and images on the internet. 1.1a. Middle Corinthian aryballos, Corinth C-54-1, related to Liebieghaus Group, early sixth century . Purwias leading dance. Photo: Ino Ioannidou and Lenio Bartzioti. American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth Excavations (Archive bw_1972_045_07).

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1.1b. Drawing of aryballos in Fig. 1.1a. Artist: Piet de Jong. American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth Excavations (Archive bw_1983_028_015).

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1.2a. Boeotian black-figure skyphos, Oxford, Ashmolean Museum AN1896–1908.G.249, attr. Cabirion Group, 425–375 . Odysseus and Boreas. Image: Heritage Image Partnership Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo.

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1.2b. Other side of skyphos in fig. 1.2a. Odysseus and Circe. Image © Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford.

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Marble stele, Athens, Kerameikos Mus. 1158 (Inv. P 1130), 394/393 . Dexileos. Image: Sklifas Steven / Alamy Stock Photo.

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Attic black-figure eye-cup Type A, Munich, Antikensammlungen 8729, attr. Exekias by signature, 575–525 . Dionysus at sea. Image: VPC Photo / Alamy Stock Photo.

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Wall-painting, Pompeii VI 15.1 (House of Vettii, in situ), triclinium n, east wall, soon after  62. Pentheus and bacchants. Image: PRISMA ARCHIVO / Alamy Stock Photo.

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1.6.

Wall-painting, Tomb I, Vergina, north wall, mid-fourth century . Hades abducting Persephone. Image: Wikimedia Commons. Photographer: Yann Forget.

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1.7.

Marble statue, Rome, Musei Nazionali (Terme) 126371, Roman copy, second century , of bronze original attr. Myron, c.450 . ‘Lancellotti’ Discobolus. Image: Peter Barritt / Alamy Stock Photo.

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Wall-painting, Pompeii VI 9.6–7 (House of the Dioscuri), peristyle, Naples, MAN 8977,  c.60–79. Medea and children. Image: Adam Eastland / Alamy Stock Photo.

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1.3. 1.4.

1.5.

1.8.

The publisher and the author apologize for any errors or omissions in the above list. If contacted they will be pleased to rectify these at the earliest opportunity.

List of Abbreviations Ancient authors, papyri, inscriptions, etc. are cited roughly as in, or more fully than in, LSJ, OLD², TLL (for which see below). Periodicals are cited roughly as in L’Année philologique. The following abbreviations should be noted: ANRW

H. Temporini and W. Haase (edd.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt (Berlin and New York, 1972– ).

ASR

Fr. Matz, B. Andreae, and C. Robert (edd.), Die antiken Sarkophagreliefs (Heidelberg, 1890– ).

BMC

Catalogue of Greek Coins in the British Museum (London, 1873– ).

BMCRE

Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum (London, 1923– ).

CAG

Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca (23 vols, Berlin, 1882–1909).

CEG

P. A. Hansen, Carmina epigraphica Graeca (2 vols, Berlin, 1983–9).

CIL

Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum (Berlin, 1863– ).

Clairmont

Chr. W. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones (7 vols, Kilchberg, 1993–5).

FGE

D. L. Page, Further Greek Epigrams, edd. R. D. Dawe and J. Diggle (Cambridge, 1981).

FGrHist

F. Jacoby and others, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (Berlin and Leiden, 1923– ).

FRHist

T. Cornell (ed.), The Fragments of the Roman Historians (3 vols, Oxford, 2014).

FRP

A. S. Hollis, Fragments of Roman Poetry c.60 – 20: Edited with an Introduction, Translation, and Commentary (Oxford, 2007).

GCS

Die Griechischen Christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei Jahrhunderte/der ersten Jahrhunderte (Berlin, New York, Boston, 1891– ).

GLK

Grammatici Latini ex recensione Henrici Keilii (8 vols, Leipzig, 1855–80).

GP

A. S. F. Gow and D. L. Page, The Greek Anthology: The Garland of Philip and Some Contemporary Epigrams (2 vols, Cambridge, 1968).

IG

Inscriptiones Graecae (Berlin, 1873– ).

K.-St.

R. Kühner and C. Stegmann, Ausführliche Grammatik der lateinischen Sprache³, ed. A. Thierfelder (2 vols, Leverkusen, 1955).

LfgrE

B. Snell and others (edd.), Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos (Göttingen, 1955–2010).

LIMC

Lexicon iconographicum mythologiae classicae (Zurich and Munich, 1981– ).

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LSAG

L. H. Jeffery, The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece: A Study of the Origin of the Greek Alphabet and its Development from the Eighth to the Fifth Centuries ², with Suppl. by A. W. Johnston (Oxford, 1990).

LSJ

H. G. Liddell and R. Scott, Greek-English Lexicon⁹, with a Revised Supplement (Oxford, 1996).

LTUR

E. M. Steinby (ed.), Lexicon topographicum urbis Romae (6 vols, Rome, 1993–2000).

NGSL

E. Lupu, Greek Sacred Law: A Collection of New Documents (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 152, Leiden and Boston, 2005).

OLD²

P. G. W. Glare (ed.), Oxford Latin Dictionary² (2 vols, Oxford, 2012).

PEG

A. Bernabé, Poetae epici Graeci (Stuttgart, Leipzig, Munich, 1987– ).

PIR²

Prosopographia imperii Romani² (Berlin, 1933–2015).

PMGF

M. Davies, Poetarum melicorum Graecorum fragmenta (Oxford, 1991– ).

PPM

G. Pugliese Carratelli and I. Baldassarre (edd.), Pompei. Pitture e mosaici (Rome, 11 vols, 1990–2003).

PSS

L. N. Tolstoy, Полное собрание сочинений, ed. V. G. Čertkov (91 vols, Moscow and Leningrad, 1928–64).

RE

A. Pauly, G. Wissowa, and W. Kroll (edd.), Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft (Stuttgart and Munich, 1893–1980).

RIC

The Roman Imperial Coinage (London, 1923– ).

RLM

C. Halm, Rhetores Latini minores (Leipzig, 1863).

RPC

M. Amandry and A. Burnett (edd.), Roman Provincial Coinage (London and Paris, 1992– ).

SEG

Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum (Leiden, Boston, Amsterdam, 1923– ).

SH

H. Lloyd-Jones and P. J. Parsons, Supplementum Hellenisticum, indexes H.-G. Nesselrath (Berlin and New York, 1983).

SVF

H. von Arnim and M. Adler, Stoicorum veterum fragmenta (4 vols, Leipzig, 1905–24).

TLG

Thesaurus linguae Graecae: http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu.

TLL

Thesaurus linguae Latinae (Munich, 1900– ).

TrGF

B. Snell, S. L. Radt, and R. Kannicht, Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta (5 vols, Göttingen, 1971–2004).

Introduction Greek and Latin literature is indubitably full of motion. From the earliest poetry we have people marching, running, sailing, throwing, gods descending, horses speeding, birds in flight. The literature grows from a mythology full of extensive journeys and draws on a history of routs in battle, of exile and return. Treatments of the literature tend to opt for mental experience and general propositions. But the motion matters too. The culture is intent on martial valour and, on the Greek side, athletic prowess. The physical motion is intimately connected with moral choices and mental states; motion spreads into images and metaphors. Space has become a major subject of scholarly concern; but scholars are less concerned with what people do in space. Yet in ancient literature people moving tend to harvest as much attention as space, or more; motion is a subject of reflection much sooner and more widely than space as a generalized conception. This book aims to develop interest in what literature makes of motion.¹ As the subject itself is unfamiliar, it is best to ground discussion of it in solid entities familiar to readers: this will most enable readers to engage with the subject for themselves, and to develop their own thoughts. Mostly large and ¹ Historians’ interest in migration, mobility, ritual movement, etc. is growing; cf. e.g. Feldmann Weiss (2012), Favro (2014), De Ligt and Tacoma (2016), J. Harris (2018). (Earlier, and more broadly, note Virilio (1977), e.g. 37–42, 71–6.) As for athletics, even the judicious reserve of Osborne (2011), 27–37, would allow their importance in Greek culture. For space (mainly in literature), cf. Tuan (1977), Kestner (1978), Hoffmann (1978), De Jong (2012b), and e.g. Bol (2003), note Strawczynski (2003), 39–45, and Wannagat (2003) for motion, Murgatroyd (2003), considering motion too, Rehm (2002), Danek (2009), Hutchinson (2010), (2013), (2015), the last on motion too, (2020), the last two with more bibliography, Purves (2010), Clay (2011), Laurence and Newsome (2011), incl. Laurence (2011), on motion too, Macaulay-Lewis (2011), on motion too, Thalmann (2011), Leontaridou (2012), Tsagalis (2012), Barker, Bouzarovski, Pelling, and Isaksen (2015), Rimell (2015), Fitzgerald and Spentzou (2018), Montel and Pollini (2018). For motion cf., besides the above, Trombino (1987), T. M. O’Sullivan (2006 and 2011), Kyriakidis (2010), Purves (2011 and 2019), Hutchinson (2018a). In modern literature cf. e.g. Seeber (1984), Link and Wülfing (1984), incl. Link (1984), Knab (1996), Berger (2000), Dönike (2005), e.g. 48–9, 271–2, Cave (2016). Talk with specialists confirms the impression that motion is not a big topic of scholarship even there. Two points for now on terms in the title: the limits of what is meant by ‘motion’ in literature will be discussed near the end of Chapter 1, but it should be clear that in the book ‘motion’ indicates ‘locomotion’, for our purposes roughly the process, act, or event of a person or thing or part of them moving or being moved from one place to another (sometimes metaphorically); it does not mean κίνηϲιϲ as typically used by Aristotle, who extends it from change of place to some or all sorts of change. ‘Literature’ is a convenient term to lump together the works we need to consider: songs and plays; poems, histories, and treatises circulated from the first on papyrus; and so forth (‘literary’, on the other hand, can refer to one sub-division of modern approach to these works, in distinction e.g. from ‘linguistic’). Admittedly, some words are avoided in the book, such as ‘epic’ and ‘hero’; it would make sense to avoid ‘literature’ (and ‘literary’) too, were there satisfactory substitutes, but some of the objections may be misplaced (cf. Hutchinson (2013), 6 n. 2). Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

2     mostly well-known works are chosen, across a range of time and genre. Large works display elaborate networks of motion, and readers that know them can readily pursue connections and possibilities. The difference between works and between their systems is easily perceived in blocks of chapters; comparisons broad and specific can be developed, and the range helps the comparisons to be novel. There is sufficient interconnection across classical literature to make confrontations and evolutions rewarding rather than random. In each work, both particular passages and wider features are explored. The wider features include basic elements related to motion in the structures and characteristic patterns of the work; they include also the language in which motion is described. The aim with this last is literary rather than linguistic. Linguistic developments and differences sometimes come in; but works, authors, and genres form palettes of their own for depicting motion, to be distinctive, and to keep the portrayal of motion fresh. The greater part of each chapter is spent on passages, mostly short but some more extended; there is no better way to dig into the treatment of motion, and bring wealth to light. Readers will be well positioned to analyse for themselves and think out their own ideas. What aspects of motion are to be considered will become apparent from the first chapter, which will work out some areas of interest from specific works of visual art. Art and literature have quite different means of approaching motion, which involves time and space, bodies and (in motivating motion) minds. Reflection on these differences saves us from superficial deductions about literature and its handling of movement. But the art also introduces us graphically to important variables and implications. These will emerge more fully, but oppositions to be considered for motion include: quick or slow; autonomous or inflicted; movement by individual or group; motion and a marked lack of motion. In the contexts of actual works such oppositions are treated with remarkable force and inventiveness. From them springs the use of motion to embody hierarchical and anti-hierarchical structures. Mortal and immortal, male and female, ruler and subject can be confronted through action. The structure of gods and humans is particularly important; but the motion of animals is of great significance and variety in art and literature. Nor is interest confined to animate creatures. Spears and stones, snow, fire, and sea are shown in motion—and in language are not always kept inanimate. Is all this unduly wide a span? It must be said at once that much more could be encompassed. Different readers will find remarkable the slight attention given in a discussion of motion to this aspect or that—and will, it is to be hoped, continue with the thought, as everyone has their own angle and areas of interest. But in so far as there is breadth, the concerns spring from what is constantly found in literature and art. One particular aspect could have been singled out—say antitheses of group and individual motion—or one particular angle of approach—say the language used of motion—and could have been pursued with zeal, though

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hardly with completeness. But the aim of the book is to stir up interest in the field. From this point of view, the stimulus of interacting and shifting aspects is more to be desired than severe delimitation. Does motion matter, though? People have to get from A to B, but does anybody care? Courageous and crucial decisions, as has been mentioned, are commonly bound up with motion. And suppose that, in the familiar claim, Iliadic horses are only used to take warriors to battle; it does not follow that listeners have no interest in the motion of the horses. The attention of viewer, listener, or reader is significant with motion; it will become clear that these works do not simply gloss over motion as too dull for notice. It might seem to follow that we as readers have only imperfectly apprehended something notable in ancient literature. But that is no discredit to us: the possibility of enlarging perception is a presupposition of literary study. It may be asked whether those ancient readers who talk laboured under the same imperfection. A large question; but the end of the first chapter suggests the answer is not a simple ‘Yes’. So does, for example, Longinus on Euripides’ depiction of Phaethon’s journey: 15.4 ἆρ᾿ οὐκ ἂν εἴποιϲ ὅτι ἡ ψυχὴ τοῦ γράφοντοϲ ϲυνεπιβαίνει τοῦ ἅρματοϲ καὶ ϲυγκινδυνεύουϲα τοῖϲ ἵπποιϲ ϲυνεπτέρωται; κτλ. ‘would you not say that the soul of the writer is entering the chariot too, facing danger too, and taking wing with the horses?’, etc. The characteristic exaltation and adventurousness do not remove the underlying sensibility. What about authors? It will become evident that they are interested in particular moments of motion and that they relate these moments. They are (of course) capable of relating different types of motion. This is apparent at Hom. Od. 13.81–9, where a ship proceeds like horses drawing a chariot, and ‘runs’ (θέεν, θέουϲα) more swiftly than a falcon; or at Pind. Pyth. 10.27–30, where a victor cannot go up to the heavens, but has sailed to the furthest point of mortal glory— but neither by ship or on foot could you find the way to the Hyperboreans (Perseus flew). How directly authors are aware of motion as a totality might vary according to the development and permeation of philosophy (which starts on the subject early, and takes inspiration on it from poetry). Such awareness is indicated more conspicuously in the Latin texts, where words like the noun motus are more widely diffused than their Greek equivalents. But breadth and connection are more important than universality: interest in the area matters more than generalized abstraction. Is motion a theme? Whether authors thought of themes as themes is another question; but ‘theme’ seems almost too weak a word for something which pervades texts so completely as motion. Character would hardly be a theme. The element will be seen to receive a prominence and care of treatment which call for response; motion is not like, say, the word δέ: ubiquitous, but not ordinarily salient enough to invite the reader’s scrutiny. A little more detail on the present book may help readers to know what they are in for. The first chapter begins by discussing eight particular works of vasepainting, wall-painting, and sculpture, arranged to help the growth of thoughts.

4     The results are put together; the discussion then looks at both art and literature, starting from a work of theory. The six chapters that follow each talk about a particular literary work (in the case of Sophocles, two particular works). A general treatment is followed by readings of a number of selected passages, the last two a bit longer—except in the case of Sophocles, where the longer passages end the treatment of either play, and Parmenides, where all that bears on motion is considered. A few concluding remarks help the reader to draw the passages together. Some points to note: the sections on language do not look at exactly the same things each time, but rather mention matters that seem of interest for each work. As for the treatment of passages, the concentration on motion does not imply that anyone should look only at motion here or elsewhere: rather an element is offered that people can use to enhance their own broader readings. In the passages, words clearly connected to motion or its absence are underlined: the instant visual impression is of interest, and words are made easier to find. There is a companion website, http://www.oup.com/motionicl: there readers with a screen to hand may see the passages more easily when perusing the discussions than by turning pages back. The website also offers videos in which some passages are read aloud: this may add a dimension to appreciating how words portray motion.² The works are arranged by genre: two from hexameter narrative (Homer, Iliad and Ovid, Metamorphoses), one from prose narrative (Tacitus, Annals), two from drama (Sophocles, Philoctetes and Oedipus Coloneus), two from philosophy (Parmenides, On Nature and Seneca, Natural Questions). The arrangement also moves, in some respects, from more to less straightforward. The Iliad itself may seem a less obvious choice than the Odyssey, but will emerge as extraordinary in its handling of motion. There is a large and rewarding interval between the use of motion in this work and the Metamorphoses. The Annals are a less obvious historiographical choice than the Histories, or, say, Herodotus; but they exploit the lack of motion, and various levels of motion, in ways that expand the subject. The two late plays of Sophocles form a connected more than an opposing pair, and show motion, the lack of motion, and difficult motion presented, on the stage and in words, with particular depth. The two philosophical works differ markedly from each other: one Eleatic Greek verse, one Stoic Latin prose. They may be less familiar to many readers than the other works, and may seem less immediate candidates on motion than works by Aristotle or Lucretius. But substantial work has already been done on motion in Lucretius, and a great deal on κίνηϲιϲ in ² Apparatus for the passages is given only where relevant to motion. The texts, save for Parmenides, tend to follow a standard edition (M. L. West for Homer (1998–2000), Tarrant (2004) for Ovid, Heubner (1983) for Tacitus, Lloyd-Jones and Wilson for Sophocles (1990a), Hine (1996a) for Seneca), to avoid the appearance of twisting the evidence; but the odd subversive remark is sometimes met with. In case it should be of use to anyone thinking of working on motion in other texts, I started study of each work (and of Sophocles as a whole) by underlining all the words in it connected with motion.

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Aristotle. The aims of this book are literary, and both the works chosen show well how one can expand literary approaches to philosophical writing in this regard. There is indeed considerable scope for developing literary approaches to Aristotle, but that is not for now.³ The conclusion brings together some of the main features seen in Chapters 2–7, and joins bits from the passages into new patterns. Fresh comparisons throw different lights on to passages, texts, and aspects, and reinforce the lines of approach. There is a final prospective: a toe is briefly dipped into the ocean of modern literature, with a short account of an enormous work.

³ The reader can gain an idea of work on locomotion etc. in Aristotle (not without relevance to the present book) from the following: Nussbaum (1978), Gill (1991), Gill and Lennox (1994), esp. Judson (1994), Kosman (1994), Shields (1994), Wedin (1994), Graham (1996), Morison (2002), esp. 2–3, 11–15, 169–71, Laks and Rashed (2004), esp. Fazzo (2004), Morison (2004), Tafra (2008), esp. 87–91, 198–200, Charles (2009), Gabbe (2012), Anders (2013), Corcilius and Gregoric (2013), Fernandez (2014), Judson (2015), (2016), Hahmann (2017), esp. 19–54, Primavesi and Corcilius (2018), cxlv–ccxl. Note too Ackrill (1997) and Burnyeat (2008) on Metaph. Θ 1048b18–35, even though locomotion plays only an incidental part in the passage. Beyond Aristotle cf. e.g. Sorabji (1988), Berti (2000), Barreau (2007), Rispoli (2005), Hahmann (2017), Pinto (2017). For Lucretius see, among much else, Fowler (2001), Nail (2018a), cf. (2018b), and further e.g. Luciani (1999), Nervi (2011).

1 Visual Art The discussion begins, then, with a look at some art. This will suggest the interest of motion more immediately than passages of literature; it will point us to some of the aspects and areas that will concern us, and will get us started on thinking how words present motion and what motion does in literary works. The works of art chosen are mostly well known—an advantage in starting trains of thought in the reader. Minimal bibliography on them is given; the short treatment of each takes account of scholarly debate, but, for our particular purposes, avoids art-historical chronological narratives, such as the development from images that show typical scenes to images that depict myths, or the development of intense realism, or the discovery of facial expression. For comparison with literature in general and across a wide range of texts, an open approach to a range of artworks seems the most useful tactic. The remarks are only those of an amateur; but the desirability of syncrisis might dispose experts to a wry indulgence.

Purwias Jumps Fig. 1.1 a and b. Corinthian (Middle Corinthian) aryballos (round). Related to the Liebieghaus Group. Corinth C-54-1. H. 0.053 m. Early sixth century . SEG xiv no. 303, CEG i no. 452, LSAG 131 no. 14 (c); Amyx (1988), i.165 (Ch. 26, Liebieghaus Group C–2), ii.551–2, 556, 560–1; Neeft (1991), 50; Boardman (1998), 179, 189; http://www.lgpn.ox.ac.uk/image_archive/vases/v2. html. Roebuck and Roebuck (1955); Latte (1956); Wachter (2001), 44–7, 328; Kim (2017), 166. Inscriptions: (i) (left of instrumentalist) Πολύτερποϲ (ii) (starting left of dancer) Πυρϝίαϲ προχορευόμενοϲ· αὐτο͂ δέ ϝοι ὄλπα ‘Purwias (Pyrrhias) leading the dance; the flask belongs to Purwias himself.’ On this small vase, the young Purwias leaps in the air. He seems to be shorter and smaller than the other participants in the dance, which he is leading (προχορευόμενοϲ—a present imperfective participle). They stand in three ordered pairs, unmoving: the motion of an individual is set against the lack of motion in a group. The position of his arms as well as his legs marks the contrast with theirs; his heels come just above their hands. The line underneath their feet in effect indicates the ground, which he has left. The image is clearly the climactic point in the

Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

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Fig. 1.1a. Middle Corinthian aryballos, early sixth century . Photo: Ino Ioannidou and Lenio Bartzioti. American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth Excavations (Archive bw_1972_045_07).

Fig. 1.1b. Drawing of aryballos in Fig. 1.1a. Artist: Piet de Jong. American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth Excavations (Archive bw_1983_028_015).

8     movement of leaping; whether or not the movement was repeated in the dance, it is not a preparatory action, like that, say, of the Discobolus (below, pp. 18–20).¹ It is also an action which is a goal in itself. Possibly the aryballos is a prize, though it is not clear that the activity is competitive (Purwias differs in role and age from the others); nor is it apparent that such a prize was known of in advance. But even if Purwias was dancing to win it, the action itself is something to be admired by an audience, as by the viewer of the vase, and by the other dancers on the vase. The written words convey or inspire admiration, whether they should be voiced as self-admiration, with Purwias speaking of himself in the third person, or the admiration of the giver, either family member or lover, or something more absolute and impersonal. The words, important as they are to the meaning and the visual design, could not achieve alone what is captured in the young energy of the image, with its near-vertical arms and its horizontal lower legs.²

Olyseus at Sea Fig. 1.2a. Boeotian black-figure skyphos, attr. Cabirion Group. 425–375 . Found Thebes. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum G249 (V 262). H. 0.154 m. Beazley Archive no. 680002, http://www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/XDB/ASP/recordDetails.asp?id= F609979C-BB9D-004E50-9A9C-1734DEFE85A7&noResults=&recordCount=& databaseID=&search=;https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boetian_ black-figure_pottery_skyphos_(wine-cup),_found_at_Thebes,_4th_century_, _Odysseus_at_sea_on_a_raft_of_amphoras,_Ashmolean_Museum_(8401774652). jpg LIMC Boreas 3, Kirke 32, Odysseus 191. Wachter (2001), 22–3, 318; Mitchell (2009), 272–4. Inscriptions: (i) Ὀλυϲεύϲ (ii) Βορίαϲ. This side of the vase (Fig. 1.2a) creates, in its burlesque style, a dynamic air of motion, from right to left: direction is essential to the impression of movement. Boreas is in the very corner, only partly within the red background of the scene, and continuing on to the handle. His expanded cheek, distended nostril, and protruding muzzle make the blowing almost tangible. The heavy incisions of the vase accentuate his puffed cheek and bristly facial hair (part of his nature).³ The swirl of Odysseus’ blown-out cloak, the closest thing to Boreas and in line with his breath, conveys the animated movement, even if the position of the cloak ¹ The rotation of the aryballos by a contemporary inspecting it would constitute a further element of motion, but one less relevant to our purposes. ² Contrast the set-up on the Geometric oinochoe LG I b, Athens Nat. Mus. 192, c.740  (?), attr. Workshop of Dipylon Master (Coldstream (2008), 32, no. 36), LSAG 76 no. 1 and pl. 1.1, CEG i no. 432: ὃϲ νῦν ὀρχεϲτο͂ν πάντον ἀταλότατα παίζει, | το͂ τόδε κλ μ̣ιν vacat, ‘whoever of all the dancers now dances most gracefully, will get this . . . .’ However ϝοι was perceived morphologically, Hom. Il. 16.531 defends the combination with αὐτο͂ (Wackernagel (1926–8), ii.77–8, (2009), 496–7). There is no reason to connect the vase with the Spartan βίβαϲιϲ (Pollux 4.102), and considerable reason not to (cf. Kim (2017), 166). ³ For winds blowing in art (without instruments), cf. e.g. mosaic Vatican 135 (ii ; LIMC Venti 4), Arist. Mot. an. 698b23–7.

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Fig. 1.2a. Boeotian black-figure skyphos, 425–375 . Image: Heritage Image Partnership Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo.

Fig. 1.2b. Other side of skyphos in fig. 1.2a. Image: © Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford.

does not make naturalistic sense in relation to the gust. One may contrast Odysseus’ cloak on the other side of the vase (Fig. 1.2b); there it sits on his arm without suggesting motion. Its vertical lines there are part of an image dominated by vertical

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lines, in contrast with the boisterous transverse movement of this outdoor scene. Indoors, Odysseus is not striding purposefully forward to Circe as might be expected; rather, he looks towards the spectator, and she advances towards Odysseus. But on Boreas’ side of the vase, Odysseus appears to the viewer to be running forward, or at any rate pressing forward to the prow of his two-amphora vessel. The action may not wholly make sense, any more than the trident: perhaps a fishing tool is being used to steer with. The incisions of Odysseus’ hair match those of his cloak in direction, and enhance the drive of the image.⁴ Not only the storm in Hom. Od. 5.291–318 is relevant. Aeolus makes the West Wind blow for Odysseus (Hom. Od. 10.25), and Calypso sends him a favourable wind, in which he rejoices and spreads his sails, directing the raft with a rudder as he sits (5.268–70, cf. 315–16). The latter scene in particular appears to give this frantic movement a foil. The curled waves—curled in an odd direction—add to the bustle. Causation begins from the divinity; the isolated mortal appears to respond, not passively, but with frenzied effort. Within the story, this is not motion for its own sake. For the viewer, the motion is entertaining in itself, and does not immediately point, like a character with raised club or sword, to an imminent and conclusive event.

Dexileos in Action Fig. 1.3. Marble stele, Athens, Kerameikos Museum 1158 (Inv. P 1130), 394/3 . H. 1.75 m. https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/95/Grave_relief_ of_Dexileos%2C_4th_cent._B.C.jpg. Inscription IG ii².6217, cf. 5221–2. Hölscher (1973), 102–4; Stupperich (1977), i.20, ii.167 no. 266; Ensoli (1987); Knigge (1991), 40–1, 111–13; Clairmont (1993), ii.143–5 (2.209); Osborne (2010), 249–65; Spivey (2013), 142–3. Inscription: Δεξίλεωϲ Λυϲανίου Θορίκιοϲ. | ἐγένετο ἐπὶ Τειϲάνδρο ἄρχοντοϲ· | ἀπέθανε ἐπ’ Εὐβολίδο | ἐγ Κορίνθωι. τῶν πέντε ἱππέων. ‘Dexileos, son of Lysanias, of Thoricus. He was born in the archonship of Teisander (414/3); he died in that of Eubulides (394/3). He belonged to the five cavalrymen.’ The stele is the family’s own commemoration of Dexileos’ death, in a disastrous battle of July 394. He is shown in a victorious act, as is a horseman on a public monument for this and another battle (Athens, Nat. Mus. 2744, 394/3 ); so are horsemen in some related depictions.⁵ ⁴ For the trident, cf. Σ Ar. Wasps 1087b κεντοῦντεϲ ὡϲ τοὺϲ θύννουϲ τοῖϲ τριόδουϲι, ‘piercing them like tunny with tridents’ (VΓAld, τῆι τριαίνηι Lh); Aesch. Sept. 130–1: Poseidon ἰχθυβόλωι μαχανᾶι, ‘with your fish-striking device’ (related could be Corinthian and Attic black-figure and red-figure vases with Poseidon holding trident and fish, e.g. LIMC Poseidon 106, 140–2, 146). The scene with Circe on the other side makes it implausible that this side gives a mere scene of failed fishing. Odysseus is looking straight ahead rather than down, and if he were just fishing without success there would be no connection with Boreas. ⁵ See Berlin, Staatl. M. Inv. nr. 742 (Clairmont 2.130, c.400 ?); Rome, Villa Albani 985 (Clairmont 2.131, c.420–10?; Boardman (1985), 184 and fig. 153); Athens, Nat. Mus. 3708 (Clairmont 2.213, early

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Fig. 1.3. Attic marble stele, 394/393 . Image: Sklifas Steven / Alamy Stock Photo.

The motion of the image is created through a sense of direction which starts in the top left-hand corner; the spear (lost) is about to descend into the body of the hoplite in the bottom right-hand corner. The general air of movement is helped by iv ), https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Base_of_a_grave_stele_from_Athens_depicting_a_ battle_scene._Early_4th_century_B.C.jpg. Image of Athens, Nat. Mus. 2744: http://www.hell enicaworld.com/Greece/Museum/NationalMuseumAthens/en/NAMAML2744.html. See also Osborne (2010), for images and discussion of dates.

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the flying cloak in the top left-hand corner, and the horse rearing close to the hoplite (the rearing is a usual means of showing horses in motion). These features find many parallels, in cognate monuments and elsewhere; more distinctive is the way that the hoplite’s knee, on which his weight presses, crashes out of the frame, and the way that the arm which he raises to protect himself from horse and spear is paralleled by the front legs of the horse. The near back leg of the horse and the foot of the rider come between the viewer and the foot-soldier’s body, and hence visually establish Dexileos’ dominance. While elsewhere too the clothed and upright body of the rider contrasts with the naked and diagonal body of the hoplite, here the horse’s more massive body is made parallel to, and so prevalent over, the hoplite’s smaller body. The hoplite’s body is part of a tumult of limbs, cloak, shield, and sword (lost) in the bottom corner of the stele. On to that corner the movement and force are impending. The position of the stele in the monument created by the family means that the image would be seen from below; that adds to the descending force for the viewer. Inside the story, the motion has as its object the death of the foot-soldier; that event occurs later than the time of the image. The viewer is enabled not only to contemplate the inevitable outcome but to admire the glamour of the horseman. The inscription gives the scene more particularized meaning. It ends with τῶν πέντε ἱππέων: Dexileos belonged to a special, and no doubt specially distinguished, group. The impending result of the motion indicates a momentary success, rather than lasting power or even victory in the battle; but in showing Dexileos in action, the image has an unexpected affinity with Purwias, who is doing his young activity well.⁶

Dionysus Sails through a Sea of Red Fig. 1.4. Attic black-figure eye-cup Type A, Munich, Antikensammlungen 8729 (2044) KM 3179, potter Exekias (signature), painting attr. Exekias, 575–525 . Diameter of mouth 304 mm. Beazley Archive no. 310403 http://www.beazley.ox.ac. uk/XDB/ASP/recordDetails.asp?id=90E58738-4638-4190-82C9-C5A0E3CB1A93& noResults=&recordCount=&databaseID=&search=, LIMC Dionysos 788. Simon (1985), 282–8; Mackay (2010), 221–41, 371, and plates 55–7; Moignard (2015), 101–23 and pl. 8. The god is borne along; the dolphins swim or leap, but he reclines, and is propelled onward in his ship, which does the work. The white sail, almost in the ⁶ Xen. Hipparch. 8.25 recommends a tactic of secretly leaving behind in a battle four or five of the best (κρατίϲτων) horses and men from each division (τάξιϲ). Cf. Koolen (2012), 118–19, and, for context, Pritchard (2019), 53–64. That passage has been connected with τῶν πέντε ἱππέων here, but seems at the least much less formal.

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Fig. 1.4. Attic black-figure eye-cup Type A, 575–525 . Image: VPC Photo / Alamy Stock Photo.

middle of the scene, stands out strikingly from the orange and black; its curves contrast with the straight lines of the ropes, and show it pressed forward by wind. But there is no Boreas, as for Odysseus; Dionysus is now no victim, and the motion rather conveys the god’s power. The ship has been transformed to abound with Dionysus’ vines. The small dolphins on the boat could mark the significant analogy between its movement and the dolphins’; more likely this is a discreet hint that the dolphins were once connected with the ship. It certainly indicates that the dolphins are not merely random depictions of the sea; the unusual transformation of the mast suggests a connection with the myth narrated in Homeric Hymn 7, which presents exactly such a transformation and follows it with the metamorphosis of the pirates on the ship into dolphins (38–42, 51–2, note also perhaps 33 ἔμπνευϲεν δ᾿ ἄνεμοϲ μέϲον ἱϲτίον, ‘the wind blew into the middle of the sail’). The design brings dolphins and clusters of grapes together in the outer circle of the image; there are seven of each.⁷ Reflection on the origins of metamorphosed creatures is scarcely alien to archaic art. Thus on the black-figure amphora London, British Museum 1848,0619.4, near Exekias, the cow Io is not named, unlike Argos, Hermes, and Hera; but the viewer is invited to put two and two together. The idea of the hymn

⁷ For the transformations, cf. also Ov. Met. 3.664–7, 673–88.

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being inspired by a single cup would seem a much more extravagant notion than Exekias drawing on myth.⁸ The ex-mortals, unlike the god, are moving energetically. The contrast of the dolphins and Dionysus is helped by the horizontality of Dionysus and most of the dolphins. The likeness of dolphins and ship, both in motion on the deep, is brought out not only by their general resemblance in shape but, in this context, by the ship’s beak and small eye.⁹ The voyage of Dionysus is full of other meanings, on an unusual and complicated vase. This image combines the myth with the voyage of Dionysus which was ritually re-enacted on a ship-like cart: cf. LIMC 790 (voyage); 827–9 (cart); Ar. Frogs 52–3, Dionysus reading on ‘the’ ship. Unlike the other depictions, this one makes Dionysus recline, as if at a symposium, with drinking-vessel obtruding above the sail; the image awaits the party-goer at the bottom of the cup. Voyaging and symposia are connected in various ways (cf. notably Pind. fr. 124a–b Snell-Maehler); on a different plane from the story, gods and mortals are akin. The motion is made into an attractive spatial design. The vacant spaces are enhanced with coral-red, and help to evoke the admired uniformity of the still sea’s surface. But most important is the opposition between the central figure and the figures that surround him. His position embodies his calm power.¹⁰

Pentheus and his Family Fig. 1.5. Wall-painting, Pompeii VI 15.1 (House of the Vettii, in situ; PPM v.468– 572, esp. 529, 530), triclinium n, east wall, soon after  62. H. 1.05 m. LIMC Pentheus 28. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pompeii_-_Casa_dei_ Vettii_-_Pentheus.jpg. Wirth (1983); Ling (1991), 78–82, 125, 139, pl. XIB; J. R. Clarke (1991), 208–35, esp. 222–7, Severy-Hoven (2012). This painting uses a central figure in a quite different way from the cup of Exekias. Pentheus is unable to move, while the women around him move to ⁸ Homeric Hymn 7 inspired by Exekias: M. L. West (2003), 16–17. Mackay (2010), 235 is doubtful about an archaic artist showing a point after the metamorphosis. Of course, on BM 1848,0619.4 Hermes is about to slay Argos, so the scene is not just a postlude; but on the cup, the voyage itself is a significant event, see below. ⁹ The two vertical dolphins on either side of the sail face down, so are unlikely to depict a leap. They suggest that the cup presents an elaborate double perspective of ship and sea, rather than a photograph with the sea reaching the bottom of the ship and above it sky. ¹⁰ For the uniform sea, cf. Lucr. 2.777 maris . . . unum purumque nitorem, ‘the single, unmitigated brightness of the sea’; it has only one colour (776–87). Contrast the waves on e.g. the vase with Odysseus above (pp. 8–10), or LIMC Dionysus 790, Attic black-figure neck-amphora, Tarquinia, Mus. Naz. 678 (cf. Leagros Group), 550–500 , Beazley Archive no. 64, http://www.carc.ox.ac.uk/XDB/ ASP/recordDetails.asp?returnPage=&noResults=115683&search=&databaseID=%7B12FC52A70E32-4A81-9FFA-C8C6CF430677%7D&start=&recordCount=62.

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Fig. 1.5. Campanian wall-painting, soon after  62. Image: PRISMA ARCHIVO / Alamy Stock Photo.

destroy him (cf. Eur. Bacch. 1106 περιϲτᾶϲαι κύκλωι, ‘standing round him in a circle’). The group consists of three women, Pentheus’ mother and his aunts (cf. e.g. Theocr. 26.1, 11–23), without further troops, but with two personifications of madness in the top corners. This is enough for a contrast between group motion and individual immobility. Pentheus is not in the middle of a ring, like Dionysus on the cup, but at the bottom, with figures largely piled above him. The vertical dimension is similarly used in other portrayals of Pentheus (e.g. LIMC 27, 32). There are resemblances with the monument of Dexileos in the thyrsus of Agave (?) descending from the left towards the bared body of Pentheus, the weight of which is pressed on to a knee. But this diagonal goes further up, to a figure of madness, with torch and whip: an inner level of motion begins the causal line. Agave’s (?) legs and feet show her coming forward and down, with a swirl of blue drapery (one foot may be trapping Pentheus’ leg). Her left hand impedes Pentheus’ flight (cf. Theocr. 26.16; 23); but it also prepares for the blow of the thyrsus, evidently into the face. Agave will eventually hold Pentheus’ head. The right-hand side of the picture is less of a straight line, but indicates motion from the goddess towards the woman with the rock. That more unusual weapon will come from Eur. Bacch. 1096–7. It refreshes the idea of impending violent

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motion, with a bulky object unlike the thin straight lines of most implements in the scene, but like its wild landscape. The woman on the right is beginning the most sinister motion of all. Her two arms, Agave’s (?) left arm and the lower part of her right, and Pentheus’ supplicating right arm (cf. Ov. Met. 3.723–5) and the lower part of his left, all form part of a harmonious structure; but the woman’s gripping of his left upper arm prepares to pull him apart. The composition rhymes with that of the punishment of Dirce (south wall); but it is more elaborate, and creates an elegant symmetry as well as a convergence of destructive motion. While Dirce is white, amid the darker bodies of youths and bull, Pentheus’ colour marks out the paradox of his conquest by women. The blue colour of Agave’s (?) dress in particular differentiates her from him, with his red cloak. Dark colour surrounds and marks out the immobile Pentheus, especially the dark hair of his doomed head. The bared breasts of two of the women and the two divinities display their wild state (and Agave’s want of maternal feeling?). The double motion, mental and actual, intensifies the poignancy of the moment: after the motion has achieved its aim, Pentheus’ mother will confront her action. This scene, like that of Dirce, is not just satisfactory punishment.

Hades Abducts Persephone Fig. 1.6. Wall-painting, Tomb I, Vergina, north wall. L. 3.50 m. Mid-fourth cent. . LIMC Hades 104, Persephone 213. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File: Hades_abducting_Persephone.jpg. Andronicos (1977), 6–11; (1994); Drougou, Saatsoglou-Paliadeli, Panagiotis, Kottaridou, Tsigarida (1994); SaatsoglouPaliadeli (2011), 285–6. The painter exploits the full length of the north wall to create a scene of urgent forward motion. Demeter sits in isolation on the shorter east wall, which adjoins: the impetuous event is contrasted with the long grief that follows. This painting must bear some relation to other depictions with much the same iconography: cf. e.g. the mosaic (ii ), Rome, Pal. Conserv. 1235, LIMC Hades 76a, Persephone 222, which gives Persephone the same position and includes the female figure on the ground in front. Related depictions seem to go back at least to the Darius Painter or Circle, 340–330 , Apulian volute-krater Berlin, Staatl. M. 1984.40, LIMC Demeter 315, Hades 85, https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/com mons/3/39/Persephone_krater_Antikensammlung_Berlin_1984.40.jpg. There the action moves from left to right not right to left, but Hermes appears with his caduceus in front. A tomb painting is not likely to have been the source of the later tradition, but it may have copied or adapted that source.¹¹ ¹¹ The identity of the three figures on the south wall is not clear; the Fates are a popular suggestion. The figures on the north wall were sketched on the wall before painting, cf. Andronicos (1994), 92–9. The

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Fig. 1.6. Macedonian wall-painting, mid-fourth century . Image: Wikimedia Commons. Photographer: Yann Forget.

A feature which distinguishes versions lies in the figure of Hermes. Most often he is standing or walking; on the mosaic mentioned he is taking one of the horses’ bridles. Here he is holding reins, so guiding the chariot. On the recently discovered mosaic from Amphipolis (late iv ?), he is running, but less vigorously than here; his cloak lies flat on his back. See https://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2014/ 10/141018-amphipolis-tomb-persephone-mosaic-greece-archaeology-alexan der-great/. In the painting Hermes is running (or flying) swiftly forward, his cloak billowing out. As on the Amphipolis mosaic his front leg aligns with the front legs of the horses; the Darius Painter does something similar with a hare, a token of speed. Hermes is looking back, anxiously encouraging, rather than storming ahead.¹² The painting invites two directions of reading: from the attention-grabbing group on the right, Hades, Persephone, and the nymph, and from the left, where the chain of movement begins. If the squiggly lines in the top left-hand corner are Zeus’s thunderbolt, a causal beginning is seen too. Persephone’s impassioned gesture has her arms stretch in the opposite direction from Hermes’ right arm: the two contrast at either end of the main string of figures. Her resistance to the motion is in vain; her hair, like Hades’, is caught in the same gust of wind, to evoke rapidity. Hades is not looking amorously at her, nor eagerly forward to the horses; anxiety seems to occupy the abductors.¹³ direction of the movement straight along that wall is clearly shown by Hermes; it is shown too by the heads of the three horses furthest to the left. As often from the late fifth century on, the wheels are shown as if turning, to bring the viewer closer to the group in the chariot (note too the back legs of the horse on the right). The design in the mosaic from Amphipolis (see below, p. 17) is related; cf. also wall-painting, Alexandria, necropolis of Kom el-Chougafa in situ (late i–early ii ), LIMC Persephone add. 27 (Suppl. 2009). On Berlin 1984.40 (cf. Giuliani (1988), 13–15), the curvature of the krater might be relevant (cf. also Apulian bell-krater Berlin 1968.12, attr. Darius Painter, Trendall and Cambitoglou (1982), 501, pl. 180.1). Note too Lessing, Paralipomena 22, Barner (1990), 297 n. 56. Early examples on Sicilian coins: BMC Sicily Syracuse 160, 190 (c.410 ; c.415  (Euainetos)); Jenkins (1990), nos. 259, 262. ¹² Date of Amphipolis mosaic: Palagia (2015), 107. ¹³ On the role of Zeus, cf. H. Dem. 2–3 ἣν Ἀϊδωνεύϲ | ἥρπαξεν, δῶκεν δὲ . . . Ζεύϲ, ‘whom Hades abducted; Zeus gave her’, 9 Διὸϲ βουλῆιϲι, ‘by the plan of Zeus’.

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The context clearly directs the meaning of the pictures here (the principal occupant of the tomb may have been female). The meaning could be variously interpreted; so a promise of rebirth has been seen. Even so, the meaning of the picture is bound up with the impact of its motion; the motion has a purpose, but is a decisive act in itself, for agent and victim.¹⁴

A Discus-Thrower Fig. 1.7. ‘Lancellotti’ Discobolus, Roman copy, original attr. Myron and c.450 . Rome, Mus. Naz. (Terme) 126371. H. 1.55 m (there are many other copies too). http://www.italianways.com/il-discobolo-lancellotti-bello-da-qualsiasi-prospettiva/; https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Disc%C3%B3bolo_Lancellotti_01.JPG. Boardman (1985), 80–1; Stewart (1990), i.148–9, 255–6, ii. no. 300; Anguissola (2005); Thliveri (2010); Jenkins (2011). The sculpture brings out the paradox of motion in sport, and still more in the art which intensifies sport. The motion is aimed at an end, this stone discus arriving further than anyone else’s (cf. Hom. Od. 8.106–203); but the motion of the athlete which causes the motion of the discus is itself for the spectators an object of admiration. At Bacch. 9.27–32, Automedes stood out among the other pentathletes like the full moon among the stars; ‘throwing the wheel-shaped discus amid the boundless circle of the Greeks, he was revealing his wondrous body’ (φαῖνε θαυμαϲτὸν δέμαϲ; note the tense). Bacchylides goes on to other sports in the pentathlon, but he seems to be toying with circles. So does the Kleomelos Painter with a pose like this one on the circular inside of a kylix (Louvre G 111, red-figure, c.510–500 , Beazley Archive no. 200994, https://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Discobolus_Kleomelos_Louvre_G111.jpg). In this sculpture, lesser circles are offered by the discus, and the head; but the rounded centre of the athlete’s body, from right shoulder to right knee, forms an object of contemplation for the viewer. Unlike the vase, the sculpture turns the athlete’s chest out to view; the vase shows that the most obvious view is on to the profile. As ancient commentary brings out, the pose is strange as well as pleasing, and calls for a return to straightness with the movement that will send the discus through the air. Cf. Quint. Inst. 2.13.10 quid tam distortum . . . quam est ille discobolos Myronis? si quis tamen ut parum rectum improbet opus . . . , ‘Nothing is more twisted . . . than Myron’s famous discus-thrower. But if someone were to disapprove of the work as not upright . . . ’; Luc. Philops. 18 ἐοικότα ϲυναναϲτηϲομένωι μετὰ τῆϲ βολῆϲ, ‘like one who is going to stand up straight

¹⁴ Rebirth: Neer (2012), 351.

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Fig. 1.7. Roman marble copy of Attic bronze statue, orig. c.450 . Image: Peter Barritt / Alamy Stock Photo.

again as he makes the throw’. It is not a stance of repose. Lucian has the head turned towards the hand with the discus: the man is intent on the action.¹⁵

¹⁵ The small bronze copy Munich, Antikensammlungen Inv. 3012 probably gives a better idea of how the head was positioned than even the Lancellotti version; cf. H. A. Harris (1964), pl. 10 and p. 229, Maaß (1979), 36–7.

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A continuous line is formed by the loose left arm and loose left leg; cf. Lucian ἠρέμα ὀκλάζοντα τῶι ἑτέρωι, ‘gently crouching with the other leg’. They contrast with the straight right arm and right leg, which bear the discus and the body’s weight respectively. The right arm and the upper right leg are parallel, and taut. The imminence of motion is heightened by the spectators’ own muscular imagination, as if they might execute this thrilling deed. It is through imagined motion that the athlete, like Dexileos, is seen in action: that is somewhat different from saying the statue synoptically represents the whole of the throw. This was presumably a statue for a named victor. As with any use of an external object that will leave the body—like an arrow or lightning-bolt—art and especially sculpture will show the external object still unthrown; here we are two steps back, before the forward swing and throw and before the flight of the discus, and with a less simple movement than throwing a thunderbolt. The more complicated work for the imagination only enhances the power of the image.¹⁶

Medea Ponders Fig. 1.8. Wall-painting, House of the Dioscuri, Pompeii VI 9.6–7, peristyle. Naples, MAN 8977.  c.60–79. H. 1.27 m. https://commons.wikimedia.org/ wiki/File:Medea_-_Casa_dei_Dioscuri.JPG. PPM iv.975, no. 223, LIMC Medea 10. Grasso (2009); Vout (2012). This painting takes us a stage back from Dexileos with his spear, or the bacchant with her thyrsus. The right hand near the sword points to motion, as does the sword held over the enemy’s head in the Albani relief (see above on Dexileos, 10 n. 5); but the context of warfare there means that no external knowledge is needed. Here a hand, in shadow, is close to the handle, but has not yet grasped it; the left hand shows that the sword will not be used instantly. The person with the sword is a woman, and not in the act of delivering a blow; the context looks peaceful, with two boys playing astragaloi, watched by an old man. A viewer innocent of mythology could ultimately work it out; but the picture clearly presupposes a reader with knowledge, particularly of the crucial point that the woman is the boys’ mother. Possibly one might say that the picture simply tells the whole story; but the division between what is seen and what is foreknown seems important. Whether or not this picture is close to Timomachus’ of the same juncture, an epigram probably about that picture is revealing for ancient attitudes. A. Plan. 140 (unascribed) tells the reader to look and marvel at pity and anger ὑπ’ ὀφρύϲι κείμενον, ¹⁶ ‘Kinesic’ imagination: Cave (2016), 63, 117, etc. Synoptic representation of throw: Hemelrijk (1970), 171, saying the thought is probably far-fetched.

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Fig. 1.8. Campanian wall-painting,  c.60–79. Image: Adam Eastland / Alamy Stock Photo.

‘lying beneath Medea’s eyebrows’, at her hand drawn towards murder by an urge that yet spares the children. It ends: ζωγράφοϲ εὖ δ᾿ ἔκρυψε φόνου τέλοϲ, οὐκ ἐθελήϲαϲ | θάμβοϲ ἀπαμβλῦναι πένθεϊ δερκομένων, ‘the painter did well to hide the accomplishment of the murder: he did not wish to blunt the wonder of viewers with grief ’. Actually seeing the killing, then, would put viewers’ feelings in a different state. Although the physical position of Medea and the children well suits a scene of future killer and victims, the picture is at a clearly prior stage. The

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potential movement in the picture from upper right to lower left is strengthened by the architectural diagonal above Medea’s head, more or less in a line that continues to the head of the higher boy.¹⁷ The viewer is engaged in Medea’s state of mind; the placing of the window gives particular emphasis to her face. Her mind is not focused on undiluted rage or love: in either case one would expect her to look at the children. The detachment of her gaze from the immediate scene indicates involvement in complex reflection. But the complexity and the content must be fed in by the viewer: a monologue would spell out the contraries and the oscillation. The strangeness of the mental state is conveyed all the more strongly through the lack of anything explicit. By contrast with what absorbs Medea, the boys are absorbed in a game, and their hands carry out movements in it (the higher boy’s right arm is parallel in shape to Medea’s). The Paidagogos further contrasts with Medea in watching over the children; his inscrutable thoughts add to the viewer’s anxiety. The viewer both knows the narrative sequence and is in the domain of ‘before’. The companion piece shows Andromeda and Perseus after Perseus’ flight of rescue (PPM iv.975, no. 224, Naples, MAN 8998, LIMC Andromeda 69, https:// commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Perseus_Andromeda_MAN_Napoli_Inv8998. jpg). His winged sandals are prominently displayed, the vanquished sea-monster’s head is seen. The viewer knows the narrative sequence and is in the domain of ‘after’. This little anthology has confronted us with various aspects of motion in classical art. The motion in train or about to happen is typically swift (e.g. Hades, the Discobolus). One need only think of Egyptian art for a contrast: motion is often presented there, but walking is much commoner than running, let alone jumping. The Greek and Roman art offers a different aesthetic and narrative world. The action, and not least its swiftness, are often to be admired: so clearly with the dancer, the discus-thrower, and the cavalryman. It can also display divinity: so Dionysus, Hades, Boreas.¹⁸ The motion is often momentous, and leads to important change: so Pentheus, Hades. In all, some kind of story or some sequence is involved: Purwias’ action on the vase and his possession of the vase are contemplated as separate in time, even if not causally connected. Different timings and types of motion are involved: the motion most often has inside the story a purpose outside itself (not so clear of Purwias; Boreas would be included if we see him as an agent for some purpose of

¹⁷ The omission of the actual killing from the painting is stressed too at A. Plan. 136.7–8, Antiphil. GP XLVIII.7–8: blood suited, and was conspicuous on, Medea’s hand, not Timomachus’—ἔπρεπε has two meanings; Anon. A. Plan. 138.6: Timomachus sparing to stain the hand—Medea’s or his own— with blood. ‘Sparing’ is of course significant; cf. also A. Pal. 9.346.4, Leonid. Alex. FGE XXIII.4, with Page (1981), 528–9. ¹⁸ Even the galloping and jumping of animals in Egyptian art is often depicted in what seems by Greek standards a restrained fashion: cf. Evans (2010), 37–44.

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his own or another god’s, beyond being a wind). The motion depicted may itself be exceedingly close to the intended outcome, and part of the motion that brings it about (so Dexileos or the bacchants). It may be a significant action in itself (Hades), or a little further back from the crucial motion (Discobolus), or we may have an absence of motion, which leads up to the motion itself (Medea). The interest in showing motion rather than outcomes is notable. Of note too is a frequent interest in causation. In the case of the bacchants it is incorporated into the picture as more motion; in the case of Medea it is shown through a lack of motion. It is conveyed through hints with Dionysus and with Zeus (Persephone), through direct presence with the wind Boreas. Causation is often related to the divine, and so to the highest level of meaning. Divine power can be expressed through some ordinary means of transport, in which someone is moved rather than moving, but of their own volition: Dionysus in a ship, Hades in a chariot. Odysseus is moved on a sort of raft very much not at his own volition. Objects are moved, and so show martial, athletic, or more sinister power (Dexileos, Discobolus, bacchant (Agave?), Medea). In many cases there is a significant inequality: Odysseus has to move at Boreas’ behest, the hoplite cannot move away from Dexileos, nor Pentheus from the women, Persephone from Hades; Medea’s children do not move, out of innocence, and will not be saved by the old slave. In a less sinister way, Purwias performs his star turn while his companions stay put. Not only are motion and lack of motion set against each other in the images; the contrasts can include single figures and groups, whether the single figure is a powerful god or an impotent human. Motion, then, is an absorbing focus of interest, in itself and as the creator of various meanings. Motion and its meanings are conveyed in various ways, which exploit the specific potential of art and meet its specific challenges. A presupposition of motion is that motion will normally continue until it reaches its intended end, and will continue in the same direction and in the same manner. This implication is deployed with similar repeated action extrapolated from the running poses of Hades’ horses and Hermes. It is deployed with continuation of the same impetus in Dexileos’ spear, Agave’s (?) thyrsus, and the vessels of Dionysus and Odysseus. Most of these images have a restricted and carefully designed space (the Discobolus stands on his own, but Dexileos has a frame and a setting). Sometimes a long rectangular framework is used to convey the extent of the motion and to suggest it continuing beyond that framework (Odysseus, Hades). Sometimes a square framework is exploited in indicating a downward diagonal movement (Dexileos, Pentheus; with Medea the framework is not square, but not glaringly unequal, and the indication is more oblique). A circle is used in a more complicated manner by Exekias: it limits the dolphins’ domain (possibly a domain around the ship, but also with some suggestion of Ocean); it also permits the later movement of the ship beyond the picture. As in this example or that of

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Odysseus, Pentheus, or Medea, the setting of the motion or non-motion can be an important part of the point; in other cases (such as Dexileos) it is of little moment. It would seem false, then, to say that art finds it hard to depict motion: the nature of motion enables extrapolation. But for the understanding of motion, the art relies heavily on the knowledge of the viewer. In some non-mythological instances, words are made part of the image (Dexileos, Purwias). In neither case would the viewer be incapable of understanding what was seen without the words, but the words give more specific point. The same will have been true of the base to the Discobolus; the statue also requires from the viewer some knowledge of the sport. Mythological images too can help the viewer through words (Odysseus) or visual signs (mini-dolphins on ship); even so, they depend on knowledge from the viewer. This does not mean that the art is not doing its job: most ancient aesthetic productions require some previous knowledge, especially of mythology and of conventions within the medium. While depiction and external knowledge interact, there is also a separation between them; their distinctness is effectively exploited in most of the images. Thus the image of Pentheus would make a different impact if it depicted the torn Pentheus, as can be confirmed from other images which do. The art does not even shy away from material which seems to challenge the medium much more than motion does. Medea’s thought is supplied by the viewer, in a powerful collaboration between viewer and painter. Nor is this limited to Hellenistic and Roman art. So Exekias’ depiction of Ajax planting his sword (a small motion before a large one) gives no clue to Ajax’s feelings in his face (black-figure Type B amphora Boulogne 558, 575–525 , Beazley Archive no. 310400, http://www.beazley.ox.ac. uk/XDB/ASP/recordDetails.asp?id=938261A0-F0AA–4125–931E–1A62F73778C 6&noResults=&recordCount=&databaseID=&search=). The creation of his mental state is made the work of the viewer. It will be seen that there is a connection and a continuum between depicting motion that leads directly to a crucial outcome and depicting motion or the lack of motion that leads to it less directly; in both cases, emotion and the mind tend to be involved. And that brings us at last to Lessing. His great Laokoon (Lessing (1766)) offered a brilliant view of the relationship between art and literature which has been debated ever since. For our purposes, the Paralipomena are important. See no. 5 (1763?), pp. 250.6–251.2 Barner: Die M a l e r e i schildert Körper, und andeutungsweise durch Körper, Bewegungen. Die P o e s i e schildert Bewegungen, und andeutungs Weise durch Bewegungen, Körper. Eine Reihe von Bewegungen, die auf einen Endzweck abzielen, heißet eine H a n d l u n g. Visual art depicts bodies, and, by suggestion through bodies, movement.

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Poetry depicts movements, and, by suggestion through movements, bodies. A series of movements which aim at a final purpose is called an action.¹⁹

Lessing then proceeds to distinguish between an ‘einfache Handlung’, ‘simple action’, confined to one ‘body’, and a ‘collective Handlung’, a ‘collective action’, distributed between several bodies (‘body’ denotes any object, Lessing (1766), 153, XVI, 116.24–5 Barner). The simple action must be extended in time, so visual art can make no claim to it; simple actions remain solely (‘einzig und allein’) the possession of poetry.²⁰ A movement, then, is part of an action. Quite where the division comes is not clear. At an earlier stage, an idea of a movement is given at Paralipomena 1, 211.8–11 (late 1762?): ‘Bewegungen können durch Worte lebhafter ausgedrückt werden, als Farben und Figuren; folglich wird der Dichter seine körperlichen Gegenstände mehr durch jene als durch diese sinnlich zu machen suchen’, ‘Movements can be expressed through words in a livelier way than can colours and figures [‘figures’ as in the forms of people]; hence the poet will seek to make those subjects of his that are bodies perceptible to the senses more through movements than through colours and figures’. His first two examples show both colour and movement: Ov. Met. 4.473–4 ‘Tisiphone canos, ut erat, turbata capillos | Movit: et o b s t a n t e s r e j e c i t a b o r e colubras’ [Lessing’s emphasis], ‘Tisiphone shook her white hair, still disordered, and flung back the impeding snakes from her mouth’ (reiecit a single movement); 452–3 ‘ . . . | Deque suis atros p e c t e b a n t crinibus angues’, the Furies ‘were combing the black snakes from their hair’ (repetition of a single similar movement).²¹ The plausibility of the negative comment on ‘einfache Handlungen’ and art might seem to depend on the complexity of a given ‘Handlung’; but even swift movements have some extension in time (Paralipomena 22, 297.6–298.8), and so, as we shall see, cannot for Lessing be directly presented in art. Lessing sees an opposition between space and time: so (1766), 176, XVIII, 130.9–10 Barner, ‘die

¹⁹ See also Göring (1893), 215. Dating: Barner (1990), 639–41, 878. This seems in some respects like an advance on Lessing (1766), 153–4, XVI, 116.24–117.10 Barner, which mentions only Handlungen; but Lessing planned a discussion of movement in the second part of the Laokoon, which never appeared: Barner (1990), 295 no. . In his comments on Paralipomena 4 (earlier in 1763?), Lessing’s friend the philosopher Moses Mendelssohn had said that poetry can express bodily forms and movements, while visual art has bodily forms, and a certain appearance of movement, as its subject (‘hat körperliche Forme, und einen gewissen Anschein der Bewegung zu ihrem Gegenstande’, Barner (1990), 249). References to the Laokoon itself give the pages of the first edition, the chapter in roman numerals, and then the lines and pages of Barner (1990); original spelling and script also in Lachmann and Muncker (1893). On the Laokoon, see recently Gall and Wolkenhauer (2009), and very recently Lifschitz and Squire (2017). On motion in Lessing, cf. e.g. Fick (2006/7), 120–2. ²⁰ Treatment of ‘collective Handlungen’ planned in second part: Barner (1990), 294 no. . ²¹ See also Göring (1893), 195. ‘Bewegung’ has a slightly different sense at Paralipomena 22, 300.31–301.1.

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Zeitfolge ist das Gebiete des Dichters, so wie der Raum das Gebiete des Mahlers’, ‘the sequence of time is the poet’s province, as space is the province of the artist’.²² Let us think about jumping. Plut. Alex. 63.3 is unusually detailed, for literature; it describes a famous leap of Alexander’s: ὀλιγοϲτὸϲ ὢν ϲυϲτρέψαϲ ἑαυτὸν εἰϲ μέϲουϲ ἀφῆκε τοὺϲ πολεμίουϲ, καὶ κατὰ τύχην ὀρθὸϲ ἔϲτη, ‘with very few to accompany him, he bunched himself up, and threw himself into the midst of the enemy; by luck he landed upright’. The almost individual group action is a more complicated version of interests we have already seen in art. Now, the sequence of bunching oneself up, throwing oneself, and landing upright could in theory be conveyed by art in a sequence of images (not that Lessing would approve, (1776), 177, XVIII, 130.11–18 Barner). But classical art would not usually bother with a sequence on so small a scale. It could be argued that literature is here doing something which comes to it more readily. Conversely, words could describe the position of Purwias’ lower legs as he is in mid-air at a certain height; but literature would not usually bother, and if it did it would not have the impact of the neat image. So far, then, it is not obvious that literature has a decisive advantage in depicting the motion of leaping; and in practice it does not usually go as far as Plutarch.²³ Hexameter narrative is, for literature, a highly detailed genre—that is part of its ‘bewitching’ evocation of a world as if real—but Homer usually refers to leaping with ἐξ ὀχέων ϲὺν τεύχεϲιν ἄλτο χαμᾶζε, ‘leapt in his armour from his chariot to the ground’ (8 times, 5 of these with αὐτίκα δ᾿, ‘immediately’) or ἀφ᾿/ἐξ/καθ᾿ ἵππων ἄλτο χαμᾶζε, ‘leapt down from his horses to the ground’ (4 times). The motion is presented in simple and schematic terms, in themselves much less ‘lively’ than the vase-painter’s image. We cannot say the action is too trivial to be worth describing: ϲὺν τεύχεϲιν shows its connotations of energy and fitness. That in turn is confirmed by Virgil’s omnibus armis, ‘with all his arms’, when Turnus at the end of Aeneid 9 leaps into the river from the camp he has been attacking single-handed: 815–16 tum demum praeceps saltu sese omnibus armis | in fluuium dedit, ‘only then did he leap headlong with all his arms and fling himself into the river’. This is a spectacular piece of motion. praeceps adds something; but the level of detail is not the same as on the aryballos. The point, however, is not to bring about a redistribution of Lessing’s even-handed prize-giving (cf. (1766), 219–20, XXII, 157.2–16 Barner); the reader or listener collaborates with the text, and gives force to the leap as an act of motion, without creating a mental image that matches the vase-painter’s.²⁴

²² The fixing of boundaries was an important part of Lessing’s distinctive contribution, as he saw it. Cf., besides his subtitle, the letter of C. J. Weiße to J. N. Meinhard, 1.3.1766, Daunicht (1971), 186–7: Lessing has said to Weiße that since others have always compared Malerey and poetry, he wants . . . ‘die Gränzen bestimmen’, ‘to determine the boundaries’. ²³ It is narrative literature that is primarily in question here: thus leaping could be seen on the stage in comedy (cf. Ar. Wasps 1518–22, Lys. 1317–18). Two jumps on the same occasion may be shown on the Attic red-figure pelike Boston 1973.88 (525–475 , attr. Euthymides, Beazley Archive no. 4437). But this could be too literal a reading of the vase’s patterning. Cf. Kim (2017), 164–6. ²⁴ For praeceps, cf. 8.256–7 seque ipse per ignem | praecipiti iecit saltu, ‘he threw himself through the flames with a headlong leap’.

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A clue is given by an issue already touched on. Literature might seem to have a greater scope than art for presenting or giving an idea of minds, in particular through language, both language that describes and language that verbalizes thoughts (however thought and language are related). Art, as Lessing would stress, might seem to present the bodies of living beings more vividly. But the presentation of minds is still important in art, and the lesser degree of articulated and elaborate detail alters rather than diminishes the viewer’s experience. Even so with many aspects of motion in literature. It may be objected that the mind is intrinsically mysterious, so that in that case, unlike motion, indefiniteness is expressive. But that is more of a modern approach to minds; concealed plans and mental conflict are familiar in ancient literature and art, but not universal, and Dexileos’ or Odysseus’ mind is not shown as inaccessible. In the case of motion as treated by literature, there are numerous physical and mental elements and plenty of meanings and impressive features; reduction in detail or visual vividness does not mean that literary depictions are unimportant, or even inferior. The passages in the following chapters should show the significance of motion in poetry and prose. Lessing’s elegant antitheses do not fully capture the awkward particularities of ancient art and literature. His basic antithesis of time and space might seem less appealing to ancient consumers, since space as a generalized concept was of much less interest than time. But he is certainly on to something in his idea of art as presenting a moment. He says that art can ‘nur einen einzigen Augenblick der Handlung nutzen, und muß daher den prägnantesten wählen, aus welchem das Vorgehende und Folgende am begreiflichsten wird’, can ‘only employ a single moment of the action; so it must choose the most pregnant moment, from which what precedes and follows becomes easiest to apprehend’ ((1766), 154, XVI, 117.11–14 Barner). This is not very far from more recent ideas that in ancient art the whole myth is synoptically evoked. The later accounts may even have disadvantages: as we have seen, it would be misguided to remove temporal sequence from the viewer’s response, to ignore ‘before’ or ‘after’ with Dionysus, Pentheus, Medea, and, as the writing shows, Dexileos. There are probably flowers to indicate ‘before’ with Persephone, not to mention Demeter for ‘after’ and perhaps the Fates for ‘before’. Motion itself has both a spatial and a temporal side: an object moves in space over time. In the representation of motion, a single image and a summary ἄλτο χαμᾶζε both do their job; but as art can exploit spatial possibilities which are little used in literature, so literature can pursue elaborate temporal sequences which are little used in art.²⁵ ²⁵ ‘ “Synoptic”, “block-like” evocations of the whole myth’: Hemelrijk (1970), 170. Cf. Oulié (2017), and further discussion of ‘aspectivity’ in the same volume. Giuliani (2013), 55, 134 stresses the need for a story to give meaning to a narrative image, that is for external knowledge, but also mentions the possibility of images that bring different stages in a story together (related though more limited possibilities, Lessing (1766), 178, XVIII, 130.34–131.10 Barner); cf. Giuliani (2013), 245, and (2017), for approval of Lessing. See also Chapter 2 n. 57 below.

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A complication enters in when we consider the viewer. Lessing (1766), 166–8, XVII, 124.8–38 Barner suggests that the poet’s attempts to ‘paint’, unlike actual painting (i.e. art), fail to fit the amazing speed of the eye’s operations in forming a conception of an object, so that it seems just like one operation. Lessing’s remarks need not be taken to cover all actual art; but certainly ancient works of art call for something more complex than a single moment of vision. Apart from all the challenges of noticing, considering, and connecting the visual elements in one image, relationships with other images or a text are typically part of interpretation. Tomb I at Vergina (whoever is viewing it) has images on other walls; the other side of the vase with Odysseus at sea has a related image, Pentheus and Medea are placed near other related images. (The relation of the inside to the outside of Exekias’ cup is more difficult, but contrast is probable.) Dexileos has a crucial base, as the Discobolus will have done; text threads round Purwias and his companions. Even if the work affects to offer a unified moment, in a single space, the experience of the viewer is far more intricate. Much of the literature we will look at is narrative, and the dynamic of temporal progression is essential to its presentation of motion. But this too is more involved, as moments are not wholly left behind but accumulate, and the listener or reader is incessantly collating and reflecting. Comparing artistic and literary depiction of motion brings a clearer understanding of literary depiction, of what to look for and what not to expect, of how much the reader or listener gives and is given. The value of this general comparison for us does not depend on its importance for ancient creators and consumers of literature. But it seems evident enough that within ancient literature art heightens consciousness of motion and its presentation. Recent study has stressed the prominence of art in literature, as inspiration and object for reflection. Such study is not confined to the massive quantity of work on ekphrasis; but ekphrasis makes the point. Early in Apollonius’ account of Jason’s cloak, Ζῆθοϲ μὲν ἐπωμαδὸν ἠέρταζεν | οὔρεοϲ ἠλιβάτοιο κάρη, ‘Zethus was lifting the head of a steep mountain on his shoulder’, to build Thebes (1.738–9). The imperfect typical of ekphrasis highlights the frozen recreation of this motion in art, but also the poetic recreation in words; it gives a spectacularly imitative spondaic ending. The reader of the words is offered hyperbole and an ingenious collocation of bodies, and must contribute thought to visualize Zethus’ rising action. The sequence in narrating time creates irony and surprise: Zethus’ brother Amphion is walking with a lyre, and a rock twice the size of Zethus’ is following him (740–1). Amphion is an embodiment of poetry, and so makes reflection yet more evident.²⁶ Still more prominently, Virgil heaps up imperfects at the ends of lines in his description of Aeneas’ shield: Aen. 8.646–8 . . . Porsenna iubebat | . . . urbem ²⁶ μετ᾿ ἴχνια 741 looks back to μετ᾿ ἴχνια 575, in a simile on a piping cowherd which describes the bard Orpheus; μετ᾿ ἴχνια νίϲϲετο 741 is taken up at 3.447, where Medea’s mind πεπότητο μετ᾿ ἴχνια νιϲϲομένοιο, ‘flew after Jason’s steps as he went’—writing far beyond the limits of art or Homeric poetry. On imperfects and ekphrasis, cf. Harden (2011), 98. For ekphrasis, cf. e.g. Fowler (2000), Elsner (2002), Bäbler and Nesselrath (2006), Baumann (2006), De Jong (2011), Zeitlin (2013), Konstan (2018), Rutherford (2019), 21–34. On the importance of art for literature, cf. notably Linant de Bellefonds and Prioux (2018).

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obsidione premebat; | Aeneadae in ferrum pro libertate ruebant, ‘Porsenna was telling [the Romans to take Tarquin back]; he was besieging the city; the descendants of Aeneas were rushing into battle for the sake of freedom’. Again narrating time produces a pointed sequence. Virgil conveys the importance of external knowledge for the viewer’s interpretation of artistic motion and its outcome; but libertate and Aeneadae display elements art could not, and are full of literary connections. The Latin hexameter poet soon does what a Greek hexameter poet could not: he uses the historic present for the gleaming Gauls attacking the Capitol (659–61) and for the fleets coming together and fighting at Actium, until Apollo’s intervention (704; 678–703 all presents, except for 689, which uses not imperfect but historic infinitive). The present tense, with heightened engagement for the readerspectator, obliterates the difference between imperfective and perfective, ekphrasis and narrative, art and literature. But Actium also comes at the point where there is most emphasis on the spatial design of the shield (675, after 671–4); there is a clash between its almost final position in the annalistic sequence (629) and its central position in the artwork (in medio 675). Both suggest order, but the movement grows increasingly wild. Islands are uprooted, mountains collide, Discord strides with rent robe (691–2, 701). Discord is pictorial, gaudens apart; the mountains and islands display and require more specifically literary imagination.²⁷ Beyond ekphrasis, Pindar’s use of art has occasioned much discussion; but he is also remarkable for the range and prominence with which he exploits motion. The two concerns relate. When Pindar suddenly says ϲτάϲομαι, ‘I will stand’, i.e. ‘stop’ (Nem. 5.16), he is contrasting himself, on a different level, with the action of the characters whose narrative he is now stopping: the men who ‘left’ the island (15), the δαίμων that ‘drove’ them (16). But the anxious ϲτάϲομαι is sharpened by its connection with the despised statues ‘standing’ on their base (| ἑϲταότ’· 2) at the beginning of the poem, with its humorously contemptuous and prosaic start Οὐκ ἀνδριαντοποιόϲ εἰμ᾿, ‘I am no statue-maker’. Pythian 6, on a Delphic victory, begins with a treasury (5–18); the account of Antilochus’ self-sacrifice for his father Nestor probably interacts with the east frieze of the Siphnian treasury at Delphi, as well as with narratives in the Aethiopis and Iliad. The account combines moving and not moving, with literary and artistic point. But more remarkable is 36–7 (Nestor in his shaken mind) βόαϲε παῖδα ὅν, || χαμαιπετὲϲ δ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἔποϲ οὐκ ἀπέριψεν, ‘shouted for his son, and he did not throw away his utterance so that it fell on the ground’; the god-like Antilochus stayed where he was (αὐτοῦ) and bought his father’s safe return (39 κομιδὰν πατρόϲ) with his death. χαμαιπετέϲ at the start of the stanza seems boldly and poignantly contrasted with the body of the dead

²⁷ credas 691 draws the reader in. With 8.648, cf. Lucr. 1.1 Aeneadum, in a passage which proceeds to the Romans and (civil?) war, and, for ruebant, Hor. Epod. 7.1 Quo quo scelesti ruitis . . . ? ‘Where, where are you rushing to in your wickedness . . . ?’, ending with Romans as descendants of Romulus; Cic. Phil. 6.19 de libertate cernitur . . . populi Romani est propria libertas (end of speech), ‘the battle is for freedom . . . to the Roman people belongs freedom’. No point seen in the ‘rhyme’ at Aen. 8.646–8: Frantuomo and Smith (2018), 670; they stress the imperfects, seen as cinematic (669). On sequence and design on the shield, cf. e.g. Hardie (1986), esp. 347–55, Feldherr (2014), Kania (2016), 91–2.

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Antilochus on the ground in the centre of the frieze; his father stands gesturing at the right-hand end. In Pindar, the utterance did not fall, as the son did. The scope of poetic words is displayed. The word κομιδά conveys not just return but the Homeric sense of ‘care’: so rich is language.²⁸ Such passages confirm the value of our plan in using art as a stimulus for looking at motion in literature. Consideration of art helps us to notice specifically literary strategies; it also points us to the interest of motion, and its ramifications. In the following chapters, we will be considering large works of poetry and prose, and looking at motion across each work and in particular passages; the detailed scrutiny will carry on from our scrutiny of artworks. The passages will offer no less vitality and variety than the art, with their force and colour, and their endless invention on specifics; some leading wider aspects may be mentioned now. We have already seen: contrasts and distinctions between moving and being moved, between voluntary and inflicted motion, between motion and immobility or fixity, between motion that is its own justification and motion that has a purpose outside itself, and between motion that has a purpose outside itself for the agent but is an object in itself for the viewer. We shall eventually encounter motion that is willed but not very strongly, as in idle wandering. A pause may be made to mention a piece of terminology: ‘transitive’ will be used of motion where x moves y, ‘intransitive’ where y simply moves; this will commonly but not always match the Greek and Latin verbs employed. The aspects mentioned bear strongly on structures and stories. Not moving can embody valour, causing someone to move can display the power of gods. Causation can also take us into characters’ thoughts on motion, and into internal and metaphorical motion, sometimes entangled with action by gods, personifications included. Motion that is not physical motion within the primary narrative or account will on the whole be of interest here in proportion as it is vividly described: the prime interest is in motion rather than in metaphors. But different levels of motion which relate in a passage form another way in which motion arrests attention. Important variables of motion are speed, to do with time, and direction, to do with space. Both of these are linked to admiration, moral values, and success (as the bacchants and Hades show, success and morality can come apart). In literature as well as art, direction includes backwards and forwards on the battlefield.

²⁸ χαμαιπετέων, χαμαὶ πετοῖϲαν, πίτνει χαμαί denote futility and failure too at Ol. 9.12, Nem. 4.41, Pyth. 8.92; in Pyth. 8.91–3, as here, the suggestions of the image are notably developed. For battle and killing, cf. e.g. Hom. Il. 4.482 χαμαὶ πέϲεν (Simoeisius), Eur. Or. 1491 φόνωι χαμαιπετεῖ ‘slaying aimed to cause falling to the ground’. The Siphnian treasury (c.525 ): e.g. Boardman (1978), figs 130, 210– 12.4, esp. 130, 212.2, Stewart (1990), i.128–9, ii pll. 186–98, esp. 192, 194. See Athanassaki (2012). On connections with the Iliad, cf. Kelly (2006). After Nem. 5.16–17, the ensuing description of the poetspeaker’s long jump, which ostentatiously elides him jumping or running to jump, may play with artistic depictions (19–20, cf. 21; H. A. Harris (1964), 80–5, pll. 6–8). Pindar and art: see Burnett (2005), 29–44, etc., Athanassaki (2010), with abundant further literature at n. 82, (2012), Hedreen (2010), Indergaard (2010). Language of motion: cf. e.g. Calame (2012), Hutchinson (2012), follow e.g. ‘CiV’ in 286–300.

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Asymmetries of motion can manifest, or overturn, hierarchies, as of gods and mortals, males and females, adults and children. They can also display victory and defeat among, say, adult males, in ways that reflect, or fail to reflect, the pre-eminence of some. Groups and single figures are particularly important objects of antithesis through motion. Sometimes significant, and productive of surprises, are unusual ‘shapes’ of motion, like twisting, and motion that is not regular but disordered.²⁹ But what constitutes motion? We have already seen movement on a small scale (the astragaloi, Ajax’s sword). All physical events involve something, however small it is, moving or being moved. If a character drinks a cup of wine, the cup is raised, lips are opened, wine flows; but does that count as motion for our purposes? In literature it depends primarily on whether the action is so presented as to make the reader or listener think of motion. The language used is important: if the wine is said to go down the throat, that is different from just hearing that the character drank some wine. The scale in itself is not decisive: we cannot say that characters must move their feet at least one metre to qualify. It is more a matter of the receiver’s perception and attention, as guided by the text. Particularly liable to receive close detail on a small scale are motions of the body which for some reason are being dwelt on, or which possess importance in the world of the narrative. κυανέηιϲιν ἐπ᾿ ὀφρύϲι νεῦϲε (Hom. Il. 1.528), ‘nodded with dark brows’, might not sound like much. But what follows makes Zeus’s momentous nod motion (note ἀπ’) and the cause of motion: 529–30 ἀμβροϲίαι δ᾿ ἄρα χαῖται ἐπερρώϲαντο ἄνακτοϲ | κρατὸϲ ἀπ᾿ ἀθανάτοιο· μέγαν δ’ ἐλέλιξεν Ὄλυμπον, ‘the immortal locks flowed down from the deathless head of Lord Zeus; he made great Olympus shake’. Ancient discussion was impressed by the small bodily movement which caused a large one. The discussion is connected with stories, Hellenistic or earlier, that these lines inspired the sculpture of Phidias in the fifth century and Euphranor in the fourth. Discussion of Homer’s imagination in these lines is connected with discussion of Phidias’ and Euphranor’s, and leads into much reflection on art. The small motion not only shakes Olympus, but becomes an important part of thought on art and on its relations with literature. But it is time to look at the Iliad.³⁰

²⁹ ‘Shapes’: I have asked scientists for a general word which denotes types of motion such as linear or circular; so far, there does not seem to be one. ³⁰ Movements (note uses of κιν-): Strabo 8.3.30 354 C. ii.446.13–20 Radt, Dio Chr. 12.26, Σ Hom. Il. 1.530 b (bT), c (bT, AbT), 8.199 b (Til). Phidias and Euphranor inspired by Homer: Strabo l.c. 446.6–12 Radt, Val. Max. 3.7 ext. 4, Dio Chr. 12.25–6, Σ Hom. Il. 1.528–9 (A), 530 b (T). Stories are presupposed by the remark of Aemilius Paullus in 168/7  (Polyb. 30.11.6, Plut. Aem. 28.5, etc.). Note μόνοϲ . . . μεμιμῆϲθαι, ‘alone successfully matched’, in Polybius, cf. Vell. 1.5.1–2: no one found who could imitari Homer, cf. Hutchinson (2013), 28–30. Discussion of Phidias’ statue of Zeus at Olympia goes back at least to before Call. fr. 196 Pfeiffer (cf. Hutchinson (1988), 26–7, Kerkhecker (1999), 147–81, Prioux (2007), 114–30); cf. Sen. Contr. 10.5.8 (Phidias) with Strabo l.c. 446.19–20 Radt (Homer), etc., D. Burton (2015), esp. 79–80 (which could mislead on dates), Motta (2018), and on the statue e.g. Höcker and Schneider (1993), 83–98, D. Burton (2015). For Euphranor, cf. Σ Il. 1.530 b (T), Val. Max. 8.11 ext. 5 (first part of story on its own). For the lines in Homer, cf. H. Hom. 1.13–17, Pulleyn (2000), 256, Führer (2006).

2 Homer, Iliad Motion is fundamental to the Iliad and its whole texture. The poem is not based on a part of mythology which is all about movement, like the myth of the Argonauts or even Odysseus (a subset of the Nostoi). But it contrives to offer a continuous flow of swift motion; this flow gives the poem its irresistible élan. The continuous series of acts of motion is combined with pointed absences of motion, in the large-scale plot and in the pervasive language of the poem. The movement and non-movement are fraught with meaning and emotion; they repay scrutiny.¹ Prime events of the poem are that Achilles withdraws from the fighting, and then returns. That is, he remains by his ships, without significant movement, and then pursues the Trojans, who flee to the city, and chases their leader, whom he will kill. In withdrawing, he has caused a movement in which the Trojans press back the Greeks and break through to the Greek ships; this movement causes the movement of Patroclus, and hence the change between Achilles’ motionlessness and motion. Achilles ‘sits’ by his ship or ships (1.329–30, 348–50, 415–16, 488–9), or ‘lies’ among the ships (2.688, 694, 771–2): this though he is renowned for being swift-footed (489, straight after 488: part of the same sentence), and will be swift to die (1.417 ὠκύμοροϲ, straight after 416: Thetis’ explicit point). The former passage is followed by the negation of Achilles’ habitual motion (490 πωλέϲκετο), to assembly or to war, as he regretfully remains in one place (492 αὖθι μένων). The picture expands at the very end of the Catalogue, just before the swift motion of the Greek army (2.780–5). Achilles lies there (772), the Myrmidons’ horses stand there (777 | ἕϲταϲαν), the chariots lie there (777), the chief Myrmidons engage in limited, repetitive, and pointless motion: 779 φοίτων ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα, ‘they kept moving this way and that’, just before the Greeks ἴϲαν ὡϲ εἴ τε πυρὶ χθὼν πᾶϲα νέμοιτο (780), ‘were moving as if the whole earth were being consumed by fire’.² In Book 9, the presentation of Achilles’ position develops, and there is uncertainty as to whether he will stay or move, but away from Troy. This is put in brisk antitheses: we will consider at dawn, says Achilles, whether we go to our own territory or stay, ἤ κε νεώμεθ᾿ ἐφ᾿ ἡμέτερ’ ἦ κε μένωμεν (618–19); let us leave him to

¹ It is excellent now to have Purves (2019), cf. (2010); her admirable book brings out (as I would put it) the importance of motion for Homer, in different terms and along different lines from the present effort. Note also Pache (2000), 21–2. Tsagalis (2012) is valuable on space, but relatively little concerned with motion. ² Achilles’ horses were the best in the Greek army (770). For 1.488–9, cf. Pulleyn (2000), 245. Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

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it, says Diomedes still more concisely, whether he goes or stays, ἤ κεν ἴηϲιν | ἦ κε μένηι, 701–2 (he does not think Achilles will really go, cf. 702–3).³ Achilles does not finally exclude fighting at some later point (when Hector comes to the huts and ships, 9.650–5 (ἱκέϲθαι); cf. 16.89–90, 97–100). But disastrously for himself, he does not pass straight from the lack of movement to movement. He first causes motion from another while staying put himself. He stands (11.600) on a ship, looking at the battle, and makes Patroclus go to Nestor (611); Patroclus runs (617). Patroclus’ keenly warlike emergence from his tent (604 ἔκμολεν ἶϲοϲ Ἄρηϊ) was the beginning of his downfall (604). Nestor suggests Achilles should send Patroclus (11.796 ϲέ περ προέτω); Patroclus voices the suggestion to Achilles, with an added ‘swiftly’ (16.38 ἐμέ περ πρόεϲ ὦκ’). As the Trojan advance reaches its climax and fire falls on the ships, Achilles himself urges action and speed (126 ὄρϲεο, 129 θάϲϲον). He will himself remain, he tells Zeus, but sends his friend (239–40): αὐτὸϲ μὲν γὰρ ἐγὼ μενέω . . . ἀλλ᾿ ἕταρον πέμπω. This transitive motion will not have the end he prays for, Patroclus’ return (247, 252). Achilles’ re-entry into battle gains momentum as it proceeds. One might have expected a destructive race across the plain by the swift-footed hero, but this fundamental part of the story is treated to the full complexity with which the poem handles motion. Before Achilles starts, Polydamas already envisages a mass flight back to the city (18.268–71). Achilles’ horses are particularly rapid, as one of them stresses in speech before they start (19.411–17; he is talking about a return). Achilles is in his chariot at 20.495–503, but moving around the battlefield, like someone threshing, rather than simply moving forward (cf. 492, 493 πάντηι). The Trojans immediately reach the river (21.1), and Achilles leaps in (21.18); the horses have no further relevance until the dragging of Hector. Achilles is briefly glimpsed as a dolphin in a simile, but is moving about rather than forwards (21.20–6). He rushes upon the Trojans like a daimon (227 ἐπέϲϲυτο δαίμονι ἶϲοϲ), in a phrase used of Diomedes and Patroclus encountering gods (5.438, 459 (spoken by Apollo), 884 (spoken by Ares), 16.705, 786). He is met by the answering charge of the river-god (234 ὃ δ᾿ ἐπέϲϲυτο). Achilles moves with the speed of an eagle, swiftest of birds, but in flight from the river (251–6).⁴ Finally, the Trojans are fleeing towards Troy (527–8, 554, etc.), but Achilles is diverted into vainly chasing Apollo: 22.8 (the god asks) τίπτε με . . . ποϲὶν ταχέεϲϲι διώκειϲ . . . ; ‘why do you chase me with your swift feet?’. At last comes the chase of Hector, which is protracted for over eighty lines or more. The extension is marked as extraordinary within the narrative (202–4, rhetorical question), and probably ³ ‘Book’ is used instead of the ancient ‘Rhapsody’, with no implication that the designated chunk of narrative was a formally distinct entity for original listeners. ⁴ The line 20.447, with the only other instance of ἐπέϲϲυτο δαίμονι ἶϲοϲ, is missing from the papyri and most manuscripts (M. L. West (1998–2000), ii.237); δαίμονι ἶϲοϲ with other verbs in this period only 20.493, 21.18, H. Dem. 235 (see n. 25 below). πόδαϲ ὠκὺϲ Ἀχιλλεύϲ is only used once in Books 20 and 21, at 21.222; there he addresses the river from whom he tries to fly ποϲὶ κραιπνοῖϲι (247).

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   

generated a paradox of Zeno’s (see ch. 3). The motion, watched by all the gods (166), is like a race (158–61) and like a dream (199–201).⁵ The motion of the Trojans to the ships takes up the greater part of the poem, with many delays and reversals. The blocking and complication of the motion enables the poem to achieve its massive length, but there is more to the treatment than stringing things out. So in Book 12 is seen, at the centre of the poem, not the inactive absence of motion, but the pressure of two contrary forces striving to achieve or prevent movement. The Trojans try the new idea of leaving the horses at the ditch. They go straight against the Greeks (106), and imagine that they will get to the ships (106–7): an expectation narratologically marked out for disappointment, even without the repetition at 125–6 and νήπιοι at 127 (cf. 79 οὐ μενέουϲι (Polydamas)). A first image depicts an absence of motion in the two Greeks who hold the pass: they stand (132 | ἕϲταϲαν) like oak-trees against wind and rain; but further images make them more active, like boars δοχμὼ . . . ἀΐϲϲοντε (148) ‘dashing at an angle’, and the Greeks in general more active, like wasps or bees defending their hive (167–70). The wind is resumed, as an agent of motion: the stones from the Greeks, then from both sides, are like snowflakes poured down by the wind (154–60); the snowfall of stones continues at 278–89. The static situation is thus full of movement. Imagery of a different kind presents the omen of an eagle which flies with a snake, lets it fall, then flies off (200–7), a symbol of the Trojans’ profitless motion (106–225).⁶ Big names move to join the fray: Sarpedon and Glaucus go (328, 330), like a storm-wind (373–6); their motion causes a herald to run (343, 352), and cause Telamonian Ajax and Teucer to come (349–50, 356, 368, 371). Although Sarpedon is at first said to make a road for many by tearing down some of the wall (399), a stalemate is soon depicted in neatly matching couplets (417–20, cf. 410–11; 15.405–13): the Trojans cannot make themselves a path, the Greeks cannot push them away. The fixity is expressed with the help of precise, smallscale technical instruments: the scales used by a woman purveying wool (433–5), ⁵ Over eighty lines: 136–223, where Achilles stops; Hector stops at some point after 231. The protraction is caused by Apollo (202–4) and ended by Athena (214–46). For the delay before the encounter with Hector, cf. M. L. West (2011), 362. On the end of Book 19 see Edwards (1991), 344. ποϲὶν ταχέεϲϲι διώκ- (22.8) is taken up at 173 and 230 of Achilles chasing Hector; elsewhere in the archaic period only at 8.339 (simile). There are related phrases, the closest 21.564 μάρψηι ταχέεϲϲι πόδεϲϲιν, ‘catch with swift feet’ (Agenor of Achilles), only fifty-four lines before 22.8. It will be seen that a particular approach is taken in the chapter to repeated phrases, and to their effect on the listener within the poem (of less account are their origin for the singer and conjectured tradition for the listener). Their frequency is borne in mind, and their salience; different degrees of attention are presupposed, but never a complete absence of attention. Justification: Hutchinson (2017b); cf. also Currie (2016), 259–62. The approach is eminently compatible with phrases from an oral tradition, and need not exclude a continuing role for them in oral composition; but doubts can be raised about ‘Parryism’, cf. e.g. Friedrich (2019). ⁶ Probably the Trojans are the subject of πεϲέεϲθαι, both at 12.107 and at 126; cf. Hainsworth (1993), 329. At 167 ϲφῆκεϲ μέϲον αἰόλοι, ‘wasps quick-moving in the middle’, the creatures’ vitality is marked out in close detail; cf. Mette (1956), 330.32–48, αἰόλοϲ of animals, ‘lebendig, beweglich’, ‘lively, mobile’.

, 

35

the ‘rulers’ used by men disputing over tiny bits of farmland (421–3). But at last Zeus makes an end. With transitive motion, Hector throws a rock, which falls and makes the gates break apart (459–62). He leaps in himself (462, 466, cf. 438); on a larger scale, the Trojans pour in and the Greeks flee (469–71). Lack of motion at last yields to motion; but the lack of motion has been intensely filled with motion too.⁷ The Iliad is particularly concerned with swift motion. It displays more than the Odyssey of beings swifter than humans: gods and horses. The male adult humans on whom the poem especially concentrates are constantly in rapid motion on the battlefield. The men in the Odyssey are much less exercised. Odysseus darts against Circe with his sword, inside her house (10.322 Κίρκηι ἐπήϊξα), Eumaeus hurries to disperse the dogs in his courtyard (14.29–36), or there is some quick movement by Telemachus and others during the showdown in Odysseus’ home (so 22.95–107, 146). But for the most part, the male characters exhibit far less of speedy action. The sporting element in Book 8 is slight compared to Book 23 of the Iliad (even in length 23.257–897 is 640 lines = 4.23 per cent of the poem, excluding Book 10). When Odysseus does engage in swimming—an act scarcely to be found in the Iliad—his action is covered, until he nears shore, by δύω νύκταϲ δύο τ᾿ ἤματα κύματι πηγῶι | πλάζετο (5.388–9), ‘he wandered for two days and two nights in the mighty wave’ (cf. 7.275–7). For all the space the poem encompasses, it is in its actions, compared to the Iliad, relatively slow; this furthers its leisurely and increasingly brooding atmosphere.⁸ The point is brought out when one surveys the language of the two poems. The Iliad, excluding Book 10 but not minor interpolations, is 15,114 lines, the Odyssey 12,115, 80.16 per cent of the Iliad. If one bears this proportion in mind, it will be seen from the tables below (Tables 1 and 2) that the Odyssey talks as much or more about motion than the Iliad, in the most standard verbs, which are given in whole or in part below (ἐλεύϲομαι or εἰλήλουθα would not alter the picture). But the Iliad makes much more use than the Odyssey of a number of verbs which typically denote rapid or eager onward movement. The situation is the same with various adjectives for ‘swift’: καρπάλιμοϲ, κραιμπνόϲ, λαιψηρόϲ, ταχύϲ, ὠκύϲ. Notably, the separately formed adverbs for three of these and for θοῶϲ are as common or more so in the Odyssey.⁹ ⁷ For 399 and 411, 418, cf. Leaf (1900–2), i.553, though ‘discrepancy’ is too strong. ⁸ The movement in Odyssey 22 brings the episode closer to Iliadic battle (cf. Purves (2019), 97, 115–16 on Od. 24.538). How that fighting fits into the poem as a whole is much discussed; cf. recently Loney (2019), esp. 143–89. Horses in Homer: Platte (2017), 7–24 (‘swift horses’), 35–45, 80–3. Schuster, at Gladstone and Schuster (1863), 444, says intriguingly that Homer feels the beauty of horses particularly in their movement (and that his conception of beauty is nowhere livelier than with regard to movement). ⁹ Occasionally, an instance from a clearly interpolated line is omitted in the figures for individual words: the omission is more important there, at the cost of minute inconsistency with the total of lines for the poem. Gehring (1891) as well as the obvious TLG and LfgrE is an important resource for studying Homeric vocabulary.

36

   

present aorists βαίνω ἀΐϲϲω θύνω ἰθύω ῥώομαι ϲεύω, verbs (incl. εἶμι -ομαι ἔρχομαι ἦλθον compounds) (ἤϊα, and εἴϲομαι, ἤλυθον etc.) Iliad (not Bk 10)

340

59

295

327

92

80.16 per cent of above

272.54

47.29

236.47 262.12 73.75 8.82 9.62 6.41

68.94

Odyssey

272

82

411

31

314

32

11

1

12

3

8

3

86

θοόϲ καρπάλιμοϲ κραιπνόϲ, λαιψηρόϲ ποδάρκηϲ ποδώκηϲ ῥίμφα Adjs (θοῶϲ) (-λίμωϲ) -ότεροϲ (incl. (κραιπνῶϲ) adverbial use) and advbs Il. (not Bk 10)

3 (19) 69 (incl. Θόη) [22 not of ships] (8, i.e. for θοῶϲ)

80.16 per 55.31 2.40 [17.63 (15.23) cent of not of above ships] (6.41) Od.

53 [1 0 (20) not of ships] (16)

11 (3)

9

23 (incl. 26 Ποδάρκηϲ)

14

8.82 (2.40)

7.21

18.44

20.84

11.22

0

2

5

4 (1)

0

,  Adjs and advbs

ταχύϲ (τάχα, ταχέωϲ, τάχιϲτα)

ὠκύϲ, ὤκιϲτοϲ, ὠκύτατοϲ ὠκυ- (except (ὦκα, ὤκιϲτα) ὠκύμοροϲ)

Il. (not Bk 10) 47 (78)

102 (42)

22

80.16 per cent 37.67 of above (62.52)

81.76 (33.67)

17.64

Od.

15 (33)

10 (66)

37

8 (incl. Ὠκύαλοϲ)

Probably the genre liked rapid action: cf. Hes. Theog. 492, H. Dem. 371, H. Ap. 281, [Hes.] Scut. 452: καρπαλίμωϲ; H. Dion. 6, H. Ap. 108, 223, Scut. 32: τάχα, ταχέωϲ; H. Dion. 7, Scut. 417: θοῶϲ; H. Dem. 60, 371, H. Aphr. 137: ὦκα. But the Odyssey is not very interested in speed as an attribute of its foremost male characters: it is ascribed rather to Antilochus, Achilles, and a son of Idomeneus (3.112, 4.202; 11.471, 538; 13.260–1); to the Phaeaceans (by Alcinous, 8.247); to gods and dogs, and, in the lowly context mentioned, to Eumaeus (gods: 8.329–32 (Ares), 12.374; dogs: 17.308, 21.363; Eumaeus: 14.33). Not so the Iliad, as is illustrated not just by ποδάρκηϲ and ποδώκηϲ, mostly epithets for its central figure, but for instance by θοόϲ as an attribute of eager swiftness in war (2.542, 758, 5.536, 5.571, 15.585). On the other hand, the notion of ‘wandering’, applied as we saw to Odysseus’ swimming, is far more common in the Odyssey; it is not applied to living human characters in the Iliad—people in digressions are excluded, as is Patroclus in Hades. This obtains with one exception: the dubious Book 10 (91, 141).¹⁰ Motion is made to pervade the poem further through the tendencies and potential of its traditional language. So visions of important future actions or events are often presented together with an act of motion. At 8.10–13 Zeus announces ὃν δ᾿ ἂν ἐγὼν ἀπάνευθε θεῶν ἐθέλοντα νοήϲω | ἐλθόντ᾿ ἢ Τρώεϲϲιν ἀρηγέμεν ἢ Δαναοῖϲι | πληγεὶϲ οὐ κατὰ κόϲμον ἐλεύϲεται Οὔλυμπόνδε· | ἤ μιν ἑλὼν ῥίψω ἐϲ Τάρταρον ἠερόεντα | τῆλε μάλ᾿, ‘Whoever I see wanting to go and help the Trojans or Danaans, away from the other gods, will return to Olympus struck in an unseemly way; or I will take them and hurl them far away into dark Tartarus.’ The lightning-stroke seems the crucial point, but going to Olympus creates significant paradox, and shows its importance when it is contrasted with being thrown to Tartarus. ἐλθόντ᾿ too (cf. 13.9) is not superfluous: the movement from Olympus matters. The participle has endless parallels, e.g. 18.443 (Thetis)

¹⁰ Note in the Cypria fr. 15.2 Bernabé, 16.2 West of Lynceus ποϲὶν ταχέεϲϲι πεποιθώϲ, ‘trusting his swift feet’. On θοόϲ see J. N. O’Sullivan (1989).

38

   

οὐδέ τί οἱ δύναμαι χραιϲμῆϲαι ἰοῦϲα, ‘nor can I help him at all by going to him’. ἰοῦϲα contrasts with 440: Achilles will not come back to her.¹¹ Accumulation adds weight or nuance, and increases the attention for motion. So the Iliad has much more often than the Odyssey the elaborate βῆ/βὰν δ’ ἰέναι, ‘he/she/they set off to go’, and βῆ δὲ θέειν, ‘he set off to run’ (the two phrases 11 and 7 times in the Iliad, Book 10 not included, and 4 and 2 times in the Odyssey). The Iliad has more often too the line used of goddesses βῆ δὲ κατ᾿ Οὐλύμποιο καρήνων ἀΐξαϲα, ‘she went down from the peaks of Olympus darting’ (Iliad 5 times, Odyssey twice); the second verb stresses speed more vigorously than would an adverb. At 15.150 ἕζετο δ᾿ εἰνὶ θρόνωι· τὼ δ᾿ ἀΐξαντε πετέϲθην, ‘Hera sat in her seat; Apollo and Iris darted off and flew’, the main verb already implies speed, but speed is further underlined by ἀΐξαντε; the contrast with ἕζετο brings out the movement, and the quiescence, orchestrated by a terrifying Zeus. At 8.348 Ἕκτωρ δ᾿ ἀμφιπεριϲτρώφα καλλίτριχαϲ ἵππουϲ, | Γοργοῦϲ ὄμματ᾿ ἔχων, ‘Hector kept moving his horses about and around, with their lovely manes; his eyes were like the Gorgon’s’, the two synonymous preverbs and the frequentative verb weightily stress Hector’s constant shifting motion at an impressive moment. In 13.50 and 87 μέγα τεῖχοϲ ὑπερκατέβηϲαν ὁμίλωι, ‘have gone down over the great wall in a multitude’, the contrasting preverbs present the (potentially) fearsome swarming of the Trojans with scary closeness.¹² At 16.187–8 is mentioned the birth of a child, that of Hermes and an unmarried girl: αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δὴ τόν γε μογοϲτόκοϲ Εἰλείθυια | ἐξάγαγε πρὸ φόωϲδε καὶ ἠελίου ἴδεν αὐγάϲ, ‘but when the goddess of suffering in childbirth Eileithyia led him out forth to the light and he saw the rays of the sun’. πρό is not needed for understanding (cf. 19.103–4 φόωϲδε . . . ἐκφανεῖ); it enhances the revelation, of child to world and world to child. The abundance in ἐξάγαγε πρὸ φόωϲδε makes dynamic motion out of birth. Mentions of birth in narrative need not convey much or any motion—all depends on the language.¹³

¹¹ Cf. further e.g. 9.19–20 τότε μέν μοι ὑπέϲχετο καὶ κατένευϲεν | Ἴλιον ἐκπέρϲαντ᾿ εὐτείχεον ἀπονέεϲθαι, ‘then he promised solemnly that I would sack Ilium of the fine walls and return home’, noting 21–2 (embarrassing return). Leaf ’s objection to ἐθέλοντα . . . ἐλθόντ’ 8.10–11 seems misplaced ((1900–2), i.333–4). ¹² βῆ/βὰν δ’ ἰέναι e.g. 4.199; βῆ δὲ θέειν e.g. 2.183. In 2.167 etc. βῆ δὲ κατ᾿ Οὐλύμποιο καρήνων ἀΐξαϲα, the prepositional phrase goes with βῆ, not ἀΐξαϲα: cf. 1.44, 11.196, etc.; 19.114. Iris’ rapidity: Pisano (2017), 116. ¹³ Motion in birth is quite differently presented at 19.110 ὅϲ κεν ἐπ᾿ ἤματι τῶιδε πέϲηι μετὰ ποϲϲὶ γυναικόϲ, ‘whoever on this day falls between the feet of a woman’. Revelation again, and triumph, in πρό at 19.118 ἐκ δ’ ἄγαγε πρὸ φόωϲδε, cf. 103–4 above. The much later H. Ap. 119 ἐκ δ᾿ ἔθορε πρὸ φόωϲδε is more likely to be an appropriation than a witness to pre-Iliadic tradition. For postposition -δε, cf. Beekes (2010), i.307, M. L. West (1998–2000), xxviii—but ‘quae . . . vocibus . . . paucis solis adhuc adhaereret’ is misleading, cf. e.g. λέχοϲδε νομόνδε πέδονδε πεδίονδε πόλεμόνδε ποταμόνδε τέλοϲδε φόβονδε χορόνδε. The suffix is another notable resource for specifying motion in the poem, in a pair with the suffix –θεν (cf. 13.294–6 κλιϲίηνδε . . . κλιϲίηθεν); the latter is used, among other things, with fifteen place-names in the Iiad, five in the Odyssey.

, 

39

Motion is highlighted through the flexible exploitation of such entities as πρό, part adverb, part preposition, part preverb (to use these terms). The entity can be put in an initial position and separated from the verb; it thus accentuates the direction of the motion, as in the sequence 23.352–3 ἐν δὲ κλήρουϲ ἐβάλοντο· | πάλλ᾿ Ἀχιλεύϲ, ἐκ δὲ κλῆροϲ θόρε Νεϲτορίδαο | ᾿Αντιλόχου, ‘they threw the lots in (into a helmet); Achilles shook them, and out leapt the lot of Antilochus son of Nestor’. Or the momentary Achaean success (16.780, 786–7): 16.781–3 ἐκ μὲν Κεβριόνην βελέων ἥρωα ἔρυϲϲαν | Τρώων ἐξ ἐνοπῆϲ, καὶ ἀπ᾿ ὤμων τεύχε᾿ ἕλοντο, | Πάτροκλοϲ δὲ Τρωϲὶ κακὰ φρονέων ἐνόρουϲεν (contrast 784 ἐπόρουϲε), ‘they dragged Cebriones the great warrior out of the range of spears, away from the clamour of the Trojans, and removed his armour from his shoulders; Patroclus leapt among the Trojans with fierce intent’.¹⁴ In the system, the entities either as preverbs or as prepositions focus the direction of the core verb and its relation to people or things; the core verb gives the fact of motion, and sometimes something more specific, like the speed of the action or like the physical movement (jumping, running). As preverbs joined to verbs the words bring about a fusion between the nature of the motion and its purpose. So at 12.305 ἥρπαξε μετάλμενοϲ, ‘the lion snatches an animal with a leap against it’, the preverb is not needed to make sense of the narrative, but it colours the leap with aggression, in a single unit (not to say ‘word’). Leaping is a type of action much rarer in the Odyssey but vital to the world of motion in the Iliad. It is coloured with many preverbs, just as are the intrinsically colourless βαίνω or ἦλθον: besides ἄλτο, ἀνέπαλτο ἐκκατέπαλτο ἐξάλλεται ἔπαλτο ἐϲήλατο καθαλλομένη κατεπάλμενοϲ μετάλμενοϲ ὑπέραλτο; besides θόρε, ἀποθρώιϲκων ἐξέθορε ἔνθορε ἐπιθρώιϲκουϲι ἔϲθορε ὑπέρθορον. So too the vocabulary of speeding: besides ἐϲϲεύοντο, ἀνέϲϲυτο ἀπέϲϲυτο διέϲϲυτο ἐξεϲύθη ἐπεϲϲεύοντο μετεϲϲεύοντο; besides ἤϊξε, ἀναΐξαϲ ἀπαΐξαϲ ἐπαΐϲϲοντα μεταΐξαϲ παραΐϲϲοντοϲ ὑπαΐξαϲ. The capacities of the traditional language are exploited to the full in creating a world of intense and extraordinary motion.¹⁵ No less important than motion is its significant absence, through refusal, inability, or prevention; as we have seen, this negative aspect is essential to the large plot and to the constant texture of the fighting. Particular verbs carry much resonance. κεῖμαι commonly denotes inaction rather than a recumbent position: so 2.688 (Achilles) κεῖτο . . . ἐν νήεϲϲι, ‘lay among the ships’, 771–2; 16.24: (the wounded Greeks) ἐν νηυϲὶν κέαται, ‘lie among the ships’. On its own the verb is ¹⁴ One can compare 23.352–3 with similar passages which do less with the motion linguistically, and so visibly give it a little less emphasis (3.325, 7.182–3, Od. 10.206–7; note also ἂν δ᾿ ἔβαν at 23.352). For discussion of the entities etc., see Horrocks (1981), Pompeo (2002), Hajnal (2004), Bortone (2010), 109–70, esp. 123–35, Balode (2011). More widely, note Talmy (1975). ¹⁵ An intriguing example of verb with no indication of direction etc. even from the context is 15.80–2 ὡϲ δ’ ὅτ᾿ ἂν ἀΐξηι νόοϲ ἀνέροϲ . . . ῾ἔνθ’ εἴην, ἠ’ ἔνθα᾿, ‘as when the mind of a man darts . . . “I wish I were in this place, or that”’: in this mental roving there is no real or single destination. διέπτατο of Hera at 83 has a preverb, and the locations in question are clear from 79 and 84.

40

   

used to announce death: 16.558–9 κεῖται ἀνὴρ ὃϲ πρῶτοϲ ἐϲήλατο τεῖχοϲ Ἀχαιῶν, | Ϲαρπηδών, ‘still lies the man who was first to leap on the wall of the Achaeans, Sarpedon’, 18.20 κεῖται Πάτροκλοϲ, ‘Patroclus lies still’. Quite different are μένω and μίμνω: actions of the living, which normally indicate a deliberate resolution. When Nestor οἶοϲ ἔμιμνε (8.80), ‘alone remained’, the addition in a new line οὔ τι ἑκών (81) ‘not willingly at all’ is a pointed surprise; cf. 78 οὔτ᾿ Ἰδομενεὺϲ τλῆ μίμνειν, ‘did not dare remain’ (cf. 22.251–2; 11.317 ἤτοι ἐγὼ μενέω καὶ τλήϲομαι, ‘I will remain and be bold’). Animate remaining, though, can be forcefully assimilated to inanimate. So Achilles’ horses μένον ἀϲφαλέωϲ (17.436), ‘remained steadfast’, because they did not wish to move (432–3); but they are likened to a tombstone which μένει ἔμπεδον (434), ‘remains fixedly’.¹⁶ Sitting is an animate action often contrasted with motion, and often loosely used. At 7.99–100 Menelaus wishes that the other Greeks, just sitting on the spot, ἥμενοι αὖθι, instead of going to confront Hector (cf. 98 ἀντίοϲ εἶϲιν), might become inanimate elements—for all the good they are. Iapetus and Cronus ‘sit’ at the ends of the earth surrounded by Tartarus; they are alive but unable to move (8.479–81). Achilles’ ‘sitting’ is given drastic physicality: 18.104 ἀλλ᾿ ἧμαι παρὰ νηυϲίν, ἐτώϲιον ἄχθοϲ ἀρούρηϲ, ‘I am sitting by the ships, a useless weight on the earth’. Standing often displays a mental determination to face an opponent rather than flee (so 22.252–3). Unusually but expressively Alcathous is forced to stand still like an inanimate tomb or tree (13.438 ἀτρέμαϲ ἑϲταότα, cf. 5.523–4). The god πέδηϲε his limbs (13.435).¹⁷ The discussion of passages below concerns itself chiefly with motion that seizes the attention. The motion of the main narrative takes prime place, but important too is motion, whether likely or fantastic, not realized in the narrative but spoken of by characters, and motion in the mini-worlds of similes. The motion in similes is in part a kind of imagery, that is, the motion is also depicting something outside itself. Homer is much more restrained in metaphor than in the exuberance of his explicit comparison; that restraint means the metaphorical language of motion is less important to us, because it grasps the listener’s notice less. All the same, less straightforward uses of motion are interwoven with more salient sorts, and contribute to the world of motion in the poem. ‘Metaphor’ may not always be the most promising term; it may be better to speak of different levels. Sometimes ¹⁶ On 8.78–81, cf. Kelly (2007), 48,121–2, 124–5 (Kelly (2006) for wider issues). Contrast with the lines Ajax at 15.674–5, but note also Nestor at 15.659–67. Odysseus is soon bidden, μέν᾿ (8.96), to defend Nestor; his not hearing is another pointed surprise, and the swift παρήϊξεν (98 ‘rushed past’) is opposed to the idea of deliberate remaining. Cf. e.g. Gal. Pil. i.98.23–99.1 Marquardt (whether μένοντεϲ or μένειν; cf. Marquardt (1884), xxxix–xl). ¹⁷ A common verb opposed to motion is ἔχω, whether of restraining others, or of holding firm oneself: restraining others e.g. 4.302 of people’s own horses, 13.51 of the attacking enemy, cf. also 21.303 οὐδέ μιν ἴϲχεν of the river not holding Achilles back; holding firm e.g. 5.492, 12.433. Common too for restraining or keeping someone still are ἐρυκέμεν, ἐρυκακέειν, κατερύκει (16.9 ἐϲϲυμένην κατερύκει, ‘holds her back when she is hurrying on’), κατερύκανε (24.218 μή μ᾿ ἐθέλοντ᾿ ἰέναι κατερύκανε, ‘do not hold me back when I wish to go’).

, 

41

the brevity of the expression, and theories about the creation of Homeric poetry, may incline us to wonder whether there is any motion at all, or whether we are dealing with a dead metaphor, if metaphors can die, or at least a dead something.¹⁸ Grief often comes on people or their hearts (ἱκάνει, ἵκανεν, etc.); but in 1.254, 7.124 ὦ πόποι, ἦ μέγα πένθοϲ Ἀχαιΐδα γαῖαν ἱκάνει, ‘Alas! Great grief has come to the land of the Achaeans’, the place-name makes an idea of motion seem inescapable, though not straightforward, since the event has just occurred abroad from that land. Even at 11.117 αὐτὴν γάρ μιν ὑπὸ τρόμοϲ αἰνὸϲ ἱκάνει, ‘terrible trembling steals on the mother deer herself’, the unusual preverb indicates a closely imagined physiology. It invites seeing a relation between this motion and the absence of motion, and motion on a different level, that is, the mother’s inability to help her nearby young (116–17) and her swift flight from the lion (118–19).¹⁹ At 12.326–8 νῦν δ᾿ ἔμπηϲ γὰρ κῆρεϲ ἐφεϲτᾶϲιν θανάτοιο | μυρίαι, ἃϲ οὐκ ἔϲτι φυγεῖν βροτὸν οὐδ᾿ ὑπαλύξαι, | ἴομεν, ‘but now, since countless deathly disasters stand against us, which a mortal cannot flee or escape, let us go’, ἐφεϲτᾶϲιν and the redoubled infinitive indicate a theological level on which successful motion is impossible, as against the purely human level on which motion should be undertaken (ἴομεν). The whole idea of going into battle is enriched (cf. 12.232). Diomedes and Achilles address Hector in the same words, 11.362–3 = 20.449–50 ἐξ αὖ νῦν ἔφυγεϲ θάνατον, κύον· ἦ τέ τοι ἄγχι | ἦλθε κακόν, ‘now again you have escaped death, you dog; doom came close to you.’ Here the relation to escaping the warrior speaking is all too evident. The repeated speech shows that this further level marks out the plot: Hector will not escape death, at whosever hands.²⁰ A crucial area of motion in the poem is refreshed by Deiphobus’ comment on his retaliation for Asius: 13.414–16 οὐ μὰν αὖτ᾿ ἄτιτοϲ κεῖτ᾿ Ἄϲιοϲ, ἀλλά ἕ φημι | εἰϲ Ἄϊδόϲ περ ἰόντα πυλάρταο κρατεροῖο | γηθήϲειν κατὰ θυμόν, ἐπεί ῥά οἱ ὤπαϲα πομπόν, ‘Asius does not lie there unavenged. I think that, though he is going to the house of Hades the strong gatekeeper, he will rejoice in his heart, since I have given him an escort’. Asius is simultaneously lying there, and going to Hades. The going is another level rather than a metaphor, and πυλάρταο brings out its grim actuality (cf. 8.366–9); but the escorting is metaphorical, and Deiphobus’ mordant wit plays around the journey so fundamental to the poem. In its simplest, as in its most elaborate, extensions of motion, the Iliad labours unceasingly at building cohesion. Now we will look more closely at some short passages. ¹⁸ Cf. e.g. Cooper (1986), 118–39, Kohl (2007), 55–64; Lakoff and Johnson (2003), Lakoff and Turner (1989) (with Hutchinson (2012), and literature in 277 n. 1); Short (2012), esp. 122–3, 125–6. ¹⁹ After 7.124, 125–31 significantly elaborate on Peleus, back in the homeland. ²⁰ Cf. 22.300–1 ἐγγύθι μοι θάνατοϲ . . . , | οὐδ᾿ ἀλέη, ‘death is near me, and there is no escape’, 303. As to 12.326–8, purely human and higher levels are blended at Od. 4.512–13 ἔκφυγε κῆραϲ . . . ἠδ᾿ ὑπάλυξεν | ἐν νηυϲί, ‘fled and escaped doom in his ships’. ὑπάλυξ- is literal at Od. 5.430, 19.189, cf. Il. 22.270.

42

   

One Snake, Nine Birds (2.308–21) ἔνθ᾿ ἐφάνη μέγα ϲῆμα· δράκων ἐπὶ νῶτα δαφοινόϲ ϲμερδαλέοϲ, τόν ῥ᾿ αὐτὸϲ Ὀλύμπιοϲ ἧκε φόωϲδε, βωμοῦ ὑπαΐξαϲ πρόϲ ῥα πλατάνιϲτον ὄρουϲεν. ἔνθα δ᾿ ἔϲαν ϲτρουθοῖο νεοϲϲοί, νήπια τέκνα, ὄζωι ἐπ᾿ ἀκροτάτωι, πετάλοιϲ ὑποπεπτηῶτεϲ, ὀκτώ, ἀτὰρ μήτηρ ἐνάτη ἦν ἣ τέκε τέκνα. ἔνθ᾿ ὅ γε τοὺϲ ἐλεεινὰ κατήϲθιε τετριγῶταϲ, μήτηρ δ᾿ ἀμφεποτᾶτο ὀδυρομένη φίλα τέκνα· τὴν δ᾿ ἐλελιξάμενοϲ πτέρυγοϲ λάβεν ἀμφιαχυῖαν. αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ κατὰ τέκν᾿ ἔφαγε ϲτρουθοῖο καὶ αὐτήν, τὸν μὲν ἀΐζηλον θῆκεν θεὸϲ ὅϲ περ ἔφηνε· λᾶαν γάρ μιν ἔθηκε Κρόνου πάϊϲ ἀγκυλομήτεω. ἡμεῖϲ δ᾿ ἑϲταότεϲ θαυμάζομεν οἷον ἐτύχθη. ὡϲ οὖν δεινὰ πέλωρα θεῶν εἰϲῆλθ᾿ ἑκατόμβαϲ.

310

315

320

318 ἀΐζηλον Herodian. ii.233.13 Lehrs, Hesych. α 1829, cf. ΣA 2.318, ΣT 2.319a¹, Cic. Div. 2.64, Apoll. Soph. p. 16.28–9 Bekker: ἀρίζηλον fere papp., codd., Orig. Cels. 4.91 i.364.8 Koetschau 319 ath. Aristarchus

‘There a great omen appeared. A terrible snake, yellow on its back, sent into the light by Zeus himself, darted from under the altar and sped towards the planetree. The young of a sparrow were there, little children, on the highest branch, crouched under the leaves. There were eight of them; the mother who bore the children was ninth. The snake set about eating the young, who piped pitiably; the mother was flying around, lamenting for her dear children. With a twist round, the snake seized her by the wing as she was wailing about him. When he had devoured the sparrow’s children and the sparrow herself, the god who had revealed the snake made him disappear: the son of Cronus of the devious counsels made him into a stone. We stood in wonder at what had happened, at what terrible prodigies had entered the hecatombs of the gods.’

Odysseus reminds the Greeks how they were sacrificing at Aulis in an idyllic setting (307); the harmonious scene was evidently not compromised by the killing of animals. The depiction of motion adds to the pathos and horror of what they see around and in the beautiful plane-tree (307). The swift and unforeseen movements of the snake (310 ὑπαΐξαϲ, ὄρουϲεν) contrast with the helpless immobility of the young sparrows (312 ὑποπεπτηῶτεϲ; cf. 9.203). An unpredictable and, this time, an oblique movement (316 ἐλελιξάμενοϲ) enables the snake to catch the flying mother too. This is not scientific observation; rather, it is exploitation of a

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43

snake’s unforeseen flexibility in movement, as when the snake curves back against the eagle at 12.204–5. The mother sparrow’s motion is not purposeful or forwardmoving, but expresses her helpless distress (315–16; ἀμφεποτᾶτο, ἀμφιαχυῖαν). The motionless Greeks (320 ἑϲταότεϲ, cf. 323) show amazement at what has invaded (321 εἰϲῆλθ᾿ ) the ceremony, both omen and monstrous snake. The snake’s own movement is subjected to the less defined movement of Zeus (cf. 324–5), who has brought him from the darkness of the ground by the altar into the light of revelation (309 ἧκε φόωϲδε). ἔφηνε makes ‘invisible’ a neater sense than ‘destroyed’ for ἀΐζηλον (318); neither suits the petrification easily (Cicero’s abdidit and tegmine saxi, ‘with a covering of stone’, are ingenious). If 319 should be genuine, the darting snake is replaced by a motionless stone (λᾶαν).²¹ The portent would still mean the same if Odysseus had merely reported that at the altar a snake ate eight young sparrows and their mother (thus Calchas, 326–7); but for the external audience of the poem, the movement helps to release the force of the symbolism, which is more polyvalent even than in an simile. Calchas’ exposition invites a link between the powerful snake (326) and the Greeks (328–9), and between the snake’s destruction of the powerless sparrows and the Greeks’ of the Trojans (329); at 22.63–4, 66–8, Priam says his grandchildren, νήπια τέκνα, will be dashed to the ground, and himself killed last. The speed of the snake contrasts, as in a simile, with the length of the nine years (cf. 2.134–8). More indirectly, the pain endured by the sparrows, focalized through the anguished mother’s helpless flying round them, suggests the sufferings of the Greeks in the years which the birds represent: Odysseus has just referred to the Greek deaths (301–2).

Helen Speaks her Mind (3.399–412) δαιμονίη, τί με ταῦτα λιλαίεαι ἠπεροπεύειν; ἦ πήι με προτέρω πολίων εὖ ναιομενάων ἄξειϲ, ἦ Φρυγίηϲ ἢ Μηιονίηϲ ἐρατεινῆϲ, εἴ τίϲ τοι καὶ κεῖθι φίλοϲ μερόπων ἀνθρώπων, οὕνεκα δὴ νῦν δῖον Ἀλέξανδρον Μενέλαοϲ νικήϲαϲ ἐθέλει ϲτυγερὴν ἐμὲ οἴκαδ᾿ ἄγεϲθαι;

400

²¹ Kirk (1985), 149–50 favours Aristarchus’ deletion, for which cf. Schironi (2018), 461 n. 88. On science: the situation in the quote at Brügger, Stoevesandt, Visser (2003), 96–7 is not quite the same. Nearer what might look scientific to us is the precise description of particular species in motion at Nic. Ther. 264–70. For curving movement perceived as a primary characteristic of snakes, cf. Küster (1913), 35–6 on Geometric vases, and e.g. krater Corinth T 2545 (Argive LG II, late viii to early vii , attr. Dance Painter), Coldstream (2008), 140–1, pl. 30a; note Hom. Il. 22.95 below (p. 71). For εἰϲῆλθε and disruption, cf. La Roche (1883), 65.

44

    τούνεκα δὴ νῦν δεῦρο δολοφρονέουϲα παρέϲτηϲ; ἧϲο παρ᾿ αὐτὸν ἰοῦϲα, θεῶν δ᾿ ἀπόειπε κελεύθουϲ· μηδ᾿ ἔτι ϲοῖϲι πόδεϲϲιν ὑποϲτρέψειαϲ Ὄλυμπον, ἀλλ᾿ αἰεὶ περὶ κεῖνον ὀΐζυε καί ἑ φύλαϲϲε, εἰϲ ὅ κέ ϲ᾿ ἠ᾿ ἄλοχον ποιήϲεται, ἠ᾿ ὅ γε δούλην. κεῖϲε δ᾿ ἐγὼν οὐκ εἶμι—νεμεϲϲητὸν δέ κεν εἴη— κείνου πορϲανέουϲα λέχοϲ. Τρωιαὶ δέ μ’ ὀπίϲϲω πᾶϲαι μωμήϲονται· ἔχω δ᾿ ἄχε’ ἄκριτα θυμῶι.

405

410

406 ἀπόειπε κελεύθουϲ papp. aliquot Didymo, omnes nobis notae, codd.: ἀπόεικε κελεύθου Aristarchus, eae papyri quae Didymo placebant (ΣA a¹)

‘With respect, why are you so keen to trick me like this? Are you going to take me somewhere further off, to some fine city in Phrygia or lovely Maeonia, if there too someone among mortal men is dear to you—this because Menelaus has now beaten godlike Paris, and wishes to take me home, hateful as I am? Is that why you have come here, with trickery in your mind? Go to him and sit there; renounce the paths of the gods, and no longer return to Olympus with your feet. Rather, moan over him perpetually and look after him, until he makes you his wife—or his slave. I will not go there, to tend his bed; that would make people indignant. The Trojan women will all criticize me afterwards. The woes in my heart are endless.’

Helen refuses Aphrodite’s injunction to go to Paris’ bedroom. Her speech exploits the difference between scales of motion, and between motion transitive and intransitive. As a goddess, Aphrodite covers large distances independently and with ease. She has come here (405 δεῦρο) from Olympus (407 Ὄλυμπον); she could return there with no chariot (407 ϲοῖϲι πόδεϲϲιν ὑποϲτρέψειαϲ), or take Helen still further afield in Asia from her old home in Greece (400 προτέρω, 401 ἄξειϲ, 404 οἴκαδ᾿ ). Wide-ranging movement is characteristic of the gods, 406 θεῶν . . . κελεύθουϲ implies. Helen can be taken, not from earth to heaven, but across land and sea, by others (401 ἄξειϲ, 404 ἄγεϲθαι). The only movement she could undertake independently, with suitable entourage (cf. 143), would be from the tower where she is standing (383–4) to Paris’ and her abode (cf. 409–10), at his request (390 καλεῖ).²² Yet the goddess is sardonically bidden to give up, that is of her own will, this range of movement (406 θεῶν δ᾿ ἀπόειπε κελεύθουϲ, cf. 19.35 μῆνιν ἀποειπών, ‘giving up your anger’). She is told to carry out herself the small movement she has told Helen to make (παρ᾿ αὐτὸν ἰοῦϲα, cf. 390 δεῦρ᾿ ἴθ᾿ ). After that it will be sitting with Paris, cf. 406 ἧϲο, a verb that suggests lack of movement. She will always be by ²² ἀπόεικε κελεύθου in 406 looks more widespread than ἀπόειπε κελεύθουϲ up to Didymus (i –i ), less widespread from our earliest papyrus with the passage (i/ii ). But the compound ἀποείκω would be unique, εἴκω would be odd here, a single θεῶν κέλευθοϲ strange: the reading looks like a conjecture to soften the apparent renunciation of divinity. Helen’s shifting ‘home’ in the passage: LynnGeorge (1988), 32–3.

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45

him, fussing (αἰεί 408). There would be no return to Olympus (407); ϲοῖϲι πόδεϲϲιν underlines the physical action. Aphrodite, out of infatuation with her favourite (cf. 402 φίλοϲ), would be willingly surrendering her own will—a point stingingly marked by δούλην. The word is too low to be used elsewhere in the Iliad.²³ Helen, on the other hand (410 ἐγών), by refusing to make this small movement, shows her independence of the absent husband and, more spectacularly, the present goddess who enjoin it. The simplicity of κεῖϲε δ᾿ ἐγὼν οὐκ εἶμι (410) gives this lack of motion a more than Achillean defiance. It does not last; but the treatment of motion is essential to this breathtaking speech.²⁴ More will be said on the finesse of Helen’s rhetoric when we look in the next chapter (pp. 99–101) at an adaptation by Ovid.

At the Edge (5.434–44) ἀλλ᾿ ὅ γ᾿ ἄρ᾿ οὐδὲ θεὸν μέγαν ἅζετο, ἵετο δ᾿ αἰεί Αἰνείαν κτεῖναι καὶ ἀπὸ κλυτὰ τεύχεα δῦϲαι. τρὶϲ μὲν ἔπειτ᾿ ἐπόρουϲε κατακτάμεναι μενεαίνων, τρὶϲ δέ οἱ ἐϲτυφέλιξε φαεινὴν ἀϲπίδ᾿ Ἀπόλλων. ἀλλ᾿ ὅτε δὴ τὸ τέταρτον ἐπέϲϲυτο δαίμονι ἶϲοϲ, δεινὰ δ᾿ ὁμοκλήϲαϲ προϲέφη ἑκάεργοϲ Ἀπόλλων· ῾φράζεο, Τυδεΐδη, καὶ χάζεο, μηδὲ θεοῖϲιν ἶϲ᾿ ἔθελε φρονέειν, ἐπεὶ οὔ ποτε φῦλον ὁμοῖον ἀθανάτων τε θεῶν χαμαὶ ἐρχομένων τ᾿ ἀνθρώπων.᾿ ὣϲ φάτο, Τυδεΐδηϲ δ᾿ ἀνεχάζετο τυτθὸν ὀπίϲϲω, μῆνιν ἀλευάμενοϲ ἑκατηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνοϲ.

435

440

‘But he did not respect even the mighty god Apollo, and desired constantly to slay Aeneas and remove his famous armour. Three times he rushed against Aeneas, eager to kill him; three times Apollo strongly struck back Diomedes’ shining shield. When he sped on the fourth time like a divine being, Apollo that works from afar addressed terrible rebukes to him. “Show sense, son of Tydeus, and go back; do not desire to equal the gods in your ambitions. The race of gods is never equalled by the race of men that move on the ground.” So he spoke. The son of Tydeus drew back a little, avoiding the wrath of Apollo who shoots from afar.’ ²³ It is certainly known:, cf. 6.463 δούλιον ἦμαρ, Od. 4.12 δούληϲ, Mycenaean do-er-o/-a, Morpurgo (1963), 69–71. ²⁴ Helen’s independent utterance in the Iliad: Monsacré (1984), 120–1. δαιμονίη/-όνιε (399) is not elsewhere used by mortal to god, and must be to some extent surprising—perhaps a surprising indication of surprise, cf. Rutherford (1992), 141, Dickey (1996), 141–2, Brown (2014).

46

   

Diomedes’ swift motion of attack (436 ἐπόρουϲε, 438 ἐπέϲϲυτο) is much more outrageous than Patroclus’ will be at 16.702–11; he is well aware that Aeneas is protected by Apollo (5.433). Where Patroclus ἀνεχάζετο πολλὸν ὀπίϲϲω (16.710), ‘drew far back’, Diomedes ἀνεχάζετο τυτθὸν ὀπίϲϲω (5.544). ἐπέϲϲυτο δαίμονι ἶϲοϲ of him, Patroclus, and Achilles (see above, p. 33), appears significantly at moments where mortals encounter gods. The phrase has particular point in Diomedes’ case, as one sees from its indignant use by Apollo and Ares of Diomedes attacking them (459, 884): here the point is marked by 440–1 μηδὲ θεοῖϲιν | ἶϲ᾿ ἔθελε φρονέειν. The god’s generalized sermon gives a particular weight to this moment. The line ἀθανάτων τε θεῶν χαμαὶ ἐρχομένων τ’ ἀνθρώπων (442) comes in the nominative at Hes. Theog. 272; but in this context, where Diomedes’ motion shows his overweening aspiration (440–1, note ἐπεί), special meaning will accrue for the listener to the limited sphere for human motion (cf. 17.446–7). τ’ indicates that χαμαὶ ἐρχομένων goes together as a striking unit. Apollo in sing-song neatness unites the commanded reversal of this human’s motion with mortal good sense: 440 φράζεο . . . καὶ χάζεο. ἀνεχάζετο τυτθὸν ὀπίϲϲω (443) shows some response from the human. The forceful movement of Apollo’s hand (437 ἐϲτυφέλιξε) is itself enough to stop and reverse Diomedes’ motion each time; but the impulse behind that motion must be stopped by Diomedes himself.²⁵ What gives Diomedes’ reckless motion its force is the desire it springs from (434 ἵετο, 436 μενεαίνων, 438 ἐπέϲϲυτο, cf. 441 ἔθελε). The desire behind warriors’ motion is crucial to Homer’s depiction; cf. e.g. 13.73–5, where desire in the θυμόϲ is matched by longing in feet below and hands above (μαιμώωϲι). The compelling rashness of Diomedes is given a basis in his feelings: the usual wishes of the warrior taken into an extremity of theological challenge. A goddess has encouraged him, but he has gone beyond his brief, imprudently accepted in itself. Apollo was not included by Athena at 5.129–32: she had forbidden fighting gods other than Aphrodite. Dione had mentioned to Aphrodite, with φραζέϲθω (411), the risk to Diomedes of more formidable gods, and calls him νήπιοϲ (406) for fighting immortals. Motion dramatizes and puts to the test the urge that exceeds mortal limits. In the previous passage limits were tested in the verbalizing of imagined motion; here the movement is actual.

²⁵ Speed of Diomedes here: Purves (2019), 51–2. Stamatopoulou (2017), 926 lays emphasis on his restraint. 20.447 is spurious (see n. 4 above); at 20.493 and 21.18, close together, different verbs are used with δαίμονι ἶϲοϲ, but both places build up to Achilles’ meeting with the river-god. H. Dem. 236 has no motion, but is again theologically significant. τε in 442: cf. Denniston (1954), 517.

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47

A Stallion Unbound (6.495–6, 503–14) ἄλοχοϲ δὲ φίλη οἶκόνδε βεβήκει ἐντροπαλιζομένη, θαλερὸν κατὰ δάκρυ χέουϲα. αἶψα δ᾿ ἔπειθ᾿ ἵκανε δόμουϲ εὖ ναιετάονταϲ Ἕκτοροϲ ἀνδροφόνοιο . . . οὐδὲ Πάριϲ δήθυνεν ἐν ὑψηλοῖϲι δόμοιϲιν, ἀλλ᾿ ὅ γ᾿, ἐπεὶ κατέδυ κλυτὰ τεύχεα ποικίλα χαλκῶι, ϲεύατ᾿ ἔπειτ᾿ ἀνὰ ἄϲτυ, ποϲὶ κραιπνοῖϲι πεποιθώϲ. ὡϲ δ᾿ ὅτε τιϲ ϲτατὸϲ ἵπποϲ, ἀκοϲτήϲαϲ ἐπὶ φάτνηι, δεϲμὸν ἀπορρήξαϲ θείηι πεδίοιο κροαίνων, εἰωθὼϲ λούεϲθαι ἐϋρρεῖοϲ ποταμοῖο, κυδιόων, ὑψοῦ δὲ κάρη ἔχει, ἀμφὶ δὲ χαῖται ὤμοιϲ ἀΐϲϲονται· ὃ δ᾿ ἀγλαΐηφι πεποιθώϲ, ῥίμφά ἑ γοῦνα φέρει μετά τ᾿ ἤθεα καὶ νομὸν ἵππων· ὣϲ υἱὸϲ Πριάμοιο Πάριϲ κατὰ Περγάμου ἄκρηϲ τεύχεϲι παμφαίνων ὥϲ τ᾿ Ἠλέκτωρ ἐβεβήκει, καγχαλόων, ταχέεϲ δὲ πόδεϲ φέρον. αἶψα δ᾿ ἔπειτα Ἕκτορα δῖον ἔτετμεν ἀδελφεόν, εὖτ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἔμελλεν ϲτρέψεϲθ᾿ ἐκ χώρηϲ ὅθι ἧι ὀάριζε γυναικί.

495

505

510

515

508 et 511 inter se transp. Agar

‘Hector’s dear wife went home, constantly turning backwards, and pouring down abundant tears. Straightaway she arrived at the house of Hector, slayer of men . . . . Paris did not remain long in his high home: when he had put on his renowned armour, adorned with bronze, he rushed in the city, trusting in his swift feet. It was as when a horse that is kept in the stable has fed on barley at the manger, breaks its rope away, and runs through the plain with sounding feet. It is used to bathe in the flowing river. It rejoices, with head held high; its hair darts around its shoulders. Confident in its splendour, it is borne swiftly by its knees towards the haunt and pasture of horses. So Paris, the son of Priam, came down from the top of the citadel shining in his armour like the sun, joyously; his feet bore him speedily. Straightaway he caught up with his brother Hector, as he was about to turn from the place where he had been conversing with his wife.’

The narrative juxtaposes and compares the movements of Andromache and Paris, in the two ‘paragraphs’ 494–502, 503–516; cf. 503 οὐδὲ Πάριϲ, 495–7 βεβήκει . . . αἶψα δ᾿ ἔπειτα, 514–15 ἐβεβήκει . . . αἶψα δ’ ἔπειτα, 515–16, where the conversation with Andromache is mentioned. She returns home (495 οἶκόνδε), he

48

   

leaves home (503). Her motion has the visual shape and emotional reluctance of always turning back (496 ἐντροπαλιζομένη); he rushes impetuously downwards (505 ϲεύατ᾿, 512 κατά) and to a desired goal (511; for ἀνά in 505 cf. 15.584, 17.257, with running). She is weeping (496), he is joyous (514 καγχαλόων). The speed of their movement contrasts. Paris’ velocity (505 κραιπνοῖϲι, 511 ῥίμφα, 514 ταχέεϲ) expresses joy and energy; the opposition with Andromache, and his responsibility for the war (328–9, 525, etc.), invest his carefree happiness with considerable irony. There is also a contrast with his recent sitting at home (336 ἥμην) in despondency.²⁶ The simile involves the listener in a world akin to and different from Paris’. Paris had been constrained only by his own volatile feelings, and temporarily; cf. also 524 ἑκὼν μεθίειϲ τε καὶ οὐκ ἐθέλειϲ, ‘you give up willingly and you are not keen’. The horse is externally prevented from movement; the adjective ϲτατόϲ (506), rather than a participle, strongly indicates that this is a general condition: he is a horse normally kept in the stable rather than the field. He is not tied up purely while he eats; rather the food gives him vigour for his change to free movement with 507 δεϲμὸν ἀπορρήξαϲ θείηι. The small corporeal motion of 509–10 ἀμφὶ δὲ χαῖται | ὤμοιϲ ἀΐϲϲονται deploys a verb unusual for such an unconscious body-part; in this context (contrast 23.367), the motion enhances the exultant liberty. So too in context at Enn. Ann. 538 Skutsch saepe iubam quassat simul altam, ‘often he shakes his deep mane’, Virg. Aen. 11.497 luduntque iubae per colla, per armos, ‘his mane plays all over his neck and shoulders’. Compare especially the horse in Lermontov, ‘Узник’, ‘The Prisoner’ (1837; Собр. соч. (4 vols, Moscow, 1964), i.30): the horse is free, unlike the prisoner, and gallops happily in the meadow at will, ‘Хвост по ветру распустив’ (16, end of stanza), ‘letting his tail loose in the wind’. Knees and noise (511 γοῦνα, 507 κροαίνων) add to the physicality of the action.²⁷

Goddesses Kept in Line (8.399–408) βάϲκ᾿ ἴθι, Ἶρι ταχεῖα, πάλιν τρέπε, μηδ᾿ ἔα ἄντην ἔρχεϲθ᾿· οὐ γὰρ καλὰ ϲυνοιϲόμεθα πτόλεμόνδε. ὧδε γὰρ ἐξερέω, τὸ δὲ καὶ τετελεϲμένον ἔϲται·

400

²⁶ Note Purves (2019), 73, for Paris’ and Andromache’s speeds. 497 αἶψα δ’ ἔπειθ᾿, cf. 514, marks the seamless join of events rather than the rapidity of Andromache’s action; cf. 3.145, and Erbse (1959), 395.29–38. ²⁷ For the simile, cf. e.g. Fränkel (1977), 9, Stoevesandt (2008), 156–60, Vatin (2009), 360, Graziosi and Haubold (2010), 226–9, Platte (2017), 80–3; for the relation to 15.262–8, where the simile, or some of it, is applied to Hector’s release from pain, cf. e.g. Fränkel (1977), 77–8, Moulton (1977), 94–5, Janko (1992), 256, M. L. West (2001), 231–2, Stoevesandt (2008), 157–8, Purves (2019), 74. Line 508 need not be inconsistent with the horse’s normally being stabled, but it interrupts confusingly, and might even be inauthentic; cf. Agar (1898).

,  γυιώϲω μέν ϲφωϊν ὑφ᾿ ἅρμαϲιν ὠκέαϲ ἵππουϲ, αὐτὰϲ δ᾿ ἐκ δίφρου βαλέω κατά θ᾿ ἅρματα ἄξω. οὐδέ κεν ἐϲ δεκάτουϲ περιτελλομένουϲ ἐνιαυτούϲ ἕλκε᾿ ἀπαλθήϲεϲθον, ἅ κεν μάρπτηϲι κεραυνόϲ· ὄφρ’ εἴδηι Γλαυκῶπιϲ ὅτ᾿ ἂν ὧι πατρὶ μάχηται. Ἥρηι δ’ οὔ τι τόϲον νεμεϲίζομαι οὐδὲ χολοῦμαι· αἰεὶ γάρ μοι ἔωθεν ἐνικλᾶν ὅττι νοήϲω.

49

405

‘Go now, swift Iris, turn them back again; do not allow them to go forward. It is not good for us to come together into battle. I pronounce thus, and it will be put into action too: I will lame their swift horses, and throw Hera and Athena themselves from their chariot, and break it. Not for ten revolving years will they be healed of the wounds with which the thunderbolt will catch them. This is so Athena knows whenever she combats her own father. I am not so indignant or angry with Hera: she is always thwarting whatever I plan.’

The goddesses are starting to set off for the battlefield, despite Zeus’s prohibition (8–16). But this incipient motion is to be reversed: instead of forward movement as they desire (399–400 ἄντην | ἔρχεϲθ᾿), movement back is caused by Iris (399 πάλιν τρέπε, cf. 432 πάλιν τρέπε imperfect, of Hera). Zeus is preventing a larger movement of the gods as a body into war (400 ϲυνοιϲόμεθα πτόλεμόνδε)— something that has started to happen in Book 5 but is not finally realized until 21.383–90 (387 ϲὺν δ᾿ ἔπεϲον, ‘they fell upon each other’). In fact, when it takes place, Zeus enjoys it (21.389–90). Human as the basic actions sound in 402–3, laming, throwing, breaking, Zeus’s threatened means of disrupting the goddesses’ motion is quite unhuman. We eventually learn he will inflict the consequences by hurling his thunderbolt (405 κεραυνόϲ); but first we get the destructive aspects: removing the immortal horses’ swiftness (402 γυιώϲω, ὠκέαϲ), hurling the goddesses from the chariot (403 ἐκ δίφρου βαλέω), destroying the chariot itself (κατά θ᾿ ἅρματα ἄξω). Cebriones will later be seen falling from his chariot, to Patroclus’ amusement (16.742–50, see below, pp. 68–9). With the august deities, the burlesque of the imagined fall seems more extreme. The rage behind the proposed transitive motion (397 χώϲατ’ ἄρ’ αἰνῶϲ) adds to the entertainment for the safe listener. Hera and Athena will be cowed, though cross (457, 459–61); but even in his threat Zeus has gone for his less fearsome alternative (12–16), lightning, not casting into Tartarus. Its motion would cover less space (cf. 14 τῆλε μάλ’, of Tartarus), especially as the goddesses are only just leaving Olympus (393–6, 410–12, contrast 12). And Zeus quickly changes his wrath against them both into wrath against the trouble-maker Athena (406 ὄφρ’ εἴδηι Γλαυκῶπιϲ). His anger against Hera dissolves, for now, into weary resignation.²⁸ ²⁸ On what Iris makes of her charge, cf. Erbse (1986), 54–5, M. L. West (2001), 203, Kelly (2007), 329, 398–9.

50

   

The moment offers a blend of divine and parodically human: an alteration from Nestor’s troubles with his horses and from two leading heroes in one chariot (78–115).

Litai Limping (9.502–12) καὶ γάρ τε Λιταί εἰϲι, Διὸϲ κοῦραι μεγάλοιο, χωλαί τε ῥυϲαί τε παραβλῶπέϲ τ᾿ ὀφθαλμώ, αἵ ῥά τε καὶ μετόπιϲθ᾿ Ἄτηϲ ἀλέγουϲι κιοῦϲαι. ἣ δ᾿ Ἄτη ϲθεναρή τε καὶ ἀρτίποϲ, οὕνεκα πάϲαϲ πολλὸν ὑπεκπροθέει, φθάνει δέ τε πᾶϲαν ἐπ᾿ αἶαν βλάπτουϲ᾿ ἀνθρώπουϲ· αἳ δ᾿ ἐξακέονται ὀπίϲϲω. ὃϲ μέν τ᾿ αἰδέϲεται κούραϲ Διὸϲ ἄϲϲον ἰούϲαϲ, τὸν δὲ μέγ᾿ ὤνηϲαν καί τ᾿ ἔκλυον εὐξαμένοιο· ὃϲ δέ κ᾿ ἀνήνηται καί τε ϲτερεῶϲ ἀποείπηι, λίϲϲονται δ᾿ ἄρα ταί γε Δία Κρονίωνα κιοῦϲαι τῶι Ἄτην ἅμ᾿ ἕπεϲθαι, ἵνα βλαφθεὶϲ ἀποτείϲηι.

505

510

‘For there exist Entreaties, daughters of mighty Zeus. They are lame and wrinkled, and their eyes squint. They concern themselves with Folly as they go along behind her. Folly is strong and sure of foot, and outruns all other goddesses by far; she gets in first over the whole earth, causing humans harm. The Entreaties provide complete healing later. Whoever respects the daughters of Zeus when they come close, they give great benefit to, and hear his prayers. Whoever refuses them and harshly spurns them, they go and beg Zeus son of Cronus that Folly and Disaster should accompany that man, so that he may be harmed and pay the penalty.’

Motion is used to create an elaborate vision, through the inventive use of personifications. Phoenix is urging Achilles to accept the entreaties of the embassy (520 λίϲϲεϲθαι), after the folly of Agamemnon, and so to avoid a position of folly himself. The Litai are unlike ordinary gods in their slow movement (503 χωλαί, like Hephaestus), and in their ugliness and decrepitude (504). Achilles might not recognize their significance when they come close (508 ἄϲϲον ἰούϲαϲ). They are perhaps new-minted deities; it is a notable idea to make desperate entreaties into gods.²⁹ But their lineage gives them power (502 Διὸϲ κοῦραι μεγάλοιο, 509 κουρὰϲ Διόϲ, cf. 513–14: honour the daughters of Zeus). Although they lag behind Ate ²⁹ On their lameness: J. Griffin (1995), 133. On the rhetorical deftness of the passage, see Scodel (2008), 114–15.

, 

51

(504 μετόπιϲθ᾿ . . . κιοῦϲαι), i.e. Ate happens first, their movement enables them to undo her chaos retrospectively (504, 507). More ominously, they can go to Zeus and beseech him (511 λίϲϲονται . . . Δία Κρονίωνα κιοῦϲαι), just as Thetis did (1.394 ἐλθοῦϲ᾿ Οὔλυμπόνδε Δία λίϲαι, ‘go to Olympus and beseech Zeus’). Dike at Hes. WD 259–62 gets vengeance from her father Zeus for ill-treatment (260 ἀποτείϲηι, cf. Hom. Il. 9.512 ἀποτείϲηι), but does not beseech him, and is depicted sitting with him rather than going to him. The Litai cause Zeus to cause motion: the motion of Ate herself. They are ultimately in a superior position to her.³⁰ Their movements are complicated: they go to Zeus as well as after Ate (504 κιοῦϲαι, 511 κιοῦϲαι). The complications of their movements represent the complications of their personification: they embody entreaties, but also hear them (509 ἔκλυον εὐξαμένοιο) and make them (511 λίϲϲονται). Ate is a more familiar figure (cf. 19.90–4, Hes. Theog. 230, WD 231). She seems a more obvious goddess, with her strength and speed (505–6); indeed she far outruns all goddesses, not just the lame Litai: 505–6 οὕνεκα πάϲαϲ | πολλὸν ὑπεκπροθέει. This swiftness suits the alarming impetuosity of human folly. She can also accompany people without being perceived (512 ἅμ᾿ ἕπεϲθαι, cf. 19.92–3), an intimacy of movement more like that of the Litai (509 ἄϲϲον ἰούϲαϲ). Although πάϲαϲ . . . πᾶϲαν (505–6) rhetorically proclaims the speed and range of her movement (cf. 19.90–1 (?), 129), what follows limits this apparently boundless power. In 19.86–138, Zeus is temporarily overpowered by her, but then throws her from heaven and forbids her to return. At Hes. WD 219–24, there is a drastic reversal, as Dike suffers violent transitive motion at the hands of men (220–1) but then moves in darkness bringing evil (222–4); the running of Ὅρκοϲ with crooked δίκαι (219) had formed a further contrast to her initial passivity. In Phoenix’s words, an idiom unusual for the Iliad creates a still denser passage, and exploits ideas of divine motion with potent ingenuity.

Horses Fly (11.280–5, 288–90) ὣϲ ἔφαθ᾿· ἡνίοχοϲ δ᾿ ἵμαϲεν καλλίτριχαϲ ἵππουϲ 280 νῆαϲ ἔπι γλαφυράϲ· τὼ δ᾿ οὐκ ἄκοντε πετέϲθην. ἄφρεον δὲ ϲτήθεα, ῥαίνοντο δὲ νέρθε κονίηι, τειρόμενον βαϲιλῆα μάχηϲ ἀπάνευθε φέροντεϲ. Ἕκτωρ δ᾿ ὡϲ ἐνόηϲ᾿ Ἀγαμέμνονα νόϲφι κιόντα Τρωϲί τε καὶ Λυκίοιϲιν ἐκέκλετο μακρὸν ἀΰϲαϲ· 285 ³⁰ Not fully recognized at Purves (2019), 90.

52

    ‘ . . . οἴχετ᾿ ἀνὴρ ὤριϲτοϲ, ἐμοὶ δὲ μέγ᾿ εὖχοϲ ἔδωκεν Ζεὺϲ Κρονίδηϲ. ἀλλ᾿ ἰθὺϲ ἐλαύνετε μώνυχαϲ ἵππουϲ ἰφθίμων Δαναῶν, ἵν᾿ ὑπέρτερον εὖχοϲ ἄρηϲθε.᾿

290

pro 281–3, μάϲτιγι ῥαδινῆι· τὼ [δὲ πλ]ηγῆϲ ἀΐοντεϲ | [ῥί]μ ̣ φ’ ἔ̣ φ[ερον ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ θο]ὰϲ ἐπὶ νῆαϲ Ἀχ̣α̣̣ι[ῶν P. Hamb. II 153 (iii a.C.)³¹ 283 τειρόμενοι P. Morgan (iv p.C.)

‘So spoke Agamemnon. The charioteer whipped the horses with their beautiful manes to go to the hollow ships; they flew, not unwillingly. They foamed on their chests, they were spattered underneath with dust, as they bore the suffering ruler far from the fighting. When Hector observed that Agamemnon had gone away, he called to the Trojans and Lycians with a loud shout: “ . . . The greatest of warriors has left; Zeus son of Cronus has given me great glory. Come now, drive your horses with uncloven hooves straight at the mighty Danaans, so that you may gain a yet finer glory.”’

The wounded Agamemnon withdraws. His horses are not wounded; at first τὼ δ’ οὐκ ἄκοντε πετέϲθην (281) is used to denote their speed. The phrase comes 6 times in the Iliad (excluding Book 10), and 3 times in the Odyssey, elsewhere preceded by μάϲτιξεν δ᾿ ἐλάαν/ἵππουϲ, ‘he whipped (the horses) to drive on, he whipped the horses’. It combines the common lavish metaphor of flying and the understated οὐκ ἄκοντε, largely confined to this phrase (but Od. 19.374 οὐκ ἀέκουϲαν). The frequent phrase is intensified at 16.149 τὼ ἅμα πνοιῆιϲι πετέϲθην, ‘they flew with the wind’, and 23.506 τὼ δὲ ϲπεύδοντε πετέϲθην, ‘they flew eagerly’. In this passage the easy motion of the standard phrase is succeeded by two lines (282–3) which conjoin the struggle of the horses and the pain of the man. The innovation is brought out by the less traditional forms, with the two contracted diphthongs of ἄφρεον and ϲτήθεα; the long syllables in this first half of the line may be expressive. The physical details make the strain of the motion visible. Less graphic are 2.390 and 4.27: horses ‘sweating’ and ‘tired’. These horses are at an opposite extreme from Erichthonius’ horses skipping lightly over corn and sea: 20.226–9, lyrically structured lines.³² The motion of detachment from the conflict (283 μάχηϲ ἀπάνευθε, 284 νόϲφι) brings about a contrasting motion. Agamemnon’s departure makes Hector (284 ὡϲ ἐνόηϲε) tell the Trojan and allied force to drive their horses straight at the foe (289–90 ἰθὺϲ ἐλαύνετε . . . Δαναῶν, cf. 12.106 βάν ῥ᾿ ἰθὺϲ Δαναῶν, ‘they went straight against the Greeks’). Agamemnon’s order just to his charioteer had been the

³¹ Accents etc. have been added to papyrus readings, unless they are explicitly said to be in the papyrus. ³² In 283 τειρόμενοι is a possible reading, but τειρόμενοϲ is more normally used of men, or gods, and 801 might be a source. The commonplace version in P. Hamb. II 153 is unlikely to have been replaced by 281–3 (S. R. West (1967), 98). In 282, each contraction is adequately attested itself, as at 12.160, 15.444, so the combination is not suspicious (cf. S. R. West (1967), 98). ἄφρεον need not be transitive; most likely ϲτήθεα is accusative of respect, cf. Hainsworth (1993), 256, Chantraine (1986–8), ii.46–7.

, 

53

defeated νηυϲὶν ἐπὶ γλαφυρῆιϲιν ἐλαυνέμεν, ‘to drive to the hollow ships’ (274, cf. 289 ἐλαύνετε). The retreat of his chariot had involved one pair of horses; this is a mass movement: cf. 292–5, where the Trojans set in swift motion by Hector (294 ϲεῦε) are like a pack of dogs spurred on by a hunter.

Beast at Bay (12.37–53) ᾿Αργεῖοι δὲ Διὸϲ μάϲτιγι δαμέντεϲ νηυϲὶν ἔπι γλαφυρῆιϲιν ἐελμένοι ἰϲχανόωντο, Ἕκτορα δειδιότεϲ, κρατερὸν μήϲτωρα φόβοιο· αὐτὰρ ὅ γ᾿ ὡϲ τὸ πρόϲθεν ἐμάρνατο ἶϲοϲ ἀέλληι. ὡϲ δ᾿ ὅτ᾿ ἂν ἔν τε κύνεϲϲι καὶ ἀνδράϲι θηρευτῆιϲιν κάπριοϲ ἠὲ λέων ϲτρέφεται ϲθένεϊ βλεμεαίνων, οἳ δέ τε πυργηδὸν ϲφέαϲ αὐτοὺϲ ἀρτύναντεϲ ἀντίον ἵϲτανται καὶ ἀκοντίζουϲι θαμειάϲ αἰχμὰϲ ἐκ χειρῶν· τοῦ δ᾿ οὔ ποτε κυδάλιμον κῆρ ταρβεῖ οὐδὲ φοβεῖται, ἀγηνορίη δέ μιν ἔκτα· ταρφέα τε ϲτρέφεται ϲτίχαϲ ἀνδρῶν πειρητίζων, ὅππηι τ᾿ ἰθύϲηι, τῆι εἴκουϲι ϲτίχεϲ ἀνδρῶν· ὣϲ Ἕκτωρ ἀν᾿ ὅμιλον ἰὼν εἱλίϲϲεθ᾿ ἑταίρουϲ τάφρον ἐποτρύνων διαβαινέμεν. οὐδέ οἱ ἵπποι τόλμων ὠκύποδεϲ, μάλα δὲ χρεμέτιζον ἐπ᾿ ἄκρωι χείλει ἐφεϲταότεϲ· ἀπὸ γὰρ δειδίϲϲετο τάφροϲ εὐρεῖ᾿.

40

45

50

40 ἐμαίνετο Ar. Byz. 49 εἱλίϲϲεθ᾿ fere ΣbT b, D, VL Aeliani HA 6.6: ἐλιλίϲϲεθ’ P. Morgan: ἐλλίϲϲεθ᾿ fere codd. ἑταίρων Gerhard 50 οἱ: τωι Weil

‘The Argives, tamed by the whip of Zeus, were held back, pressed together at the hollow ships. They were afraid of Hector, the strong creator of rout. He fought as before, like a storm wind. It was as when amid dogs and hunters a boar or lion turns about, looking fearsome in his strength. The men arrange themselves like a tower, and stand against the animal, and dart spears against him frequently from their hands. His noble heart is not afraid or turned to flight; his valour slays him. Often he turns about, trying out the lines of men. Wherever he moves forward, the lines of men give way. Just so Hector twisted as he went about the Trojan throng, urging his comrades to cross the trench. The swift-footed horses of his force did not dare do so; they whinnied loudly as they stood on the very edge of the ditch. The broad trench frightened them away from crossing.’

54

   

The twisting and turning described in the narratives here bear some relation to the twisting and turning in the thought: not necessarily a metapoetic play, but the shifts of fighting and discourse go interestingly together, with some contrasts. The animal and man are struggling in the moment, the singer is constructing overall points. In hearing the image, the listener is drawn to connect the movement it depicts with Hector’s fighting. ἐμάρνατο (40) comes in the line before the simile. The huntsmen and the Greeks are massed together (43 πυργηδόν, 38 ἐελμένοι). The lines of hunstmen drawing back (εἴκουϲι 48) at the rushing charges of the fearless animal (45–6, 48) fit the Greeks’ fear at Hector the maker of rout (39 δειδιότεϲ, μήϲτωρα φόβοιο). πυργηδὸν ϲφέαϲ αὐτοὺϲ ἀρτύναντεϲ (43) is repeated of the Greeks at 13.152 (Hector speaking); ἀκοντίζουϲι θαμειάϲ | αἰχμάϲ (44–5) is repeated at 14.422–3, with ἀκόντιζον δέ: the language readily suits warfare, as does 47–8 ϲτίχεϲ/αϲ ἀνδρῶν (11.203 etc.).³³ But ϲτίχεϲ/αϲ ἀνδρῶν takes the simile in its application to something quite different: the ὅμιλοϲ (cf. 49) of Hector’s own men. The motion is still that of an individual in relation to a large group. The turning movement of the animal (42 and 47 ϲτρέφεται) is related to the turning of Hector among the forces. Instead of the courageous leader striving against the terrified foe, we have the courageous leader encouraging his less courageous companions, and facing the problem of the terrified horses (50–1 οὐδέ . . . τόλμων, 52 ἀπὸ . . . δειδίϲϲετο 52, cf. 39 δειδιότεϲ). The context indicates they are the mass of horses on his side, not just Hector’s own, cf. 59–66.³⁴ The shift is significant. Instead of the straightforward conflict of valour in the preceding narrative and the simile, Hector has to face a tactical conundrum, and the need to realize a big movement of troops (50 διαβαινέμεν), a movement so far held back. The scared noise of the horses (51 χρεμέτιζον) and the expressive enjambement (51–2 ἐπ᾿ ἄκρωι | χείλει ἐφεϲταότεϲ) convey their fear, and the fix he is in. The conundrum is solved only by Polydamas (60–80): Hector’s bravery is at present stuck like the solitary animal’s. The end of the animal’s motion, 46 ἀγηνορίη δέ μιν ἔκτα, points to the fatality of its and Hector’s impulse to action: Andromache has said to him (6.407) φθείϲει ϲε τεὸν μένοϲ (cf. 12.71–4 on the risks of death in Hector’s approach). Unlike 16.753 ἑή τέ μιν ὤλεϲεν ἀλκή, ‘his own might destroys him’, which ends its simile, this phrase comes in the middle of the simile’s narrative: the small fabula is disordered, and the simile ends with the animal’s continuing movement, parallel to Hector’s. ³³ At 11.297–8, the other place where ἶϲοϲ ἀέλληι occurs, the emphasis is on linear force, esp. downward: it is not a whirlwind. For taking 38 ἐελμένοι with the prepositional phrase, cf. 18.287; 19.234 (ἰϲχαναάϲθω alone). ³⁴ Cf. Leaf (1900–2), i.529. On the application of the simile, cf. Heyne (1821), i.545–6, Fränkel (1977), 66–7, Moulton (1977), 47 n. 54, Hainsworth (1993), 321–2. εἱλίϲϲεθ’ in 49 is guaranteed by 408 and 467, cf. M. L. West (2001), 215–16.

, 

55

This turn in organization keeps Hector’s death at a distance, unlike Patroclus’, but adds to the intricacy of the depiction. Motion and imagery present a complicated exploration of Hector.³⁵

The Advent of Poseidon (13.17–31) αὐτίκα δ᾿ ἐξ ὄρεοϲ κατεβήϲετο παιπαλόεντοϲ, κραιπνὰ ποϲὶ προβιβάϲ· τρέμε δ᾿ οὔρεα μακρὰ καὶ ὕλη ποϲϲὶν ὑπ᾿ ἀθανάτοιϲι Ποϲειδάωνοϲ ἰόντοϲ. τρὶϲ μὲν ὀρέξατ᾿ ἰών, τὸ δὲ τέτρατον ἵκετο τέκμωρ, Αἰγάϲ· ἔνθα δέ οἱ κλυτὰ δώματα βένθεϲι λίμνηϲ χρύϲεα μαρμαίροντα τετεύχαται, ἄφθιτα αἰεί. ἔνθ᾿ ἐλθὼν ὑπ᾿ ὄχεϲφι τιτύϲκετο χαλκόποδ᾿ ἵππω ὠκυπέτα, χρυϲέηιϲιν ἐθείρηιϲιν κομόωντε, χρυϲὸν δ᾿ αὐτὸϲ ἔδυνε περὶ χροΐ, γέντο δ᾿ ἱμάϲθλην χρυϲείην εὔτυκτον, ἑοῦ δ᾿ ἐπεβήϲετο δίφρου. βῆ δ᾿ ἐλάαν ἐπὶ κύματ᾿. ἄταλλε δὲ κήτε᾿ ὑπ᾿ αὐτοῦ πάντοθεν ἐκ κευθμῶν, οὐδ᾿ ἠγνοίηϲεν ἄνακτα· γηθοϲύνηι δὲ θάλαϲϲα διίϲτατο. τοὶ δὲ πέτοντο ῥίμφα μάλ᾿, οὐδ᾿ ὑπένερθε διαίνετο χάλκεοϲ ἄξων· τὸν δ᾿ ἐϲ Ἀχαιῶν νῆαϲ ἐΰϲκαρθμοι φέρον ἵπποι.

20

25

30

‘Immediately he descended from the rocky mountain, striding forward swiftly with his feet. The high mountains and the forest trembled beneath the immortal feet of Poseidon as he came. Three times he urged onward as he went; on the fourth, he reached his goal, Aegae. There his famous dwelling lies constructed in the depths of the sea, golden, gleaming, imperishable. Once arrived there, Poseidon readied his brazen-footed horses joined to the chariot; they were swift-flying, and the hair of their manes was gold. He dressed his body in gold, seized his whip, golden and well-fashioned, and mounted his chariot. He set off to drive over the waves. The huge creatures of the deep frisked beneath him, coming from their lairs everywhere; they did not fail to know their ruler. The sea parted in joy. The horses flew with great speed; the bronze axle was not made wet underneath. The horses skilled in leaping bore Poseidon to the ships of the Achaeans.’

After the struggles of mortal motion at the ships, we now see the ease, speed, and range of divine motion. The rapid descent (17 κατεβήϲετο) can be compared with Paris’ in Book 6, cf. with 18 κραιπνὰ ποϲὶ προβιβάϲ 6.505 ποϲὶ κραιπνοῖϲι πεποιθώϲ ³⁵ On the simile as pointing to Hector’s death, cf. Vatin (2009), 368–9, Kozak (2017), 107–8.

56

   

and 514 ταχέεϲ δὲ πόδεϲ φέρον. But the second clause 18–19 adds ‘immortal’ to the feet (19 ἀθανάτοιϲι), and the physical impact of the motion reflects the awe of nature at the god—the name Ποϲειδάωνοϲ (19) is added with purpose. The motion is explicitly presented as achieving a goal (20 ὀρέξατ᾿ . . . τέκμωρ), unlike the mortal versions of ‘three times . . . on the fourth’ (cf. Diomedes above, p. 45). Each stride is different in space, unlike e.g. Diomedes’ motions, and four suffice. Among the detail which immortalizes the horses is ὠκυπέτα: mortal horses ‘fly’, but in the Iliad this epithet is reserved for the horses of gods.³⁶ The scene that follows departs still further than the descent does from mortal experience. It inspires many artistic depictions: so the marriage of Poseidon and Amphitrite on the ‘Altar of Domitius Ahenobarbus’ (this side: relief Munich Glyptothek Inv. 239, late ii–early i ?), cf. Pompeii, Casa del Granduca di Toscana, IX 2.27, mosaic triclinium (d), Naples, MAN 10007 (i ). But the conversion of the motion into an expression of delight in the master is not something that ancient art could readily convey. ἄταλλε (27) is combined with πάντοθεν ἐκ κευθμῶν (28): a larger movement is indicated. The parting of the sea (29 διίϲτατο) both as a type of motion and as an expression of joy takes us outside the usual territory of the poem.³⁷ The common ‘flying’ of the horses (29 πέτοντο) is followed, like 18 κραιπνὰ ποϲὶ προβιβάϲ, by something more distinctively immortal, here in a new line (30): first great speed (ῥίμφα μάλ᾿, at 22.163 of mortal race-horses), then the lack of contact with the surface beneath: cf. 20.226–9, mentioned above (p. 52), of the horses sprung from Boreas running over the top of the sea. In this passage, the absence of impact may be contrasted with the trembling of the earth beneath the earthshaker’s feet (18 τρέμε), as the suggested terror of the land may be contrasted with the joy of the sea and its denizens. Together the different sorts of motion capture divinity, and this divinity.³⁸

A Wave Poised (14.13–24) ϲτῆ δ᾿ ἐκτὸϲ κλιϲίηϲ, τάχα δ᾿ εἴϲιδεν ἔργον ἀεικέϲ, τοὺϲ μὲν ὀρινομένουϲ, τοὺϲ δὲ κλονέονταϲ ὄπιϲθε

³⁶ The same line at 8.42, of Zeus’s steeds; 8.41–4 are almost the same as 13.23–6. At Hes. WD 212 ὠκυπέτηϲ is used of the hawk, perhaps of Κῆρεϲ at Stes. fr. 19.18 Finglass; the name of a Harpy at Hes. Theog. 267, see M. L. West (1966), 242. On the journey, cf. Clay (2011), 98, though in ‘stately progress’ the adjective might mislead on the pace. There was much ancient literary criticism on the passage: see πολλοῖϲ ‘many writers’ at Long. 9.8. ³⁷ Relief: Kähler (1966), Coarelli (1968), Stilp (2001); mosaic: PPM ix.118–19. Poseidon is depicted ‘malerisch’ (‘pictorially’) in this passage, says Burkert (2011), 213. As often such terms can distort: cf. Grethlein and Huitink (2017), Huitink (2019). ³⁸ Cf. Reinhardt (1961), 278–9, Erbse (1986), 105–6, Bettini (2017), 25.

,  Τρῶαϲ ὑπερθύμουϲ· ἐρέριπτο δὲ τεῖχοϲ Ἀχαιῶν. ὡϲ δ᾿ ὅτε πορφύρηι πέλαγοϲ μέγα κύματι κωφῶι ὀϲϲόμενον λιγέων ἀνέμων λαιψηρὰ κέλευθα αὔτωϲ, οὐδ᾿ ἄρα τε προκυλίνδεται οὐδ’ ἑτέρωϲε, πρίν τινα κεκριμένον καταβήμεναι ἐκ Διὸϲ οὖρον, ὣϲ ὁ γέρων ὥρμαινε, δαϊζόμενοϲ κατὰ θυμόν διχθάδι᾿, ἢ μεθ᾿ ὅμιλον ἴοι Δαναῶν ταχυπώλων, ἦε μετ᾿ Ἀτρεΐδην Ἀγαμέμνονα ποιμένα λαῶν. ὧδε δέ οἱ φρονέοντι δοάϲϲατο κέρδιον εἶναι, βῆναι ἐπ᾿ Ἀτρεΐδην.

57

15

20

‘Nestor stood outside his tent, and soon saw a shameful sight: the Greeks being driven, and the high-spirited Trojans routing them behind; the Greek wall had been cast down. It was as when the great sea swells with voiceless waves as it foresees the swift paths of the shrill winds, to no effect: it does not roll forward or in another direction until a definite wind comes down at Zeus’s will. Even so the old man pondered, torn in his heart between two ways, either to go and join the throng of Danaans with their swift horses, or to go and find Agamemnon, son of Atreus, shepherd of men. As he pondered in this way, the most profitable option seemed to be going to see the son of Atreus.’

We last saw Nestor causing Patroclus to run back to Achilles with an urgent message (11.790–805, 839–40); he forms part of a crucial chain of motion involving Patroclus. He now emerges from his hut himself to witness catastrophic motion, Greeks being made to flee and Trojans impelling the flight (14 ὀρινομένουϲ . . . κλονέονταϲ). The disastrous motion should cause instant motion in him; but because he ponders two options, to go (21 ἴοι) in one direction or in another (22 μεθ᾿, 23 μετ᾿ ), the first result is a strange absence of motion.³⁹ The physical absence of motion is conveyed through the idea of an unsealike sea. The sea is typically in motion, and its waves in Iliadic similes are typically tumultuous (contrast Sem. fr. 7.37–40 West); but here the sea does not move in any direction (18 οὐδ᾿ ἄρα τε προκυλίνδεται οὐδ᾿ ἑτέρωϲε), and its waves are paradoxically dumb (16 κωφῶι). The last time we saw the sea, fifty-four lines ago, we had many κύματα παφλάζοντα πολυφλοίϲβοιο θαλάϲϲηϲ (13.798), ‘seething waves of the much-roaring sea’.⁴⁰ Mentally, the sea is given thoughts to match Nestor: 17 ὀϲϲόμενον, cf. also 18 αὔτωϲ. πορφύρηι (16) neatly leads in. The sense of the verb is primarily physical, as κύματι indicates; the word is reminiscent of πορφύρεοϲ used of wave or sea (1.482, 16.391, etc.). But it suggests the standard phrase in which the heart is in much ³⁹ At 15.7–8, 14.14 is applied the other way round (Trojans fleeing, etc.) to show the military reversal. Nestor’s shocked perception: Clay (2011), 76–7. ⁴⁰ Moulton (1977), 23–4 brings the two passages together.

58

   

tumult while its owner moves or stands still, πολλὰ . . . πόρφυρε (21.551, Od. 4.427, 572, 10.309). Yet the sea, though it gloomily forebodes, cannot make itself move (note 18 αὔτωϲ). It awaits external impulsion, ultimately from Zeus (19), immediately from winds which are swift (17 λαιψηρά), in progress (cf. κέλευθα), and vocal (cf. 17 λιγέων), as its own waters are at present silent (16 κωφῶι). Nestor, on the other hand, can choose where to go, and eventually decides (23–4). There is some contrast here; but the sea, able to think but not to move, captures the frozen moment of uncertainty.⁴¹ Physical and mental interact to depict shocked indecision and immobility; the depiction is more complex and demanding than, say, a metaphor of internal motion: so e.g. Arch. fr. 128.1 West θυμέ, θύμ’ ἀμηχάνοιϲι κήδεϲιν κυκώμενε, ‘heart, heart, tossed with woes that cannot be managed’; Cat. 64.62 magnis curarum fluctuat undis, ‘eddied in the great waves of her distress’.⁴²

The Boar-Like Ajax (17.274–87) ὦϲαν δὲ πρότεροι Τρῶεϲ ἑλίκωπαϲ Ἀχαιούϲ· νεκρὸν δὲ προλιπόντεϲ ὑπέτρεϲαν. οὐδέ τιν᾿ αὐτῶν Τρῶεϲ ὑπέρθυμοι ἕλον ἔγχεϲιν, ἱέμενοί περ, ἀλλὰ νέκυν ἐρύοντο. μίνυνθα δὲ καὶ τοῦ Ἀχαιοὶ μέλλον ἀπέϲϲεϲθαι· μάλα γάρ ϲφεαϲ ὦκ᾿ ἐλέλιξεν Αἴαϲ, ὃϲ περὶ μὲν εἶδοϲ, περὶ δ᾿ ἔργα τέτυκτο τῶν ἄλλων Δαναῶν μετ᾿ ἀμύμονα Πηλεΐωνα. ἴθυϲεν δὲ διὰ προμάχων ϲυῒ εἴκελοϲ ἀλκήν καπρίωι, ὅϲ τ᾿ ἐν ὄρεϲϲι κύναϲ θαλερούϲ τ᾿ αἰζηούϲ ῥηϊδίωϲ ἐκέδαϲϲεν, ἑλιξάμενοϲ διὰ βήϲϲαϲ· ὣϲ υἱὸϲ Τελαμῶνοϲ ἀγαυοῦ φαίδιμοϲ Αἴαϲ ῥεῖα μετειϲάμενοϲ Τρώων ἐκέδαϲϲε φάλαγγαϲ, οἳ περὶ Πατρόκλωι βέβαϲαν, φρόνεον δὲ μάλιϲτα ἄϲτυ πότι ϲφέτερον ἐρύειν καὶ κῦδοϲ ἀρέϲθαι.

275

280

285

‘The Trojans, acting first, pushed back the Achaeans of the flashing eyes. The Achaeans abandoned Patroclus’ corpse and fled. The high-spirited Trojans did not slay any of them with their spears, much though they wished to; rather they started dragging the corpse away. The Achaeans were not to be away from the ⁴¹ πορφύρεοϲ of wave or sea: see also Od. 2.428, 11.243, 13.85, Alcm. PMGF 89.1, Alc. fr. 45.2 Voigt. On πορφύρηι and other aspects of the image, cf. Leaf (1900–2), ii.65–6, Fränkel (1977), 19, Janko (1992), 152–3, Langholf (2004), Krieter-Spiro (2015), 20–2. ⁴² On Arch. fr. 128.1, cf. Swift (2019), 316.

, 

59

corpse for long either; they were made to turn very swiftly by Ajax, who was built to excel all the other Danaans in beauty and deeds of prowess, after the blameless son of Peleus. He charged straight through the Trojans’ front ranks, in strength like a boar, which in the mountains easily scatters dogs and strapping youths, as it twists about through the glades. Just so Ajax, the shining son of noble Telamon, easily pursued and scattered the ranks of the Trojans. They had taken a stand around Patroclus, and strongly purposed to drag him back to their city and obtain glory.’

For all the intensity of the fight over Patroclus’ body, we do not at this point see one side unable to push back the enemy, nor the other side unable to break the others’ phalanxes, as in the equilibrium of forces at 15.405–13, cf. 12.417–20. On the contrary, the volatility of situation and motion are extreme. The opening line (= 16.569), and still more 275 νεκρὸν δὲ προλιπόντεϲ ὑπέτρεϲαν, come as a considerable surprise after we have heard of the Achaeans standing round Patroclus ἕνα θυμὸν ἔχοντεϲ (267) and Zeus not wishing Patroclus to become the prey of the enemy’s dogs (272). The motion of flight is not followed by slaughter: in this unusual set-up the Trojans are intent on taking back the enemy corpse (277 ἐρύοντο). The rapidity of the vicissitudes is emphasized (277 μίνυνθα, 278 μάλα . . . ὦκ᾿ ). The verb ἐλέλιξεν (278), connected with ἑλίϲϲω, is used in an uncommon fashion, grammatically and in content, of a leader making his own warriors turn. That shape of movement is contrasted with the straight line of ἴθυϲεν (281), which is itself contrasted with the characteristic twisting movement of the boar, who turns back on his assailants, 283 ἑλιξάμενοϲ; that movement then contrasts, though less strongly, with the forward movement of μετειϲάμενοϲ (285). Image and narrative do not merely diverge in motion: in ἴθυϲεν (281) and ἑλιξάμενοϲ (283) they seem directly opposed. The opposition is enhanced by the difference in the locations for the action, one ἐν ὄρεϲϲι and διὰ βήϲϲαϲ, one near the city (287 ἄϲτυ πότι ϲφέτερον, cf. 403–4).⁴³ An intricately varied sequence of motion suits this part of this battle. Even the ease of Ajax’s movement (285 ῥεῖα, cf. 283 ῥηϊδίωϲ) is notable after his recent fears for his life (238–45, contrast in turn 234–6). Here his name comes with immense weight (279 | Αἴαϲ), and with honorific elaboration (279–80, 284). Both turning and moving directly forwards fit in with aspects of the narrative itself.⁴⁴

⁴³ Edwards (1991), 90 notes the repetition of verb between 273 and 278 as neat. Perhaps 283 διὰ βήϲϲαϲ goes more readily with ἑλιξάμενοϲ than ἐκέδαϲϲεν, despite J. N. O’Sullivan (1984), 552.1–3; cf. 12.467. ⁴⁴ Cf. on 12.37–53 above. On Ajax’s ease, note Moulton (1977), 74.

60

   

Slow Survivors (19.40–53) αὐτὰρ ὃ βῆ παρὰ θῖνα θαλάϲϲηϲ δῖοϲ Ἀχιλλεύϲ ϲμερδαλέα ἰάχων, ὦρϲεν δ᾿ ἥρωαϲ Ἀχαιούϲ. καί ῥ᾿ οἵ περ τὸ πάροϲ γε νεῶν ἐν ἀγῶνι μένεϲκον, οἵ τε κυβερνῆται καὶ ἔχον οἰήϊα νηῶν καὶ ταμίαι παρὰ νηυϲὶν ἔϲαν, ϲίτοιο δοτῆρεϲ, καὶ μὴν οἳ τότε γ᾿ εἰϲ ἀγορὴν ἴϲαν, οὕνεκ᾿ Ἀχιλλεύϲ ἐξεφάνη· δηρὸν δὲ μάχηϲ ἐπέπαυτ᾿ ἀλεγεινῆϲ. τὼ δὲ δύω ϲκάζοντε βάτην Ἄρεοϲ θεράποντε, Τυδεΐδηϲ τε μενεπτόλεμοϲ καὶ δῖοϲ Ὀδυϲϲεύϲ, ἔγχει ἐρειδομένω· ἔτι γὰρ ἔχον ἕλκεα λυγρά. κὰδ δὲ μετὰ πρώτηι ἀγορῆι ἵζοντο κιόντεϲ. αὐτὰρ ὃ δεύτατοϲ ἦλθεν ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν Ἀγαμέμνων, ἕλκοϲ ἔχων· καὶ γὰρ τὸν ἐνὶ κρατερῆι ὑϲμίνηι οὖτα Κόων Ἀντηνορίδηϲ χαλκήρεϊ δουρί.

40

45

50

‘Noble Achilles went by the shore of the sea, making fearsome cries; he roused up the Achaean heroes. Even those who previously used to remain in the gathering of ships, those who were helmsmen and kept the rudders of the ships, or were stewards by the ships, distributors of food—they too came to the assembly-place, since Achilles had appeared, after his long ceasing from painful battle. Two ministers of Ares came limping, the son of Tydeus who was accustomed to await the onslaught and noble Odysseus; they were leaning on their spears, as they still had grievous wounds. They came and sat down in the front of the assembly. Last came Agamemnon, ruler of men, with his wound. He too had been wounded in the fierce fighting, by Coon son of Antenor, with his bronze-tipped spear.’

Achilles is returning to the war, inspired by anger and his new armour (12–18). He wishes to urge a prompt restarting of war (68–73), and at the end of the episode his horses talk of their surpassing speed (415–16). The dynamic eagerness and energy of Achilles is set in this episode against the various retardations of other leaders. The present scene encapsulates these tensions and contrasts of motion. Thetis has told Achilles to arm for war αἶψα μάλ’ (36), ‘very swiftly’, and put into him μένοϲ πολυθαρϲέϲ (37), ‘very bold might’. He goes by the shore of the sea instead of sitting there dolefully: cf. 40 βῆ παρὰ θῖνα θαλάϲϲηϲ with 1.349–50 ἕζετο . . . θῖν’ ἔφ’ ἁλὸϲ πολιῆϲ, ὁρόων ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον, ‘he sat . . . on the shore of the grey sea, looking on to the wine-like sea’. Chryses, the heralds, and the envoys go by the shore of the sea (βάτην/βῆ παρὰ θῖνα ἁλὸϲ/ . . . θαλάϲϲηϲ 1.34, 327, 9.182) in fearful silence, or reluctantly, or in anxious prayer (1.34, 327, 9.182–4); the

, 

61

accompanying phrase for Achilles is ϲμερδαλέα ἰάχων (41). The Achaeans are galvanized into motion (41 ὦρϲεν). The movement of the support staff, 45 ἴϲαν, is set against their previous remaining put, 42 μένεϲκον, as Achilles’ sudden appearance (46 | ἐξεφάνη·) is set against his long abstention (46 δηρόν). The staff are a novelty in the poem, drawn in to make an extreme point.⁴⁵ Contrasted with Achilles’ purposeful action is the pitiful motion of Diomedes, Odysseus, and Agamemnon, who are wounded, though they have tried (11.251–6, 376–80, 437–8, 658–61, 14.379–81, 16.23–6). Their incapacity is quite unlike the rapidity and athleticism which the poem delights in, especially for leaders. ϲκάζοντε (47) looks back to the withdrawal of Eurypylus at 11.811 ϲκάζων ἐκ πολέμου, ‘limping away from the battle’. ἔγχει ἐρειδομένω (49) looks back to the struggling movement of the trio Diomedes, Odysseus, and Agamemnon at the ships at 14.38, ἔγχει ἐρειδόμενοι. These are the only occurrences of the phrase in the poem.⁴⁶ It is sad that the commander-in-chief should arrive last (51 δεύτατοϲ ἦλθεν); the occasion of his wounding is specifically recalled (11.248–53). That occasion was 5,466 lines ago. The present oppositions of motion make the listener think back over large stretches of the poem, and perceive the new impetus which is arriving in it.⁴⁷

Apollo’s Trick (21.601–22.6) . . . ὃ δ᾿ ἐπέϲϲυτο ποϲϲὶ διώκειν. εἷοϲ ὃ τὸν πεδίοιο διώκετο πυροφόροιο, τρέψαϲ πὰρ ποταμὸν βαθυδινήεντα Ϲκάμανδρον τυτθὸν ὑπεκπροθέοντα—δόλωι δ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἔθελγεν Ἀπόλλων, 605 ὡϲ αἰεὶ ἔλποιτο κιχήϲεϲθαι ποϲὶν οἷϲι— τόφρ᾿ ἄλλοι Τρῶεϲ πεφοβημένοι ἦλθον ὁμίλωι ἀϲπάϲιοι προτὶ ἄϲτυ· πόλιϲ δ᾿ ἔμπλητο ἀλέντων. οὐδ᾿ ἄρα τοί γ᾿ ἔτλαν πόλιοϲ καὶ τείχεοϲ ἐκτόϲ μεῖναι ἔτ᾿ ἀλλήλουϲ, καὶ γνώμεναι ὅϲ τε πεφεύγοι ὅϲ τ᾿ ἔθαν᾿ ἐν πολέμωι· ἀλλ᾿ ἐϲϲυμένωϲ ἐϲέχυντο 610 ἐϲ πόλιν, ὅν τινα τῶν γε πόδεϲ καὶ γοῦνα ϲαώϲαι. 22.1 ὣϲ οἳ μὲν κατὰ ἄϲτυ, πεφυζότεϲ ἠΰτε νεβροί, ἱδρῶ ἀπεψύχοντο πίον τ᾿ ἀκέοντό τε δίψαν, κεκλιμένοι καλῆιϲιν ἐπάλξεϲιν· αὐτὰρ Ἀχαιοί ⁴⁵ Novelty: Coray (2009), 31. ⁴⁶ Outside it, Od. 10.170—Odysseus struggling along carrying a huge dead stag. ⁴⁷ On the connection, cf. Reichel (1994), 203.

62

    τείχεοϲ ἄϲϲον ἴϲαν ϲάκε᾿ ὤμοιϲι κλίναντεϲ. Ἕκτορα δ᾿ αὐτοῦ μεῖναι ὀλοιὴ Μοῖρ᾿ ἐπέδηϲεν Ἰλίοο προπάροιθε πυλάων τε Ϲκαιάων.

5

607 πύλαι δ’ ἔμπληντο Antimachus Rhianusque (ΣA a¹)

‘ . . . Achilles rushed to pursue him [i.e. Apollo disguised as Agenor] with his feet. He pursued him across the wheat-bearing plain. He turned Apollo aside by the deep-eddying river of the Scamander, as he escaped, running slightly ahead. Apollo bewitched him with trickery, to make him think constantly that he would catch his foe with his feet. All this while, the other Trojans gladly came to the city in mass flight; the city was full of them as they were squeezed together. They did not dare to wait for each other outside the city and its wall, and ascertain who had escaped, who had been killed in battle. They poured hurriedly into the city, all of them who had been brought to safety by their feet and knees. Thus they, having fled like young deer, were wiping off the sweat and remedying their thirst by drinking, leaning against the fine battlements; the Greeks came closer to the wall, with their shields leant against their shoulders. But destroying Fate [or: fate] bound Hector to remain where he was, in front of Troy and the Scaean Gates.’

Just before the passage, Apollo has rescued Agenor, depriving Achilles of glory, and rescued the Trojans (21.596–600). Just after, Apollo tells Achilles that his chase of him was futile, and that the Trojans have escaped; Achilles reacts angrily to the loss of his glory (22.7–13). The passage presents manifold complications and contrasts of motion. The structure in 21.602–7 brings out Apollo’s trick through the form εἷοϲ [Achilles’ motion] . . . τόφρ᾿ [the Trojans’ motion]. The insertion in 604–5 on Apollo’s deception (cf. 599–601) highlights the divine agency, and makes the structure more involved. There is a double ignorance in the two scenes of motion: Achilles ἐπέϲϲυτο (601), but is not actually pursuing Agenor; the Trojans ἐϲϲυμένωϲ ἐϲέχυντο (610), but are not actually being pursued. τρέψαϲ (603) presents the motion from Achilles’ perspective: he thinks he has forced Agenor to run by the river. ὅν τινα . . . πόδεϲ καὶ γοῦνα ϲαώϲαι (611) presents the motion from the Trojans’ perspective: they do not realize that it is Apollo who has saved them. Cf. 22.18–19 τοὺϲ δ᾿ ἐϲάωϲαϲ | ῥηϊδίωϲ, ‘them you saved easily’. The overall structure in 21.596–22.20 brings out Apollo’s control of the human movement; but the short mention of Hector in 22.5–6 points to forces beyond and against Apollo which are directing events. Cf. οὐδ᾿ ἔτ᾿ at 596: Apollo did not allow Achilles to win glory yet. μοῖρα or Μοῖρα and Apollo have been spoken of acting together: 16.849 (Patroclus’ death) Μοῖρ’ ὀλοὴ καὶ Λητοῦϲ . . . υἱόϲ, ‘destroying Fate and the son of Leto’ 19.409–10 (Achilles’ death) θεόϲ τε μέγαϲ καὶ Μοῖρα κραταιή, ‘a mighty god and powerful Fate’. But now they are coming apart, cf. 22.179–80, 208–13, 300–3 (irony). ὀλοιή of Μοῖρα here (22.5) matches ὀλοώτατε of Apollo at 22.15; but she, or it, is preventing the movement of Apollo’s favourite. With no θεῶν

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as at Od. 3.269 μοῖρα θεῶν ἐπέδηϲε δαμῆναι, ‘the gods’ fate bound him to be killed’, the verb suggests personification and deity in the entity which stops motion.⁴⁸ The humans are all subjected to divinity, but their motion or lack of it conveys differences: Achilles in vain trusts his outstanding feet (605 ποϲὶν οἷϲι) in solitary would-be prowess. The Trojans, saved, they think, by their feet (611 πόδεϲ), rush in a mass (606 ὁμίλωι, 607 πόλιϲ δ᾿ ἔμπλητο ἀλέντων, 610 ἐϲέχυντο)—a mass of individuals, none waiting or caring about the others. Ingloriously (cf. 608 οὐδ᾿ . . . ἔτλαν), they do not wait for each other (609 μεῖναι). Hector waits (22.5 μεῖναι), but alone: the verb has for now no object, but it will be Achilles, not other Trojans (22.38, 252, etc.). The two isolated figures will come together. Achilles’ chase of Apollo τυτθὸν ὑπεκπροθέοντα (21.604) prefigures his chase of Hector, helped by Apollo (22.199–204).⁴⁹ There is a contrast between the immobility of the Trojans, now drinking and relaxedly leant against the fortifications (2–3), and the immobility of Hector, standing in front of the gates (6); but the contrast is infringed by another act of mass motion, the ominous approach of the Achaeans to the wall (22.4 τείχεοϲ ἄϲϲον ἴϲαν). The beautiful defensive structures (3 καλῆιϲιν ἐπάλξεϲιν) will not remain for ever (cf. 410–11, it was ‘as if ’ the physical city were destroyed). The depiction of motion and non-motion is dense with meaning.

The Body Brought Back (24.703–18) κώκυϲέν τ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἔπειτα γέγωνέ τε πᾶν κατὰ ἄϲτυ· ῾ὄψεϲθε, Τρῶεϲ καὶ Τρωιάδεϲ, Ἕκτορ᾿ ἰόντεϲ, 705 εἴ ποτε καὶ ζώοντι μάχηϲ ἒκ νοϲτήϲαντι χαίρετ᾿, ἐπεὶ μέγα χάρμα πόλει τ᾿ ἦν παντί τε δήμωι.᾿ ὣϲ ἔφατ᾿, οὐδέ τιϲ αὐτόθ᾿ ἐνὶ πτόλεϊ λίπετ᾿ ἀνήρ οὐδὲ γυνή· πάνταϲ γὰρ ἀάϲχετον ἵκετο πένθοϲ. ἀγχοῦ δὲ ξύμβληντο πυλάων νεκρὸν ἄγοντι. πρῶται τόν γ᾿ ἄλοχόϲ τε φίλη καὶ πότνια μήτηρ 710 τιλλέϲθην, ἐπ᾿ ἄμαξαν ἐΰτροχον ἀΐξαϲαι, ⁴⁸ Cf. Il. 13.435 πέδηϲε of Poseidon, 19.94 κατὰ . . . ἐπέδηϲεν of Zeus’s daughter (91) Ate. With Od. 3.269, cf. Od. 11.292. ⁴⁹ Cf. 22.197–8 ἀποτρέψαϲκε . . . πρὸϲ πεδίον with 21.602 πεδίοιο, 603 τρέψαϲ. Prefiguring: Purves (2019), 70–1. This sequence is also looked back to at 22.358–60, where Apollo, Achilles, and Hector combine at the Scaean Gates (note 360 ὀλέϲωϲιν and 5 ὀλοιή). In 607 the notable reading of Antimachus’ and Rhianus’ texts (probably texts) may inspire the narrative at Virg. Aen. 11.879–95. On the reading, cf. Richardson (1993), 104, Matthews (1996), 383, Leurini (2007), 14, 17, 56–7; note also 16.714, 21.534 ἐϲ τεῖχοϲ . . . ἀλῆναι/-έντεϲ ‘pressed in a throng to the wall’. See Richardson (1993), 104 on the contrast in numbers between Achilles’ and the Trojans’ scenes.

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    ἁπτόμεναι κεφαλῆϲ· κλαίων δ᾿ ἀμφίϲταθ᾿ ὅμιλοϲ. καί νύ κε δὴ πρόπαν ἦμαρ ἐϲ ἠέλιον καταδύντα Ἕκτορα δάκρυ χέοντεϲ ὀδύροντο πρὸ πυλάων, εἰ μὴ ἄρ᾿ ἐκ δίφροιο γέρων λαοῖϲι μετηύδα· ῾εἴξατέ μοι οὐρεῦϲι διελθέμεν· αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα ἄϲεϲθε κλαυθμοῖο, ἐπὴν ἀγάγωμι δόμονδε.᾿ ὣϲ ἔφαθ᾿· οἳ δὲ διέϲτηϲαν καὶ εἶξαν ἀπήνηι.

715

704 Ἕκτορ’ ἰόντεϲ (accentu -όντεϲ scripto) etiam P. Lond. Lit. 28 (ii p.C.): Ἕκτορα̣ δῖο̣[ν P. Lond. Lit. 27 (i a.C.)

‘Cassandra lamented then, and shouted out all over the city, “Go and look at Hector, Trojan men and women, if ever you rejoiced when he returned home alive from battle. He was a great joy to the city and all its people.” So she spoke. Not a man or woman was left there in the city; unbearable grief had come upon them all. They met Priam near the gates as he brought Hector’s body. First Hector’s dear wife and lady mother rushed up to the cart with its fine wheels and lamented for him by tearing their hair out, holding his head. A crowd stood around weeping. They would have mourned Hector in front of the gates, pouring forth tears, for the whole day, until the sun set, if the old man had not spoken to the people from his chariot. “Please make way for the mules to come through. You will be able to have your fill of lamentation when I have brought him home.” So he spoke; the crowd parted and made way for the cart.’

Cassandra has seen her father and the herald in the cart, as they return, but it is only Hector she speaks of: the narrator says νέκυν at 697, νεκρόν at 708, but for Cassandra and the Trojans this is Hector, 704 Ἕκτορ᾿, cf. 714 Ἕκτορα. She implicitly (cf. 705 καί) places two sorts of return together, the repeated rejoicing over his return alive from battle, 705 ζώοντι μάχηϲ ἒκ νοϲτήϲαντι, and the present return, which she does not describe. The joy then (706) indicates the grief now; grief will drive them not just to wait within the city (hence 704 ἰόντεϲ). Only grief is expressed in this part of the narrative, not relief that the body has been so remarkably brought back. The collocation in 705 ζώοντι μάχηϲ ἒκ νοϲτήϲαντι evokes for the listener many unions of motion, life, and death: Andromache ordering a warm bath for Hector μάχηϲ ἒκ νοϲτήϲαντι, when actually he is dead (22.444); the reception which Andromache will not give Hector in Achilles’ armour μάχηϲ ἒκ νοϲτήϲαντι (17.207–8); Andromache’s imagined joy at the return of Astyanax from killing an enemy (6.479–81); Achilles’ not being received at home by Peleus or Thetis νοϲτήϲαντα (18.330–2).⁵⁰ ⁵⁰ The other instance of μάχηϲ ἒκ νοϲτήϲαντ- is 5.157, grief for the father since he did not receive his sons ζώοντε μάχηϲ ἒκ νοϲτήϲαντε; it shows that here χαίρετ’ goes with ζώοντι, not just νοϲτήϲαντι (cf. also 17.681). For ἰόντεϲ with imperative (Chantraine (1986–8), i.417–18; more doubtful Brügger (2009), 243), cf. Od. 20.154 (with θάϲϲον); Ἕκτορα δῖο̣[ν in P. Lond. Lit. 27 comes from 657, 660. For these

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Those are all family moments; here the whole city is involved, 706 παντί τε δήμωι. Cassandra calls on Τρῶεϲ καὶ Τρωιάδεϲ (704) to go and look: that is, the whole people (cf. 215). Every man and woman goes outside the city (707–8); the wife and mother lead, but it is in spontaneous mourning outside the gates (714 πρὸ πυλάων). The women rush (711 ἀΐξαϲαι), as Andromache had rushed when she heard the wailing (22.460 διέϲϲυτο). ἵκετο πένθοϲ (708) comes elsewhere ((καθ)ίκετο πένθοϲ Iliad 4 times in all, Odyssey twice; πένθοϲ . . . ἱκάνει Iliad twice, Odyssey once); but there may be some interaction here between the coming of grief to the Trojans and the coming of Hector. Similarly at 18.64 ὅττι μιν ἵκετο πένθοϲ ἀπὸ πτολέμοιο μένοντα, ‘what grief has come to him while he remained far from the fighting’, where the non-motion of Achilles may make the motion of sorrow surprising.⁵¹ The Trojans’ meeting with Priam is less important: he is νεκρὸν ἄγοντι (709). At the end, however, practicality supervenes, touchingly prosaic: the crowd are politely asked to let the mules come through (716 εἴξατέ μοι οὐρεῦϲι διελθέμεν). The movement of the crowd (718 διέϲτηϲαν) undoes their joined position of mourning (712 ἀμφίϲταθ᾿ ). Motion shows the more everyday relation of people and king subsisting amid the momentous unity of city, family, and dead champion.

Leaping and Falling from a Chariot (16.726–76) ὣϲ εἰπὼν ὃ μὲν αὖτιϲ ἔβη θεὸϲ ἂμ πόνον ἀνδρῶν, Κεβριόνηι δ’ ἐκέλευϲε δαΐφρονι φαίδιμοϲ Ἕκτωρ ἵππουϲ ἐϲ πόλεμον πεπληγέμεν. αὐτὰρ Ἀπόλλων δύϲεθ’ ὅμιλον ἰών, ἐν δὲ κλόνον Ἀργείοιϲιν 730 ἧκε κακόν, Τρωϲὶν δὲ καὶ Ἕκτορι κῦδοϲ ὄπαζεν. Ἕκτωρ δ’ ἄλλουϲ μὲν Δαναοὺϲ ἔα οὐδ’ ἐνάριζεν· αὐτὰρ ὃ Πατρόκλωι ἔφεπε κρατερώνυχαϲ ἵππουϲ. Πάτροκλοϲ δ’ ἑτέρωθεν ἀφ’ ἵππων ἄλτο χαμᾶζε ϲκαιῆι ἔγχοϲ ἔχων· ἑτέρηφι δὲ λάζετο πέτρον μάρμαρον ὀκριόεντα, τόν οἱ περὶ χεὶρ ἐκάλυψεν, 735

papyri (a later one is not mentioned here), cf. Kenyon (1891), 100–1, 108, (1892–3), 341, http://www.bl. uk/manuscripts/Viewer.aspx?ref=papyrus_114_f001ar. On Ἕκτορ’ at 704, cf. Macleod (1982), 146 on τὸν δ’ at 702. ⁵¹ On the designation of the Trojans in 704, see Brügger (2009), 89. Even at the formal ceremony in the house, the people are present, or within hearing (776, cf. 717 ἄϲεϲθε κλαυθμοῖο).

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    ἧκε δ’ ἐρειϲάμενοϲ. οὐδὲ {δὴν ἅζετο{ φωτόϲ, οὐδ’ ἁλίωϲε βέλοϲ, βάλε δ’ Ἕκτοροϲ ἡνιοχῆα Κεβριόνην, νόθον υἱὸν ἀγακλῆοϲ Πριάμοιο, ἵππων ἡνί ’ ἔχοντα, μετώπιον ὀξέϊ λᾶϊ. ἀμφοτέραϲ δ’ ὀφρῦϲ ϲύνελεν λίθοϲ, οὐδέ οἱ ἔϲχεν ὀϲτέον, ὀφθαλμοὶ δὲ χαμαὶ πέϲον ἐν κονίηιϲιν αὐτοῦ πρόϲθε ποδῶν· ὃ δ’ ἄρ’ ἀρνευτῆρι ἐοικώϲ κάππεϲ’ ἀπ’ εὐεργέοϲ δίφρου, λίπε δ’ ὀϲτέα θυμόϲ. τὸν δ’ ἐπικερτομέων προϲέφηϲ, Πατρόκλεεϲ ἱππεῦ· ῾ὢ πόποι, ἦ μάλ᾿ ἐλαφρὸϲ ἀνήρ· ὡϲ ῥεῖα κυβιϲτᾶι. εἰ δή που καὶ πόντωι ἐν ἰχθυόεντι γένοιτο, πολλοὺϲ ἂν κορέϲειεν ἀνὴρ ὅδε τήθεα διφῶν, νηὸϲ ἀποθρώιϲκων, εἰ καὶ δυϲπέμφελοϲ εἴη, ὡϲ νῦν ἐν πεδίωι ἐξ ἵππων ῥεῖα κυβιϲτᾶι. ἦ ῥα καὶ ἐν Τρώεϲϲι κυβιϲτητῆρεϲ ἔαϲιν.᾿ ὣϲ εἰπὼν ἐπὶ Κεβριόνηι ἥρωϊ βεβήκει, οἶμα λέοντοϲ ἔχων, ὅϲ τε ϲταθμοὺϲ κεραΐζων ἔβλητο πρὸϲ ϲτῆθοϲ, ἑή τέ μιν ὤλεϲεν ἀλκή· ὣϲ ἐπὶ Κεβριόνηι, Πατρόκλειϲ, ἄλϲο μεμαώϲ. Ἕκτωρ δ’ αὖθ’ ἑτέρωθεν ἀφ’ ἵππων ἄλτο χαμᾶζε. τὼ περὶ Κεβριόναο λέονθ’ ὣϲ δηριθήτην, ὥ τ’ ὄρεοϲ κορυφῆιϲι περὶ κταμένηϲ ἐλάφοιο, ἄμφω πεινάοντε, μέγα φρονέοντε μάχεϲθον· ὣϲ περὶ Κεβριόναο δύω μήϲτωρεϲ ἀϋτῆϲ, Πάτροκλόϲ τε Μενοιτιάδηϲ καὶ φαίδιμοϲ Ἕκτωρ, ἵεντ’ ἀλλήλων ταμέειν χρόα νηλέϊ χαλκῶι. Ἕκτωρ μὲν κεφαλῆφιν ἐπεὶ λάβεν οὔ τι μεθίει· Πάτροκλοϲ δ’ ἑτέρωθεν ἔχεν ποδόϲ. οἱ δὲ δὴ ἄλλοι Τρῶεϲ καὶ Δαναοὶ ϲύναγον κρατερὴν ὑϲμίνην. ὡϲ δ᾿ Εὖρόϲ τε Νότοϲ τ᾿ ἐριδαίνετον ἀλλήλοιιν οὔρεοϲ ἐν βήϲϲηιϲ βαθέην πελεμιζέμεν ὕλην, φηγόν τε μελίην τε τανύφλοιόν τε κράνειαν, αἵ τε πρὸϲ ἀλλήλαϲ ἔβαλον τανυήκεαϲ ὄζουϲ ἠχῆι θεϲπεϲίηι, πάταγοϲ δέ τε ἀγνυμενάων, ὣϲ Τρῶεϲ καὶ Ἀχαιοὶ ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοιϲι θορόντεϲ δήιουν, οὐδ’ ἕτεροι μνώοντ’ ὀλοοῖο φόβοιο. πολλὰ δὲ Κεβριόνην ἀμφ’ ὀξέα δοῦρα πεπήγει ἰοί τε πτερόεντεϲ ἀπὸ νευρῆφι θορόντεϲ, πολλὰ δὲ χερμάδια μεγάλ’ ἀϲπίδαϲ ἐϲτυφέλιξαν μαρναμένων ἀμφ’ αὐτόν. ὃ δ’ ἐν ϲτροφάλιγγι κονίηϲ κεῖτο μέγαϲ μεγαλωϲτί, λελαϲμένοϲ ἱπποϲυνάων.

740

745

750

755

760

765

770

775

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‘With these words the god went away again amid the struggles of men. Shining Hector bade warlike Cebriones whip the horses into the battle. Apollo went and entered into the throng; he threw a cowardly rout among the Argives, and granted glory to the Trojans and Hector. Hector left the other Danaans alone, and did not slay them; rather, he directed his strong-hoofed horses against Patroclus. From the other side, Patroclus leapt to the ground from his horses, with a spear in his left hand; with his right he grasped a glittering, jagged rock which his hand enclosed. He took a firm stand and threw it; he . . . nor did he throw it in vain: with the sharp stone he struck in the face Hector’s charioteer Cebriones, the illegitimate son of renowned Priam, as he held the horses’ reins. The rock made both his eyebrows come together; the bone did not keep it out; his eyes fell into the dust of the ground, right in front of his feet. Like an acrobat he fell down from the well-wrought chariot; his spirit left his bones. You addressed him in mockery, Patroclus the horseman: “Dear me, the man is so nimble: how easily he performs his tumbling! If he were somewhere in the sea full of fish, this man would feed many to satiety as he searched for squids, jumping off a ship, even if the sea were tempestuous, to judge from the way that now on land he easily performs his tumbling from his horses. So they have tumblers among the Trojans too!” With these words he took his stand over Cebriones the hero, with the impetuous movement of a lion which has been struck in the chest while ravaging farms, and is destroyed by its own courage; with such eagerness, Patroclus, you leapt on Cebriones. Hector in turn, from the other side, leapt to the ground from his horses. The two of them contended over Cebriones like two lions who fight, both of them with hunger and proud confidence, over a female deer killed in the peaks of a mountain. Even so over Cebriones the two keen fighters Patroclus, son of Menoetius, and radiant Hector strove to cut each other’s skin with their pitiless bronze. Hector seized hold of Cebriones’ head and would not let it go; from the other side Patrocles held on to his foot. The other Trojans and Greeks brought strong conflict together. As when the East and South Winds vie with each other to shake the deep forest in the glades of a mountain, oak, ash, and slender-barked cherry—the trees throw their long-edged branches against each other, with a huge noise; there is a crash from the trees as they break—even so did Trojans and Achaeans leap against each other and battle. Neither side contemplated flight and all its harm. Around Cebriones many sharp spears were fixed, and winged arrows that had leapt from the string; many big rocks struck the shields of those fighting around him. But he, in the swirl of dust, lay there in all his great size, covering a great space; his art of horsemanship he had forgotten.’

The discussion turns to two longer extracts. In the first, the oppositions and connections that have appeared between different acts and types of motion extend into an elaborate narrative sequence. Divine motion begins. The disguised god

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   

Apollo withdraws into the human battle (726 αὖτιϲ ἔβη θεὸϲ ἂμ πόνον ἀνδρῶν, 729 δύϲεθ᾿ ὅμιλον ἰών); there he will presently meet Patroclus, and start his destruction (787–9). Apollo has set Hector in motion against Patroclus (732 ἔφεπε turns Apollo’s imperative 724 ἔφεπε into narrated action); he has caused the rout of the Greeks (729–30 ἐν δὲ κλόνον Ἀργείοιϲιν | ἧκε). But the humans are on their own in the intervening sequence, until the god again appears. Leaps from the chariot are a recurring action in the poem, as was mentioned in the general section. ἄλτο χαμᾶζε comes 12 times in the Iliad, never in the Odyssey. The words still have force: some colourless verb could easily have been used instead, cf. [10].541 κατέβηϲαν ἐπὶ χθόνα, ‘they got down on to the ground’. In this passage, ἄλτο χαμᾶζε appears twice in close succession (734, 755). αὖθ᾿ ἑτέρωθεν (755) makes explicit a relation between ἄλτο (755, Hector) and ἄλϲο (754, Patroclus), as does ἑτέρωθεν (733) between Πατρόκλωι ἔφεπε . . . ἵππουϲ (732) and Πάτροκλοϲ δ᾿ . . . ἀφ᾿ ἵππων ἄλτο (733). As the two leaps in 754–5 are related to each other, and ἑτέρωθεν does not appear elsewhere with ἄλτο χαμᾶζε, it would be strange to think that listeners will not connect the two close and opposed occurrences of ἑτέρωθεν ἀφ᾿ ἵππων ἄλτο χαμᾶζε with the two pairs of opposed lines 732–3 and 754–5. ἑτέρωθεν does occur in the unmissable pair earlier in this battle 426–7 (Sarpedon) ἐξ ὀχέων . . . ἄλτο χαμᾶζε· | Πάτροκλοϲ δ᾿ ἑτέρωθεν . . . ἔκθορε δίφρου, ‘leapt from his chariot to the ground; Patroclus from the other side leapt from his chariot’. But such pairs are not found with ἄλτο χαμᾶζε outside these three instances, and it is likely that that pair too (426–7) is part of the sequence in Book 16. In that pair, the two heroes move to the same level, to fight. In the first instance here, Patroclus moves to a different level from Hector (733), in the second Hector moves on to Patroclus’ level (755), both with aggressive intent. A listener who did not notice the sequence in this passage would hardly be following the story. The energy of the action of leaping from the chariot runs through the whole Iliad—even Priam at 24.469 does not just clamber down; but here it brings the conflict of warriors to a high point of intensity. Not only is the setting of the common phrase tightened by the pairs, but the ground in χαμᾶζε becomes the place where Patroclus finds a more powerful weapon to hurl at the higher chariot (734–6). μεμαώϲ (754) with the second-person ἄλϲο brings out the fierceness of purpose which the willed movement encapsulates. Against this movement is set an unwilled movement of rapid descent, on which attention is lavished. Cebriones’ fall (743 κάππεϲ᾿ ) matches the unwilled and grotesque fall of his eyes (741 πέϲον). The comparison of involuntary fall to voluntary gymnastics (742 ἀρνευτῆρι ἐοικώϲ) occurs also at 12.385 and Od. 12.413; but this is only the start. Patroclus’ mockery colours the movement in an elaborate fantasia. He addresses the dead man (744 προϲέφηϲ), but speaks of him in the third person. As if taking up the narrator’s comparison, he expresses wondering admiration for the voluntary acrobatics conducted without effort by a nonchalant virtuoso: 745 ἦ μάλ᾿

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ἐλαφρόϲ . . . ὡϲ ῥεῖα κυβιϲτᾶι, 749 ὡϲ ῥεῖα κυβιϲτᾶι; cf. 18.599–600 (dancers) θρέξαϲκον ἐπιϲταμένοιϲι πόδεϲϲιν | ῥεῖα μάλ᾿, ‘were running with skilled feet, very easily’. The repeated praise (745, 749) encloses a more distant imaginary flight, a graphic picture of diving from a ship, with detail on circumstances and consequences, and an a fortiori argument: he would do very well ἐν πόντωι (746), since he is managing the harder feat of plunging ἐν πεδίωι (749). The ring is followed with an intrigued ethnographical observation (750).⁵² The narrator might seem almost to have been complicit in Patroclus’ mockery; but now he does some comparing of his own, immediately after Patroclus’. Cebriones’ fall was involuntary motion, which Patroclus had caused; Patroclus relished its indignity, in his delighted humorous invention (contrast the narrator’s ἥρωϊ of Cebriones at 751). Patroclus’ leap on Cebriones (752) is voluntary motion, with the dignity of the lion of similes and the lion’s ability to move swiftly (752 οἶμα λέοντοϲ ἔχων, cf. 21.252 αἰετοῦ οἴματ’ ἔχων, ‘with the rush of the eagle’, and οἰμάω). But the lion is doomed: he is already struck in the chest, ἑή τέ μιν ὤλεϲεν ἀλκή (753). The narrator’s sombre sympathy shows that Patroclus’ merriment is misplaced. He addresses Patroclus at 754 (as already 584, 693); he has at 744 addressed Patroclus ‘addressing’ Cebriones: in τὸν δ᾿ ἐπικερτομέων προϲέφηϲ, Πατρόκλειϲ ἱππεῦ the difference in tone is made tangible.⁵³ After his unwilled fall, Cebriones passes to the intentlessness of the dead (744 λίπε δ’ ὀϲτέα θυμόϲ), and to an absence of motion, willed or unwilled. The dead body is an inanimate thing, like the dead deer (757); it is held in non-motion by the opposed forces of Hector and Patroclus. Hector does not let go of the head (762 οὔ τι μεθίει): even transitive motion is negated. As the action expands to include both armies (763–4), Cebriones is almost lost from the listener’s view, save as a fixed point around which the motion happens (772 Κεβριόνην ἀμφ᾿, cf. 775; 759). The memorable close 776 κεῖτο μέγαϲ μεγαλωϲτί, λελαϲμένοϲ ἱπποϲυνάων makes his immobility massive and imposing; there is a gulf between the start of this narrative, where Hector told Κεβριόνηι . . . δαΐφρονι . . . ἵππουϲ ἐϲ πόλεμον πεπληγέμεν (727–8), and the state of the dead. Cebriones is Hector’s brother, a major Trojan warrior (cf. e.g. 12.88–92, 13.789–90), and especially associated with charioteering; there seems little basis for maintaining that the close does not befit him. Important to the passage ⁵² Rings: cf. Benediktson (2013); Minchin (2001), 181–202. ἀρνευτήρ is taken as ‘acrobat’, though ‘diver’ is also possible (cf. Fränkel (1977), 87 n. 4; Janko (1992), 404); cf. 5.586 (probably), D. Kidd (1997), 404, for Arat. 656. Acrobat, diver, or dolphin Σ 12.385 (D, p. 418 van Thiel); acrobat or dolphin Σ 12.385 (AT); acrobat Ap. Soph. 43.17–18 Bekker. In any case, there will be interaction between narrative and speech. It is notable how, for all the detail on the circumstances of the diving, the act itself cannot be given the same gripping vividness in words as on the ceiling slab of the Tomba del Tuffatore, Paestum (c.480–470 ), with its vacant space. Death may be symbolized here too. Cf. e.g. Napoli (1970), 149–65, tav. 4, 44–5, figs 122–4, Pontrandolfo (2002), 12–22. Janko (1992), 404 sees Cebriones as performing a backwards somersault (an idea not clear in the text); otherwise, Brügger (2016), 314. ⁵³ Cf. Hutchinson (2010) on apostrophe. Spatially, Cebriones is now on Patroclus’ level, and Patroclus is about to move close to him. Address to dead enemy: e.g. 21.122–6.

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   

is the contrast between the earlier undignified motion and this grandiose stillness, and between Patroclus’ voice and the narrator’s. More locally, κεῖτο μέγαϲ μεγαλωϲτί is opposed to the wild motion of the small particles of dust that all the action creates (775 ὃ δ’ ἐν ϲτροφάλιγγι κονίηϲ). The crucial verb κεῖτο (see the general section) and the whole line gain attention through the break of the preceding line-end.⁵⁴ When the armies suddenly join in at 763–4, motion returns (764 ϲύναγον). So does leaping. ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοιϲι θορόντεϲ (770; also 11.70) speeds up and intensifies the usual ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοιϲιν ἰόντεϲ/-ε (12 times in the Iliad). Three lines later, at the same point in the verse, comes θορόντεϲ of the arrows (773; unusual of things, but cf. 23.353). The simile begins with conflicting winds (765), and proceeds to living trees, which are turned into warriors: they hurl at each other, πρὸϲ ἀλλήλαϲ ἔβαλον (768), branches which receive an epithet otherwise used of swords (τανυήκηϲ, recently of the charioteer Automedon’s, 472; 14.385, Od. 10.439, 11.231, 22.443). The wild fantasy builds up to the many weapons thrown, | πολλὰ . . . | πολλά (772, 774). All leads into the contrast between multitudinous motion and the single absence of motion.⁵⁵ Something of this last contrast has been appreciated by scholars, which suggests that such reading is not out of place; but it is the culmination of a whole sequence of motion. That sequence itself forms part of a larger design. So Hector will pursue Patroclus’ charioteer (864–5, cf. 684), and the dead Patroclus will be fought over and will lie there (κεῖται 17.92, etc.). The pattern and interconnection of actions has a dynamic progress in time which comes readily to verbal narrative.⁵⁶

Hector Waits (22.90–144) ὣϲ τώ γε κλαίοντε προϲαυδήτην φίλον υἱόν, πολλὰ λιϲϲομένω· οὐδ’ Ἕκτορι θυμὸν ἔπειθον, ἀλλ’ ὅ γε μίμν’ Ἀχιλῆα πελώριον ἄϲϲον ἰόντα. ὡϲ δὲ δράκων ἐπὶ χειῆι ὀρέϲτεροϲ ἄνδρα μένηϲιν,

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⁵⁴ Through the line 776, Cebriones will be joined in a chain with Achilles himself (18.26–7, cf. 27 | κεῖτο (Achilles) with 20 | κεῖται (Patroclus); later, Od. 24.39–40). On the relationship between these lines and the Aethiopis, see recently Currie (2016), 71–2, 85–6, Rutherford (2019), 98–9. 18.26–7 are spurious according to M. L. West (2001), 243–4, or perhaps a later addition by the original poet (2011), 343; 16.776 perhaps originally devised for Patroclus: Wilamowitz (1916), 142 n. 3. Cebriones: note Il. 12.88–92, 13.789–90, etc.; information (and speculations): Wathelet (1988), i.677–9, ii.1401, (1989), 126; Dolcetti (2014). Cebriones ‘not a distinguished Trojan’: Kakridis (1971), 57; too small: Schadewaldt (1959), 168. ⁵⁵ On the image, cf. Fränkel (1977), 37. ⁵⁶ Contrast: e.g. Parry (1971), lii–liii, J. Griffin (1980), 106, Janko (1992), 405, Brügger (2016), 324 (Janko especially sees the point on motion).

,  βεβρωκὼϲ κακὰ φάρμακ’, ἔδυ δέ τέ μιν χόλοϲ αἰνόϲ, 95 ϲμερδαλέον δὲ δέδορκεν ἑλιϲϲόμενοϲ περὶ χειῆι· ὣϲ Ἕκτωρ ἄϲβεϲτον ἔχων μένοϲ οὐχ ὑπεχώρει, πύργωι ἔπι προὔχοντι φαεινὴν ἀϲπίδ᾿ ἐρείϲαϲ. ὀχθήϲαϲ δ’ ἄρα εἶπε πρὸϲ ὃν μεγαλήτορα θυμόν· ῾ὤι μοι ἐγών, εἰ μέν κε πύλαϲ καὶ τείχεα δύω, Πουλυδάμαϲ μοι πρῶτοϲ ἐλεγχείην ἀναθήϲει, 100 ὅϲ μ’ ἐκέλευεν Τρωϲὶ ποτὶ πτόλιν ἡγήϲαϲθαι νύχθ’ ὕπο τήνδ’ ὀλοὴν ὅτε τ’ ὤρετο δῖοϲ Ἀχιλλεύϲ. ἀλλ’ ἐγὼ οὐ πιθόμην· ἦ τ’ ἂν πολὺ κέρδιον ἦεν. νῦν δ’ ἐπεὶ ὤλεϲα λαὸν ἀταϲθαλίηιϲιν ἐμῆιϲιν, 105 αἰδέομαι Τρῶαϲ καὶ Τρωιάδαϲ ἑλκεϲιπέπλουϲ, μή ποτέ τιϲ εἴπηϲι κακώτεροϲ ἄλλοϲ ἐμεῖο· “Ἕκτωρ ἧφι βίηφι πιθήϲαϲ ὤλεϲε λαόν.” ὣϲ ἐρέουϲιν· ἐμοὶ δὲ τότ’ ἂν πολὺ κέρδιον εἴη ἄντην ἢ Ἀχιλῆα κατακτείναντα νέεϲθαι, ἠέ κεν αὐτῶι ὀλέϲθαι ἐϋκλειῶϲ πρὸ πόληοϲ. 110 εἰ δέ κεν ἀϲπίδα μὲν καταθείομαι ὀμφαλόεϲϲαν καὶ κόρυθα βριαρήν, δόρυ δὲ πρὸϲ τεῖχοϲ ἐρείϲαϲ αὐτὸϲ ἰὼν Ἀχιλῆοϲ ἀμύμονοϲ ἀντίοϲ ἔλθω, καί οἱ ὑπόϲχωμαι Ἑλένην καὶ κτήμαθ’ ἅμ’ αὐτῆι πάντα μάλ’, ὅϲϲά τ’ Ἀλέξανδροϲ κοίληιϲ ἐνὶ νηυϲίν 115 ἠγάγετο Τροίηνδ’, ἥ τ’ ἔπλετο νείκεοϲ ἀρχή, δωϲέμεν Ἀτρεΐδηιϲιν ἄγειν, ἅμα δ᾿ ἀμφὶϲ Ἀχαιοῖϲ ἄλλ’ ἀποδάϲϲεϲθαι, ὅϲα τε πτόλιϲ ἥδε κέκευθε· Τρωϲὶν δ’ αὖ μετόπιϲθε γερούϲιον ὅρκον ἕλωμαι μή τι κατακρύψειν, ἀλλ’ ἄνδιχα πάντα δάϲεϲθαι·— 120 [κτῆϲιν ὅϲην πτολίεθρον ἐπήρατον ἐντὸϲ ἐέργει] ἀλλὰ τίη μοι ταῦτα φίλοϲ διελέξατο θυμόϲ; μή μιν ἐγὼ μὲν ἵκωμαι ἰών, ὃ δέ μ’ οὐκ ἐλεήϲει οὐδέ τί μ’ αἰδέϲεται, κτενέει δέ με γυμνὸν ἐόντα αὔτωϲ ὥϲ τε γυναῖκα, ἐπεί κ’ ἀπὸ τεύχεα δύω. 125 οὐ μέν πωϲ νῦν ἔϲτιν ἀπὸ δρυὸϲ οὐδ’ ἀπὸ πέτρηϲ τῶι ὀαριζέμεναι ἅ τε παρθένοϲ ἠΐθεόϲ τε, παρθένοϲ ἠΐθεόϲ τ’ ὀαρίζετον ἀλλήλοιιν. βέλτερον αὖτ’ ἔριδι ξυνελαυνέμεν ὅττι τάχιϲτα· εἴδομεν ὁπποτέρωι κεν Ὀλύμπιοϲ εὖχοϲ ὀρέξηι.᾿ 130 ὣϲ ὥρμαινε μένων. ὃ δέ οἱ ϲχεδὸν ἦλθεν Ἀχιλλεύϲ, ἶϲοϲ Ἐνυαλίωι κορυθάϊκι πτολεμιϲτῆι, ϲείων Πηλιάδα μελίην κατὰ δεξιὸν ὦμον δεινήν· ἀμφὶ δὲ χαλκὸϲ ἐλάμπετο εἴκελοϲ αὐγῆι 135 ἢ πυρὸϲ αἰθομένου ἢ ἠελίου ἀνιόντοϲ.

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    Ἕκτορα δ’, ὡϲ ἐνόηϲεν, ἕλε τρόμοϲ· οὐδ’ ἄρ’ ἔτ’ ἔτλη αὖθι μένειν, ὀπίϲω δὲ πύλαϲ λίπε, βῆ δὲ φοβηθείϲ. Πηλείδηϲ δ’ ἐπόρουϲε ποϲὶ κραιπνοῖϲι πεποιθώϲ, ἠΰτε κίρκοϲ ὄρεϲφιν, ἐλαφρότατοϲ πετεηνῶν, ῥηϊδίωϲ οἴμηϲε μετὰ τρήρωνα πέλειαν, ἣ δέ θ’ ὕπαιθα φοβεῖται, ὃ δ’ ἐγγύθεν ὀξὺ λεληκώϲ ταρφέ’ ἐπαΐϲϲει, ἑλέειν τέ ἑ θυμὸϲ ἀνώγει· ὣϲ ἄρ’ ὅ γ’ ἐμμεμαὼϲ ἰθὺϲ πέτετο, τρέϲε δ’ Ἕκτωρ τεῖχοϲ ὕπο Τρώων, λαιψηρὰ δὲ γούνατ’ ἐνώμα.

140

131 ὃ δ᾿ ἄρα ϲχεδὸν ἤλυθ᾿ P. Heidelberg 1263 c (fr. 48) + P. Hibeh I 22 fr. 13 (frr. (c) et (d)) col. iii (= ‘pap.’; iii a.C.) 138 ποϲὶν ταχέεϲϲ̣[ι (διώκων suppl. Gerhard) pap. 140 καρπαλίμ[ωϲ] ὥ ̣ ρμηϲε pap.

‘So, crying, they addressed their dear son, with much entreaty; but they could not persuade Hector’s heart: he awaited the massive Achilles as he came nearer. In the same way a mountain snake awaits a man on top of its hole. It has eaten pernicious drugs, and dire anger has entered it; it has a terrible look as it twists about its hole. Even so Hector with unquenchable vigour did not withdraw. He rested his bright shield on a jutting rampart. He spoke vehemently to his greatspirited heart: “Oh alas! If I enter the gates and the walls, Polydamas will be the first to fix reproaches on me. He bade me lead the Trojans to the city on that disastrous night when god-like Achilles arose. He did not persuade me; it would have been much better if he had. As it is, I have destroyed the army in my folly; so now I feel shame before the Trojan men and the Trojan women who sweep their dresses along, in my fear that someone less brave than me will say, ‘Hector relied on his own might, and so destroyed the army.’ That will be what they say; in that case it would be much better for me in straight confrontation either to kill Achilles and return home or to perish gloriously at his hands in front of the city. If I put down my shield with its bosses and my strong helmet, and rested my spear against the wall, and went with nothing and faced excellent Achilles, and promised that I would give the sons of Atreus, for them to lead away, Helen and with her the possessions, all that Paris brought with him to Troy in his hollow ships—the beginning of the dispute—and apportioned to the Achaeans separately other possessions, all that this city hides within it, and if then later I imposed an oath on the Trojans, to be sworn by the elders, that they would conceal nothing, but divide everything up [all the property which the lovely city holds within it]—But why has my dear heart conversed with me thus? Let me not proceed and go to him. He will show me no pity or respect; he will kill me with no armour on just as if I were a woman, once I have removed my arms. There is no way I can chat to him from tree or rock the things girl and boy, girl and boy chat to each other. Better to join in combat with him as quickly as I can. Let us discover to which of us Zeus of Olympus will grant the glory.” Such were his

, 

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ponderings as he waited. Achilles came near him, like Ares the warrior with his quivering helmet; he was shaking Peleus’ ashwood spear by his right shoulder—it looked fearsome. Around him the bronze shone like the radiance of a burning fire or the rising sun. When Hector took the sight in, trembling seized him. He could not endure any more to remain in the same spot; he left the gates behind him, and went in flight. The son of Peleus rushed against him, trusting in his swift feet. As a falcon, the most rapid of birds, easily swoops upon a dove in the mountains—the dove flees from under the attack, but the falcon, with a shrill cry, darts upon the dove repeatedly; its spirit urges it to catch the dove—with just such eagerness Achilles flew straight against Hector. Hector retreated in terror to beneath the Trojans’ wall; he plied his knees with speed.’

This passage shows drastic changes in moving and not moving, and takes the idea of moving into intricate modality and constructions by the mind. The non-motion of Hector’s remaining has already received immense emphasis: fate chained him αὐτοῦ μεῖναι (22.5, above, pp. 62–3); Priam’s speech began Ἕκτορ, μή μοι μίμνε (38). Previous passages have showed us imperatives turned into identical imperfects which fulfil them (8.399, 432, 16.724, 732); at 92 the imperfect refuses the entreaty: ἀλλ᾿ ὅ γε μίμν’. The idea is now opposed to the onward movement of Achilles: 92 μίμν’ Ἀχιλῆα . . . ἄϲϲον ἰόντα. The same opposition appears, in similar simple language, at 131 ὣϲ ὥρμαινε μένων, ὃ δέ οἱ ϲχεδὸν ἦλθεν Ἀχιλλεύϲ. But by then ‘nearer’ has become ‘near’: the change in space, caused by motion over time, generates the dynamism of the narrative.⁵⁷ At 96, Hector’s position is presented with forceful negation of the motion sought for: οὐχ ὑπεχώρει. The mental aspect of the stance is as important as the physical, and here too the narrative will offer a mixture of fixity and change. The mental point of οὐχ ὑπεχώρει is drawn out by ἄϲβεϲτον ἔχων μένοϲ; the monologue will swiftly show the irony of ἄϲβεϲτον. Before that line, the simile of the snake (92–5) portrays an attitude which, in the world of the simile, looks unlikely to alter once assumed (94 ἔδυ δέ τέ μιν χόλοϲ αἰνόϲ). But the twisting, ἑλιϲϲόμενοϲ περὶ χειῆι (95), is strikingly unlike Hector’s firm position (95–6, cf. 35–6 προπάροιθε πυλάων | ἑϲτήκει, ‘stood in front of the gates’). It leads aptly into the oscillations of thought which follow.⁵⁸ The depiction of thought in this climactic monologue shows poetry at its furthest from visual art. By contrast with the fixed physical stance which

⁵⁷ The burlesque but forceful Boeotian black-figure Cabirion skyphos Boston, MFA 99.532 (450–350 , LIMC Hektor 66), if it is based on the Iliad, condenses both space and time. It shows Priam next to Hector in front of the gates of Troy, as Achilles is about to attack Hector with his spear. (Cf. Walsh (2009), 218–19.) But the scene, with its strong sense of movement, is not simply a synoptic presentation of the whole episode: there is no mistaking the importance of being in the moment ‘before’. ⁵⁸ On this simile, cf. Fränkel (1977), 69, Tsagalis (2008), 282 (also on the simile later in the passage).

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   

Hector’s parents see, the chain of thought leads us into a sequence of: conditions in the future (99, 111–20, cf. 108), a condition in the past (103), debate in the past (100–2), a feared remark (106–7), interactions with people (100, 105, 106, 113–20, 123–30), imagined events and comparisons (123–5, 126–8), an elaborate development of a possible plan (111–20), a twofold return to the idea of fighting, with uncertain outcome (108–10, 129–30). A more complicated and changeable depiction of the mind’s internal activity can scarcely be imagined. But the centre of the thought is motion: motion is made the heart of this crucial extended moment and its ethical and pragmatic pondering. The contemplated possibilities are all presented as primarily choices about motion (so too e.g. Agenor’s monologue 21.553–70): in particular, staying put, and the elaborated ideas of a withdrawal into Troy, or a conciliatory movement towards Achilles. The movement in the withdrawal is self-evident (99 εἰ μέν κε πύλαϲ καὶ τείχεα δύω). In the second, the negotiation might be thought the most important feature. But going to face Achilles (113 Ἀχιλῆοϲ . . . ἀντίοϲ ἔλθω) is a daunting prospect; cf. 20.371 τοῦ δ᾿ ἐγὼ ἀντίοϲ εἶμι, ‘I will go to meet him’, 422 ἀντίοϲ ἦλθ᾿ Ἀχιλῆοϲ, ‘he went to meet Achilles’ (both of Hector meeting Achilles, in battle), 21.150 (Achilles to Asteropaeus) τίϲ πόθεν εἰϲ ἀνδρῶν, ὅ μοι ἔτληϲ ἀντίοϲ ἐλθεῖν, ‘what man are you, and of what lineage, that you have dared to face me?’. αὐτὸϲ ἰών (113), with an additional verb of motion, highlights the alarming absence of weapons and armour (110–11) which will eventually exclude the proposal (124–5). The preparations for the movement are presented in detail (111–12). What is finally rejected as fatal is the movement, conveyed in two verbs, 123 μή μιν ἐγὼ μὲν ἵκωμαι ἰών.⁵⁹ Even in considering the fighting, which is the option entailed by not moving, Hector says (109) not just κατακτεῖναι but κατακτείναντα νέεϲθαι: the return to the city is envisaged, and is set against death in front of it (110 ὀλέϲθαι . . . πρὸ πόληοϲ). Important movements in the past are the leading of the Trojans back to the city, which Hector refused to carry out (101 Τρωϲὶ ποτὶ πτόλιν ἡγήϲαϲθαι), and Achilles’ ‘rising up’ (102 ὤρετο): Achilles’ resumption of the war is conveyed in a single resonant verb, as when the sons of the Achaeans ‘came’ (258, 24.495).⁶⁰ The speech fluctuates, and shows the inner uncertainty behind the outward refusal to move; but its trend is still towards staying put. The change caused by Achilles’ moving nearer remains a surprise. A run of short main clauses conveys the new motion: 136–7 οὐδ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἔτ᾿ ἔτλη | αὖθι μένειν, ὀπίϲω δὲ πύλαϲ λίπε, βῆ δὲ φοβηθείϲ (‘in flight’). The second line here heaps verbal forms together. The alteration of Hector’s choice on moving probes the limitations of reason

⁵⁹ Supplication has not been in question; cf. De Jong (2012a), 91. ⁶⁰ For the chronology, see Taplin (1992), 17. At 127 ἅ τε should be seen as the object of ὀαρίζετον, cf. 15.130 οὐκ ἀΐειϲ ἅ τέ φηϲι . . . Ἥρη . . . ;, H. Hom. 23.3 πυκινοὺϲ ὀάρουϲ ὀαρίζει, Pind. Pae. S3.33–4 Rutherford ὀαρίζε[ι] | λόγον. ἅτε ‘as’ does not appear in Homer. Cf. on 126–8 De Jong (2012a), 91–2.

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profoundly; the narrative will go on to explore a conception of courage far deeper than facile heroics. The bare and alarming ὃ δέ οἱ ϲχεδὸν ἦλθεν Ἀχιλλεύϲ (131) is amplified in frightening description (132–4). Not least threatening are the small-scale movements of shaking spear and Ares’ shaking helmet (132 κορυθάϊκι, 133 ϲείων); cf. e.g. 7.213 κραδάων δολιχόϲκιον ἔγχοϲ, ‘brandishing his spear with its long shadow’, of Ajax in his advance, which terrifies the Trojans and scares Hector. After 137 here, broken up in short main clauses ( . . . πύλαϲ λίπε, βῆ δὲ . . . ), 138 sweeps along: Πηλείδηϲ δ’ ἐπόρουϲε ποϲὶ κραιπνοῖϲι πεποιθώϲ. Achilles is assured (cf. πεποιθώϲ), and his fleetness of foot reaches the climax of its role in the narration.⁶¹ The chase of Hector is a vital point in the poem’s sequence of motion. At its beginning, a simile takes the motion to an extreme, and a new world heightens the listener’s attention. The bird is ἐλαφρότατοϲ πετεηνῶν (139), so faster than any human. The verb οἰμάω (140) is not commonplace, and the stem is particularly associated with birds and animals (the uses with Hector as subject at 308, 311 are encouraged by the comparison with an eagle). ἐπαΐϲϲει (142) is more colourful than the verbs of motion earlier in the passage, and more strongly imbued with speed. The cry of the falcon (141 ὀξὺ λεληκώϲ) makes the scene more bestial; the violence of male against female bird (141 ἣ δέ . . . ὃ δέ) puts into action Hector’s fears of being treated like a woman (125 ὥϲτε γυναῖκα). In the simile, the falcon seems to have the advantage: cf. 139 ἐλαφρότατοϲ πετεηνῶν, 140 ῥηϊδίωϲ. It also has many chances in its repeated assaults (142 ταρφέ᾿ ) from near at hand (141 ἐγγύθεν).⁶² The application of the simile joins the two situations in a metaphorical flying (πέτετο 143, cf. 198, 21.247); the desire impelling the motion connects Achilles and the falcon (142 θυμὸϲ ἀνώγει, 143 ἐμμεμαώϲ). But the single straight motion (143 ἰθύϲ) is unlike the bird’s repeated attacks; the narrative that will follow long leaves the two men in practice equally fast. Achilles may be μέγ’ ἀμείνων, ‘much better’ (158), like Hesiod’s hawk (WD 207 πολλὸν ἀρείων); but Apollo is helping Hector, as is eventually explained (202–4). The phrase used of Hector here, λαιψηρὰ δὲ γούνατ᾿ ἐνώμα (144), had recently been used of Achilles (24 λαιψηρὰ πόδαϲ καὶ γούνατ᾿ ἐνώμα; of Hector 15.269). The simile sets up a surprise; there proves to be some irony in ποϲὶ κραιπνοῖϲι πεποιθώϲ (138).⁶³ In this last piece of narration (131–44), more colourful and graphic elements have infused the description of motion than in Hector’s monologue; this is especially so from 148 on. In the monologue the scrutiny was on whether and

⁶¹ On the papyrus and its readings in 138 and 140, see Gerhard (1911), 40, 74, Taf. III, S. R. West (1967), 136–8, 165–6. ⁶² Moulton (1977), 83 rates the predator less highly. ⁶³ For the κίρκοϲ, see Arnott (2007), 99. At 23.63–4 it is the chase of Hector rather than all the running before which has wearied Achilles. λαιψηρὰ . . . ἐνώμα otherwise only at [10].358.

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where to go; now the scrutiny is on the process of motion itself, in the joint movement of pursuer and pursued. A few closing comments will serve chiefly to help the reader recall the passages traversed. Contemporary culture supplied the potential for the poem’s engagement with motion. The society clearly watched, that is looked with admiring attention at, races and other exhibitions of motion speedy or skilful. But the descriptions of the runaway horse or of Poseidon’s journey show more directly how the poem creates delight in swift and powerful movement—a delight channelled through the joy of the horse and of the god’s subjects: sea-creatures and the sea. Attention is plainly aroused by the converse, when the motion one would expect of a being does not occur or occurs differently. Achilles at the ships is the largest example, but we have seen great leaders limping painfully along, and lame and tardy goddesses. Another goddess is audaciously envisaged by a character as abandoning divine motion and sitting, love-struck, by a mortal. More disturbingly, the dead Cebriones and the dead Hector present the surprise or shock of mighty men no longer moving at will. These instances involve contrasts with a norm, or a time; some involve other contrasts too (so Achilles and the afflicted leaders, Ate and the Litai). Contrasts and oppositions within passages focus attention on motion, as do connections, and complications or contrasts. Andromache and Paris present a difference in velocity, like the instances just mentioned; but here mood comes in as well (sad reluctance as against happy eagerness), and gender. Gender adds to the oppositions between the snake and the mother sparrow, the falcon and the dove; more concretely, the snake’s movement is quick and decisive, the sparrow’s continuous and fruitless. Moving and not moving is a contrast between the mass of Trojans who flee into the city and Hector who remains outside (end of Book 21, beginning of 22); masses and an individual create a further opposition here, as between Agamemnon and the charge of the Trojan side (Book 11). As Book 22 continues, moving and not moving form a contrast between Achilles and Hector; but the contrast is diminished absorbingly by the inside of Hector’s head and all the possibilities there, and is removed when both men run. Shapes of movement are distinctive for the twisting snake and the circling sparrow, distinctive for Andromache as against the stallion and Paris; shapes of movement become a salient point of difference between Ajax and the boar (Book 17). Shape of movement links Hector to the animal he is compared to (Book 12), but differences are marked within the animal’s own movement—ϲτρέφεται 47, ἰθύϲηι 48—and between the movement Hector executes and the movement he enjoins—εἱλίϲϲεθ᾿ 49, διαβαινέμεν 50. Similar shapes of movement are contrasted in what drives them: so Hector and Patroclus leaping, Cebriones falling, from the chariot. Images are connected to the shape of Cebriones’ movement; but there is

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pointed contrast between the involuntary transitive motion of Cebriones and the willed intransitive motion of diver and acrobat. All this makes the listener attend to and think about the motion portrayed. Characters themselves reflect on whether to move, or what direction to move in: their reflection is graphically conveyed in internal monologue, with its elaborate scenarios (Hector’s wait), and in imagery with motion, non-motion, and mental states of its own (Nestor’s wave). Wills are seen in conflict, as when Apollo breaks Diomedes’ forward-moving impetus, first with movement of his own, and finally with authoritative utterance on gods and men. Zeus’s threatened motion would undo the goddesses’ intended motion, and shows his will set against theirs. The will involved in most of the poem’s motion is often still more impressive than the conflict: so in the strain of Agamemnon’s horses or the determination of boar or lion against humans (whose countering determination impresses less). The poem draws a big range of motion together, within the elaborate web of its story, and through the lateral thinking of imagery. We cannot say whether the author has a general idea of motion: scholars have long seen the illegitimacy of supposing Homer has no concept of what he uses no general word for (such as a living body). He at any rate exploits the area with thought, art, and prominence; that seems enough to warrant investigation. Still further investigation would help us to appreciate the poem more deeply.⁶⁴

⁶⁴ See further the Introduction (p. 3). Homer uses κιν- early and prominently (1.47, 2.144–9), if only 16 times (of which M. L. West daggers one, 14.173). But it is not a generalizing word. Body: Snell (1975), 16–18, charmingly; B. Williams (1993), 23–6; Purves (2019), 34.

3 Ovid, Metamorphoses The Metamorphoses are full of striking depictions of motion. Mention of some particularly memorable examples will bring out how important motion actually is in the reader’s experience of the poem. Daphne flees (1.502–47) ocior aura . . . leui (1.502–3), ‘swifter than a light wind’, pursued by Apollo, who negotiates on the speed of the motion (510–11). Phaethon careers through the heavens and alters geography (2.150–324), as the horses of the Sun sine lege ruunt (2.204), ‘rush uncontrolled’. Actaeon wanders non certis passibus (3.175), ‘with no determined step’, then runs as a stag from his own hounds (198–236), marvelling at his own speed (199). Juno endures to visit Hades (4.433–80), caelesti sede relicta (447), ‘leaving her place in the heavens’. Perseus darts through the sky subito (711), ‘suddenly’, praeceps (718), ‘headlong’, outmanoeuvring the ship-like monster (688–734). The naked Arethusa runs from Alpheus (5.601–20), but struggles to keep going and hears his feet behind her (610–11, 616, 618). Boreas excussit pennas (6.703), ‘shook his wings’, and carries off the terrified Orithyia (702–10), as his flying fans the fires of his passion (708). Daedalus and Icarus have their first flight (8.200–35)—Daedalus anxiously ante uolat (213), ‘flies in front’, Icarus starts to enjoy audaci . . . uolatu (224), ‘his bold flying’. Atalanta runs (10.560–680), as her hair is tossed terga . . . per eburnea (592), ‘all over her back white as ivory’, and passes and is passed by Hippomenes. The waves (11.524–36) leap on Ceyx’s ship like soldiers against a city wall, but one outdoes the rest: uastius insurgens decimae ruit impetus undae (530), ‘with a mightier surge, the force of the tenth wave rushes on’. Polyphemus strides (gradiens) heavily along the beach ingenti . . . passu (13.776), ‘with vast steps’, and later walks (obambulat) blinded around all Etna, feeling his way and crashing into rocks (14.188–90). Hippolytus’ horses (15.506–29) in their fright at the sea-monster rush headlong (519 praecipitant cursum) until he is shaken from the chariot (524). Aesculapius as a snake sails swiftly to Rome (683–744), rising up when he has entered the city (737 erigitur), and at a stop in Antium making a furrow in the sand tractu squamae crepitantis (725), ‘as he drags his clattering scales along’. The star of Julius Caesar’s soul flies higher than the moon, flammiferum . . . trahens spatioso limite crinem (849), ‘drawing its flaming tail in a vast trail’. Even in these instances, one sees a prodigious diversity. The Iliad has as the centre of its concentric circles human action on the battlefield; this is surrounded by the actions of gods, animals, and so forth. Here there is no such centre. Love recurs insistently, most notably in amorous pursuit (Daphne, Arethusa)—in a way the equivalent of rout and pursuit in the Iliad; but love is not the central point Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

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around which all the rest is organized. The marvellous predominates, most notably in aerial motion (Phaethon, Perseus, Boreas, Daedalus, Caesar); even the running is often by nymphs and gods (Daphne, Arethusa), evidently at more than human speed. But while the speed and other elements excite wonder, there seems less invitation than in the Iliad to admire; valiant men play a severely reduced role, the gods are often undignified or unsatisfying, love is commonly undignified, horses and lions are less conspicuous.¹ The poem has much more time than the Iliad for slow and purposeless wandering (so Bellerophon, who wanders avoiding the path of men, Il. 6.201–2, is outside the normal world of the poem and of people). We have seen Actaeon non certis passibus errans (3.175), ‘wandering with no determined step’, like the daughter of Coroneus on her usual sea-shore walks lentis | passibus (2.572–3), ‘with slow steps’, Narcissus per deuia rura uagantem (3.370), ‘wandering through countryside off the beaten track’, Scylla wandering naked on the sand (13.901), or Hermaphroditus who enjoys himself ‘wandering in places he did not know’ (4.294 ignotis errare locis). Cyllarus and Hylonome, the perfect Centaur couple, errant in montibus una (12.416), ‘wander in the mountains together’. Others wander in despair, like Myrrha (10.477–9). Unremitting energy and effort are not the hallmark of Ovidian characters as of Iliadic men. The spiritus, ‘spirit’, which animates all living creatures errat, ‘wanders’, says Pythagoras (15.165, errat emphatically placed). In story, the poem does not strive to sustain a stream of fast actions like the Iliad. Different paces of motion are contrasted, as part of the narrative shaping: except for the Centaur pair, who now together make fierce war (12.418), all the characters mentioned are about to flee (fugere), or consider fleeing, or have fled (3.198, 2.576, 3.390, 13.907–8, 4.336, 10.476).² The motion is not concentrated in severely limited spaces, like much of the human action of the Iliad. The poem gains some of its grandiose sweep from the vast areas taken in by motion, often marked by catalogues of places, as with Phaethon or Aesculapius (2.214–25, 235–59; 15.699–718 (Italy)). The cosmos is often stressed too in motion: we have seen Juno going from heaven to Hades (note 4.477–80); the mortal Daedalus is excluded from earth and sea but not the air (8.185–7); in Ceyx’s storm, sky and sea seem to ascend and descend into each other’s places (11.517–18). Metamorphosis itself often alters or stops motion—or continues it for ever. It is not itself standardly presented as a kind of motion: as Ovid typically depicts it, parts of a new body miraculously occupy the places held by parts of an old one, so ¹ On heroes in the poem, cf. Holzberg (1998), 137. On the marvellous in the Augustan period, see Hardie (2009), with five chapters on the Metamorphoses, and others partly on it; for wonder and the poem, e.g. Beagon (2009), 297–8. Holzberg (2016) is an invaluable resource for criticism from 1980 on. ² An element from pastoral hexameter could well be seen in the wandering; but note that four of the Eclogues’ eight instances of err- come in Eclogue 6, which has special affinities with the Metamorphoses. (Some discussion in Harrison (2007), 44–59.)

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that one intriguingly has the result of motion without either old or new parts necessarily transferring themselves from a previous place to a later one. But the change of these individual parts is sometimes presented with suggestions of motion, whether through metaphor, or through extension in time, so a process for a part not just the whole. Thus with Cyane, one could see ossa pati flexus (5.430), ‘her bones accepting bending’ (cf. 1.409); for thin parts like fingers and legs breuis in . . . undas | transitus est (5.433–4), ‘the passage into water was short’. The movement in 433–4 could be metaphorical, but it certainly needs some time, and other parts evidently take longer. abeunt euanida (435), ‘disappearing, changed/went away’, and subit (437), ‘come/succeed’, suggest but do not impose some level of motion. Much more pronounced is the motion, whether or not figurative, in the reversal of metamorphosis at 1.739–42: fugiunt e corpore saetae . . . contrahitur rictus . . . redeunt umerique manusque, ‘the rough hairs flee from Io’s body . . . her wide mouth is drawn together . . . her shoulders and hands return’.³ While uncertainties on motion help to keep the actual metamorphosis vividly mysterious, its results are often plainly displayed through motion or its reverse: they help to manifest the change of essence. We have noticed the surprise of Actaeon at his change in speed; so too Picus, as his alteration begins (14.398–9). The Lycians’ transformation into frogs is conveyed through a string of froggy motions (6.370–81), not least jumping: 373 resilire, ‘jump back’, 381 nouae saliunt . . . ranae, ‘the new frogs leap’. Often metamorphosis is into a plant or rock, and motion is progressively stopped: so Dryope, from feet upwards (9.347– 55), cf. 352 nec quidquam nisi summa mouet, ‘she can move nothing except her highest parts’. The ability to initiate motion might appear strongly related to being alive, and to the sort of living creature one is. Yet, with a characteristic twist, while Dryope the tree, unlike her family, will not be able to move (377, 385–7), Dryope the person, she thinks, will still be there: 379 dicat ‘latet hoc in stipite mater’, ‘let my child say, “My mother is hidden in this trunk” ’.⁴ Whether the movement (or non-movement) of part of the body registers as motion (or non-motion) depends on attention and significance, as we saw in Chapters 1 and 2. In this poem, such motion is given particular importance not only by the focus on changed bodies, but by the intent interest of lovers in bodily detail. We have seen Atalanta’s hair seen by Hippomenes; the small motion of Daphne’s hair as she runs affects Apollo likewise (1.527–30). Her hair will grow ³ At 5.435 euanida suggests more than an instant switch; for abeo cf. TLL i.71.43–76 m u t a r i in (sublucente interdum notione priore), ‘change into, with the previous idea [changing place] sometimes shimmering beneath’. At e.g. 14.499 abeunt need not denote actual movement, but note 501 sinuantur in alas, ‘are curved into wings’. On time and metamorphosis, cf. Sharrock (1996). On Ovid’s depictions of metamorphosis, cf. also e.g. Esposito (2003), and, with further issues, Feldherr (2002); still useful because systematic and informative is Quirin (1930), cf. also Tronchet (1998), 575–81. ⁴ On motion and life, cf. Arist. De an. 1.403b25–7, 411b19–22, Hist. anim. 7(8).588b4–10, 21–3, Philod. De Dis 3 col. 10.12–13. For this last, see Essler (2012), 260–1, 265.

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into leaves (550), a process, hence with motion; she may still be able to shake the leaves that were her hair, so as to express her views (567): utque caput uisa est agitasse cacumen.⁵ As we saw with Homer, how far actions are presented as motion can depend on the language. The example of birth is again rewarding. At 15.220 Nature not Eileithyia e . . . domo uacuas emisit in auras, ‘sent us out as babies from our home the womb into the empty air’; cf. Hom. Il. 16.187–8 τόν γε . . . Εἰλείθυια | ἐξάγαγε πρὸ φόωϲδε, ‘Eileithyia led him out into the light’. The motion is intensely imagined from the baby’s point of view, and forms part of a sequence, from transitive motion in which the baby is passive, to immobility, to swift independent movement as it grows up (221–5). In 9.704–5 ut dolor increuit seque ipsum pondus in auras | expulit, ‘when the pain increased and the weight drove itself out into the air’, pondus shows the motion as scientifically inevitable, but also suggests how the motion feels for the mother. The suggestion of the baby’s agency is a little stronger in 7.127 (the baby) communes exit in auras, ‘comes out into the air shared by all’. It is much stronger in the strange situation of the unborn Adonis in the tree: quaerebatque uiam qua se genetrice relicta | exsereret (10.504–5), ‘he sought a path by which to leave his mother and free himself’. Bodily experience, strangeness, weight, science are all important to the poem and the motion in it.⁶ How far is motion an overt subject in the poem? It will be seen below (p. 104) that Pythagoras’ speech in the last book of the poem directly presents a Heraclitean view of everything as in constant motion (15.177–8). There is a fundamental connection between motion and the primary subject of the work, change. In Plato’s presentation of Heraclitus, important for later understanding, there are two types of κίνηϲιϲ, one locomotion, involving a change of place for whole or parts, and one a change of property (Theaet. 181b8–182d5). Parmenides in Plato has the same typology, and denies all κίνηϲιϲ (Parm. 138b7–139b3); μεταβολή is κίνηϲιϲ (161c2–3). Even if Aristotle is less central on motion for Ovid than for us, the Presocratics are more central; philosophy in general relates change and locomotion. κίνηϲιϲ, locomotion, and change are closely bound together in Plato’s account of ten kinds of κίνηϲιϲ at Laws 10.893b1–895b9, and in Chrysippus’ account of κίνηϲιϲ and κινήϲειϲ (fr. 507 Dufour). Epicurus is said to think the μεταβλητικὴ κίνηϲιϲ a subset of the μεταβατική, i.e. change of property is caused by motion (Sext. Emp. Math. 10.42–4). Overall in philosophy, locomotion is seen as involving change, and change in general is given a name which suggests the primacy of one part, locomotion. Thus in the openly philosophical speech of ⁵ See Barchiesi (2005), 214–15 for the shaking; but by considering motion we can add the link to her hair. On Dryope and gradual transformation, cf. Esposito (2003), 20. ⁶ Motion is stressed in 15.225–7 too, but becomes metaphorical. Changes of motion in mankind produce changes in nature: cf. 222 quadripes rituque . . . ferarum, ‘four-footed, and in the manner of animals’, and ἀλλάϲϲει δὲ φυήν, ‘changes its nature’ (mankind, alone of all creatures that move), in line 2 of the Sphinx’s riddle (Lloyd-Jones (1990), 332–4).

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Pythagoras, there can be no mistaking the fundamental relevance of locomotion, i.e. of motion, as it is termed in this book.⁷ Needless to say, the veridical status of Pythagoras’ speech is itself uncertain; but it can be seen as supplying a focus for the engagement with motion which the whole poem stimulates. It is to that degree like the Epilogue to War and Peace. It is likely to have been planned from the start. The poem begins, after the introduction, in philosophical vein, with a transforming organization of the cosmos through motion (1.21–75). This sets the ground for Pythagoras’ speech, and the specific content is taken up there (15.237–51). The introduction itself (1.1–4) is dense with words of movement. The first word, In, presents forms changed ‘into’ new bodies (κίνηϲιϲ and figurative motion at least). Figuratively, his mind fert the poet; the gods are told, deducite the poem ab . . . ad . . . . The reader does not lack impulse to think about motion, change, and metaphorical as well as literal movement. Even without all this, motion would still be basic to creating the world of action and event seen in the poem. But a vital dimension is added to the reader’s experience of motion by thought which in the end becomes overt and supremely wide-ranging.⁸ Let us now look at the language of motion in the poem. Ovid is largely taking his vocabulary over from Virgil and others, drawing on a tradition, like Homer; but it remains of interest to compare Ovid’s and Homer’s traditions, and to notice some particulars in Ovid. As in Chapter 2, a given verb, noun, or adjective is often represented not by a first-person singular present indicative or (masculine) nominative singular but by one of the forms which actually appears in the poem; this takes us closer to the work. The Metamorphoses lack the great store of verbs in the Iliad which primarily denote speed, ἀναΐξαϲ, ἐϲϲεύοντο, ϲπεύϲομαι, etc. We do have properas adpropera ruunt. Other means of indicating speed are deployed, such as the adjectives ocior praecipites celerem citi properus uelox. Words for specific fast actions are common, so curre, from a verb that also receives a wide range of preverbs (incurrite concurrere decurrere percurrere transcurrere discurrunt, cf. incursant), saliunt (desiluit adsilientis exsiliantque insilit), uolat (circumuolat superuolat subuolat). Flying is indeed used metaphorically, as it is in Homer of weapons (Il. 20.99) or a fast runner (22.143 (Achilles), cf. Ov. Met. 10.587 (Atalanta)). But in this poem it covers a wide range of people and things going through the air: so bats (4.415), the personified Victoria (8.13), Ariadne’s garland (178), Daedalus and Icarus (206, 208).⁹ ⁷ With Sext. Emp. Math. 10.42–4 cf. the Epicurean cook at Damoxen. fr. 2.21–3 Kassel-Austin: μεταβολαί and κινήϲειϲ produce ἀλλοιώματα. ⁸ Planning: Augustus thought a ὑπογραφή, ‘sketch, outline’, natural for the Aeneid (Epist. 36 Malcovati), and Virgil is said to have written a prose summary (Donat. Vit. 23). It is hard to see how Ovid could not have planned such a complicated poem in advance, particularly half the last book. On War and Peace, see the Conclusion below; important for the Epilogue is Tolstoy’s letter to Fet of 10.3.1869, see L. N. Tolstoy, Переписка с русскими писателями², ed. S. A. Rozanova (2 vols, Moscow, 1978), i.390–1. ⁹ subuolare is not in Virgil. For flying in the Metamorphoses, note also uolitare: 8.258 (partridge), 14.411 (ghosts).

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Words for an absence or a restraint of motion sometimes draw directly on Homer. So with the crucial Iliadic κεῖμαι, ‘lie’. Met. 13.178 per me iacet inclitus Hector, ‘renowned Hector lies dead because of me’, is spoken by the outrageous Ulysses on an obviously Iliadic subject; it recalls utterance by the more modest Patroclus, Hom. Il. 16.558–9 κεῖται . . . Ϲαρπηδών, ‘Sarpedon . . . lies dead’, and also by Achilles, 22.393 ἐπέφνομεν Ἕκτορα δῖον, ‘we/I have slain godlike Hector’. Ov. Met. 1.720 Arge, iaces, ‘Argus, you lie dead’, is heightened by address from the narrator; this extends the address of characters to the dead in Homer, κεῖϲαι, ‘you lie dead’: Il. 19.319, 20.389, 24.758. At Ov. Met. 4.244 corpusque exsangue iacebas, ‘you lay a bloodless body’, the internal narrator’s apostrophe to Leucothoe uses the predicative as in Il. 22.386–7 κεῖται πὰρ νήεϲϲι νέκυϲ ἄκλαυτοϲ ἄθαπτοϲ | Πάτροκλοϲ, ‘Patroclus lies by the ships a corpse, unmourned and unburied’ (less similar Virg. Aen. 9.485–6). But in the world of the Metamorphoses the shrub which Leucothoe has become will reverse this state, breaking through the earth with the motion of a growing plant and bursting her tomb (4.254–5). Other words lose their Iliadic connotations, like ‘stay’. Andromache’s αὐτοῦ μίμν᾿ ἐπὶ πύργωι (6.431), ‘stay here on the tower’, is the only forerunner of the amorous or conjugal mane or remane, ‘stay’: so 1.504 mane, to Daphne, with a disjunction from warfare in non insequor hostis, ‘I am not pursuing you as an enemy’; 3.477 remane, to Narcissus’ reflection; 4.591 mane, to the husband being transformed; 11.676 mane, to the ‘husband’ in a dream. The last goes beyond Achilles’ wish in a dream for a short embrace of Patroclus (Il. 23.97–8). Other verbs come in too, and fit a world of transformation: so haereo, ‘stick fast’, as in 4.264–6 nec se mouit humo . . . membra ferunt haesisse solo, ‘Clytie did not move from the ground . . . they say her limbs stuck firm in the soil’, 9.349–51 cum . . . uellet discedere . . . , | haeserunt radice pedes, ‘when Dryope wanted to depart, her feet were held firm by a root’, 14.756–7 conataque retro | ferre pedes, haesit, ‘as Anaxarete tried to take her feet backwards, she stuck fast’. The expressions sometimes involve the verbal nouns characteristic of Ovid and his tradition, to un-Homeric effect: so 1.511 fugamque inhibe, ‘restrain your flight’ (moderation rather than actually stopping), 600 tenuitque fugam, ‘he stopped her flight’, 11.777 cum uita suppressa fuga est, ‘her flight was stopped together with her life’ (phrases like these are not used with say φύζα or φόβοϲ in Homer), 14.636 accessus prohibet . . . uiriles, ‘she forbade the approach of men’ to her garden (and herself ), 1.703 cursum impedientibus undis, ‘the waters prevented her running’.¹⁰ Nouns of motion have a different look in the Metamorphoses from the Iliad. So saltus of jumping (ἅλμα not in Iliad, though in Odyssey), and saltum/us dare is used 3 times to mean ‘jump’ (so Virg. Aen. 12.681). Surprising in Homer would be ¹⁰ Cf. Virg. Aen. 12.747 genua impediunt cursumque recusant, ‘his knees were hindering him and refusing to let him run’. One might modify the note of Bömer (1969–2006), i.210, who thinks cursum impedientibus a prose combination.

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   

an equivalent to 10.709 carpit iter, ‘takes her way’, 8.208 carpe uiam (Virgil too), or 2.159 corripuere uiam (Virgil too). The partly verbal nouns ὁδόϲ and κέλευθοϲ are between them used 39 times in the Iliad excluding Book 10, 0.26 per cent of 15,114 lines, the Metamorphoses uses uia or iter 87 times, 0.73 per cent of 11,995 lines (Aeneid 113, 1.14 per cent of 9,896 lines; the Homeric frequency is 35.62 per cent of the Ovidian, the Ovidian 64.04 per cent of the Virgilian). Other nouns: uolatu (not in Virgil), concursibus, recursus, iactatibus (first in Ovid), reditus, accessus, motu, molimine (not in Virgil), lapsu.¹¹ The noun motus comes 20 times in the Metamorphoses (excluding 7.787 morsus NcG, motus Ω), 5 times in the Aeneid. One of the most notable verbs of motion in the Metamorphoses is moueo; the word brings out the conception of motion more than a word like eo. moueo is much commoner in the Metamorphoses, where it comes 162 times (1.34 per cent), than in the Aeneid, where it comes 51 times (0.56 per cent), or the Fasti, where it comes 39 times (0.78 per cent); κινέω and κίνυμαι come 16 times in the Iliad, excepting Book 10 (0.11 per cent). Note too the compounds admoueo, 25 times in the Metamorphoses (3 Aen.), commoueo 2 (6 Aen.), dimoueo 4 (5 Aen.), emoueo 0 (4 Aen.), promoueo 0 (1 Aen.), remoueo 26 (2 Aen., both in phrase mensaeque remotae), summoueo 7 (3 Aen.); ἀποκινέω 1 Il.; note also immotus 9 (12 Aen.); Met. 4.46 motasse (Merkel: mutasse, habitasse (Lac?), et alia codd.; 0 Aen.). A bit under half the uses of moueo in both poems concern the metaphorical moving of feelings. Among the other instances in the Aeneid a few types predominate, magical and military, especially with less specific terms like bella, arma, Martem; the word is not used with a part of the body as object. In the Metamorphoses, there is a wide range of things moved: mud, winged sandals, clouds, clods . . . . Parts of the body occur very often, frequently in some connection with transformation, as in 2.547–8 pennis (transformed human), 669 bracchia mouit in herbas, ‘moved her arms into the grass’ (becoming a horse), 829 parts used in sitting, 5.186 dextera deriguit nec citra mota nec ultra est, ‘his right hand grew rigid and did not move backwards or forwards’, 548 uixque mouet natas per inertia bracchia pennas, ‘he scarcely moved the feathers born all over his now idle arms’ (becoming an owl), 15.683 cristis, 738 colla (both Aesculapius in serpentine form). A generally striking feature of the verbs of motion used by Ovid is the abundance of compounds, that is of verbs with preverbs indicating direction or the like. Most of these verbs already occur in the Aeneid, though not e.g. obambulat (in Georgics), subuolat (not in Virgil, as was noted), exspatiemur (first extant in Ovid). obambulat and exspatiemur involve walking, not an activity to which

¹¹ In the totals, no attempt is made to exclude smaller interpolations than Iliad 10 from any of the three poems. For saltus, cf. too Ov. Met. 7.767 leui . . . superabat retia saltu, ‘the beast passed over the nets with a light leap’, Virg. Aen. 9.553 saltu supra uenabula fertur, ‘with a leap the beast is borne over the hunting-spears’.

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much explicit attention is drawn in the Iliad (βαδίζω itself is post-Homeric). While the abundance of these verbs is a resource already in his tradition, Ovid draws further attention to preverbs through opposing them to each other. So in the last line of Book 1: 778–9 positosque sub ignibus Indos | sidereis transit patriosque adit impiger ortus, ‘he goes through the Indians, placed beneath the fires of the stars, and tirelessly goes to the place where his father rises’, or 2.445 (Calypso) nymphas incedere uidit, ‘she saw the nymphs coming in’, 446 numerumque accessit ad harum, ‘she went to their throng and joined it’, 465 (Diana) deque suo iussit secedere coetu, ‘told her to depart from their band’ (cf., less forcefully, Virg. Aen. 5.551 decedere, 553 incedunt), or 9.31 (Achelous) | congrediturque, ‘engaged in the fight with me’, 41 | digredimur paulum rursusque ad bella coimus, ‘we separated a little, and then returned together to fight’, 11.517–18 (mentioned above, p. 79) . . . descendere caelum | . . . ascendere pontum | ’(you would think the whole) sky came down (into the sea) and that the sea went up (into the regions of the sky)’. Cf. also e.g. 9.309–10 dumque exit et intrat (from preposition, but not preverb) | saepe fores, ‘in frequently going out and coming in by the doors’. Or preverbs can be marked out by accumulation: 6.624–5 (Itys) ut tamen accessit natus matrique salutem | attulit et paruis adduxit colla lacertis, ‘as the son came to his mother and brought a greeting to her, and drew her neck to him with his little arms’. In another aspect of preverbs, the Ovidian language of motion is separated from the Virgilian: Ovid has a much stronger preference than Virgil for compounds of eo over the fairly colourless simple verb. One explanation might be that preverbs give the sharper detail of direction or type of motion, another that they give the idea of motion more weight, through meaning and length. This Ovidian preference goes beyond the Metamorphoses, and is found in other writers too (see Chapter 4 on Tacitus). The Aeneid has a weakness for the somewhat unspecific subeo (49 times), but in total uses compounds of eo only 140 times, eo itself 139 times; the Metamorphoses uses compounds of eo 281 times, eo itself 116 times; the Fasti uses compounds of eo 143 times, eo itself 64 times. In detail: abeo 45 (Aen. 20; F. 16), adeo 37 (Aen. 17; F. 17), anteo 2 (Aen. 1; F. 0), circueo 7 (Aen. 1; F. 0), coeo 21 (Aen. 11; F. 8), exeo 40 (Aen. 9; F. 13), ineo 11 (Aen. 5; F. 12), praetereo 9 (Aen. 4; F. 17), prodeo 4 (Aen. 2; F. 6), redeo 50 (Aen. 13; F. 29), subeo 34 (Aen. 49; F. 16), transeo 21 (Aen. 9; F. 9) = 281. pereo is excluded as not indicating motion. 140 is 100.72 per cent of 139; 281 is 242.24 per cent of 116; 143 is 223.44 per cent of 64.¹²

¹² It is notable that the position is quite different with what could be regarded as the semantically weightier verb uenio (often seen as originally telic, reaching a goal). The Metamorphoses, like the Aeneid, uses the simple verb uenio much more often than compounds (compounds 36 times, 25.71 per cent of the simple verb, 140 times; Aen. 21, 20.79 per cent of 101). The Fasti go further in the same direction: 14, 11.86 per cent of 118. Excluded are euenio, inuenio, and conuenio in the sense ‘befit’. On the semantics and relation of eo and uenio, see recently Nuti (2016). However, as will be seen below, Ovid sometimes exploits positively the brevity of eo.

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   

Different poems can use the same verb or stem, in similar proportions, to build up a distinctive group of motions for their world. fug- is frequent in both Metamorphoses and Aeneid: Met. fugio 99 (0.83 per cent of lines in poem); effugio 27, refugio 11, diffugio 3, confugio 2; fugo 13; fuga 28; fugax 6, profugus 10, refugus 1: total for stem 200, 1.67 per cent of lines in poem; Aen. fugio 73 (0.74 per cent); effugio 12, refugio 9, diffugio 6, confugio 2; fugo 4; fuga 53; fugax 6, profugus 5, refugus 0: total for stem 170, 1.72 per cent. In the Aeneid, though, the ‘flight’ is most often not with someone or something literally in pursuit, except in the military sphere which comes to dominate in the last books—decidedly not in the amatory sphere (contrast G. 4.457). Earlier in the poem the connotations of exile are especially important. In the Metamorphoses the stem is very commonly used of flight from a pursuer, most often in amorous situations (‘amorous’ as the pursuer sees them). Significant too in this verbal network of the poem are exile and other large changes in space. The Metamorphoses is distinguished from the Iliad, and even the Aeneid, in the way it handles levels of motion, or sorts of reality. Its poetic language is freer than Homer’s in its use of metaphorical motion, as is Virgil’s; but more than in Virgil there comes in a declamatory ingenuity of combination, and a display of neatness. As in declamation too, there are wild constructions of possible worlds by speakers; but there are also wild mental states in the characters. And the story-world moves outside ordinary limits; in particular, ontological categories are often fused by metamorphosis. The story-world is one large possible (or impossible) world; it contains further possible or impossible worlds within it. Bold transfusion of language is seen through the simple-minded Cyclops at 13.868–9 cumque suis uideor translatam uiribus Aetnen | pectore ferre meo—nec tu, Galatea, moueris!, ‘Etna seems to have been transported with all its force and I seem to be carrying it around in my breast—but you are not moved, Galatea’. In moueris the speech ends with an elegant play on levels of reality: the fancied movement of Etna does not move her. The cleverness of combination is apparent at 10.341–2 (Myrrha) ire libet procul hinc patriaeque relinquere fines, | dum scelus effugiam, ‘I would like to go far from here and leave the land of my fathers, so long as I can escape that crime’ (cf. 9.633). Still pithier is 9.409 (Alcmaeon will be) exul mentisque domusque, ‘an exile from his mind and his home’, cf. Sen. Contr. 6.2.1 accusator ciuium me fecit exulem, filius etiam meorum, ‘the prosecutor made me an exile from my fellow-citizens, my son an exile even from my own slaves’. The mad Pyreneus thinks he can follow the Muses, who have flown away, and leaps from a tower: ‘qua’que ‘uia est uobis, erit et mihi’ dixit ‘eadem’ (5.290), ‘where there is a way for you there will be one for me too’. Scylla feels an impetus, ‘urge’, turribus e summis in Cnosia mittere corpus | castra (8.40–1), ‘to throw her body from the top of the tower into the Cretans’ camp’. But she knows that for her it is a fantasy: 51–2 o ego ter felix, si pennis lapsa per auras | Cnosiaci possem castris insistere regis, ‘oh I would be three times happy if I could glide through the air on wings and land in the camp of the Cretan king’. In fact she will fly, thanks to

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metamorphosis, while attempting to pursue Minos in his ship. Eryx thinks (a strange thought, because of the strange world) that his companions have been stilled uitio . . . animi (5.195), ‘by a shortcoming in their spirit’, not by the Gorgon; he urges them incurrite mecum, ‘run against him with me’. But his motion is an unrealized possibility, prevented by what in the poem is reality: 5.198 incursurus erat: tenuit uestigia tellus, ‘he was about to run, but the earth held his feet fast’. On the enamoured Sun, there is a metaphorical movement from the mental to the physical, but with actual effect in eclipses: 4.200–1 uitiumque in lumina mentis | transit, ‘the fault of your mind passes into your light’ (the verb is marked out by enjambement). Such movement is commonplace in metamorphosis: 14.526 asperitas uerborum cessit in illas, ‘the harshness of his words passed into the fruit’. The language of motion in the poem joins together the wildness of its fantasy with the precision of its creator.¹³

The Fall of Phaethon (2.304–22) at pater omnipotens, superos testatus et ipsum qui dederat currus, nisi opem ferat omnia fato interitura graui, summam petit arduus arcem, unde solet nubes latis inducere terris, unde mouet tonitrus uibrataque fulmina iactat. sed neque quas posset terris inducere nubes tunc habuit, nec quos caelo demitteret imbres; intonat et dextra libratum fulmen ab aure misit in aurigam, pariterque animaque rotisque expulit, et saeuis compescuit ignibus ignes. consternantur equi et saltu in contraria facto colla iugo eripiunt abruptaque lora relinquunt. illic frena iacent, illic temone reuulsus axis, in hac radii fractarum parte rotarum; sparsaque sunt late laceri uestigia currus. at Phaethon rutilos flamma populante capillos uoluitur in praeceps longoque per aera tractu fertur, ut interdum de caelo stella sereno, etsi non cecidit, potuit cecidisse uideri.

305

310

315

320

¹³ On Polle’s foliis, ‘leaves’, for bacis, ‘fruit, olives’, at 14.525, see Hardie (2015), 436–7. On 5.198 cf. Klein (2009), 190–1. At Sen. Contr. 6.2.1, ‘my relations’ for meorum (Winterbottom (1974), 502), though tempting, does not seem to fit the plot. ciuium would remove the slightly strange ciuium . . . exulem, and enable a neuter meorum. For Ovid’s combinations of literal and non-literal, see Kenney (2002), 45–7.

88

    ‘But the almighty father called the gods above to witness, and indeed the very god who had given Phaethon the chariot, that all things were going to perish in terrible destruction unless he brought help. He went up on high to the supremely lofty citadel from which he usually brings clouds to the earth, and from which he stirs up the thunder, and hurls the lightning bolts at speed. Then, though, he had no clouds to bring to the broad earth, or rain to send down from the heavens. He thundered; he balanced a bolt from his right ear, and threw it at the charioteer. He drove him from his life and his wheels together; by fierce fire the fire was checked. The horses were thrown in confusion; they leapt in opposite directions. They snatched their necks from the yoke; they broke the reins away from themselves and left them. In one place lay the harness, in another the axle, torn from the yoke-beam, in another the spokes of the broken wheels; the remains of the mangled chariot had been scattered far and wide. As for Phaethon, whose hair was being reddened and despoiled by the flames, he rolled headlong, and was borne through the air with a long track; just so a star, even if it does not really fall from the bright sky, can seem to fall.’

Jupiter here responds to the plea of Tellus (272–303): the cosmos is threatened. Tellus’ rerum consule summae (300) has the air of the consul being armed by the senatus consultum ultimum. The motion Jupiter performs and causes is not only impressive but has strong justification. He does not even act in anger, as in Lucretius: Lucr. 5.399 at pater omnipotens, ira tum percitus acri . . . ,‘but the almighty father, then stirred by sharp wrath . . . ’. He is not punishing Phaethon. The god moves within divine space (306 summam petit arduus arcem), as he does within the action of the Iliad (e.g. 1.533 after 498–9), and even the Aeneid (cf. 10.116–17). The present passage contrasts with a sequence shortly to come, both in the morality of Jupiter and in the philosophical problems raised by divine motion: from 401 at pater omnipotens (cf. 304 at pater omnipotens) to 437 superum petit aethera uictor, ‘he made for the lofty heavens in victory’ (cf. 306 summam petit arduus arcem). In between those lines come: inspection, bustling round Arcadia, and the rape of Callisto. In the present passage the height marks Jupiter’s supremacy even among the gods.¹⁴ Even here, however, divine dignity is not left absolutely intact. Reference to Jupiter’s usual activity in the skies (307–8) appears to strike a majestic note; the anaphora of unde . . . unde appears to amass his imposing movement of clouds, thunder, and lightning. But the content of the two unde lines is split apart in what

¹⁴ For the SCU, cf. esp. Cic. Mil. 70. Notions that Phaethon is being punished in Ovid: cf. Hillgruber (1995), 494; Döpp (1992), 152. There is nothing on motivation at Nonn. Dion. 38.410–11. On Ov. Met. 2.437, cf. Barchiesi (2005), 272.

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follows: instead of the rhetorical heaping, the unavailable clouds are divided from the available thunder and lightning. solet gains a point: in this unusual situation rain is not possible (310 imbres |, cf. 294–5) and so Jupiter is forced to use violence, and counter fire with fire (313 ignibus ignes |). The close repetition in neque quas posset terris inducere nubes | tunc habuit (309–10) of nubes latis inducere terris (307) has the undignified inconvenience of 1.635–6 supplex Argo cum bracchia uellet | tendere, non habuit quae bracchia tenderet Argo, ‘although Io wanted to stretch arms to Argus in supplication, she did not have arms to stretch to Argus’, cf. 3.679–80 cupiens dare bracchia . . . bracchia non habuit, ‘wanting to use his arms . . . the sailor did not have arms’.¹⁵ Three verbs begin 311–13, intonat, misit, expulit. The second two are even more important than the first, and show the motion that Jupiter brings about; both are led into by enjambement. misit is preceded by a clause which builds up for the action, 312 dextra libratum fulmen ab aure. lībratum (312) gives not swift throwing like uibrata(que) (308), but measured preparation like Virg. Aen. 9.417 aliud summa telum librabat ab aure, ‘he was poising another spear at the tip of his ear’. Jupiter’s right ear, however, has a slightly incongruous specificity not present when the same phrase is used of a human at Met. 2.624 dextra libratus ab aure (hammer). In dextra libratum fulmen (311), dextra is at first read as the mighty right hand of thundering Jove, qui fera terribili iaculatur fulmina dextra (2.61), ‘who casts fierce thunderbolts with fearsome right hand’, cf. Virg. G. 1.328–9 corusca | fulmina molitur dextra, ‘hurls thunderbolts with flashing right hand’. In 312–13 animaque rotisque | expulit the narrator elegantly combines literal and metaphorical motion; compare the vivid crudity of Hom. Il. 8.403 αὐτὰϲ δ᾿ ἐκ δίφρου βαλέω, ‘I will throw throw the goddesses themselves from their chariot’ (Chapter 2, p. 49). This and the following compescuit seem to bring finality, and an end of further movement. But then this motion leads to an explosion of motion among the horses (314–15), and the driving of Phaethon from his chariot is spelt out in a large picture of movement (319–21). The horses dramatically leap in opposite directions from each other. There are of course four horses, cf. 153–4, but 314 in contraria is an exaggerated in diuersa, ‘in different directions’. Cf. Virg. Aen. 12.487 diuersaeque uocant animum in contraria curae, ‘different passions call his mind into opposite directions’ (cf. 486 and 666–8), Lucr. 5.403 (the Sun) disiectosque redegit equos, ‘brought his scattered horses back’, and the horses facing in opposed directions on the marble sarcophagus Paris, Louvre Ma 1017, late iii , ASR III 3.337 (cf. 336), LIMC Phaethon 16. It makes little sense for the horses all to jump in the opposite direction from the thunderbolt. Poetry cannot

¹⁵ For reference to Jupiter’s habitual actions, cf. Virg. Aen. 1.255, 12.851–2; for solet, cf. 2.592 (Venus).

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present as art can the many-legged intricacy of equine teams; but colla iugo eripiunt (315) uses part of their bodies to create a determined act of motion.¹⁶ relinquunt, though motion, prepares a scene of motion destroyed and brought to a standstill: iacent (316), a resonant verb. Within this graphic still life of ruin, radii (317) presents a sad parody of solar glory (cf. 1.768, 2.41, 108 (ambiguous), 124, 171). sparsaque sunt (318) can be seen as aorist or (better) a historic perfect, ‘have been scattered’, in relation to iacent (cf. uestigia). The motion of the falling Phaethon is rapid in velocity (320 in praeceps, cf. 321 fertur), but extended in space (320–1 longoque per aera tractu | fertur). The event is related to the image of the falling star with a sort of visual punning: stars have hair (e.g. 15.849), Phaethon’s is now red, like the πυρϲὸϲ . . . ἀϲτήρ that falls into the sea at Theocr. 13.50–1—rutilus and πυρρ / ϲόϲ can be used of red hair. The fate of young Hylas there is to be contrasted with Phaethon’s here (Hylas becomes a god); relevant too is the falling star sent with many sparks by Zeus (Hom. Il. 4.75–7). But here science takes over from Zeus, and the narrative world is distanced by the interruption of the syntax in the little simile with astronomical caution (etsi non cecidit) followed by discriminating restatement (potuit cecidisse uideri). The distancing is momentary, more so than that with Jupiter, but it is characteristic: the magnificence of the description remains liable to reining in.¹⁷

River Rage (3.566–71) acrior admonitu est irritaturque retenta et crescit rabies remoraminaque ipsa nocebant. sic ego torrentem, qua nil obstabat eunti, lenius et modico strepitu decurrere uidi; at quacumque trabes obstructaque saxa tenebant, spumeus et feruens et ab obice saeuior ibat.

570

567 remoraminaque M2v P: moderaminaque Ω

‘Pentheus’ rage was the more intense for their warnings. It was stirred up and grew by being held back; the very things meant to check it did harm. It was like a

¹⁶ On chariot teams in art, cf. Schertz (2017), and e.g. Apulian bell-krater Bari Mus. Arch. Prov. 5597, early iv  (Hippolytus), cf. Taplin (2007), 135–6. ¹⁷ By contrast the uncertainty in the similes at Ap. Rhod. 4.1480, Virg. Aen. 6.454 relates to obscurity within the narrative world; cf. Barchiesi (2005), 262, Hunter (2015), 280. For various doubts on shooting stars and related phenomena, cf. Sen. NQ 1.13.2–4, Plin. NH 2.9; Hippocr. Chi. F 5.231–6 Timpanaro Cardini, add Philop. in Meteo. CAG xiv.1.77.8–14.

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rushing stream that I have seen: where there was nothing in the way of its path, it ran more gently and with only moderate turbulence; but wherever part of trees and rocks put in its way were trying to hold it back, it foamed and bubbled, and proceeded all the more fiercely for the obstacle.’

Pentheus’ lack of moral restraint is depicted through an image of literal motion: not just a generalized scene, but a particularized reality seen by the narrator, who here startlingly enters his account (ego 568). There are touches of motion restrained in the depiction of the anger: retenta (566) and to some extent remoraminaque (567), if the right reading. And the anger has set swift motion in train: 562 ite citi, ‘go swiftly’, 563 iussis mora segnis abesto, ‘let my orders encounter no idle delay’. But this is not the common hexameter narrative device of conveying literal motion through literal motion; it is closer to Nestor, and the likening of his indecision to a suspended wave (Hom. Il. 14.16–22, see Chapter 2, pp. 56–8), or, say, to Medea and the sunlight on the water (Ap. Rhod. 3.755–60).¹⁸ It is not made clear within the image how far the rocks and trees have deliberately been put there: obstructaque suggests this, but quacumque makes it seem unlikely there are a whole host of intended dams. In that case obice like tenebant is metaphorical, and gives the things intentions. The stream certainly has feelings, conveyed through its motion: saeuior ibat (571); there is a progression from spumeus to feruens to saeuior, which et . . . et builds up. Wills are in conflict outside the simile too. The wind in Nestor’s simile is external to the wave, but does not depict a force external to Nestor. Other minds—those of his critics—enter into Pentheus’ state of mind; this is conveyed in the encounter of forces as if with purpose moving and opposing motion.¹⁹ The wills behind the obstacle in the simile seem misguided, more so than the people in the main narrative. The picture of motion in 569 lenius et modico strepitu decurrere captures an attractive natural movement (lenius appeals even in the comparative, and is supported by modico). But Pentheus’ long tirade before the intervention (531–64) does not suggest an attractive stage of moderate wrath. The poem does not create quite the involving mini-worlds of Iliadic similes; but an essential ingredient of it is motion outside the main world of its events, in similes and elsewhere.²⁰

¹⁸ Cf. Virg. Aen. 8.18–25. For the entry of the narrator at Met. 3.568, see Barchiesi and Rosati (2007), 221. On the reading in 567, remoror indeed usually relates to motion; but moderaminaque ipsa nocebant seems more pointed, as ipsa requires. ¹⁹ The intentionalism of the language in obice if metaphorical and in tenebant is not much more daring than, say, potentia resistendi, ‘ability to resist’, in Definitio III of Newton’s Principia (Newton (1971–2), i.40). ²⁰ On similes in the poem, see von Glinski (2012); 157 for the world of a simile.

92

   

Petrification (6.301–12) orba resedit exanimes inter natos natasque uirumque deriguitque malis. nullos mouet aura capillos, in uultu color est sine sanguine, lumina maestis stant immota genis; nihil est in imagine uiuum. ipsa quoque interius cum duro lingua palato congelat, et uenae desistunt posse moueri. nec flecti ceruix nec bracchia reddere motus nec pes ire potest; intra quoque uiscera saxum est. flet tamen, et ualidi circumdata turbine uenti in patriam rapta est; ibi fixa cacumine montis liquitur, et lacrimas etiam nunc marmora manant.

305

310

308 motus Ω: gestus U2v P

‘Niobe sat there, childless, amid her lifeless sons and daughters and her husband, and grew rigid from her catastrophes. No hair of hers moved in the breeze; in her face the colour was bloodless; her eyes stood unmoving in her sad cheeks. There was nothing alive in this image of a person. Within her body her very tongue hardened, as did her palate; her veins could no longer move. Her neck could not bend, nor her arms execute movements, nor her foot walk. Within her inwards too she was rock. But she wept. A powerful whirlwind surrounded her and snatched her off to her homeland. There, fixed at the top of a mountain, she dissolved into tears; tears are dripped by the marble to this day.’

Niobe has been characterized through movement. She arrived suddenly (165 ecce uenit) to disrupt offerings to Latona, Apollo, and Diana, moving (167 mouensque) her hair and head in angry beauty; mediam tulerat gressus resupina per urbem (275), ‘she had strode, head tossed back in pride, through the middle of the city’. Now the detail of her hair is picked up: it is not moved in the wind (303 nullos mouet aura capillos). It was that mobility, along with weeping, which had shown Perseus Andromeda was not a statue: nisi quod leuis aura capillos | mouerat (4.673–4), ‘save that a light breeze had moved her hair’. The stem ‘move’ continues to run through insistently: 305 immota (eyes), 307 moueri (veins), 308 motus (arms). Only the feet have the somewhat more specific ire (309). The stem of moueo carries through the conception that everything in the living body is characterized by motion, even veins that cannot be seen, and eyes that move only slightly. Niobe is turning into stone (309 saxum est). More particularly she is a sort of statue: 305 imagine, cf. 304 color est sine sanguine—like a statue still

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93

unpainted—, 312 marmora. But the more primary significance of the change is captured in nihil est . . . uiuum (305).²¹ That phrase follows words with Homeric connotations of living fixity, sitting and standing: resedit (301), and | stant (305) straight after maestis | (304). resedit encapsulates in a moment Niobe’s grief-stricken sitting for three days, as presented, probably, in Aeschylus’ Niobe, F154a.6 Radt, 157a?, Ar. Frogs 911–20; deriguitque follows. There seems a general development from shocked to lifeless immobility, which intra quoque uiscera saxum est (309) appears to confirm.²² The whole immense build-up of immobility is doubly countered (310 tamen): by flet, which in one syllable shows grief making something move even amid the paralysis, and by the rapid whisking of Niobe to her homeland (310–11 turbine uenti | in patriam rapta est). Intransitive locomotion is impossible for her; but transitive locomotion occurs, and intransitive bodily movement, despite the stillness of Niobe’s very eyes (305 stant immota). The gesture of transportation is unexplained, but shows divine action (cf. Hom. Il. 24.614–18) and perhaps a touch of mercy. liquitur and lacrimas . . . manant (312) contrast with fixa (311). liquitur at first suggests a greater extreme of transubstantiating movement (compare the ice unmade at 2.808); but even manant indicates the movement of water. That limited motion shows living feeling transcending the end of living form.²³

Strange Seas (7.62–74) ‘ . . . quid quod nescioqui mediis concurrere in undis dicuntur montes ratibusque inimica Charybdis nunc sorbere fretum, nunc reddere, cinctaque saeuis Scylla rapax canibus Siculo latrare profundo? 65 nempe tenens quod amo gremioque in Iasonis haerens per freta longa ferar; nihil illum amplexa uerebor aut, siquid metuam, metuam de coniuge solo.— coniugiumne putas speciosaque nomina culpae imponis, Medea, tuae? quin aspice quantum 70 ²¹ On Niobe’s hair, cf. Feldherr (2010), 291. For the stem moueo, cf. Monella (2003), 64, Stucchi (2012), 92; but for 6.308 note Heinsius (1758), 542. The petrification does not proceed from the feet up, as on Apulian and Campanian vases, LIMC Niobe 11–19 or 20. For the translation of 309 intra quoque uiscera saxum est, cf. 4.557 saxea facta, ‘she had become made of rock’, 12.23 fit lapis, ‘it became a stone’. ²² Cf. interius 306. On life and statue, cf. Feldherr (2004–5), 136–41, (2010), 295–300; on stone, Stucchi (2012), 92–3. On Niobe and three days, see Radt (1981). ²³ Similarly 10.500 tepidae manant ex arbore guttae, ‘warm tears drip from the tree’ which replaces Myrrha’s body (499). No movement of water in Soph. El. 150–2, Call. H. 2.22–5, Prop. 3.10.8 (all on Niobe and the weeping rock).

94

    adgrediare nefas, et, dum licet, effuge crimen!’ dixit, et ante oculos Rectum Pietasque Pudorque constiterant, et uicta dabat iam terga Cupido. ibat ad antiquas Hecates Perseidos aras . . . ‘ “ . . . What if they do say that some mountains or other clash together in the midst of the sea, or that Charybdis, in her hostility to ships, now sucks in the sea, now gives it back, or that Scylla is keen to snatch and is girt with savage dogs as she barks in the sea round Sicily? While I am borne through the long seas, I will be holding the object of my love, and fixed in Jason’s bosom. As I embrace him I will have no fear, or if I do have some, it will be for my husband alone.—Do you think this is a marriage? Are you adding a fine-sounding name, Medea, to your wrong deed? Just look at how great a wickedness you are approaching, and escape from the crime while you can.” Those were her words. Before her eyes Right, Family, and Maidenhood had taken their stand; Cupid was already retreating in defeat. She was going to the ancient altars of Hecate, daughter of Perses [when she saw Jason, and her extinguished passion rekindled].’

Medea’s big monologue (7.11–71) is filled with significant and connected language of motion. She began with mental and divine language of movement: 12 nescioquis deus obstat, ‘some god stands in the way’ (movement impeded), 18 trahit inuitam noua uis, ‘this new force draws me along against my will’, 21 deteriora sequor, ‘I pursue what is worse’, etc. She proceeded to Jason’s amorous impact: 28 (his beauty, with the reading forma) mea pectora mouit, ‘has moved my heart’; then to his physical tasks in Colchis: 30 concurretque suae segeti, ‘he will enter the fight with the crop he has sown himself ’; then to herself hypothetically left behind (40 relinquar), or perhaps leaving Colchis and making for Greece: 51 relinquam?, 55–6 non magna relinquam, | magna sequar, ‘I will leave things that are not great, and pursue things that are’. Now she dwells on a possible objection (62–8), the voyage in between, before she breaks off and reverts to metaphorical motion as at the start (71 adgrediare, effuge). The narrator then completes the circle with language of the divine (72–3): Cupid retreating before a massed force of abstractions. At the start he obstat (12, above); now they constiterant (73), and he uicta dabat . . . terga. The monologue has something of an onward movement in tending to follow the imagined sequence of Medea’s actions; but all is dissolved at the end—for the time being.²⁴ The monologue stands particularly far from artistic depictions of Medea’s later dilemma over killing her children. So in the wall-painting, House of the Dioscuri,

²⁴ On this monologue, cf. Heinze (1919), 111–13, ((2010), 91–3), Binroth-Bank (1994), 33–58, Newlands (1997), 181–3, Auhagen (1999), 131–44, (2004), 91–5, Curley (2013), 141–53.

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95

Pompeii VI 9, 6–7, Naples, MAN 8977, PPM iv.975 ( c.60–79; Chapter 1, pp. 20–22), the viewer’s focus is on Medea’s motion and lack of motion in the present and immediate future, and the state of mind in Medea which connects to these. Here the scene of the monologue offers no present action or lack of action by Medea, and future action by her is less imminent (contrast the monologues at Ap. Rhod. 3.636–44, 771–801). Her motion is all in her talk of motion. The mythological motion of fabulous objects and beings in the sea is all governed by dicuntur (63). The word does not merely point to complications of tradition; it also, through Medea’s voice, directs scepticism towards tales that the reader knows to be untrue. The Symplegades, evidently in question here, are notable instances of fantastic motion, and then the lack of it: cf. e.g. Pind. Pyth. 4.207–11 . . . ϲυνδρόμων [cf. 62 concurrere] κινηθμὸν ἀμαίμακετον . . . πετρᾶν, ‘the unconquerable movement of the rocks that run together’, with Σ Pyth. 4.368 Drachmann, Ov. Met. 15.337–9 . . . concursibus . . . Symplegadas . . . quae nunc immotae perstant, ‘ . . . the Symplegades . . . with their running together . . . they now stand firm and immovable’. But concurrere (62) also looks back to earlier in the speech, 30 concurretque suae segeti (above), of Jason’s coming battle with the still more fantastical men born from dragon’s teeth; the language there highlights the incredibility. As usual in the poem, the problems of belief and invented worlds are not permitted to rest.²⁵ Medea rosily imagines a blissfully passive form of motion for herself, carried along by a ship (67 ferar), and not moving from the comforting embrace of her husband (66 haerens). But the word coniuge (68), already used (60), jolts Medea into reflection: a sharpened and verbal version of earlier hexameter monologues. Medea now views uniting with Jason as, in metaphorical terms, a decisive action of forward movement (71 quantum | adgrediare nefas); a movement away is required (71 effuge crimen).²⁶ In the narrator’s image, it is Cupid who is retreating rather than Medea (73 dabat . . . terga). The forces who take up a stand as on the battlefield are a sequence of increasingly personified abstractions. ante oculos (72) makes the abstract and metaphorical as if physical and literal.²⁷ But the detailed linguistic presentation of the motion undermines the apparent trend of the narrative: the imperfect dabat . . . terga (73) assures the reader that the ²⁵ dicuntur and tradition: cf. Kenney (2011), 222. Symplegades and 62 concurrere: cf. Heinsius (1758), 555–6. See Hdt. 2.156 for a floating island as not credited but apparently not self-evidently impossible. ²⁶ per freta longa (67) is an Ovidian cliché, perhaps aptly; cf. Her. 7.46, Met. 8.142, Fast. 3.868, 5.660; Ap. Rhod. 1.21 δολιχῆϲ τε πόρουϲ ἁλόϲ, 4.586 πόρουϲ δολιχῆϲ ἁλόϲ, ‘the ways of the long sea’. For the break-off at 69, cf. Hom. Il. 22.122 in Chapter 2 (p. 71), or, with the same line, 11.407, 17.97, 21.562; Ap. Rhod. 3.641, 791 (Medea, in same dilemma); Virg. Aen. 4.595. ²⁷ Retreat of Cupid: cf. Gildenhard and Zissos (2013), 97–8. constiterant (73): Kenney (2011), 223. Increasing personification: Rectum 72 is neuter, Pietas has a cult at Rome (Ciancio Rossetto (1999)), Pudor is much more often personified in Augustan poetry, e.g. Hor. Saec. 57, Virg. Aen. 4.27, Ov. Am. 1.2.32, Fast. 5.29, cf. Ap. Rhod. 3.652–3.

96

   

reversal is not permanent. The narrative precedes to undo the reversal via another imperfect (74 ibat), one of later literal motion by Medea; not even a change of grammatical subject is marked. Different levels of motion are joined together with an audacity that goes beyond earlier hexameter narrative.

Puzzle (7.772–86) iamdudum uincula pugnat exuere ipse sibi colloque morantia tendit. uix bene missus erat, nec iam poteramus ubi esset scire; pedum calidus uestigia puluis habebat, ipse oculis ereptus erat. non ocior illo hasta nec excussae contorto uerbere glandes nec Gortyniaco calamus leuis exit ab arcu. collis apex medii subiectis imminet aruis: tollor eo capioque noui spectacula cursus, quo modo deprendi, modo se subducere ab ipso uulnere uisa fera est; nec limite callida recto in spatiumque fugit, sed decipit ora sequentis et redit in gyrum, ne sit suus impetus hosti. inminet hic sequiturque parem similisque tenenti non tenet et uanos exercet in aera morsus.

775

780

785

786 uanos: uacuos G aere P morsus NcG: motus Ω

‘The dog had long been struggling to remove its own chain, and strained it with his neck as it held him back. He had scarcely been let go, and we could not know where he was: the hot dust retained the traces of his feet, but he himself had been snatched from our sight. A spear was not swifter than he was, nor lead bullets hurled from the whirling sling, nor the light arrow that goes from the Cretan bow. The peak of a hill looms over the fields below, which it stands in the middle of; I took myself up there, and received the sight of a new kind of running. In it the beast one moment seemed to be caught, the next to remove itself from the actual wound about to happen. Cunningly, it did not flee in a straight line, and into an extended space; it tricked the mouth of the pursuing dog and came back in a circle, so that its foe would not have its onward force. The dog was nearly upon it, and pursued a beast that was its equal. He was as if seizing him, but did not seize him; he applied his bites into the air, in vain.’

In other sources, the puzzle is formed from opposed propositions: Laelaps the dog is inescapable, but the Teumessian fox is uncatchable, whether the reason is their

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nature (Poll. 5.39), divine gift (Istros FGrHist 334 F 65), or fate ([Apollod.] 2.57–9). Here they are both supremely fast: cf. 785 parem, 755 currendo superabit . . . omnes, ‘he will defeat all in running’, 792–3 inuictos ambo certamine cursus | esse deus uoluit, ‘the god wished both to be undefeated in the contest of running’ (traces of the earlier version at 7.791). Motion is to the fore, and we are almost in the territory of Zeno. Zeno as presented by Aristotle, as presented (rightly) by his ancient commentators, turned the surprise that Achilles, though being very fast, cannot catch Hector (ΣD Hom. Il. 22.201) into the paradox that the slowest thing, a tortoise, cannot be caught by the fastest, Achilles (Arist. Phys. 6.239b15–16 τὸ βραδύτατον . . . ὑπὸ τοῦ ταχίϲτου). Here we turn somewhat back again with a paradox that the fastest thing cannot catch or escape the fastest. noui . . . cursus (780, cf. 758) prepares the strangeness in declamatory style, through the eyes of the intradiegetic narrator, Laelaps’ owner Cephalus.²⁸ Besides abstracted paradox, the narrative also throws itself into detailed evocation. In an imaginative development, 782–4 do not stick to pursuit in a straight line (782 recto), but introduce circular motion (784 in gyrum). Virg. Aen. 12.753 mille fugit refugitque uias, ‘the deer flees a thousand ways, and flees them back again’, could stand in the background, but if so it has been developed into a quasiscientific point (whether or not with the aid of observation). The velocity and force of the object in rectilinear motion are changed by making it shift to circular motion. The visual depiction of the story on a Boeotian black-figure Cabirion skyphos (Athens, Nat. Mus. 10429, 450–375 ) naturally presents flight only in a straight line, with the fox looking behind it.²⁹ The last two lines sharpen other descriptions of animal pursuit into paradox and surprise, with sequiturque parem (785) and with similisque tenenti | non tenet (785–6—an effective use of line-end). Contrast 1.535–6 inhaesuro similis iam iamque tenere | sperat, ‘as if about to grasp the hare, the dog hopes to seize him any moment now’, and Virg. Aen. 12.754 iam iamque tenet similisque tenenti . . . , ‘any moment now he will be seizing him, and as if seizing him . . . ’. In the last line 786, the majority reading motus is not impossible; in aera is a little strange with exercet . . . morsus, as perhaps is exercet . . . morsus itself. Virg. Aen. 12.755 morsu . . . inani, ‘with fruitless biting’, and Ov. Met. 1.537–8 ipsis | morsibus eripitur, ‘is snatched from the actual bite’, are either defences or sources of morsus. ipsis | morsibus is like ipso | uulnere at 781–2 here, and may suggest that the description has already made that point and moved on. ²⁸ On the story, cf. Forbes Irving (1990), 146, 299; the Pollux and [Apollodorus] support Polle’s captare at 791, as do 792–3, cf. Felton (2001–2). For the paradox, see Zeno A 26 Diels-Kranz (just Aristotle), D15 Laks-Most (Aristotle and Themistius). The Themistius should be punctuated οὐ γὰρ ὅπωϲ, φηϲίν, [not οὐ γάρ, ὅπωϲ φηϲίν,] τὸν Ἕκτορα καταλήψεται ὁ ποδωκέϲτατοϲ Ἀχιλλεύϲ, ἀλλ’ οὐδὲ τὴν βραδυτάτην χελώνην, ‘not only, he says, will the most fleet-footed Achilles not catch Hector, but he will not catch even the tortoise, the slowest’. Cf. LSJ s.v. ὅπωϲ II.2. This understanding is confirmed by Simplic. in Phys. CAG x.1014.21–3 (οὐ μόνον Ἕκτωρ . . . οὐ καταληφθήϲεται). ²⁹ See Mitchell (2009), 274–5, Walsh (2009), 185–6. For 784 in gyrum, cf. 2.718, etc.

98

   

Laelaps seems to be getting the worst of it, despite the equality. This is unexpected for Cephalus and the Thebans, and a frustration after the description of Laelaps’ speed (772–8), more recent and more elaborate than that of the fox’s (767–70). The desire which impels Laelaps’ motion is enhanced by the constraint which at first prevents it (773 morantia). Wittily, even the start of the motion is made into a non-event: Laelaps is missus (774) in the direction of the fox; but he cannot be seen (776 oculis ereptus erat), only the dust behind him. The string of comparisons at 776–8 presents military weapons, the motion of which is aimed at a target; contrast 770 of the fox non segnior alite, ‘no slower than a bird’. But Laelaps cannot reach his hostis (784 hosti). At first Cephalus cannot see the dog’s motion (776); when he can see the motion, it is not succeeding (780–6). He looks away again (789 lumina deflexi); in that interval the problem has been solved through the unreality of motion represented in a motionless medium (790–1). The two animals have become two statues, duo marmora (790).³⁰

Isis Rescues Iphis (9.780–7) ‘ . . . miserere duarum, auxilioque iuua.’ lacrimae sunt uerba secutae. uisa dea est mouisse suas (et mouerat) aras, et templi tremuere fores, imitataque lunam cornua fulserunt, crepuitque sonabile sistrum. non secura quidem, fausto tamen omine laeta mater abit templo. sequitur comes Iphis euntem quam solita est maiore gradu.

780

785

‘ “ . . . Have pity on us two women, and grant us your aid.” Telethusa’s words were followed by tears. The goddess seemed to move—indeed she did move—her altars. The temple doors shook, the horns like the moon shone, the sounding rattle made a noise. The mother left the temple not free from worry, but happy at the favourable omen. Iphis accompanied her as she went; Iphis’ stride was longer than usual.’

Between the pregnant Telethusa’s vision of Isis and her present entreaty of the goddess, the structure of the episode sets: the birth and passion of the girl Iphis, disguised as a boy, for the girl Ianthe; the long speech in which Iphis confronts the ³⁰ Cf. Bernsdorff (2000), 40–4. similisque tenenti 785 retrospectively gains a new point from the conversion into an image.

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99

impending problem of marriage (726–64). Telethusa is at present the agent and focus, Iphis her dutiful daughter; Iphis is evidently dressed as a girl.³¹ duarum (780) acknowledges Iphis’ sex; her prayer to Isis has not asked Isis to change it, by contrast with the mother’s precedent-ridden prayer in Nicander (Ant. Lib. 17.4–5). The change is first shown by a subtle change in motion; contrast Ant. Lib. 17.6 (Leto) μετέβαλε τὴν φύϲιν τῆϲ παιδὸϲ εἰϲ κόρον, ‘changed the nature of the girl into a boy’, with mention of μήδεα, ‘genitals’. sequitur comes Iphis euntem | (786) is syntactically complete, and, after mater (786), shows the 12-year-old tagging along; it is the mother who decides to leave (abit). But the sentence in fact runs on, with maiore gradu (787) contortedly put at the end of it: quam solita est maiore gradu. Iphis now has a more determined stride, and, we presently learn, plus . . . uigoris adest habuit quam femina (790), ‘there was more vigour there than Iphis had when a female’. One may contrast with 786–7 the versification of Caenis’ sexchange at 12.203–5 grauiore [start of sentence] nouissima dixit | uerba sono, poteratque uiri uox illa uideri, | sicut erat, ‘Caenis said the last words with a deeper sound, and that voice could have been thought a man’s, as it was’.³² Isis’ presence and power are also shown through motion: 782 mouisse . . . mouerat. The verb moueo is found elsewhere with such miraculous signs, but Ovid here dwells on it, and plays on reality; the parenthesis (et mouerat) does not undermine but affirms, and advances the sequence at 688, where Isis aut stetit aut uisa est, ‘either stood there, or seemed to do so’. The supernatural motion, sight, and noise (782–4), with no speech this time from Isis, lead gently into the miraculous moment of human motion (785–7).

Better than Heaven (10.529–36) capta uiri forma non iam Cythereia curat 530 litora, non alto repetit Paphon aequore cinctam piscosamque Cnidon grauidamque Amathunta metallis; abstinet et caelo: caelo praefertur Adonis. hunc tenet, huic comes est, adsuetaque semper in umbra indulgere sibi formamque augere colendo, ³¹ At 770–2 Telethusa removes, detrahit, her and Iphis’ hair-ribbon, crinalem . . . uittam; Ovid is reworking the equally odd removal of the girl’s peplos in Nicander’s account, Heteroeumena Book 2, fr. 45 O. Schneider (Schneider (1856), 54–5), Ant. Lib. 17.6. ³² On the change of sex in Ovid and Antoninus, cf. Raval (2002), 159–60, Kenney (2011), 482; in general, on changes of sex in Ovid, not presented with the fullness of other metamorphoses, cf. Quirin (1930), 116. For the name Iphis and uigor, cf. ἶφι, ‘with strength’ (instrumental of (ϝ)ίϲ), of fighting, killing, and ruling in Homer, Wheeler (1997), 194–201. See T. M. O’Sullivan (2011), 16–28 for differentiation of male and female walking, and Bremmer (1991), 20, Davies (2018), 52, 61.

100

    per iuga, per siluas dumosaque saxa uagatur fine genus uestem ritu succincta Dianae.

535

531 –que . . . –que Ω, Prisc. 1.11, 2.12 (GLK II.1 10.10, 52.7): –que . . . –ue ML (Nac Fac): –ue . . . –ue Bentley

‘Venus was captivated by the man’s beauty. She now no longer cared about the shores of Cythera; she did not return to Paphos, girt with deep sea, or fishy Cnidus, or Amathus pregnant with metals. She keeps away even from heaven: to heaven is preferred Adonis. It is him she holds on to, him she accompanies. She had been used always to pamper herself in the shade, and increase her beauty by attending to it; but now she wandered through the ridges of hills and through woods and rocks covered in thorn-bushes, her dress hitched up to the knee in the style of Diana.’

The first of two passages to compare with Homer. This one probably actualizes the sardonic vision presented to Aphrodite by Helen, when she tells her not to return to the gods’ abode, but spend her time with Paris (Hom. Il. 3.406–8, see Chapter 2, pp. 43–5). In any case, the passages are worth confronting. Helen’s rhetoric starts with a single line: motion to Paris, sitting with him, and the generalized renunciation of gods’ usual journeying (406 ἧϲο παρ᾿ αὐτὸν ἰοῦϲα, θεῶν δ᾿ ἀπόειπε κελεύθουϲ). Then two lines raise this in temperature. The first presents the renunciation in much more concrete language: feet, a verb of returning, and the specific destination of Olympus, 407 μηδ᾿ ἔτι ϲοῖϲι πόδεϲϲιν ὑποϲτρέψειαϲ Ὄλυμπον, ‘do not return to Olympus any more with your feet’. The next turns the sitting into a much more elaborate satirical picture of amorous fussing: 408 ἀλλ᾿ αἰεὶ περὶ κεῖνον ὀΐζυε καί ἑ φύλαϲϲε, ‘always moan over him and keep him safe’. The staggering climax talks of Paris making the goddess whom Helen is addressing his wife or his slave: 409 εἰϲ ὅ κέ ϲ᾿ ἠ᾿ ἄλοχον ποιήϲεται, ἠ᾿ ὅ γε δούλην.³³ Ovid shapes his more detached third-person narrative in a different fashion. The broad outline looks similar: love begins, then not returning, then life with the beloved. But the explicit not returning, non . . . repetit (530), goes not with Olympus but with a series of cult-sites which run along a line in the Mediterranean, far to the west of Arabia and Adonis. The three places governed by the verb each have a descriptive epithet or phrase: 530–1 alto . . . aequore cinctam, piscosam, grauidam . . . metallis. Heaven by contrast receives no description and is governed by a verb with no striking negation of motion, abstinet (532). Yet heaven advances beyond the cult-centres rhetorically, cf. 532 et caelo. The climax is formed by a brilliant declamatory mot, to which the brevity of 532 is

³³ The connection of the passages does not seem to have been noticed.

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essential: caelo praefertur Adonis. It is the first time that the name of Adonis has appeared in the narrative.³⁴ hunc . . . , huic nicely turns αἰεὶ περὶ κεῖνον into amorous rhetoric; but the inert lack of substantial motion is applied, not to the goddess’s life with the beloved, but to her previous life of idle self-beautification. The humorous picture does call to mind the inactivity of love, as in Ov. Am. 2.18.3 ignaua Veneris cessamus in umbra, ‘I dally in Venus’ slothful shade’ (note 533 umbra here), or the amorous nymph Salmacis, keen not on hunting but on her own beauty and not known to Diana (4.302–15, note 536 Dianae here). But the picture turns the convention round, like Am. 1.9.41–6, where the narrator was inactive only before he began love’s strenuous militarism. Since Adonis turns out to be a hunter, Venus is forced into unaccustomed movement. By 553–7 she is back to resting with him in the shade after labor insolitus, ‘unaccustomed effort’. The poem emphasizes the wearying labor, ‘struggle, pain’, of motion, especially for female characters.³⁵ uagatur (535) depicts a restless roaming rather than an idle walk; the break of line-end before per iuga, per siluas helps stress the space that Venus vigorously covers in the likeness of Diana. Repeating the preposition with asyndeton (per . . . per) depicts her energy in moving. The device goes back ultimately to Hom. Il. [10].297–8 βάν ῥ᾿ ἴμεν . . . ἂμ φόνον, ἂν νέκυαϲ, διά τ’ ἔντεα καὶ μέλαν αἷμα, ‘they proceeded . . . amid the gore, amid the corpses, through the arms of war and the dark blood’; but here the goddess is assigned a challenging landscape to traverse.³⁶

Snake and Birds Once More (12.11–18, 22–3) hic patrio de more Ioui cum sacra parassent, ut uetus accensis incanduit ignibus ara, serpere caeruleum Danai uidere draconem in platanum, coeptis quae stabat proxima sacris. nidus erat uolucrum bis quattuor arbore summa; quas simul et matrem circum sua damna uolantem corripuit serpens auidaque recondidit aluo. obstipuere omnes . . . ille, ut erat uirides amplexus in arbore ramos, fit lapis, et seruat serpentis imagine saxum.

15

22

³⁴ For et caelo, cf. Krupp (2009), 131. Lines 529–32 play on cletic hymns. ³⁵ So 5.446 (Ceres), 618 (Arethusa), 6.340 (Latona). ³⁶ For dumosa (535), cf. Bion 1.21–2, Reed (1997), 205, Reed (2013), 273. The likeness to Diana is more pointed than at Virg. Aen. 1.314–20, 329.

102

   

20 auidaque . . . aluo NcUP: auidoque . . . ore fere rell.

23 seruat: signat χ

‘Here they prepared sacrifices to Jupiter in the traditional fashion. When the old altar had started to glow from the lighting of fires, the Greeks saw a blue-coloured snake creep into a plane-tree, which stood very close to the rites that had begun. There was a nest of twice four birds at the top of the tree. The snake seized them together with their mother, who was flying round her loss; he plunged them into his greedy stomach. All were amazed. [Calchas explains that Troy will fall, and that the nine birds represent the nine years of the war before the last.] The snake, who had wrapped himself round the green branches on the tree, became a stone; the rock preserved him in its image of a snake.’

Ovid’s adaptation of Hom. Il. 2.308–21 (see Chapter 2, pp. 42–3) does not aim to follow Homer closely; Cicero had already translated the passage (Div. 2.63–4). The passage seems to have been celebrated, as Cicero in the dialogue affects to have translated it previously, and it is quoted extensively at Orig. Cels. 4.91 i.363–4 Koetschau (GCS); the scholia indicate much interpretative discussion (ΣAbT 2.308–19). Briskness suits Ovid’s idiosyncratic treatment of the Trojan War in this book, up to the death of Achilles: two-thirds of it is on Lapiths and Centaurs. After the movement and non-movement of masses of ships and men to war, these movements are small-scale: cf. 12.6–7 sequuntur | mille rates gentisque simul commune Pelasgae, ‘Paris was pursued by a thousand ships, and the league of the Greek people’. Ovid does not here involve himself in the world of animate nonhumans with the same intensity as Homer. The snake does not show the darting and twisting motion seen at Il. 2.310, 316 (ὑπαΐξαϲ, ἐλελιξάμενοϲ). But the motion serpere (13) begins the line, and the Greeks’ perception. corripuit (17) begins the line, with expressive effect (contrast Hom. Il. 2.316 λάβεν, ‘seized’): all the creatures of line 15 are seized at once (bis quattuor), as is, more surprisingly, the flying mother, uolantem at the end of line 16 (cf. simul). The pathos Homer creates around babies and mother is reduced: cf. Il. 2.315 μήτηρ δ᾿ ἀμφεποτᾶτο ὀδυρομένη φίλα τέκνα, ‘the mother was flying around lamenting for her dear children’. But the irony is sharpened. It is because she is flying around her losses and not away that the mother is caught (16 circum sua damna) and the children are damage as well as loss to her.³⁷ There is no sense in the passage of Jupiter causing all the movement and the cessation of movement. That cessation is brought out through ut erat . . . amplexus (22). seruat (23) and imagine go together somewhat paradoxically, more so than at 14.759–60 dominae sub imagine signum | seruat adhuc Salamis, ‘Salamis still keeps a statue in the image of its owner’. The words bring out that a serpens (24

³⁷ Cf. e.g. Pont. 1.2.44 in mea damna, Sil. 4.708 fatalia damna; a different irony in Origen. For the reduction of pathos, cf. Musgrove (1997), 269–70.

, 

103

serpentis) gets its identity because it serpit, cf. 13 serpere; this one no longer so moves. The transformation is not made part of the main narrative, which leads to Calchas’ prophecy (18–21); it is an appendage, but is at the same time the structural justification for the appearance of the mini-episode in the poem.³⁸

Everything Is in Motion (15.176–95) et quoniam magno feror aequore plenaque uentis uela dedi: nihil est toto quod perstet in orbe. cuncta fluunt, omnisque uagans formatur imago. ipsa quoque adsiduo labuntur tempora motu, non secus ut flumen; neque enim consistere flumen nec leuis hora potest: sed ut unda impellitur unda urgeturque prior ueniente urgetque priorem, tempora sic fugiunt pariter pariterque sequuntur et noua sunt semper. nam quod fuit ante relictum est, fitque quod haut fuerat, momentaque cuncta nouantur. cernis et emensas in lucem tendere noctes, et iubar hoc nitidum nigrae succedere nocti; nec color est idem caelo, cum lassa quiete cuncta iacent media cumque albo Lucifer exit clarus equo, rursusque alius, cum praeuia lucis tradendum Phoebo Pallantias inficit orbem. ipse dei clipeus, terra cum tollitur ima, mane rubet, terraque rubet cum conditur ima; candidus in summo est, melior natura quod illic aetheris est terraeque procul contagia fugit.

180

185

190

195

‘And now, since I am being swept along on a huge sea, and have given full sails to the wind: there is nothing in the whole world which remains stationary. All things flow; every image is formed from fluctuation. Time itself glides with constant motion, like a river: neither a river nor a fleeting hour can stand still. Just as wave is driven on by wave, and one in front is pressed by one that is

³⁸ On Jupiter, contrast Zeus at Hom. Il. 2.309, 318–19; Cic. Div. 2.63 Iouis . . . pulsu, ‘at the driving of Jupiter’, 64 qui luci ediderat genitor Saturnius idem | abdidit, ‘the same Father born of Saturn who had brought the snake to the light hid it’. For the ut in Ov. Met. 12.22, here with a touch of ‘although’, cf. 2.272, Fast. 4.425, 6.493. As to Met. 12.23, cf. 6.312 above (p. 92) for the change of subject with et; for other views on the line, which may be corrupt, cf. Bömer (1969–2006), v.20, Chinnici (2003), 122–3, both with bibliography, Reed and Chiarini (2013), 382.

104

   

coming, and presses one in front of itself, even so moments of time flee alike and alike pursue, and there are always new ones. The one that was before has been left behind; one that had not existed comes into being; all moments are replaced with new ones. You see nights that have travelled their course move into the day, and this bright light here succeed to black night. The sky does not have the same colour when everything lies exhausted in the middle of sleep and when the bright Daystar comes forth on his white horse; it is different again when Dawn, the daughter of Pallas, forerunner of the day, stains the globe of the sky which she must pass on to Apollo. The shield of the Sun itself, when it rises from the bottom of the earth, is red in the morning, and is red when it sinks at the bottom of the earth; but at the highest point it is white, because the nature of the air is superior there, and it has fled far from the pollution of the earth.’

Pythagoras extends the scope of his discourse to universality; motion plays many roles. His own discourse is a voyage, cf. 176 magno feror aequore. Its mobility on the open sea fits with the changeability it describes, rather than conflicting with the message as does the journey in Parmenides. We have already had a parallel et quoniam (143, cf. 176 et quoniam); there the speaker said he would open the aether and go through the stars (143–9). Water now takes a different turn. First comes the Heraclitean cuncta fluunt (178): cf. Plat. Theaet. 182c3–4 κινεῖται καὶ ῥεῖ, ὥϲ φατε, τὰ πάντα; ‘do all things move and, as you say, flow?’ (addressed to the philosophers of flow, 181a5 τοὺϲ ῥέονταϲ), Heracl. R36 Laks-Most πάντα . . . ῥεῖν, ‘that everything flows’, D66 ὡϲ ἁπάντων τῶν αἰϲθητῶν ἀεὶ ῥεόντων, ‘saying that all perceptible things are always flowing’, Diog. Laert. 9.8.88–9 Dorandi ῥεῖν τὰ ὅλα ποταμοῦ δίκην, ‘that everything flows like a river’. The phrase is supported by other language of motion: 177 nihil est toto quod perstet in orbe, 178 uagans. It was thought that Heraclitus ‘removed lack of motion and standing still from all things, and gave motion to everything’: R47 ἠρεμίαν μὲν καὶ ϲτάϲιν ἐκ τῶν ὅλων ἀνήιρει [this part in Plutarch too], κίνηϲιν δὲ τοῖϲ πᾶϲιν ἀπεδίδου (Stob. 1.19.1 i.162.14–15 Wachsmuth-Hense, cf. Plat. Theaet. 181c2). Then the image of water in motion, flowing, is elaborately applied to the area of time. adsiduo labuntur . . . motu (179) makes the connection of time and water the more persuasive through the verb and the overt mention of motion; labor is commonly used both of water and of time.³⁹

³⁹ Cf. e.g. Virg. G. 4.366 flumina, Aen. 2.14 annis, Ov. Tr. 3.10.33 undis (river), 4.10.27 annis, Hardie (2015), 509. Met. 15.178 and orbe in 177, and Plat. Theaet. 182c3–4 and Heracl. R47, suggest that OLD² 1a ‘remain stationary’ is a better meaning for perstet than 2 ‘remain unchanged, last, endure’. A physical ‘remain unchanged’ actually seems dubious for persto, cf. TLL x.1.1753.1–47; for Ov. Fast. 3.137 cf. Heyworth (2019), 108–9. For 1a cf. here Met. 15.339; 237 perstant is ‘endure’ with a touch of ‘remain stationary’. On Heraclitus, note also R99 (Lucian) τὰ πάντα . . . περιχωρέοντα, ‘everything . . . goes around’.

, 

105

The comparison with a river is made explicit, and worked out in parallel, again following Heraclitus: D65c ‘he says that everything moves (χωρεῖ) and nothing remains, and likening what exists to the flowing of a river (ποταμοῦ ῥοῆι ἀπεικάζων τὰ ὄντα), he says that one would never enter the same river twice’; D65b ‘on those who enter the same rivers, ever new waters flow (ἕτερα καὶ ἕτερα ὕδατα ἐπιρρεῖ)’. However, D65b, like other versions (D65a and d), suggests that in some sense the river remains the same: cf. D65d in idem flumen bis descendimus et non descendimus, ‘we do and do not go down into the same river’. This combination of flux and unity does not seem to be part of Pythagoras’ point, nor would it help the trend of his argument at this stage. What compares to the river is leuis hora (181): an hour, or an hour as an embodiment of time (cf. e.g. Ib. 134), but not a way to stress time as an enduring entity.⁴⁰ unda impellitur unda (181) recalls the sea, but refers to the waters of a swiftflowing river. Repetitions in 181–2 convey one thing causing the motion of another, as do the verbs themselves, impellitur . . . urgeturque . . . urget (181–2); in this transitive motion the same things change from subject to object. The motion in the application to time, 183 fugiunt . . . sequuntur, seems more intransitive, and a matter of place in a sequence; a hint of the chases in the poem subsists, but now the same things take both roles.⁴¹ Night and day are an instance of change and underlying unity for Heraclitus: D48 ὁ θεὸϲ ἡμέρη εὐφρόνη . . . ἀλλοιοῦται, ‘god is day and night . . . he changes’. But the language of motion in 186 emensas in lucem tendere noctes is not how Ovid shows one thing metamorphosing into another and remaining the same. tendere is a movement on another level, to what finishes the nights when they have completed their journey (emensas). The next line starkly separates iubar hoc nitidum and nigrae . . . nocti. The journey itself seems largely metaphorical, i.e. temporal, though it may involve the night sky. The underlying point for the argument is evidently the visible change between standard segments of time.⁴² In 188–91, much the same point is made, but through showing change in a thing, the sky; this helps the larger argument that everything, including time, alters (cf. 176–8, and note 179 ipsa quoque). The change in the sky is caused by changes related to motion. The significant changes are in the movement of the sky and heavenly bodies; they are conveyed in half-mythological terms. The motionlessness of iacent (189), everything lying asleep, is set against the motion of Phosphorus with his horse: 189–90 albo Lucifer exit | clarus equo. Phosphorus,

⁴⁰ For Pythagoras’ argument at this stage, cf. Setaioli (1999), 497, though the use of [Arist.] περὶ κόϲμου is overplayed, and Beagon (2009), 292, perhaps too dismissive. On Heraclitus D65c, cf. M. Colvin (2007). ⁴¹ For nouantur (185) as replacement not modification see OLD² s.v. nouo 3. ⁴² For 186 in lucem tendere noctes, cf. e.g. Sen. NQ 7.9.3 omnia uiolenta necesse est . . . in exitum sui tendant, ‘all violent things must move . . . towards the ending of themselves’, [Sen.] HO 1971 uirtus in astra tendit, in mortem timor, ‘virtue proceeds to the stars, fear to death’.

106

   

Aurora, and Apollo are formed into a sequence of personified motion; praeuia (190) transfers the word from the usual relation of Daystar and Dawn to Dawn and Sun.⁴³ The movement of the sun is highlighted as the reason for its changes in colour: tollitur (192) and conditur (193) match in metrical shape, are placed at the same part of the line, are surrounded by identical words, and are made part of a chiastic structure. Motion, which extends over time, over time causes differences in colour; but it causes the differences through its other aspect, that of space. The sun moves into regions of different character, low and superior. In a last complicated touch, the purity of the upper air, which rests on its freedom from change though not motion, is expressed as a motion of change: it has escaped (195 procul . . . fugit) the taint of the earth (cf. 191 inficit). We go back to the motion that separated the parts of the cosmos at the start of the poem (1.23, 26–7; cf. 149–50).⁴⁴ Motion is used with a wide range in the most philosophical part of the work. It forms part of the vision of eternal alteration.⁴⁵

Defying Dis (5.391–424) quo dum Proserpina luco ludit et aut uiolas aut candida lilia carpit, dumque puellari studio calathosque sinumque implet et aequales certat superare legendo, 395 paene simul uisa est dilectaque raptaque Diti: usque adeo est properatus amor. dea territa maesto et matrem et comites, sed matrem saepius, ore clamat, et ut summa uestem laniarat ab ora, collecti flores tunicis cecidere remissis. tantaque simplicitas puerilibus adfuit annis, 400 haec quoque uirgineum mouit iactura dolorem. raptor agit currus et nomine quemque uocando exhortatur equos, quorum per colla iubasque excutit obscura tinctas ferrugine habenas. 405 perque lacus altos et olentia sulphure fertur stagna Palicorum rupta feruentia terra, ⁴³ Cf. Cic. fr. 1.2 Courtney, Ov. Her. 18.112, Serv. Aen. 2.802. The word indicates movement in both parties, here Dawn and Sun, cf. Ov. Met. 11.65–6. ⁴⁴ For space and time as the two aspects of motion, cf. e.g. French and Ebison (1986), 1–18 (and e.g. Sext. Emp. Math. 10.121). ⁴⁵ On views of Pythagoras’ speech, cf. Schmitzer (2006), 50–6; Hardie (1995).

,  et qua Bacchiadae, bimari gens orta Corintho, inter inaequales posuerunt moenia portus. est medium Cyanes et Pisaeae Arethusae quod coit angustis inclusum cornibus aequor: hic fuit, a cuius stagnum quoque nomine dictum est, inter Sicelidas Cyane celeberrima nymphas. gurgite quae medio summa tenus exstitit aluo agnouitque deam ‘nec longius ibitis!’ inquit. ‘non potes inuitae Cereris gener esse; roganda, non rapienda fuit. quodsi componere magnis parua mihi fas est, et me dilexit Anapis; exorata tamen, nec, ut haec, exterrita nupsi.’ dixit et in partes diuersas bracchia tendens obstitit. haud ultra tenuit Saturnius iram terribilesque hortatus equos in gurgitis ima contortum ualido sceptrum regale lacerto condidit; icta uiam tellus in Tartara fecit et pronos currus medio cratere recepit.

107

410

415

420

‘In that wood Proserpina was playing, plucking violets or white lilies; with the enthusiasm of a girl she was filling the baskets with flowers, and the folds of her dress, and striving to outdo her friends in gathering flowers. While she did so, she was, seen, loved, and abducted by Dis, all at nearly the same moment: so much did he hurry that passion on. The goddess was terrified, and with a voice of sorrow called on her mother and her friends—her mother more. She rent her dress from the top down; the garment was loosened, and the flowers she had gathered in it fell to the ground. So much innocence was there in her childish years that this loss too stirred the girl’s sadness. The abductor drove his chariot forward; he called each of his horses by name and urged them on. Over their necks and manes he shook the reins tinged with murky blackness. He swept along through deep lakes and the pools of the Palici, which were smelling of sulphur and bubbling where the earth was broken, and the place where the Bacchiadae, a family sprung from Corinth with its double sea, had placed their walls between two unequal harbours. In between Cyane and Arethusa, from Olympia, there is some sea which comes together enclosed by narrow curves of land. Here was Cyane, most famous of Sicily’s nymphs; from her name the pool is called. She stood out of the water as far as the top of her stomach. She recognized the goddess, and said, “The two of you will go no further! Pluto, you cannot be Ceres’ son-in-law against Ceres’ will. You should have wooed Proserpina, not carried her off. If I may be allowed to compare small things with great, I too was loved, by Anapis; but when I married him, it was because he had won me over, not terrified me like this child here.” So

108

   

saying, she stretched her arms apart and stood in Pluto’s way. The son of Saturn held back his wrath no longer. He urged his fearsome horses on; he hurled his royal sceptre with a twisting movement from his powerful arm, and plunged it into the depths of the pool. Earth, at the blow, opened a path into Tartarus; and she received the chariot as it charged forward, in the midst of the cavity that she created.’

Now we look at two somewhat longer passages. A relatively rich tradition both visual and literary helps to bring out distinctive features of how motion is depicted here. The iconographic tradition, becoming clearer to us with discoveries at Vergina and Amphipolis, was familiar to Romans, as is shown by mosaics from Rome of the second century  which continue the Greek designs (LIMC Persephone 179, Rome, Antiquarium Comunale, and 222, Rome, Mus. Cap./Pal. Cons. 1235).⁴⁶ The mosaics convey through the horses the speed of the movement in the chariot; the painting from Vergina, Tomb I, north wall, does so too through the running or flying of Hermes in front (LIMC Hades 104, Persephone 213, mid-iv ; Chapter 1, pp. 16–18). The Fasti state the speed explicitly: hanc uidet et uisam patruus uelociter aufert | regnaque caeruleis in sua portat equis (4.445–6), ‘Persephone’s uncle sees her, and carries her off swiftly; with his dark horses, he transports her to his kingdom’. Claudian makes the horses go faster than winter river, Parthian missile, worried mind . . . (Rapt. Pros. 2.197–201). In the present passage, 402 agit currus could hardly use simpler words for the basic action. But speed is conveyed by a commanding use of geography beyond the scope of visual art. In two equal steps we are borne from water in the middle of Sicily (Lake Pergus, 386) to another, contrasted, body of water (406 stagna Palicorum) to Syracuse on the south-east coast (407–8). Ovid needs to get his narrative 100 km from near Enna, the now standard location of the abduction, to near Syracuse for Cyane. He does so with two quick but graphic pictures of places, including Syracuse’s Great and Little Harbours. fertur (405) and the reader’s imagination are enough to do the trick of suggesting impressive rapidity.⁴⁷ But what precedes and follows contributes too. Before these large movements, the small-scale shaking of the reins (403–4), and the appeal to the horses by name (402–3), like a general’s before battle, give urgency and intent to Pluto’s action (cf. e.g. Thuc. 7.69.2); 421 hortatus reinforces at the other end. The details of the horses’ bodies (403 per colla iubasque) give presence to the animals in the motion; 421 terribilesque does so more mythologically, and takes up the detail of the dark

⁴⁶ On the tradition in literature and art, cf. e.g. Förster (1874), Herter (1941), Bömer (1969–2006), ii.325, 332–3, Lindner (1984, 1997), Hinds (1987), Güntner (1997), Rosati (2009), 191–4, 205–6. ⁴⁷ For Cyane and Syracuse, cf. e.g. Diod. Sic. 5.4.1–2; for the pool of the Palici, cf. Sampson (2012), 94–5, 97–101.

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reins (404, cf. 360 atrorum . . . equorum). pronos (424) provides a last drastic indication of undiminished velocity.⁴⁸ The speed itself is made to express, not furtive anxiety over detection, as in the painting, but the intensity of the novel passion inflicted on the god of the dead (363–84). rapta (395) is a word that includes a strong element of motion—the abduction rather than the sexual violation (which is hinted at in 402 raptor). properatus (396) is a word suited to movement in chariots (Lucr. 3.1067, Mart. 10.50.7–8), but more unexpected with amor. The reduction of perception, emotion, and action to almost a single moment has an air of undignified rapidity. Cf. with 395 paene simul uisa est dilectaque raptaque Diti the brusque Fast. 3.21 Mars uidet hanc uisamque cupit potiturque cupita, ‘Mars saw her, and, once seen, desired her, and, once desired, possessed her’, after a slow idyll on the woman; 4.445 hanc uidet et uisam patruus uelociter aufert (above, p. 108).⁴⁹ A contrast is created by the extension of the dum-clauses which present the actions of Proserpina and the harmless passions behind them (391–4): a leisurely three and a half lines for a sequence of flower-picking, with lots of nouns and adjectives, and an instaneous line and a half for love and abduction, with little but verbs. The flower-picking gets more space still in Fast. 4.429–44, cf. H. Dem. 4–16, PEG ii.1 frr. 387–8 (list of nymphs possibly first). Narrative pace is a complex means of conveying speed and what lies behind it that is peculiar to verbal art. There are traces of flowers on the ground in the painting at Vergina. In the poem they present a significant motion. The small-scale fall of the flowers (399 cecidere) is opposed to the large-scale movement of abduction (cf. 401 quoque), yet in an unlooked-for way. The fall from the person is not the unnoticed sign of the person’s emotional absorption (cf. 2.601–2, 3.39, 14.350); the fall itself becomes a focus of Proserpina’s emotion—so preoccupied is she with her girlish gains. (iactura in 401 suggests this cause rather than sympathy with the flowers; cf. 394 aequales certat superare legendo.) The figurative movement and innocence of uirgineum mouit . . . dolorem (401) is set against the practical movement and brutality of raptor agit currus (402).⁵⁰ The object of the rapina is to move Proserpina to a different place. But in the second scene, she only appears rather indirectly, in 414 agnouitque deam, 416 non ⁴⁸ For the dark horses, cf. Fast. 4.446 caeruleis, PEG ii.389.3 F ἐφ᾿ ἁρμ[άτων] κ[υαν]ίππων, mosaic Pal. Cons. 1235. ⁴⁹ For the rapidity, cf. Fantham (1998), 178, Rosati (2009), 204; the schema of Murgatroyd (2000), 76–7 brings out the condensation of the present narrative. For imposed motion rather than violation in rapio, cf. 7.704 inuitumque rapit, ‘snatched me off against my will’ (Cephalus, with 697 dignior ipsa rapi, ‘more worthy to be snatched away herself ’, Procris, Orithyia’s sister), 8.174 (Ariadne), 12.5, 15.233 (both Helen), 14.468 a Virgine uirgine rapta, ‘when a maiden was snatched from a maiden’ (i.e. from the statue of Minerva). ⁵⁰ Proserpina’s aspirations to perpetual virginity, 375–7, are replaced by a self-contained world of maidens playing, and maternal protection, 397–8; for the cry, cf. Fast. 4.447–8, AA 1.123, Eur. Ion 893. For the flowers in the painting at Vergina, Tomb I, see Andronicos (1994), 65. On the falling of objects in art, cf. Strawczynski (2003), 39–45 and Wannagat (2003).

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rapienda, and especially in the pathetic 418 nec, ut haec, exterrita, taking up 396 dea territa. The stage is seized by Cyane, a mere nymph (412). She seeks to arrest the motion of major gods: 414 ‘nec longius ibitis!’. In a striking scene, the advance of a chariot is impeded, not by a warrior male on the battlefield, but by a female standing in water (bare-chested, it appears, cf. 413). The movement of her body in 419 in partes diuersas bracchia tendens is not one of appeal, like the desperate stance of Persephone in the painting at Vergina, but an expressive enhancement of preventing motion.⁵¹ Despite this visual enhancement, the weight falls on the verb in enjambement followed by pause, obstitit (420). The word is answered by another verb identically placed, condidit (423). The verse is more forcefully handled than in Hom. Il. 1.245, Od. 2.80 ποτὶ δὲ ϲκῆπτρον βάλε γαίηι, ‘he threw the sceptre to the ground’, or even Call. H. 1.30–1 ἀντανύϲαϲα θεὴ μέγαν ὑψόθι πῆχυν | πλῆξεν ὄροϲ ϲκήπτρωι·, ‘lifting her mighty arm on high, the goddess struck the mountain with her staff’. The detailed treatment of the verse is vital to the presentation of motion in Ovid. The hurling into the depths (422 contortum, 421 in gurgitis ima), and striking the earth (421 icta), make the motion especially apparent here. It is not just a means of securing further motion (423 uiam) but an embodiment of anger towards the nymph (420 haud ultra tenuit Saturnius iram), and scorn for her territory and rights: 425–6 contemptaque fontis | iura sui, ‘the despising of the rights pertaining to her own fountain’. Sexual suggestions are apparent too. Theology is already involved in this vivid depiction of movement; but 423 uiam tellus in Tartara fecit displays the cosmic dimensions of the act.⁵²

Myrrha: Small Steps and Large (10.437–89) ergo legitima uacuus dum coniuge lectus, nacta grauem uino Cinyran male sedula nutrix, nomine mentito ueros exponit amores et faciem laudat; quaesitis uirginis annis, 440 ‘par’ ait ‘est Myrrhae.’ quam postquam adducere iussa est utque domum rediit, ‘gaude, mea’ dixit ‘alumna; uicimus!’ infelix non toto pectore sentit laetitiam uirgo, praesagaque pectora maerent, sed tamen et gaudet: tanta est discordia mentis. 445 tempus erat quo cuncta silent, interque Triones ⁵¹ On the status of Cyane, note also 428 magnum . . . numen, ‘great divinity’, perhaps with some embedded focalization; on her, cf. Zissos (1999), 98–101. ⁵² On the enjambement of obstitit (420), cf. Rosati (2009), 208.

,  flexerat obliquo plaustrum temone Bootes. ad facinus uenit illa suum. fugit aurea caelo luna, tegunt nigrae latitantia sidera nubes, nox caret igne suo; primus tegis, Icare, uultus, Erigoneque pio sacrata parentis amore. ter pedis offensi signo est reuocata, ter omen funereus bubo letali carmine fecit: it tamen, et tenebrae minuunt noxque atra pudorem; nutricisque manum laeua tenet, altera motu caecum iter explorat. thalami iam limina tangit, iamque fores aperit, iam ducitur intus; at illi poplite succiduo genua intremuere, fugitque et color et sanguis, animusque relinquit euntem. quoque suo propior sceleri est, magis horret, et ausi paenitet, et uellet non cognita posse reuerti. cunctantem longaeua manu deducit et alto admotam lecto cum traderet, ‘accipe’, dixit, ‘ista tua est, Cinyra’, deuotaque corpora iunxit. accipit obsceno genitor sua uiscera lecto uirgineosque metus leuat hortaturque timentem. forsitan aetatis quoque nomine ‘filia’ dixit, dixit et illa ‘pater’, sceleri ne nomina desint. plena patris thalamis excedit et impia diro semina fert utero conceptaque crimina portat. postera nox facinus geminat, nec finis in illa est, cum tandem Cinyras, auidus cognoscere amantem post tot concubitus, illato lumine uidit et scelus et natam, uerbisque dolore retentis pendenti nitidum uagina deripit ensem. Myrrha fugit, tenebrisque et caecae munere noctis intercepta neci est, latosque uagata per agros palmiferos Arabas Panchaeaque rura relinquit. perque nouem errauit redeuntis cornua lunae, cum tandem terra requieuit fessa Sabaea; uixque uteri portabat onus. tum nescia uoti atque inter mortisque metus et taedia uitae est tales complexa preces: ‘o siqua patetis numina confessis, merui nec triste recuso supplicium. sed ne uiolem uiuosque superstes mortuaque exstinctos, ambobus pellite regnis, mutataeque mihi uitamque necemque negate!’ numen confessis aliquod patet; ultima certe uota suos habuere deos.

450

455

460

465

470

475

480

485

111

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   

‘So while the king’s bed was empty, without his lawful wife, Cinyras, heavy with drink, was encountered by the all too diligent nurse. She told of Myrrha’s real passions under a false name, with praises of her beauty. Cinyras asked how old the girl was. “The same age as Myrrha”, the nurse replied. She was told to bring the girl. She went back home and said, “You can be happy, my child: we’ve won.” The unfortunate girl felt joy, but not in her whole heart. Her bosom had presentiments and was sad; but none the less, she was happy too, so great was the disharmony of her mind. It was the time when everything is quiet; the Ploughman had curved the path of his pole and bent his plough between the Great and Little Bear. Myrrha came to her sin. The golden moon fled from the sky; black clouds covered the stars, which kept hidden. Night lacked its fires. First to hide your faces were you, Icarus, and you, Erigone, holy in your dutiful love for your father. Three times Myrrha was called back by hitting her foot against the threshold, three times the owl of death produced an omen with its fatal cry; but nevertheless she went. The dark and the blackness of night reduced her shame. With her left hand she was holding the hand of her nurse; her right hand moved about and felt out the unseen way. Now she was touching the threshold of her father’s bedroom, now opening the door, now being led inside; but her knees were shaking and giving way, her blood and the colour in her skin fled, her spirit abandoned her as she proceeded. The nearer she came to her deed of wickedness the more she shuddered and regretted her bold act; she would have liked to be able to return unrecognized. The aged nurse led the reluctant Myrrha by the hand, like a bride, and moved her close to the high bed. “Take her, Cinyras”, she said, “this girl is yours”; she joined their doomed bodies together. The father took the child of his own body in that foul bed; he lightened her girlish dread, and encouraged her amid her fear. Perhaps, on the grounds of their age, he called her “daughter”, and she called him “father”—lest the evil deed should fail to be put into words. She departed from the bedroom full of her father: in her dreadful womb she bore the wicked seed and carried about the crime she had conceived. The terrible act was redoubled the next night, nor was that the end. Finally Cinyras, as he was keen to know who his lover was after all their sleeping together, brought in a light and saw his daughter and his sin. His horror held his words back; he snatched the bright sword from the scabbard that was hanging on the wall. Myrrha fled. Thanks to the dark and the kind invisibility of night, she was taken away from death. She wandered through the wide, palmbearing fields of Arabia, and left the countryside of Panchaia. She wandered through nine returns of the curved moon, and finally rested, tired out, in the land of the Sabaeans; she could scarcely carry the burden in her womb. She did not know what to pray for; amid fear of death and weariness with life, the entreaty she decided on went like this: “O gods, if any gods are accessible to those who

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admit their crimes, I have deserved grim punishment, and do not refuse it. But so that I do not violate the living in remaining alive and the deceased in dying, expel me from both realms. Transform me, and deny me both life and death.” Some sort of god is indeed accessible to those who admit their crimes; at any rate, Myrrha’s last prayer had divinities to hear it.’

By contrast with the motion across Sicily in the last passage, here the first motion, Myrrha’s to her father, is on a very small scale. It appears to be within the paternal house. nacta (438) suggests that the nurse, who returns home (442 domum rediit), has previously bumped into Cinyras outdoors: ancient drinking-parties commonly led to movement outdoors for amatory causes. Myrrha’s motion is still more limited than the nurse’s sortie. The simplest verbs are used: uenit (448), and, the shortest possible, it (454). But they are filled with gravity. uenit refers to literal motion and is accompanied by ad; but facinus . . . suum fuses another element into the language, and shows a big moral journey. So too quoque suo propior sceleri est (460). uenit is succeeded by cosmic motion, fugit aurea caelo | luna (449): the sin is of concern to the whole cosmos. it (454) is preceded by obstacles to the motion. signo est reuocata (452) suggests an external will. ter . . . ter (452) does not use the pattern to show the thwarting of attempted motion which ultimately fails of its object or does not happen; rather, it doubles the triple attempts at thwarting. The monosyllable it falls at the start of a line, and is weighty with immoral courage. The detail of the motion explicitly states the movement of Myrrha’s right hand (455 motu), and makes the experience vivid. The act has resonance in the world of love, but it also has connotations of blindness and of error. caecum iter explorat (455) conveys a journey into unknown territory.⁵³ With the motion into the bedroom and towards the bed and her father, a ritual climax is reached, in the perversion of a wedding: ducitur intus (456), longaeua . . . deducit (462), admotam lecto (463). Myrrha’s motion, 459 euntem, is countered by contrary physiological and mental motion: her blood flees and her determined spirit leaves her (458–9 fugitque | et color et sanguis, animusque relinquit). The moon has already fled (448 fugit); Myrrha would like to leave now in imagined motion (461 reuerti), and will do so soon in reality (476 fugit, 478 relinquit).⁵⁴

⁵³ For triple attempts, cf. Hom. Il. 16.702–3; Ap. Rhod. 3.654–5 τρὶϲ μὲν ἐπειρήθη, τρὶϲ δ᾿ ἔϲχετο, ‘three times she tried, three times she was held back’. For proceeding with outstretched hand, cf. Tib. 2.1.75–9. Reed (2013), 255; the nurse prudently does not bring a light, like Tibullus as amorous assistant at 1.9.42. But cf. also Polyphemus at Ov. Met. 14.189, Hom. Od. 9.416 χερϲὶ ψηλαφόων, ‘feeling his way with his hands’; Plat. Phaed. 99b4–5 ψηλαφῶντεϲ οἱ πολλοὶ ὥϲπερ ἐν ϲκότει, ‘the many, groping about as it were in darkness’. ⁵⁴ For the ritual here perverted, cf. Cat. 61.159–98, O’Bryhim (2008), Hersch (2010); note that at the bed where the bride and groom sleep together the bride normally arrives first, Treggiari (1994), 322–3.

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   

Many features of Ovid’s narrative appear in other accounts. These include: the nurse’s work in bringing Myrrha and her father together (so Theodor. SH 749, with Stob. 4.20.71, iv.472 Wachsmuth-Hense, Ant. Lib. 34.2; cf. also [Apollod.] 3.183); the union in his own house (Ant. Lib. 34.3), at night (Σ Opp. Hal. 3.403), indeed in the dark (Ant. Lib. 34.3, Theodor. SH 749). The motion of Myrrha within the house could have been treated at length by Cinna or Parthenius; but this is a place where Ovidian elaboration is at least possible, and even plausible. The contrast between this extended treatment of a short moment and space and the short treatment of the extended time and space for Myrrha’s wanderings certainly result from Ovid’s choices of story (see below) and of narrative design, and may be distinctive in his account. In the background lurk the failure of Medea to move to her sister’s bedroom (Ap. Rhod. 3.645–65) and more commonplace erotic escapades (Tib. 1.8.59–60 etc.); but the poet or poets (Orpheus and Ovid) ostentatiously transform humdrum and limited movement through space into a scene of mental vastness.⁵⁵ Myrrha’s initial departure from the bedroom (469 excedit), unlike her last, is not in flight, and marks a new stage in the horrors. Literal and moral are again fused in the motion of conceptaque crimina portat (470; fert need not have the same sense of carrying about in motion). Cinna FRP 8 at scelus incesto Smyrnae crescebat in aluo, ‘but the sin was growing in Smyrna’s incestuous womb’, was evidently Ovid’s starting point; but he has turned it into part of Myrrha’s sequence of movements (cf. 481 uixque uteri portabat onus). The Cinna might even be the starting-point for the other fusions we have seen of abstract and literal (448 ad facinus uenit, 460), again in a context of motion. Extreme brevity brings in the decisive movement: Myrrha fugit (476). (This is the first appearance of her name since 402: now her identity is known.) In the wall-painting Vatican, Nozz. Ald. inv. 79,633 (ii–iii ), Myrrha, unlike the other figures, is portrayed running from her father, unlike the other heroines in the series, who stand still; this is seen as the moment that embodies her story.⁵⁶ After the intensity of Myrrha’s short domestic movement to her father’s bedroom, there succeeds an aimless motion, extended in space and time: uagata (476), perque nouem errauit redeuntis cornua lunae (479). In other versions, her metamorphosis is a rescue from the pursuit by her father, sword in hand ([Apollod.] 3.184, Stob. 4.20.71, Σ Opp. Hal. 3.403); in Ant. Lib. 34.4 she gives birth when her father discovers her identity; in Σ Theocr. 1.109a the incest is not revealed until the birth; in Hyg. Fab. 58.1 she hides in the woods; in Cinna part or ⁵⁵ For other accounts, cf. Türk (1927), Bömer (1969–2006), v.110–16, Berger-Doer (1992), Lightfoot (1999), 183, Santini (1999), 473–5, Hollis (2007), 29–41, Reed (2013), 231–2. The editor of Antoninus drew a blank on the source. For disguise as an alternative to darkness, cf. Σ Theocr. 1.109a; an extra: Ant. Lib. 34.3. As to elaboration of motion in the house, Opp. Hal. 3.405 ἐλθεῖν τ᾿ ἐϲ φιλότητα, ‘came to lovemaking’, does not get far. ⁵⁶ On the painting, cf. Newby (2016), 189–94.

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all of the action is set on Cyprus (FRP 7(a).5 Satrachi), while in Ovid it is all set in the East. Ovid’s depiction of the motion is individual and may be unique. The compression of the narrative adds strangeness to it. The motion conveys a depressed confusion of feeling (482 inter mortisque metus et taedia uitae); this is unlike the agitated confusion before the deed (443–5).⁵⁷ The complexity of feeling leads Myrrha to the last movement of the passage—a movement cosmic in conception. She desires to be driven from the kingdoms of living and dead: ambobus pellite regnis (486); a transitive act of motion is desired. The granting of this double exile is figurative. At Ant. Lib. 34.4 Smyrna’s prayer does not involve motion: ηὔξατο μήτε παρὰ ζῶϲι μήτ᾿ ἐν νεκροῖϲ φανῆναι, ‘she prayed to appear among neither the living nor the dead’. And there it is a reaction to the sudden moment of discovery and birth, not to long wandering. In Ovid the movement is also a culmination to Myrrha’s literal exile; she had contemplated it earlier (341–2), while hoping for a figurative flight from sin. The narrative does not make clear whether her father Cinyras, born in Paphos (398), had owned a regnum in the East, like Cinyras on Cyprus or, in other versions of her story, her father Theias in Assyria (Panyass. fr. 28 West, 27 Bernabé); but it is suggested by the competition of proceres for her hand (315–17).⁵⁸ Alfieri’s Mirra was inspired by reading Ovid (Vita IV 14 (1784), Opere i.258–9); he boldly reverses the role of motion in Ovid’s account. Other characters flee from her: first Peréo, who loves her, then her parents, who leave her dying with her nurse when she has revealed her love. In meeting his dramatic plan and problems (Vita l.c.), Alfieri brings out an essential element in Ovid’s narrative from the point where he abandons it: the importance of Myrrha’s motion once she has decided to obey her passion.⁵⁹ The last chapter will draw together different points and passages. But a few remarks for now will help the reader to run over what has been read. Motion displays the multifarious vitality of the poem; it also highlights the difficulties of resolving the work into an overall meaning—difficulties more acute than in the Iliad. Salient differences make motion the more conspicuous in the poem. So smallscale and large-scale motion are opposed, with varying point. The motion of birds and snake seems much less important than the motion of an army which it relates ⁵⁷ Cf. Byblis, 9.630 incertae tanta est discordia mentis, at a later stage. For the setting in the East (cf. Ciris 238, and below), see Reed (2013), 231–2, 234–5; add 10.316–17 totoque oriente iuuentus | ad thalami certamen adest, ‘young men from the entire Orient are there to strive for your hand’. If Cinna FRP 10 does refer to the period after discovery, its manner is more expansive, and it presents days and nights rather than ‘throughout nine months’; a more specific view of the chronology in Cinna Pieri (2018), 357–60. ⁵⁸ For 486 ambobus pellite regnis, cf. Hardie (2002), 186–7. ⁵⁹ Before her parents leave her, Mirra had begged her father to let her leave, V.159–60, 172–4, Opere xxiii.95, 96 (already in the prose Idea, Opere xxiii.141).

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to (the poem does not adjust its sympathies to the non-human quite so readily as the Iliad). The fall of flowers is much less important than the large and cosmic motion of Dis, but Proserpina sees things differently, and through that valuation the god’s irruption into innocence is brought out. Myrrha’s motion indoors is far smaller than her wandering in exile, but it is at the same time a big movement morally, and reflected in cosmic movement. The intimate picture of Niobe’s change is more momentous than her public movements in the city (if her values have been awry, so perhaps have the gods’). The gods’ movements show us something quasi-universal in the poem: the gods spread across the poem and engage with the cosmos. Their movements, however, are individual and intriguing. Jupiter’s motion (Phaethon) shows not the expected angry thunderer, but an Iliadic Zeus, reasonable and constrained. Dis’s motion shows unexpected desire, but also the god of death’s propensity to snatch off young people. Venus’ movements show her abandoning deity, and also becoming like her contrary, Diana—for a while. Love recurrently drives motion, actual (Dis, Myrrha, Venus) or resisted (Medea), and stops it (Venus). The movement of the infatuated is tragic (Myrrha) and comic (Venus—though tragedy lurks).⁶⁰ A more total universality appears in the uniform motion of tempora, as described by Pythagoras. However this is related to reality and the poem, elsewhere (Laelaps) touches of philosophy and the Presocratic produce narrative impasse, and paradox less than grave. Astronomical scruples in a simile (Phaethon) follow visual punning and fantastic motion pronounced exceedingly untrue by Lucretius (Lucr. 5.406). Scruple is reversed in presenting Isis’ transitive motion: contrast uisa dea est mouisse suas (et mouerat) aras (9.782) with ut interdum de caelo stella sereno, | etsi non cecidit, potuit cecidisse uideri (2.321–2). A motion ensues in Book 9 which shows metamorphosis obliquely, through a subtlety of movement; the narrator will urge belief on the characters (792 nec timida gaudete fide, ‘rejoice with no hesitant belief ’, cf. 785 of Telethusa after Isis’ movement). Metamorphosis is the supreme unreality of the poem, from the outside perspective which the poem keeps in view; motion and the prevention of motion vividly present its incredibility and its quasi-reality. So the intense detail of Niobe losing motion and the vertiginous account of her being moved (the rock drips tears to this day). The poem is widely dispersed in its spaces. Characters typically move to, from, or across these spaces, or think about it: in our extracts, the sky over the Po (Phaethon), Thebes (Niobe, Cephalus), Colchis (Medea), Crete (Isis, from Egypt), ⁶⁰ For Dis and rap-, a stem often used of death and fates, cf. CIL vi.6319.8 ( 1–50) heu Ditis foeda rapina feri!, ‘oh the foul snatching of fierce Dis!’, 7872.11 ( 1–50) crudelis Pluton, nimi[a] saeuite rapin[a], ‘cruel Pluto, who have been savage in your unrestrained snatching off ’, 7898.8–9 ( 51–100) at saeuos Pluto rapuit me ad infera templa, ‘but brutal Pluto snatched me off to the regions below’ (11 rapuere of Parcae);; IG ii².13092.4 (c.400–350 ) οὐχ ὁϲίωϲ Ἀΐδηϲ ἥρπαϲε τριϲδεκέτην, ‘Hades snatched him wrongly at the age of thirteen’.

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Arabia (Venus, Myrrha), Euboea (the Greek army), Sicily (Dis—not to mention the underworld). The poem is thus diverse, but cohesively restless. One of the things that holds it together is style; style also holds together the depictions of motion. Here too there is diversity (compare the narrator’s and Pythagoras’ treatments of river images), and incessant shifting; but the control is obtrusive. Physical movement is turned into hexameters with a prominence and panache that exceed Homer. Monosyllabic verbs it (Myrrha), flet (Niobe), invest movement with importance almost in defiance of the language. Opposed motions are expressed in words of matching versification: | obstitit., | condidit; (Cyane and Dis); terra cum tollitur ima, |, terra . . . cum conditur ima; | (Pythagoras’ speech). Exact tense shows the undoing of the motion portrayed (dabat iam terga, Cupid). Paradox of motion is conveyed through paradox of language (similisque tenenti | non tenet, Laelaps). Motion is mastered in a flamboyantly verbal artefact. At the same time, the motion in the poem offers the imagination and thought of the reader—perhaps too narrow a term—unlimited scope.

4 Tacitus, Annals As a specimen of historiography, Tacitus’ Annals may seem one of the least expected choices, with its strong emphasis on internal affairs and a rather indoor string of principes. But it twists in a particularly interesting way the sense of motion that is essential to the genre. A well-known passage looks different in this light. At 4.32 Tacitus says that those who wrote of Rome’s old history spoke of mighty wars, or, if they did turn to internal events, spoke of political certamina, as between plebs and optimates. They did all this libero egressu (1): 2 nobis in arto et inglorius labor; immota quippe aut modice lacessita pax, maestae urbis res et princeps proferendi imperi incuriosus erat, ‘my efforts, on the other hand, are in a narrow space and lacking splendour: peace [in the empire] remained unmoved, or was only moderately disturbed; the affairs of Rome were gloomy, and to expansion of the empire the princeps was indifferent’. There is a contrast between narrow confinement (in arto) and free, expansive movement, without constraint. libero egressu relates to the range and spatial breadth of subject-matter, but also to copious and untrammelled style, with grand impact, and even to freedom of speech (cf. 4.33.4). This movement in metaphorical and literal space is set against a lack of metaphorical and literal movement in Tacitus’ own narrative, as immota and proferendi . . . incuriosus bring out. But from such apparently trivial matters magnarum saepe rerum motus oriuntur, ‘the movements of great events often arise’. Motion now acquires still deeper senses, though not losing contact with the literal. Thucydides’ introductory claim that his war was the κίνηϲιϲ . . . μεγίϲτη, ‘greatest movement’, stands in the background (1.1.2). The reader is offered a narrative seemingly lacking in motion, but is invited to a more profound scrutiny (introspicere).¹ ¹ egressu is taken to mean ‘digression’ here by OLD² s.v. 2, following TLL v.2.296.21–4, which at least includes ampla enarratio; but digression is not relevant to the argument of the passage (and Tacitus is in mid-digression himself). Koestermann (1963–8), ii.112, R. H. Martin and Woodman (1989), 171–2, and Woodman (2018), 176–7 rightly decide against this sense. The word is also treated in Damon (2010), 355–7, where metaliterary movement by the author is discussed. libero points for egressu to movement beyond narrow constraints, cf. the literal Sall. Hist. 3.53 Maurenbrecher egressus angustias, ‘he emerged from a narrow place’. Cf. Ann. 4.33.3 for spatial and other limitations of material; at 4 laetius includes ‘more luxuriantly’. For style, aesthetics, politics in libero egressu and in arto et inglorius labor, cf. further Quint. Inst. 5.14.30–1: eloquence should sweep along plains, not on paths, should be imperiosa (in the excerpt at [Cassiod.] Rhet. 19 RLM 503), without seruitus; Quint. Inst. 10.1.32 ubertas of Livy, whom the Tacitus has especially in view (cf. Woodman (2018), 175), 10.5.15 historiae ubertas, ‘the abundant flow of history’; Tac. Dial. 4.2 forensium causarum angustiis, ‘the narrow pettiness of legal cases’, as against poetry, augustiorem; 32.4: eloquence thrust into angustas sententias, ‘small-scale Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

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The intricacy of Tacitus’ language is already evident, and the different levels of motion that it interweaves. Apparent too is the consciousness and intellectualism with which these types of motion are being handled; they are rooted in historiographical reflection and reflection on historiography. But naturally the work as a whole is more complicated than the half-apology makes it appear. The Annals contain much animated motion at the edges of the area controlled by the Romans; this motion broadly contrasts with the lack of significant motion at the centre. But particularly at the centre, the account shows significant motion on a much smaller and less conspicuous scale; and it draws the reader into seeing a more metaphorical motion, motion that involves vast disruption and historic change. For all the large-scale literal motion on the edges, Rome’s mastery is always re-established there, and little alters; not so at the centre.² Tacitus uses the phrase immota pax again in an arresting parenthesis at 15.46.2. A naval calamity was not in war: (quippe haud alias tam immota pax), ‘(at no other time was peace so unmoved)’, i.e. undisturbed. The phrase does not entail the absence of literal motion: it is not long, for example, since we saw Caesennius Paetus cover forty Roman miles in one day, when he disgracefully retreated without battle (15.16.3). But the narrator’s truth contrasts with Nero’s reassurance in an edict: (while he is away) cuncta in re publica perinde immota ac prospera fore (15.36.1), ‘everything in the state would remain just as unmoved and thriving’. Nero is planning a really large journey to the eastern provinces, especially Egypt. This literal motion is abandoned after a terrifying supernatural or mental experience (15.36.2), and the figurative cuncta . . . immota is heavily ironic. The rising of next year’s conspiracy has already been disclosed to the reader, at a point of maximum emphasis, the last sentence of Book 14, 65.2 unde . . . orta insidiarum in Neronem magna moles et improspera (cf. prospera), ‘whence . . . arose the great and disastrous mass of the plot against Nero’. The disaster of Rome’s greatest fire is

epigrams’, expelled from her rule, sine honore; Cic. De orat. 2.61 (note illigati), Brut. 2 gloriosi laboris, ‘glorious work’ (Cicero and Hortensius), 289 (against Atticists); Hor. Odes 4.2.5–12 (Pindar a river rushing beyond usual banks). On the whole passage, cf. Moles (1998), Woodman (1998), 128–35, K. Clarke (2002), esp. 88, 91–3, 98 (on Thucydides note Rusten (2015)), Sailor (2008), 259–63. ² The relation of motion of different types and scales is not of course peculiar to the Annals: thus early in the Histories Galba tells Piso not to be terrified at the unrest of a mere two legions in hoc concussi orbis motu, ‘amid the present moving and shaking of the globe’ (1.16.3); Piso evinced no turbati aut exultantis animi motum, ‘mental movement of agitation or joy’ (1.17.1; note the similarity of construction with 1.16.3). concussi orbis motu does not just evoke philosophical and poetic visions (Hor. Odes 3.3.6–7: the good man unafraid at the collapse of the orbis; Sen. NQ 3.27.3 concussione mundi, ‘shaking of the world’); it also springs from historiographical language like Thuc. 3.82.1 πᾶν ὡϲ εἰπεῖν τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν ἐκινήθη, ‘more or less the whole Greek world was stirred up’ (cf. also 2.8.3, the moving and shaking of Delos, prophetic of events: ἐκινήθη). For the idea of centre in historiography, to which motion gives another turn, cf. e.g. Pomeroy (2003), Hutchinson (2013), 166–7, 260–2 (and note Cunliffe (1993), 78).

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   

about to befall the city: 15.38.1 clades . . . omnibus . . . grauior atque atrocior, ‘a disaster more serious and appalling than all’ (that had befallen Rome by fire).³ As is already apparent, the lack of significant motion from the principes has its complications—which draw attention to it all the more. Generally Tiberius, who had a great deal of military movement before his principate, is as princeps reluctant to leave Rome and visit the provinces. In 1.46.2–47.2, where a contrast is made with Augustus (46.3), he defends his decision with declamatory ingenuity; the army in Germany or that in Pannonia might be offended if he went to the other first. immotum . . . fixumque Tiberio fuit non omittere caput rerum (1.47.1), ‘it was Tiberius’ set and unshakable resolve not to leave Rome, the heart of all that happened’. The phrase is Virgilian: Aen. 4.15 si mihi non animo fixum immotumque sederet, ‘if it was not the set and unshakable resolve of my mind’. It turns Tiberius’ lack of physical motion to mental perseverance in the decision. The phrase is also ironic, as in the case of Dido, since twelve years later ( 26) Tiberius will leave the centre for private marginality in Campania, mostly on Capri (Ann. 4.57–8). He will fail to return to the centre almost as evasively as he failed to leave it (cf. 4.4.2 with 6.1.1). At 6.15.3 the literal motion captures the evasion, deuiis plerumque itineribus ambiens patriam et declinans, ‘he generally used routes that were twisting byroads; he went round his city and avoided it’.⁴ Claudius’ brief spell in Britain is not extant in Tacitus, but the allusion to it at 13.6.3 suggests it would not have been glorified: better, according to some, quam si inualidus senecta et ignauia Claudius militiae ad labores uocaretur, seruilibus iussis obtemperaturus, ‘than if Claudius, feeble with old age and inactivity, were being called to the exertions of warfare, where he would have obeyed the commands of slaves’. The context is a discussion of Nero going to war in the East. That comes to nothing, but there is the same proposal from some senators as for Tiberius to treat Nero’s entry into the city as if he had won a military campaign (13.8.1).⁵ In the case of Tiberius in particular, the centre of the centre is hard to know, but things from outside can reach it, not in a good way. Agrippina’s success with the mutiny Tiberii animum altius penetrauit (1.69.3), ‘entered Tiberius’ mind particularly deeply’ (he sees plans for power); cf. 3.4.2, of people’s admiration for her, nihil . . . Tiberium magis penetrauit, ‘nothing entered into Tiberius more’;

³ For motion in Tacitus’ account of it, see below (pp. 140–2). On 15.36.2 immota, cf. Ash (2018), 167. 15.46.2 takes up 27.2 immotam ubique pacem, ‘everywhere else peace was unmoved’ (Corbulo). Imperial edicts (Millar (1977), 252–9) were sources available to Tacitus (cf. e.g. Dig. 48.10.15 pr.; Hutchinson (2017a), 77), for him to reword and summarize: cf. e.g. Ann. 1.7.4. At 15.53.1 Nero rarely leaves his house, rarus egressu. ⁴ Cf. Woodman (2017), 153. Tiberius’ retirement: cf. also Suet. Tib. 40–1, Dio Cass. 58.1.1 (Xiph.). ⁵ Cf. 3.47.3; note there the further turn absurdam in adulationem progressus: Dolabella, who made the proposal, ‘advanced to a ludicrous point of flattery’. On Claudius and Britain, see e.g. Levick (1990), 137–44, pll. 15 and 20; cf. esp. Dio Cass. 60.19.1–3 (Narcissus sent to army), 21.1–2 (Claudius sent for). For iussis obtemperaturus, cf. e.g. Juv. 14.329–31.

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14.1.3 penetrantia (Poppaea’s words, turning Nero against Agrippina); 16.21.1 penetrabat (Thrasea’s offence of Nero); 2.36.1 haud dubium erat eam sententiam altius penetrare et arcana imperii temptari, ‘there was no doubt that that proposal entered particularly deep, and that the secrets of power were being assailed’. In the most intimate part of Tiberius’ consciousness his own crimes and vices take violent action against his mind, as blows from the whip would tear a body apart in punishment: (Socrates used to say) . . . quando ut corpora uerberibus, ita . . . animus dilaceretur (6.6.2).⁶ Tiberius as an agent, not a patient, sets things in insidious and halting motion, like the maiestas trials: 1.73.1 ut . . . quanta Tiberii arte grauissimum exitium inrepserit, dein repressum sit, postremo arserit cunctaque corripuerit, noscatur, ‘so that the reader may learn how cunningly on Tiberius’ part the most grievous source of doom crept in, and was then cut back, and finally blazed out and caught hold of everything’, i.e. like a fire. The whole structure of the principate established itself through hidden and gradual motion: Augustus insurgere paulatim (1.2.2), ‘rose up gradually’. Metaphor, philosophy, and the historian’s perception expose crucial motion at the heart of the empire.⁷ But the Annals are not just about the four principes. A benefit of looking at motion is that we can see the range and multifariousness of the work. The relation of material about and not about the princeps is naturally often complex; external material certainly enlarges the scope of the work, and also suggests contrasts. In the most extreme example, the (dubious) flight of the phoenix, admired by the birds that fly with it, and its (reported) journey of laborious piety, offer striking images of uniqueness and virtue in motion (6.28.3, 5). These possible scenes in Egypt divert from events in Rome: 6.28.6 in Aegypto . . . 6.29.1 at Romae caede continua, ‘in Egypt [the bird is sometimes sighted, it is agreed]. But in Rome, with continual slaughter . . . ’. The divergence is pointed, too: the Egyptian bird’s actions in burying its father are more moral and more archetypally Roman than the prohibition of burial for the condemned at Rome (6.28.5 sepeliendi, 6.29.1 sepultura).⁸ The variation in the depth of detail on motion is much greater than in hexameter narrative. The account of Germanicus’ expedition against the Chatti in 1.56 is so brisk it might be thought perfunctory. At 1.56.3 iuuentus flumen Adranam nando tramiserat, Romanosque pontem coeptantes arcebant, ‘the men of ⁶ dilaceretur advances, in the action and the effect, on Plat. Gorg. 524e5 διαμεμαϲτιγωμένην, let alone Rep. 9.579e4 ϲφαδαιϲμῶν; cf. Woodman (2017), 113. penetro: Woodman and Martin (1996), 96–7. For the force of 2.36.1 temptari, cf. 2.36.2 quasi augeretur potestas eius, ‘as if his power were being increased by the proposal’, 3 uim imperii tenuit, ‘he retained the power of his command’. ⁷ For corripio of fire, cf. OLD² s.v. 1d. ⁸ The prohibition is by Tiberius, the imperfects imply; more explicitly Dio Cass. 58.15.4, 16.4. Connection of 6.28 with the next two sentences (Keitel (1999), 433–4) offers the easiest means of relevance, supported by the Virgilian allusions: perhaps the bird even excels Aeneas (consider the context at Aen. 4.597–9). For avian piety, cf. Soph. El. 1058–62, Ar. Birds 471–5, Ov. Met. 15.405. Cf. further Syme (1958), ii.471–3, 774, Woodman (2017), 205, Shannon-Henderson (2019), 229.

122

   

fighting age had swum across the river and were keeping away the Romans who were trying to begin building a bridge’, the tenses of the verbs for motion and prevention of motion look just to be setting the scene for something else: dein tormentis sagittisque pulsi, ‘then they were repulsed by ballistic machines and by arrows’. A hexameter poet would spell the earlier actions out further. However, the briskness is the point: the Romans’ is a swift attack, ahead of a larger campaign. Cf. 55.1 repentino in Chattos excursu (55.1), ‘a sudden expedition against the Chatti’, and the expressive verb in expeditum exercitum in Chattos rapit (56.1), ‘Germanicus whisked the army without baggage against the Chatti’. His incisive action is to appear masterful. On the other hand, close physical detail can be offered. Zenobia, the pregnant wife of Radamistus, is being drawn along by horses at high speed. At first she endures the flight, but then, festinatione continua ubi quati uterus et uiscera uibrantur (12.51.2), ‘when her womb was being shaken and her inwards shuddering through the continuous hurrying’, she asks to be killed. The bodily sensation during the motion, an unusual one in literature, did not have to be so graphically evoked for the narrative to make sense; but Tacitus is here creating an intense mini-romance.⁹ Violent death is the most important focus of detailed narrative scrutiny. So Ostorius’ veins will not release enough blood, and he hactenus manu serui usus ut immotum pugionem extolleret, adpressit dextram eius iuguloque occurrit (16.15.2), ‘he made use of a slave’s hand to the stage of the slave lifting a dagger up and holding it unmoved; he then pressed the slave’s right hand towards him and fell to meet the dagger with his throat’. While accounts of suicide in biography often involve help from slaves, hactenus, immotum, and adpressit pursue the action with close engagement, moral as well as visual. It matters exactly who moves when, or causes motion or prevents it. The aim is to show Ostorius displaying the same valour as against the enemy in war: 16.15.2 fortitudinem saepe aduersum hostis spectatam in se uertit, ‘the bravery that had often been witnessed towards the enemy he turned upon himself ’—not upon Nero, who is afraid of him (16.15.1). Death is an intimate physical and mental moment, in which the victim becomes an agent and the apparent agent is worsted; the structures of power fall away. Tacitus’ language of motion rewards exploration. It is not simply a version of Sallust’s. So in the Annals Tacitus uses meare and its compounds: meare 2 times, remeare 10, commeare 5, permeare 4, transmeare 1. Sallust does not. The stem had been gaining in popularity, and is notable in the Elder Pliny: in NH, meare 9, remeare 22, commeare 14, permeare 7, transmeare 2, immeare 2, intermeare 1, supermeare 1. Tacitus responds to changes in the language. The contours of his usage loosely correspond to Sallust’s in an important respect: compound verbs are to the fore. A wider range of material would be needed to affirm that this correspondence indicates evocation of Sallust; but the possibility seems ⁹ On Zenobia, cf. Braund (1994), 223–4, Späth (1994), 59.

, 

123

promising. It was noted in the last chapter how Ovid, unlike Virgil, used compounds of eo much more often than eo, but how both (like Livy) used uenio much more often than its compounds. Tacitus uses compounds of eo much more often than eo, but also uses compounds of uenio significantly more than uenio. Sallust taken as a whole uses compounds of eo a bit more than eo, and compounds of uenio notably more than uenio. In the Annals, as in Sallust overall, uenio and eo appear a similar number of times: Tacitus does not seem actually averse to either simple verb as such. It seems likely that his high use of their compounds is in part driven by a positive wish to exploit the precision and force of preverbs. A great source of preverbs, for Tacitus as for Sallust and Livy, is compounds of gradior (he, unlike Livy and the Elder Pliny, never uses the simple verb). In both the Annals and the Histories compounds of gradior are slightly more frequent than compounds of eo; in frequency, compounds of uenio present only 54.04 per cent of compounds of gradior in the Annals, 39.71 per cent in the Histories. Compounds of gradior refresh the idea of human motion: they are commonly somewhat more concrete and often less standard. At Ann. 15.29.3, ad quam progressus is employed of Tiridates, in a ceremony of subjection, approaching a curule seat that holds an image of Nero. One may contrast the bare iturum used of Tiridates’ envisaged going to Rome (1) and appearing there (3); but had some form of prodeo been employed for Tiridates (Tacitus never does use the verb), it would have thrown slightly less of a spotlight on the actual motion.¹⁰ A striking divergence from Livy in the Annals is that regredior is deployed as often as the more obvious redeo (regredior 29 times, redeo 27). In the Histories, the numbers are regredior 8, redeo 33, in Sallust, for what such small numbers are worth, regredior 7, redeo 13, in Livy regredior 48, redeo 508. (There are only two instances of regredior in Books 1–10 of Livy: evidently a less obvious word for him.) Tacitus more than Livy exploits abstract nouns from verbs in -gredior, which often seize attention with slightly more offbeat syntax. Tacitus in Annals and Histories uses them 36 times (10 of them congressus), Livy, almost four times as long, 22 times (16 of them congressus). The differing choices of these nouns between Annals and Histories suggest the writer’s sensitivity to them: congressus Ann. 10, Hist. 1 (Sall. Jug. 2, Livy 16); digressus Ann. 1, Hist. 4 (Livy 1); egressus Ann. 7, Hist. 0 (Sall. Jug. 1); ingressus Ann. 1, Hist. 0 (Sall. Hist. 1, Livy 2); progressus Ann. 0, Hist. 1; regressus Ann. 6, Hist. 2 (Livy 3); transgressus Ann. 3, Hist. 0 (Sall. Hist. 1). As to overall numbers for these nouns, 28 in the Annals, 8 in the Histories, the Histories are a little under three-fifths the length of the Annals, but 8 is only 28.57 per cent of 28. Even without congressus, 7 would be only 38.89 per cent of 18. The nouns interest Tacitus more in the Annals.¹¹

¹⁰ Cf. e.g. Livy 3.54.6 decemuiri prodeunt in contionem abdicantque se magistratu, ‘the decemviri came forth into the meeting and laid down their magistracies’. ¹¹ Word-count is the basis of statements on the length of Livy, and of Tacitus, Annals and Histories, together and separately.

124

   

That brings us to the detail for more of the points above (Tables 1, 2, and 3). The lists also supply information for the words used in the passages below, give a view of some core vocabulary of motion in Tacitus, and show how little of that vocabulary is peculiar to Tacitus, among kindred authors. The impact of the vocabulary lies rather in patterns of usage, and still more in the finesse of specific passages. Figures are given for (1) compounds in -gredior (or -gradior); (2) uenio and compounds; and (3) eo and compounds in Annals, Histories, and Sallust. For comparison, figures are given for (1) and (2) from Livy, and from the Elder Pliny, more distant in genre but closer in time. The figures afford a rough idea of the distribution of quantities; but there are uncertainties, and entire immunity from error is not to be expected in such an area (certainly not from me).¹²

compounds in -gredior (or -gradior)

ad-

circum-

con-

de-

di-

e-

in-

Ann. Hist. Tac. subtotal Cat. Jug. Hist. Sall. sub-total Livy¹³ Plin. NH

16 21 37

5 0 5

8 5 13

11 3 14

9 17 26

40 17 57

39 27 66

3 2 5

0 0 0

3 21 0 24 174 4

0 0 1 1 0 0

0 1 0 1 56 1

0 2 0 2 24 11

0 6 2 8 24 8

2 15 5 22 148 16

0 3 4 7 143 17

0 1 1 (-grad-) 2 33 1

0 2 0 2 0 0

-gredior cont.

pro-

re-

sug-

super-

Ann. Hist. Tac. sub-total Cat. Jug. Hist. Sall. sub-total Livy Plin. NH

16 15 31 0 0 2 2 94 4

29 8 37 1 2 4 7 48 5

5 0 5 0 0 1 1 0 0

2 1 3 0 0 0 0 1 2

prae-

trans15 20 35 0 0 5 (of which 2 -grad-)¹⁴ 5 111 19

praeter-

total cpds 198 136 334 6 53 25 84 856 88

¹² Readers of Hutchinson (2018b) may be reassured that counting rhythms in texts was much freer from invitations to error than counting and sifting items in lists. Counting parts of eo (and compounds) in Livy (and the Elder Pliny) would have been quite a task. ¹³ Including fragments. ¹⁴ One of these two is partly supplemented.

,  con(suitable meanings)

de-

inter-

125

uenio and cpds¹⁵

uenio

ad-

ante-

circum-

ob-

per-

Ann. Hist. Tac. subtotal Cat. Jug. Hist. Sall. subtotal Livy¹⁶ Plin. NH

79 42 121

14 11 25

2 0 2

22 10 32

8 4 12

0 0 0

1 1 2

4 2 6

3 2 5

10 31 3 44

1 3 1 5

0 5 0 5

7 13 5 25

5 4 1 10

0 0 0 0

0 1 0 1

0 1 0 1

2 15 5 22

1260 144

85 13

1 0

92 3

142 17

1 1

30 26

24 1

298 57

uenio and cpds cont.

post-

prae-

pro-

re-

sub-

super-

total cpds of uenio

aduento

Ann. Hist. Tac. sub-total Cat. Jug. Hist. Sall. sub-total Livy Plin. NH

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1

18 10 28 0 1 0 1 14 5

6 7 13 1 0 0 1 2 97

3 0 3 0 0 0 0 0 0

26 6 32 0 8 2 10 19 18

0 1 1 0 0 0 0 32 10

107 54 161 16 51 14 81 740 249

13 12 25 1 4 2 7 18 0

eo and cpds¹⁷

eo

ab-

ad-

ant(e)-

circum-

co-

ex-

in-

prae-

Ann. Hist. Tac. sub-total Cat. Jug. Hist. Sall. sub-total

72¹⁸ 29 101 5 28¹⁹ 12 45

22 13 35 1 12 1 14

37 22 59 1 5 0 6

22 11 33 1 1 2 4

5 4 9 2 4 0 6

4 6 10 0 0 0 0

3 1 4 0 0 0 0

26 6 32 1 0 0 1

4 3 7 0 0 0 0

¹⁵ Excluding euenio, inuenio, and senses of conuenio not related to motion. It is harder to segregate instances where, for example, prouenio does not suggest some motion (probably little at Tac. Ann. 16.2.2, Livy 27.8.19). ¹⁶ Including fragments. ¹⁷ Excluding pereo. ¹⁸ Including 2 instances of supine + iri. ¹⁹ Including 1 instance of supine + iri; 88.4 excluded as uncertain.

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   

eo and cpds cont.

praeter-

prod-

red-

sub-

trans-

total cpds

Ann. Hist. Tac. sub-total Cat. Jug. Hist. Sall. sub-total

5 2 7 1 1 1 3

0 0 0 0 0 0 0

27 33 60 0 11 2 13

14 13 27 0 0 0 0

14 16 30 2 3 0 5

183 130 313 9 37 6 52

Summary: Tacitus, Annals: (a) compounds in -gredior 198; (b) uenio 79, (c) compounds of uenio 107; (d) eo 72, (e) compounds of eo 183. (b) is 73.83 per cent of (c), (d) 39.34 per cent of (e); (c) 54.04 per cent of (a), (e) 92.42 per cent of (a). Histories: (a) compounds in -gredior 136; (b) uenio 42, (c) compounds of uenio 54; (d) eo 29, (e) compounds of eo 130. (b) is 77.78 per cent of (c), (d) is 22.31 per cent of (e); (c) is 39.71 per cent of (a), (e) is 95.59 per cent of (a). Sallust: (a) compounds in -gredior 84 (Cat. 6, Jug. 53, Hist. 25); (b) uenio 44 (10, 31, 3), (c) compounds of uenio 88 (17, 55, 16); (d) eo 45 (5, 28, 12), (e) compounds of eo 52 (9, 37, 6). (b) is 50 per cent of (c), (d) is 86.54 per cent of (e); (c) is 104.76 per cent of (a), (e) is 61.90 per cent of (a). Livy: (a) compounds in -gredior 856; (b) uenio 1260, (c) compounds of uenio 740. (b) is 170.27 per cent of (c); (c) is 86.45 per cent of (a). Pliny, Natural Histories: (a) compounds in -gredior 88; (b) uenio 144, (c) compounds of uenio 249. (b) is 57.83 per cent of (c); (c) is 282.95 per cent of (a). A colourful word for restraining from motion, in the Annals, is attineo (ranging between prevention and keeping confined in a place). It comes once in the Histories (2.14.3), and is probably suggested by Sallust, who uses the word in related senses (Jug. 108.3, Hist. 1.77.16), and gets it from archaic Latin. Tacitus cultivates it in the Annals, where it appears in these senses 26 times: so restraining from violence a right hand about to strike the owner’s breast (Ann. 1.35.4), or restraining Nero’s metaphorical impetus (13.50.2), or Tiridates being restrained by religio from coming to Rome (15.24.2), or Seneca rarely walking about in Rome (rarus per urbem), supposedly kept at home by ill-health or philosophy (14.56.3 domi attineretur). Tacitus’ metaphorical use of motion is abundant, and an important dimension of motion in the Annals. The language gives the importance and momentousness of physical events to various features in the imperial structure and its perversions. At 3.56.1 (general) and 6.38.2 (specific) ingruentis accusatores suggests, since it is used of people, a hostile military advance (cf. e.g. 2.11.3). si damnatio ingruit (4.35.3), ‘if condemnation assails me’, at the end of Cremutius Cordus’ speech, is affected by the previous non-personal subjects of the verb in the Annals, bellum (1.48.2, 60.3), tela (1.65.5), and especially si quid hostile ingruat (2.77.1), ‘if there

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were any enemy attack’, si quid subitum ingruat (4.2.1), a sudden event in Rome requiring action by the Praetorian soldiers. The change of the verb to an individual’s fate in a trial (si damnatio ingruit) connects with 4.32–3, discussed above (p. 118). There imperial trials seem at first less impressive than republican battles, but matters are naturally less simple. Here Cremutius links himself in the same sentence to Brutus and Cassius, and his death looks like a clarus exitus, ‘renowned death’ (cf. 4.33.3).²⁰ Military connotations can even hang around words used of emotions—which are drastic and dramatic in the world of the Annals. So notably at 1.49.3 truces etiam tum animos cupido inuolat eundi in hostem, piacula furoris, ‘a desire rushed upon their minds, fierce even then, of going against the enemy, to atone for their mad deeds’. The word is often used in Latin of a person’s swift motion to attack (so Hist. 4.33.1 of a military force); the mental use here is unexampled. The soldiers are the object rather than subject, but this only intensifies the warlike ferocity of their minds. Less clearly military, but equally arresting, is 6.3.4 quod postquam patefactum, prorupere concepta pridem odia, ‘after Tiberius had revealed this [the sinister plan of Sextilius Paconianus], the senators’ hatred, long formed, burst forth’ (they would have inflicted the death penalty). The motion here conveys not the inner workings of the mind, but the equally characteristic movement from inner to outer.²¹

The Twentieth Redeem Themselves (1.51.3–4) sed hostes, donec agmen per saltus porrigeretur, immoti, dein latera et frontem modice adsultantes, tota ui nouissimos incurrere. turbabanturque densis Germanorum cateruis leues cohortes, cum Caesar aduectus ad uicesimanos uoce magna hoc illud tempus obliterandae seditionis clamitabat: pergerent, properarent culpam in decus uertere. 4 exarsere animis unoque impetu perruptum hostem redigunt in aperta caeduntque: simul primi agminis copiae euasere siluas castraque communiuere. ‘The enemy at first did not move, waiting until the marching column was spread out through the woods; then they assailed in a limited way the front and the sides of the force, but rushed with the utmost force against those who were last. These lightly armed cohorts were being disordered by the massed hordes of the Germani, ²⁰ Note at 3.56.1 represserat, cf. OLD² s.v. reprimo 4b, ‘(mil.) to check the advance of’. Even at 4.66.1 medical imagery in grassabatur of the uis of prosecutors might be thought insufficiently prompted in the reader’s mind (cf. Woodman (2018), 302); infestior more obviously suggests people. The only previous use of the verb in the Annals has been shortly before, of a contingent of archers (4.47.3). It is another matter how strong the element of motion is at 4.66.1. ²¹ Cf. e.g., beyond emotion, eruptura in the last words of Book 1, 81.4. On 1.49.3, cf. Timpe (1968), 24.

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when Germanicus rode up to the men of the twentieth legion, and cried out in a loud voice that this was the longed-for time for wiping out the memory of the mutiny: let them get moving, he said, let them hasten to turn guilt into glory. 4 Their spirits caught fire; surging as one, they broke through the enemy, drove them back into the open, and cut them down. At the same time, the troops at the head of the column emerged from the woods and fortified the camp.’

Thinking about motion helps us to see how impressive Tacitus’ military narrative is purely as writing. Tight rhetorical organization carries through the structuring into three sets of people, as minds and as spatial entities. Germanicus’ planning has been made apparent in 51.2, his awareness of the enemy and his arrangement of his forces, with the ceteri sociorum at the very back. We know of the German tribes (51.2), the slaughter they have to avenge (51.1), and their occupation of the woods (51.2). And we know a great deal about the Roman forces, about their placing (51.2), and about the mutiny Germanicus has just ended, and the consequent violence of soldiers against each other (48–9).²² The Germani here move and keep still in accord with a plan, not out of barbarian irrationality (contrast 50.4). At first they do not move (51.3 immoti); their timing is matched to the Romans’ movement through the woods (donec . . . per saltus porrigeretur); their scheme exploits the formidable massing of their troops and the unformidable weapons of the allies (densis, leues). Their motion relates to the Romans’ placing in space. The scheme is at first succeeding (turbabanturque), for all Germanicus’ planning. From a Roman perspective immoti, modice adsultantes, and tota ui . . . incurrere form an alarming sequence. Both adsultantes and incurrere show the impress of physical action (leaping, running), and their forceful use with a direct object is distinctive syntax. But for all the density of their forces at the back of the Romans, they are broken through (4 perruptum).²³ Germanicus stands out visually as an isolated individual among the masses. His riding back is explicitly mentioned (3 aduectus ad uicesimanos); his solitary movement and rousing speech make him a dashing figure. He has placed the twentieth legion next to the weaker allies (51.2), and can now exploit his trump card: rhetoric. The asyndetic brevity and the acceleration of pergerent, properarent (3) causes the movement the phrase mimics. The Roman force as a whole in space and movement has been stretched apart (porrigeretur) and broken up (turbabanturque); but the twentieth act in a single united movement, as if from a single wish. The phrase uno . . . impetu (4) is found elsewhere with large groups. It gains more point from 1.32.3, where the sign of the ²² On the passage, cf. Kehne (1998), 441. At 51.2, as at 2.16.3, the light-armed troops are split between front and back; cf. Nipperdey (1880–92), i.103 for suspicion of the text. ²³ Barbarians: cf. Vell. 2.118.2 on Arminius, the author of Varus’ disaster, ultra barbarum promptus ingenio, ‘beyond a barbarian in his ready intelligence’. On the accusatives with adsultantes and incurrere, cf. Goodyear (1972), 321.

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magni atque implacabilis motus, ‘a major uprising, not to be appeased’, had been the soldiers’ complete unity in feeling and in behaviour, as if they were being commanded. Now that they actually are being commanded, they are united in feeling, and all is as it should be. The other end of the column now escapes in motion from the dangerous space (4 euasere siluas). The pattern on a small scale of problem then victory is archetypal for the depiction of Roman arms in the Annals. The success is also a little reversal of Varus’ calamity in woodland, which is not forgotten.²⁴

Terrain Hinders, Not Helps (2.17.2–6) interea, pulcherrimum augurium, octo aquilae petere siluas et intrare uisae imperatorem aduertere. exclamat irent, sequerentur Romanas auis, propria legionum numina. 3 simul pedestris acies infertur et praemissus eques postremos ac latera impulit. mirumque dictu, duo hostium agmina diuersa fuga, qui siluam tenuerant in aperta, qui campis adstiterant in siluam ruebant. 4 medii inter hos Cherusci collibus detrudebantur, inter quos insignis Arminius manu uoce uulnere sustentabat pugnam. incubueratque sagittariis, illa rupturus, ni Raetorum Vindelicorumque et Gallicae cohortes signa obiecissent. 5 nisu tamen corporis et impetu equi peruasit, oblitus faciem suo cruore ne nosceretur . . . . 6 ceteri passim trucidati; et plerosque tranare Visurgim conantis iniecta tela aut uis fluminis, postremo moles ruentium et incidentes ripae operuere. quidam turpi fuga in summa arborum nisi ramisque se occultantes admotis sagittariis per ludibrium figebantur, alios prorutae arbores adflixere. ‘Meanwhile, in a most cheering sign from birds, the general noticed eight eagles making for the forest and entering it. He called out that they should go onward and follow the Roman birds, the legions’ own deities. 3 The ranks of infantry swept in and simultaneously the cavalry that had been sent ahead drove those at the back and the sides. Strange to say, two groups of the enemy took flight in different directions: those who had occupied the forest rushed into the open, those positioned in the fields into the forest. 4 In the midst of these groups the Cherusci were dislodged downwards from the hills. Arminius was conspicuous among them, keeping the battle going with his hand, his voice, and the wounds he inflicted. He had borne in on the men armed with bows; he would have burst through in that part, if the cohorts of Raeti, Vindelici, and Gauls had not blocked his way

²⁴ Cf. 43.1, Timpe (1968), 39, Laederich (2001), 40–2, and later 60.3–62.1 etc., Seidman (2014), Shannon-Henderson (2019), 82; 50.2–3 with Dio Cass. 56.19.5–20.1; Vell. 2.119.2. For uno impetu, cf. e.g. Sen. Ep. 115.15 totus populus . . . consurrexit uno impetu, ‘the whole people [Euripides’ audience] rose up together in a single impulse’.

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with their standards. 5 But striving with his body and charging on with his horse, he manged to get through; he smeared his face with his own blood to escape being recognized . . . . [He was recognized, say some, but still escaped, like Inguiomerus.] 6 The rest were slaughtered all around. Many tried to swim across the Visurgis; they were overwhelmed by the throwing of spears or the force of the river, and finally by the mass of people rushing and the falling in of the river-banks. Some took a shameful form of escape and climbed to the top of the trees and hid among the branches. Archers were brought there and derisively shot them; others were thrown to the ground by making the trees fall.’

The battle is a fiasco for the Germani, but the individual figure of Arminius stands alone. The motion of the Cherusci appears in a passive verb (4 detrudebantur, contrast 17.1 proruperant). Arminius’ motion, on the other hand, is active and aggressive (4 incubueratque). His motion of escape is achieved (5 peruasit), with impressive force (nisu, impetu), while a mass of men merely try (6 conantis) to swim across the river (tranare), and are the object of a verb (operuere) with various subjects, including some of themselves in motion (ruentium). He stands apart visually (4 insignis) and his attempt to break through the foe (rupturus) is only blocked by various multitudes with things to impede him (signa obiecissent), and none the less he succeeds for himself.²⁵ Even as an individual, though, he is outclassed by Germanicus, who directs the motion (cf. 17.1); Arminius is allowed the general uoce (4), but Germanicus’ words ordering motion are reported, with their characteristic impetuous asyndeton (2 irent, sequerentur). He seizes on the omen (cf. 2.14.1), and turns motion on a different visual plane (2 aquilae petere siluas) into meaning for his troops. The events of the battle confront the two generals (cf. 12.1, 13.1–2, 14–15), as Tacitus’ narrative does on a larger scale: Arminius’ death and obituary are put out of order just after Germanicus’ death and at the end of Book 2 (88), with Germanicus’ funeral to follow at the start of Book 3.²⁶ The group movements of the Germani are turned by the narrator into nearcomic incongruity, with comments from him and the Roman side (3 mirumque dictu, 6 turpi, per ludibrium). The contrary motion of the two agmina makes a pictorially and verbally diverting pattern (3) out of the donnés of the landscape (16.2). The evidently inglorious scene in the trees (cf. 16.1) might seem to draw inspiration from a similarly ignominious scene in Silius (5.475–509, cf. 7.667–79). The apocalyptic scene of the masses in the river recalls for the reader the terrible

²⁵ On the battle cf. Laederich (2001), 78–83; see also Zehne (1998), 443–4; Kühlborn (2000), 33. The presentation in detrudebantur is possibly unfair, cf. Koestermann (1963–8), i.283. ²⁶ On 2.88, cf. Timpe (1970), 131–7; Ginsburg (1981), 37–8; Sailor (2019), 100–7. The comparison of the two men is developed in Porpora’s opera Germanico in Germania (1732). For Germanicus and the omen, cf. Shannon-Henderson (2019), 96.

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scene in Thucydides (7.84.1–85.1, esp. 84.3–4), but the landscape itself also moves (6 incidentes ripae, cf. prorutae arbores). The Visurgis (Weser) is the river associated with Arminius’ Cherusci (Dio Cass. 56.18.5; Tac. Ann. 2.9.1), who were renowned for slaying Varus’ legions (Vell. 2.105.1). The farce in the woods again reverses that catastrophe; both leaders have had it in mind.²⁷ Germanicus’ plans have gone well (cf. 16.3, 17.1), and the repeated preverb in 3 infertur and impulit shows the force of the Roman onslaught (cf. 17.1 incurrere, inuadere); but the narrative gives special attention to the barbarian movements and calamity. No Romans are subjects of verbs after impulit (3), no one on the Roman side after obiecissent (4).

The Dead Germanicus Is Brought Back to Italy (3.1.3–4) atque ubi primum ex alto uisa classis, complentur non modo portus et proxima mari sed moenia ac tecta, quaque longissime prospectari poterat, maerentium turba et rogitantium inter se silentione an uoce aliqua egredientem exciperent. neque satis constabat quid pro tempore foret, cum classis paulatim successit, non alacri, ut adsolet, remigio sed cunctis ad tristitiam compositis. 4 postquam duobus cum liberis, feralem urnam tenens, egressa naui defixit oculos, idem omnium gemitus; neque discerneres proximos alienos, uirorum feminarumue planctus, nisi quod comitatum Agrippinae longo maerore fessum obuii et recentes in dolore anteibant. ‘When the ship was first seen at sea, not only the harbour and the parts closest to the sea, but the walls and roofs, and where one could look out to the furthest distance, filled up with crowds of people mourning; they were asking one another all the time whether they should receive Agrippina as she left the ship with silence or with some utterance. They were still unsure what would best suit the occasion when gradually the fleet arrived, not with the usual brisk rowing, but with everything designed to express sadness. 4 Agrippina came out of the ship, with two of her children, holding the funerary urn; she fixed her eyes downwards. Everyone groaned alike. One could not tell apart the laments of family and those unrelated, or of men and women, save that the party accompanying Agrippina, weary in their long sorrow, were left behind by those who had come to meet them and were fresh in their grief.’

When Racine calls Tacitus ‘le plus grand Peintre de l’Antiquité’, he is referring to characterization; but this scene seems at first sight almost pictorial, in its ²⁷ Pointed remarks at Tac. Ann. 2.14.2; 15.1; cf. Cipollone (2011), 9, l. 19, 14. Silius: cf. Ernesti (1782), i.142 (Gronovius).

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opposition of a large group to the isolated figure of Agrippina. By contrast with the planctus (4) of the onlookers, and her own wild grief on Corcyra (3.1), she is modest in her movement from her ship (4 egressa naui defixit oculos). She is the centre of the narrative and the onlookers’ attention, and no name is needed for egredientem or egressa.²⁸ The scene is actually more complicated than in most ancient art. Agrippina herself forms part of a small group, with two children and the urn containing her husband’s ashes: 4 duobus cum liberis, feralem urnam tenens. There turns out to be, as one would expect, a bigger comitatus with her. The crowd is made by words into vague vastness, through the heap of places after the verb of action complentur; the varied multitude involved has been suggested in 3.1.2.²⁹ The modality of the motion, and the development of the narrative, depend on time. ubi primum (3) indicates that complentur must be a rapid event of motion, even apart from 3.1.2 ruere ad oppidum Brundisium, ‘they rushed to the city of Brundisium’. The swiftness of the physical event is complemented by the worried conversations (3 rogitantium inter se) on the best thing to do when Agrippina leaves the ship (egredientem). The anxiety on etiquette is unexpected in the crowd of mourners; perhaps it is not altogether unrelated to the senate’s anxious wish that Tiberius should choose the most appropriate of the honours suggested for Germanicus (Cipollone (2011), 9, ll. 11–15). The movement of the fleet contrasts with this rapidity and this hesitation not simply in its slowness (paulatim, non alacri) but in the assured and orchestrated dignity which the slowness presents, in a kind of ritual (cunctis ad tristitiam compositis). The narrative sequence is complicated by the slowness. The imperfect, inverted cum and perfect (neque satis constabat . . . cum . . . successit) make one expect a decisive moment. But the bringing of the ships into harbour happens paulatim; the usual speedy eagerness to reach port is expressively negated.³⁰ A further stage is marked by postquam (4) and Agrippina’s movement across space, followed by the close facial movement of defixit oculos, which refuses further motion by the eyes. On Agrippina’s actual arrival, instinct supersedes the alternatives mulled over by the crowd: gemitus is neither silence nor a uox; undifferentiated planctus then takes over.³¹ The final word anteibant turns to a different level of motion, surpassing someone metaphorically. In this context of motion (cf. obuii), with a sort of quasi-procession, anteibant suggests precedence with a double paradox: the crowd go first although they are not part of the group round Germanicus’ family, ²⁸ On this passage cf. Santoro L’hoir (2006), 61–70. Racine: the 1675 Préface to Britannicus, Œuvres complètes i.443 Forestier (Pléiade). ²⁹ On the tableau with Agrippina, cf. Späth (1994), 36. ³⁰ Contrast e.g. Virg. G. 1.303–4. compositis has an undertone of subduing to stillness, cf. OLD² s.v. compono 4b, s.v. compositus 6. ³¹ defixit oculos: cf. e.g. Virg. Aen. 1.495, 8.520. gemitus: cf. e.g. Cic. Phil. 2.64.

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and although their grief is more recent. It may be thought that the metaphor in anteibant is simply dead; but the contrary is suggested by two passages later in the book (words that convey motion on some level are underlined): 3.47.3 solus Dolabella Cornelius dum anteire ceteros parat absurdam in adulationem progressus, ‘Cornelius Dolabella was alone in planning to beat the rest by advancing to an absurd degree of flattery’; 66.4 Bruttedium . . . si rectum iter pergeret, ad clarissima quaeque iturum, festinatio extimulabat, dum aequalis, dein superiores, postremo suasmet ipse spes anteire parat, ‘if Bruttedius Niger [PIR² B 158] . . . had been going along the straight path, he would have reached every distinction; but he was goaded on by hurry: he intended to get ahead of his age-group, then older people, and finally even his own hopes’. Metaphors of motion in Tacitus are always ready to be resuscitated.³²

Obsequious Exodus (4.74.3–4) non illi tamen in urbem aut propinqua urbi degressi sunt: satis uisum omittere insulam et in proximo Campaniae aspici. eo uenire patres, eques, magna pars plebis, anxii erga Seianum cuius durior congressus atque eo per ambitum et societate consiliorum parabatur. 4 satis constabat auctam ei adrogantiam foedum illud in propatulo seruitium spectanti: quippe Romae sueti discursus et magnitudine urbis incertum quod quisque ad negotium pergat; ibi campo aut litore iacentes nullo discrimine noctem ac diem iuxta gratiam aut fastus ianitorum perpetiebantur, donec id quoque uetitum. et reuenere in urbem trepidi . . . . ‘But Tiberius and Sejanus did not depart into the city, or places near to the city: they judged it sufficient to leave Capri and be seen in the portion of Campania nearest to it. Thither came senators, equestrians, and a large part of the plebs. They felt anxious about Sejanus: it was harder to meet up with him, so meetings were sought by bribery or by sharing in his plans. 4 It was generally agreed that Sejanus’ arrogance was increased by looking at that disgraceful slavery out in the open. At Rome, bustling in all directions was normal; due to the size of the city it was uncertain to what business each was proceeding. There, on the other hand, people were lying in a field or on the beach, through day or night without distinction, and putting up alike with the favour or the disdain of the doorkeepers, until even that was forbidden. Those returned to the city in alarm [whom etc.] . . . .’

The senate have begged Tiberius and Sejanus to return; the senate are not concerned about the extremities of empire. Caesar and his overbearing helper ³² With spes antire, cf. Plut. Virt. Mor. 446d–e: with the result that the movements of necessary desires μὴ προεκθεῖν τοῦ λογιϲμοῦ, ‘do not outrun his reason’, but each impulse ἅμα τρέχειν, ‘runs together’, with his reason like a young foal with its mother.

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are not willing to visit Rome; 3 degressi indicates a movement away, as if Capri is where Tiberius belongs. Caesar and Sejanus nonchalantly fail to make a movement as far as Rome (3 non . . . in urbem); the totalizing patres, eques, magna pars plebis makes it seem as though the Roman state moves en masse, save for some of the plebs, to Campania. The movement of the large body is given with the simple eo uenire. The two movements, of the big group and of the pair, show how Roman structures have been perverted.³³ The language goes on to set against the usual lively movement of individuals within the city a picture of immobility in the country: 4 discursus and pergat are set against iacentes. This is a sort of paraklausithyron in a rustic setting, which bizarrely embodies the slavery of the Romans; seruitium is figurative but also concrete and visible, seen through Sejanus’ eyes, spectanti. The accusatives noctem ac diem highlight the duration of the prolonged, unmoving pose. When Romans do return to Rome (5 reuenere in urbem), some are in fear (trepidi), a further sign of servitude; cf. 4 id quoque uetitum. The verb reuenio, uncommon after Plautus, highlights the action (cf. 2.24.4, 12.59.1). Motion and the negation of motion are used to create a drastic vision practically at the end of the book.³⁴

Royal Trickery (12.47.2–4) mos est regibus, quoties in societatem coeant, implicare dextras pollicesque inter se uincire nodoque praestringere: mox ubi sanguis in artus extremos suffuderit, leui ictu cruorem eliciunt atque inuicem lambunt. id foedus arcanum habetur quasi mutuo cruore sacratum. 3 sed tunc qui ea uincla admouebat decidisse simulans genua Mithridatis inuadit ipsumque prosternit; simulque concursu plurium iniciuntur catenae, ac compede, quod dedecorum barbaris, trahebatur. 4 mox quia uulgus duro imperio habitum, probra ac uerbera intentabat. et erant contra qui tantam fortunae commutationem miserarentur; secutaque cum paruis liberis coniunx cuncta lamentatione complebat. 2 arcanum: aeternum Haase ³³ The senate: 4.74.1 pauor internus occupauerat animos, ‘an internal dread had taken occupation of their minds’, plays both on internus and on the military occupo, cf. 4.73.4. ³⁴ The depiction probably distorts Thucydides’ account of how the oligarchs in 411 stopped the liberty of the Athenian people (8.68.4: it was a hard task τὸν Ἀθηναίων δῆμον . . . ἐλευθερίαϲ παῦϲαι). In that account what people cannot discover διὰ τὸ μέγεθοϲ τῆϲ πόλεωϲ (8.66.3), ‘because of the size of the city’, is probably the number and identity of the conspirators (the sentence is corrupt). Though the size of Athens is a general feature, the obscurity is part of the unusual situation within the city. Here what is magnitudine urbis incertum (4) is just normal, cf. sueti; the manifestation of slavery is not in the city and not obscure but in the open, and hence far more strange and disgraceful, foedum. Tacitus’ use of the passage in Thucydides seems confirmed by the connection of Ann. 6.7.3 with Thuc. 8.66.4. quippe etc. on movement in Rome could be focused on the past or timeless; constabat suggests the former, and it sounds unlike the Annals to make statements about social life at Rome that explicitly include the present. For rushing round the city, cf. Man. 5.65, Mart. 4.78.3; note Hellström (2015), 47.

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‘The kings have a custom, when they come together for an alliance: they join their right hands, and they bind their thumbs together and tie them tight with a knot. The blood soon wells up into the extremities; they draw some blood forth with a light blow, and then lick each other’s. This type of treaty is regarded as secret, since it is consecrated with shared blood. 3 But on that occasion, the man who was applying the bands to the thumbs pretended that he had fallen down; he went for Mithridates’ knees, and brought him to the ground. More people ran together at the same time, and threw chains on Mithridates. He was dragged along in fetters: a disgrace for barbarians. The masses, because he had treated them with a harsh rule, threw abuse at him and threatened blows. Some, however, pitied so great a change in fortune. Mithridates was followed by his wife and their small children; she filled everything with lament.’

In  51, Mithridates the king of Armenia has been subjected to elaborate trickery by Radamistus, son of Mithridates’ brother, the king of the Hiberi; Mithridates’ wife (4 coniunx) is Radamistus’ sister. Radamistus will at his father’s command kill his uncle and sister, keeping the letter but not the spirit of an oath; he will kill the children for crying at their parents’ death. The Romans were supposed to be protecting Mithridates (44.1, 45.2), but there has been bribery (45.4, 46.1–2); after discussion, the governor of Syria takes no action against Radamistus and his father (48).³⁵ Tacitus’ account offers considerable detail on the motions involved in overcoming Mithridates, and minute detail on the motions of the oath. The movement of more blood into the thumbs (2 in artus extremos suffuderit), and out of them (leui ictu cruorem eliciunt), is presented with a quasi-medical closeness on the body. Contrast Val. Max. 9.11 ext. 3: Sariaster and his friends conspired in such a way ut omnes e dexteris manibus sanguinem mitterent atque eum inuicem sorberent, ‘that they all let blood from their right hands and sucked it from each other’. The closeness does not seem indispensable for the reader to understand either the felling of Mithridates or the sanctity of the oath. It is the licking that matters most, and is ethnographically most interesting. Ethnographically, though, Tacitus is vague on peoples here: just regibus (2), including Radamistus’ father, cf. barbaris (3).³⁶ From a less scholarly viewpoint, Tacitus is treating the catastrophe of a foreign monarch with almost the fullness that is accorded Roman principes, and with a mixture of unlikeness and proximity. The strings round thumbs and the rugby tackle (3 genua Mithridatis inuadit ipsumque prosternit) seem quite unlike the scientific refinement and the party setting of Claudius’ imminent decease (66–7).

³⁵ On the passage and context, cf. Braund (1994), 219–24, Redgate (1998), 78–9. ³⁶ Historiography on Armenia and neighbours, customs included: cf. Strabo 11.14, 526–33 C., iii.384.34–402.4 Radt, FGrHist nos. 678–9. For licking, cf. also Hdt. 1.74.5; 3.8.1 for thumbs; Ernesti (1782), i.587–8 (Lipsius).

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   

But the Roman action, like the Hiberian, is a scelus (66.1, 67.2): cf. 47.5, and, with considerable point, 48.2 omne scelus externum cum laetitia habendum, ‘they said that every foreign deed of wickedness should be regarded with joy’. Both killings ignore family bonds. The method resembles the killing of Tiberius: cf. 12.47.5 ueste multa, ‘with much cloth’, and 6.50.5 uestis multae (below, p. 144). The treatment of the children (5, cf. 4 cum paruis liberis) evokes the killing of Sejanus’, actually more cold-blooded and horrible (5.9.1–2).³⁷ The motions of Mithridates’ capture intensify and expand: from 3 uincla admouebat to iniciuntur catenae, from admouebat to inuadit and prosternit, from one person to concursu plurium to the uulgus (4). compede . . . trahebatur (3) advances from in lucum propinquum trahit (1), ‘he drew him into the adjacent grove’. The idea of the grove and ceremony is presumably to isolate Mithridates from any entourage (cf. 4 secutaque), and indeed Romans; contrast omnes in Valerius above (p. 135).³⁸ The last sentence given here proceeds in a different direction, and conveys the pity felt by some, explicitly in miserarentur and by suggestion in cuncta lamentatione complebat. Both points throw into relief the cruelty of Radamistus and his father; the language will assign the acts of motion in the killing directly to Radamistus (5; contrast 6.50.4 iubet). Relevant too are 12.19.1, where another king is mutatione rerum . . . permotus, ‘strongly moved by the change in lot’, for another Mithridates, and perhaps Polyb. 8.20.9–12, where a king weeps contemplating a bound king, his enemy, and τὸ . . . παράλογον τῶν ἐκ τῆϲ τύχηϲ ϲυμβαινόντων, ‘the unexpectedness of the events that come from fortune’. The motion of the wife and children presents a pathetic tableau, as in the case of Agrippina the Elder (3.1.4 above, pp. 131–2).³⁹

Isolating Agrippina (13.18.3–19.1) 18.3 cognitum id Neroni, excubiasque militaris, quae ut coniugi imperatoris olim, tum ut matri seruabantur, et Germanos nuper eundem honorem custodes additos digredi iubet. ac ne coetu salutantium frequentaretur, separat domum matremque transfert in eam quae Antoniae fuerat, quoties ipse illuc uentitaret, saeptus turba centurionum et post breue osculum digrediens. 19.1 nihil rerum mortalium tam instabile ac fluxum est quam fama potentiae non sua ui nixae. statim relictum Agrippinae limen: nemo solari, nemo adire praeter paucas feminas, amore an odio incertas. ³⁷ Monarchs, principes: cf. Keitel (1978), 468–70; Heil (2017), 267. ³⁸ So 2 arcanum might have a point, though arcanum habetur quasi mutuo cruore sacratum remains odd, as it would with the sense ‘mystic’. ³⁹ With cuncta lamentatione complebat, cf. Livy 9.24.8 ego iam terrore omnia implebo, ‘I will now fill everything with alarm’.

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18.3 olim, tum Lipsius: solitum M nuper . . . Bötticher: super M degredi Ernesti

‘Nero was aware of this [Agrippina’s ingratiating of officers and nobiles]. He ordered two bodies to leave: the military guard which had been assigned her once as the wife of the princeps and was continued for her as the princeps’s mother, and the Germani who had recently been added as guards to honour her for the same reason. So that she would not constantly be visited by those gathering to greet him, he made his house separate from hers; he moved his mother into the house which had belonged to Antonia. Every time he came to visit her there, he was surrounded by a mass of centurions, and left after a brief kiss. 19.1 Nothing in mortal affairs is so unsteady and in flux as the reputation of power which is not supported by its own force. Straight away, the threshold of Agrippina was abandoned. No one consoled her, no one came to her, except for a few women; it was unclear whether they did so from love or from hatred.’

It is  55; Agrippina the Younger seems to be seeking support, and worse, against her son. The movements in the passage involve large groups of people and solitary individuals. The movements are related to power but also status, the source of Agrippina’s power (cf. 19.1 non sua ui nixae). The humiliation connected with status brings into the passage an element of pathos (note 19.1 nemo . . . nemo), which combines with the distanced observation of power politics. The groups of soldiers in the first sentence respond to Agrippina’s cultivation of tribunes and centurions, the visitors in what follows to her cultivation of nobiles (both 18.2). An elaborate listing of the soldiers is undone in the curt motion of 18.3 digredi iubet. The list has emphasized that the abundance of troops does honour to Agrippina in view of her relation to principes.⁴⁰ Longer is taken on the undoing of her share in his visitors and of visits to her more generally. The bustling and repeating verb frequentaretur (18.3), with the assembling throng suggested in coetu, is opposed by the bleak and sudden statim relictum (19.1; absence of motion as motion), and by nemo adire (no one would even come to her). The few women will include the high-ranking and resentful Iunia Silana (19.2; PIR² I 864). But their gender, paucity, and possible gloating contrast with the powerful men she had in mind (18.2) and with coetu salutantium (18.3). Nero’s acts of motion come in between, and cause the change. The first is the transitive motion of transfert (18.3). matrem is slightly pointed, after the honorific matri and eundem honorem: he makes his mother move. The second motion is intransitive; the encouragingly frequentative quoties . . . uentitaret is annulled by ⁴⁰ coniugi imperatoris, i.e. Germanicus, matri, sc. imperatoris, i.e. Nero, eundem honorem, i.e. qua Nero’s mother. On this passage, cf. Vogt-Lüerssen (2002), 154–5, Ginsburg (2005), 78–9; on the context, cf. Drinkwater (2019), 32–55.

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   

what follows, ending with digrediens. The son’s visits are sufficiently unfriendly to manifest the fall from favour. The coming is portrayed as involving a large group—as if the princeps needs to be kept safe from Agrippina—and it also displays the abundant soldiers she no longer has. The circumstances of parting present a minimum of social action (post breue osculum).⁴¹ The penetrating generality that follows (19.1) uses no words that in themselves clearly keep their origins in motion (contrast Ov. Met. 15.178–84 in Chapter 3, p. 103). But the combination of instabile, fluxum, and non sua ui nixae invites the reader to notice the dimension of motion, especially as in metaphor fluxum advances on instabile. The shift to a different level of movement leads impressively into what appears as specific and literal motion: the universal abandonment of Agrippina.⁴² Suet. Nero 34.1 puts together in one stage (mox) the loss of soliders and Palatium, and marks the latter as worse. He gives significant but rather general motion in abducta . . . statione, ‘the guard was led away’, and contubernio quoque et Palatio expulit, ‘drove her even from the Palatium, and their living together there’. A different construction of the material appears at Dio Cass. 61.8.4–6, iii.28–9 Boissevain. The removal of guards from Agrippina happens substantially before the removal of Agrippina from the Palatium. Group and individual motion is presented in a striking outdoor scene of individuals avoiding encounters with Agrippina, who is now without her guards (6). Tacitus uses the same shaping of material as Suetonius, but creates more strongly visual scenes than he does, including digredi iubet (18.3) and awkward meetings with Nero. The impression of the scenes is clearer than the exact chronology: 19.1 statim suggests a single moment, with self-conscious drama; limen seems to include both Agrippina’s part of the Palatium and her new accommodation.⁴³

Startling Britons (14.30.1–2) stabat pro litore diuersa acies, densa armis uirisque, intercursantibus feminis; in modum Furiarum ueste ferali, crinibus deiectis faces praeferebant, Druidaeque circum, preces diras sublatis ad caelum manibus fundentes, nouitate aspectus perculere militem ut quasi haerentibus membris immobile corpus uulneribus praeberent. 2 dein cohortationibus ducis et se ipsi stimulantes ne muliebre et fanaticum agmen pauescerent, inferunt signa sternuntque obuios et igni suo inuoluunt. ⁴¹ A sign of coldness even from Domitian to Agricola, Agr. 40.3; contrast the lingering departure at Ann. 14.4.4, Agrippina and Nero. On the house, cf. Kokkinos (2002), 147–53. For Agrippina and soldiers, cf. also 18.2 centuriones; Dio Cass. 61.8.4, iii.28–9 Boissevain (Exc. Val.). ⁴² Ginsburg (2005), 79 suggests that limen particularly evokes the abandonment of a woman by lovers. ⁴³ Dio Cass. 61.8.4–6 is Exc. Val. + Xiph.; 8.6 ἄνευ δορυφόρων demands the combination.

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1 feminis, Fuchs

‘At the front of the beach was standing a variegated battle-line: it was dense with weapons and men, but women were running around between them. They were like Furies, dressed in funereal clothes, hair let down, and carrying torches in front of them. Around the force were Druids, who were pouring out terrible prayers, with hands raised to the heavens; in their unfamiliar appearance they so struck the Roman soldiers that their limbs were practically stuck, and they offered for wounding bodies which could not move. 2 But then the general exhorted them and they urged themselves on not to dread a force of women and wild zealots; they brought their standards against them, laid low those who stood in their path, and enveloped them in their own fire.’

C. Suetonius Paulinus crosses to Anglesey in  61, with cavalry and a new type of ship. The alarmingly barbarous sight for the Roman troops is conveyed through an opposition of fixity and motion: first stabat (1) for the unyielding force, which is taken up in densa, then intercursantibus; both stabat and intercursantibus begin their clauses. The female motion, particularly strange when the male force is static and awaiting the enemy, is turned into Graeco-Roman terms, but those of the Furies and their mythological movement. armis uirisque may seem Virgilian, but it probably looks back to Sallust (Jug. 89.4 etc., cf. Tac. Hist. 2.22.1 etc.). The standard phrase is given a twist with the women running between. They as well as the Druids terrify the men (cf. 2 ne muliebre . . . agmen pauescerent).⁴⁴ In contrast to the surprising mobility of the British women is the surprising immobility of the Roman soldiers (1 immobile). haerentibus conveys the nightmarish sensation, praeberent the paradox of their inaction. As often in the Annals, a dire situation for the Romans is reversed (2); three brief clauses present positive movement, the first two with verb at the start. inferunt signa is archetypally legionary, sternuntque obuios obliterates the firm position of stabat, igni suo inuoluunt turns the women’s quasi-divine accoutrements back on them (faces). The account is almost entirely made up of groups (the singular miles, cf. 1 militem, is common in Tacitus). The Britons are subdivided (cf. 1 diuersa); the Romans are not, despite the separation at 29.3 into infantry and cavalry. Suetonius Paulinus appears only briefly, in a important causative role (2 cohortationibus ducis); even here the men activate themselves too (se ipsi stimulantes). Outside this sequence, his agency is shown decisively: 29.3 adgredi parat, ‘he prepared to attack’, 30.3 haec agenti Suetonio, ‘as Suetonius was making these things happen’.⁴⁵

⁴⁴ Cf. de la Bédoyère (2006), 33, 36; Allason-Jones (1989), 116. For the Furies in action with their torches, cf. e.g. Cic. Sex. Rosc. 67. For 1 crinibus deiectis, cf. e.g. Lucanian red-figure nestoris, Naples MAN 82124, 380–360 , LIMC Erinys 68; but note e.g. Boudicca normally wearing her hair long at Dio Cass. 62.2.4 iii.44 (Xiph.). ⁴⁵ Cf. for Paulinus’ agency Dio Cass. 62.7.1, 8.1, iii.47, 48 Boissevain (Xiph.).

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   

The basic impact of the initial scene on Romans is likely to go back to accounts from the time: that is suggested by a probable contemporary allusion, Sen. NQ 5.18.7 obuius in litore hostis. But that phrase does not take us far into the motion and non-motion of this depiction.⁴⁶

Fire (15.38.2–6) . . . simul coeptus ignis et statim ualidus ac uento citus longitudinem circi corripuit. . . . 3 impetu peruagatum incendium plana primum, deinde in edita adsurgens et rursus inferiora populando, anteiit remedia uelocitate mali et obnoxia urbe artis itineribus hucque et illuc flexis atque enormibus uicis, qualis uetus Roma fuit. 4 ad hoc lamenta pauentium feminarum, fessa aetate aut rudis pueritiae [aetas], quique sibi quique aliis consulebant, dum trahunt inualidos aut opperiuntur, pars mora, pars festinans, cuncta impediebant. 5 et saepe dum in tergum respectant lateribus aut fronte circumueniebantur, uel si in proxima euaserant, illis quoque igni correptis, etiam quae longinqua crediderant in eodem casu reperiebant. 6 postremo, quid uitarent quid peterent ambigui, complere uias, sterni per agros; quidam amissis omnibus fortunis, diurni quoque uictus, alii caritate suorum, quos eripere nequiuerant, quamuis patente effugio interiere. ‘[In the tabernae around the Circus] the fire simultaneously began and, immediately strong and set moving by the wind, seized the full length of the circus . . . . [There were no buildings such as to delay the fire.] 3 The fire, in its onward sweep, first ranged all over what was on the level ground, then rose to what was high, and, conversely, ransacked what was low. It outran attempts to counter it through the speed of the disaster and the vulnerability of the city, with its roads narrow and twisting this way and that, and its irregular blocks of houses: such was Rome in the old days. 4 Besides this, all efforts were hindered by lamentations from frightened women of weary old age or inexperienced girlhood, and by people who were taking action some for themselves, some for others, and dragging the infirm or waiting for them, some delaying, some hurrying. 5 Often while people were looking in a backwards direction, they were encompassed from the sides or the front; or if they did manage to escape to near parts, and those too had been seized by the fire, they would find the parts they had thought a long way off to be in the same situation. 6 Finally, in their uncertainty over what to avoid and what to make for, they filled the roads and threw themselves down all over the fields. Some people, as they had lost all their fortune, even for day-to-day survival, or out ⁴⁶ For Sen. NQ 5.18.7, see Chapter 7 (pp. 237, 239). pro litore (1) means, ‘at the edge of the shore’, cf. OLD² s.v. 1b.

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of love for their dear ones, whom they had been unable to snatch away, perished even though a way to safety lay open.’

The account begins with the motion of the fire through the buildings and proceeds to the answering motions of the people. The motion of the fire is missing from our version of Dio’s remarkable description (62.16–18.2, iii.55–6 Boissevain (Xiph.)), which on the people is more vivid than even Tacitus’ depiction. The fire’s motion over the roofs appears in Statius’ account of Lucan’s account, Silv. 2.7.60–1. The fire is not the subject of a verb in Dio; at 17.2 the wind is subject, the fire object (ὑπέλαβε, ‘took up’, ἤγαγεν, ‘brought’).⁴⁷ In Tacitus, for all the military connotations, the fire as element (ignis) or event (incendium) is forcefully singular. The people are a plurality that is constantly subdivided, or sub-subdivided: 4 feminarum (then subdivided), quique sibi quique aliis, aut, pars . . . pars, 5 saepe, aut, uel, 6 quidam (then subdivided). What unites one subdivided group is just the obstacle to all motion that they variously present: 5 pars mora, pars festinans, cuncta impediebant. The motion or lack of substantial motion from the groups in 5 (euaserant, in tergum respectant) is rendered futile or actually calamitous by the universal motion of the fire (correptis, circumueniebantur).⁴⁸ But those last verbs are passive: the greatest sense of quasi-personal quasipurpose in the fire comes from the active verbs of the first part. Compare 5 igni correptis with 2 ignis . . . ualidus . . . longitudinem circi corripuit: 2 personifies more vigorously. In 3 peruagatum (with object), the emphasis is on the per- more than on aimless wandering. adsurgens has no object, but in (in edita) contains a suggestion of aggression; populando takes an object, and is explicitly destructive and notably personifying. The personal uses of anteire in Tacitus strengthen the impression in anteiit of one purpose, the fire’s, successfully thwarting another, its adversaries’.⁴⁹ The speed of the fire’s motion (3 uelocitate) is expressed in the run of the sentence up to mali: it begins with impetu. Words used of people, on the other hand, portray slowness, or a lack of motion, or inadequate haste: 4 trahunt, opperiuntur, mora, festinans, impediebant, 5 respectant. It is an unusual feature of the fire seen as one entity, not, say, a collection of flames, that whereas the motion of the people is based on leaving one place to

⁴⁷ On Tacitus’ account, cf. besides Ash (2018), 177–98, e.g. Keitel (2010), 342–3, Woodman (2012), 390–2. Neither Tacitus nor Dio has the unguessable concrete surprises of Pepys or Evelyn on the fire of 1666, or of Pliny on Vesuvius (Ep. 6.16 and 20), so maybe of Tacitus in the Histories. Lucan perhaps wrote on the subject both in verse and in prose, cf. besides Stat. Silv. 2.7.60–1, Vacca, Vit. Luc. 65–6 Rostagni. ⁴⁸ Military connotations: cf. Ash (2018), 179, 183; note especially 3 populando. ⁴⁹ For emphasis on per- in peruagari, cf. the personification with the verb at Cic. Ver. 2.85, of Verres’ cupiditas, Sen. Contr. 10.3.5, of illa crudelis belli fortuna, ‘the familiar cruel fortune of war’, Tac. Ann. 12.36.1, of fama. There is less personification in uagantes at Stat. Silv. 2.7.60–1.

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   

occupy another, the motion of the fire brings it to occupy more and more places at once. The half-sentence 5 uel . . . reperiebant communicates through its triple stages how the fire outstrips efforts and hope in space. Dio 62.16.7 is neater but without this point: κἂν ἐκ τοῦ παρόντοϲ τιϲ περιεϲώθη, ἐϲ ἕτερον ἐμπεϲὼν ἐφθείρετο, ‘if someone was saved from the misfortune at hand, he would fall into another and perish’. circumueniebantur gives a more omnipresent verb than the reader has expected from lateribus aut fronte without a.⁵⁰ Tacitus’ concern with these two sets of motion excludes people’s carrying of their things, as might have been expected. That aspect would only have disrupted the imaginative construction—as would smoke. The text simply mentions some people’s loss of all their property (6 amissis omnibus fortunis, cf. Juv. 3.208–9), and theft (38.7, end of account; cf. Dio 62.16.6, 17.1). On the other hand, the attempts of individuals to help each other are prominent as they are not in Dio. The negated eripere used with people as subject (6) is outmatched by the positive corripuit and correptis used of the fire (2, 5). But there is evinced a feeling for dear ones so deep that it causes a fatal failure to move: 6 quamuis patente effugio interiere.⁵¹

Father and Daughter on Trial (16.32.1–2) loquentis adhuc uerba excipit Soranus proclamatque non illam in prouinciam secum profectam, non Plauto per aetatem nosci potuisse, non criminibus mariti conexam: nimiae tantum pietatis ream separarent, atque ipse quamcumque sortem subiret. simul in amplexus occurrentis filiae ruebat, nisi interiecti lictores utrisque obstitissent. 2 mox datus testibus locus; et quantum misericordiae saeuitia accusationis permouerat, tantum irae P. Egnatius testis conciuit. ‘While she was still speaking, Soranus took up Servilia’s words and called out that she had not gone with him to his province, that her age meant she could not have been known to Rubellius Plautus, that she was not linked to the crimes of her husband. He said that the senate should set apart someone against whom the only charge was of too much daughterly love; it should be just himself that underwent whatever fate it was. As he spoke, he was rushing into the arms of his daughter, who was running to join him—had not the lictors placed between them stood in the way of both. 2 Soon all made way for the witnesses. ⁵⁰ On the course of the fire, cf. Panella (2011), 80–5, 87–9. ignes plural Stat. Silv. 2.7.60–1, Tac. Ann. 13.57.3, cf. Koestermann (1963–8), iii.347. For Dio 62.16.7, cf. Ash (2018), 183. ⁵¹ Cf. the fatal motion in Dio 62.18.1, Thuc. 2.51.5. For carrying of property, cf. Dio 62.16.6, Juv. 3.198–9; the element is prominent in Pepys and recurs in Evelyn for 2–7 Sept. 1666. Evelyn appears at one point to indicate its surprising absence, but mistakenly, it seems (The Diary of John Evelyn, ed. E. S. de Beer (6 vols, Oxford, 1955), iii.452, with de Beer’s n. 2, contrast 453, 461; The Diary of Samuel Pepys, ed. R. Latham and W. Matthews (11 vols, London, 1972–83), vii.268, 269, 270, etc.). Smoke: cf. Dio 62.16.5; Keitel (2010), 343.

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The sympathy that had been moved by the ferocity of the prosecution was equalled by the anger that P. Egnatius stirred as witness.’

Barea Soranus (cos. suff.  52, PIR² B 55) is on trial before the senate in 66, as is his 19-year-old daughter (PIR² S 606), wife of the exile Annius Pollio, herself accused of paying magi in connection with her father’s plight (16.30.2). Soranus, like Thrasea Paetus, is regarded by Tacitus as uirtus ipsa (21.1). The passage shows the language of motion being used on different levels, which all contribute to the emotive scene.⁵² The uses of that language in the first and second sentences show the two individuals distinct in their motion, and then united. Both aspects display their love, and the sequence creates a poignant moment. The negated motion in the past, 1 non illam in prouinciam secum profectam, begins Soranus’ overlapping match to his daughter’s, ‘nescit . . . pater et, si crimen est, sola deliqui’ (31.2), ‘my . . . father does not know; if there is a crime, I alone have committed it’. The lack of motion provides a particularly firm proof that their lines of action have been quite separate, that she is nothing to do with his alleged crimes in governing Asia. separarent (1) and subiret have a light colouring of motion: they indicate motion requested, and so quite uncertain, in the future. separarent suggests transitive motion, with Servilia as the person moved; subiret is intransitive, and applies just to Soranus, who is underlined by ipse. Servilia and Soranus in speaking each wish that, if the possibility of condemnation is realized for herself or himself (31.2 si crimen est, 32.1 quamcumque sortem), their two lots should be different. With some paradox, pietas (pietatis) is the ground for keeping Servilia away.⁵³ The literal motion has been separate in the past; Soranus asks that his figurative motion should be separate in the future. While he speaks (1 simul), the two people attempt to come together physically for one short moment—a literal motion not realized (nisi). Earlier, they had stood there, facing different ways (30.3 steteruntque diuersi draws attention to the tableau, cf. 31.1); she was not looking at him (30.3). Now daughter and father both move rapidly to embrace each other (1 occurrentis, ruebat); he, grandis aeuo (30.3), may be presumed not to run, but their matching motion embodies their love. The embrace they aim for (1 in amplexus) contrasts with Servilia’s solitary embrace of the altars (complexa 31.2), in front of the senate; her previous prostration on the ground (31.2) contrasts with her running now. Her present act is like the thwarted attempt of the heroine to run and embrace the hero in a trial at Chariton 5.8.1 (προϲδραμεῖν).

⁵² On the daughter Servilia, cf. Dio Cass. 62.24.3, iii.65 Boissevain (Xiph.), Shotter (2008), 148, Maiuri (2012), 167–9, Pollard (2014), 197–8, M. T. Griffin (2018), 657. ⁵³ For the surface argument, cf. Virg. Aen. 9.427–30 (Nisus), ending tantum infelicem nimium dilexit amicum, ‘Euryalus just loved his unlucky friend [Nisus] all too well’. Soranus’ alleged crimes: esp. stirring up sedition, 23.1, 30.1; cf. M. T. Griffin (1984), 178.

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Here, though, the prevention of the motion by the lictors (obstitissent) communicates the heartlessness of Nero (cf. 31.2 tu, Caesar); contrast 2 misericordiae of the senators. Resetting of the legal stage quickly follows; the idiom datus . . . locus (2) suggests moving of others out of the way, and in any case the witnesses make their entrance. mox in Tacitus need not be stressed; but the account runs as if Soranus makes no defence of himself. The witnesses, or at least the one singled out, make a contemptible contrast: Egnatius had been Soranus’ cliens, friend, fellow-Stoic, perhaps teacher. His infidelity is opposed to Servilia’s loyalty, and to Asclepiodotus’: 33.1 labantem non deseruit . . . in exilium actus, ‘Asclepiodotus did not desert Soranus in his fall . . . he was driven into exile’. permouerat (32.2) and conciuit together bring out their underlying metaphorical sense of motion; they conjure up the body of senators in the background. The feelings mentioned pass over Servilia and Soranus’ attempted embrace and link the earlier prosecution and the new witness statements. The failed moment of motion is sealed off as a moment.⁵⁴

Tiberius Meets his End (6.50) iam Tiberium corpus, iam uires, nondum dissimulatio deserebat. idem animi rigor; sermone ac uultu intentus quaesita interdum comitate quamuis manifestam defectionem tegebat. mutatisque saepius locis tandem apud promunturium Miseni consedit in uilla cui L. Lucullus quondam dominus. 2 illic eum adpropinquare supremis tali modo compertum. erat medicus arte insignis, nomine Charicles, non quidem regere ualetudines principis solitus, consilii tamen copiam praebere. is, uelut propria ad negotia digrediens et per speciem officii manum complexus, pulsum uenarum attigit. 3 neque fefellit: nam Tiberius, incertum an offensus tantoque magis iram premens, instaurari epulas iubet discumbitque ultra solitum, quasi honori abeuntis amici tribueret. Charicles tamen labi spiritum nec ultra biduum duraturum Macroni firmauit. 4 inde cuncta conloquiis inter praesentis, nuntiis apud legatos et exercitus festinabantur. septimum decimum kal. Aprilis interclusa anima creditus est mortalitatem expleuisse; et multo gratantum concursu ad capienda imperii primordia C. Caesar egrediebatur, cum repente adfertur redire Tiberio uocem ac uisus uocarique qui recreandae defectioni cibum adferrent. 5 pauor hinc in omnis, et ceteri passim dispergi, se quisque maestum aut nescium fingere; Caesar in silentium fixus a summa spe nouissima expectabat. Macro intrepidus opprimi senem iniectu multae uestis iubet discedique ab limine. sic Tiberius finiuit octauo et septuagesimo aetatis anno. ⁵⁴ Egnatius: cf. Hist. 4.10, Dio Cass. 62.26.1, iii.64–5 Boissevain (Xiph.), Juv. 3.116–18, Σ Juv. 3.116, 6.552. Asclepiodotus: cf. Dio Cass. 62.26.2.

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‘Tiberius was now being deserted by his body and his strength, but not yet by his ability to conceal. His mind remained unbending; he was firmly concentrated in his words and his face. He sought to hide his weakening, evident though it was, sometimes with a contrived affability. He kept changing his location, but finally settled at the headland of Misenum, in a villa once owned by L. Lucullus. 2 There it was discovered he was nearing his end, in the following manner. There was a doctor called Charicles, famed for his skill; he did not as a rule actually give instructions when the princeps was ill, but he gave plenty of advice. He seemed to be going off to business of his own; he took Tiberius’ hand, with a pretence of politeness to the princeps, and touched his pulse. 3 His action did not pass unnoticed. Tiberius ordered dinner to be resumed; it is unclear whether he was offended and hence suppressing his wrath all the more. He remained at the meal beyond his usual hour, as if he were paying tribute to his departing friend. But Charicles affirmed to Macro that Tiberius’ vital spirits were slipping away, and that he would not last above two days. 4 So everything was rushed, in conversation among those at the villa, and with messengers among the legates and the armies. On 16 March, Tiberius’ breath seemed blocked; it was thought he had finished his mortal existence. C. Caesar was coming out of the villa to take up the beginning of imperial rule, with a large gathering of people congratulating him, when news was suddenly brought that Tiberius’ voice and vision were returning to him, and that he was calling people to bring food to restore him from his weakness. 5 This threw fear into everyone. All the rest scattered in all directions, and each pretended he was sad or knew nothing about it; C. Caesar was transfixed into silence, and, after the highest hopes, was now awaiting the worst. Macro, quite unafraid, ordered the old man to be smothered by throwing many blankets on him; he then told everyone to move away from the threshold and disperse. So Tiberius’ life ended, in its seventy-eighth year.’

We end with two big events in the history of the Caesars, the first the death of Tiberius, which all but ends Book 6, or appears to. The narrative combines different scales and types of motion, pointedly. The changes and fluctuations in Tiberius’ body are presented on a minute scale, with much detail, uncertain even at the time; but these small movements rapidly generate frenzied motion, by many people or over large distances. There is an elaborate cast of other characters, whose motion and immobility show resolution, inconstancy, or deceit.⁵⁵

⁵⁵ On the end of Book 6, cf. Ando (1997), 289–99; note the end of Dio Cassius 58 (cf. 58.28.5 with Tac. Ann. 6.51). None of the big resonance of Tiberius’ movements appears in Suet. Tib. 72.3–73.2; but the fluctuations and effect on Caligula and ‘the others’ appear in Dio 58.28.2, so were probably in Tacitus’ sources. On the events, cf. e.g. PIR² C 941 p. 225, I 217 pp. 170–1, Levick (1999), 218–19, Yavetz (1999), Seager (2005), 78–9, (2005), 206–7, Winterling (2011), 48–51, 200, Kienast, Eck, Heil (2017), 72–3, 78–80.

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Charicles reports a gradual motion which needed cunning to discover, labi spiritum (3); cf. 15.70.1 ab extremis cedere spiritum, ‘that life was withdrawing from his hands and feet’, 16.11.2 certatim precantes labenti animae celerem exitum, ‘with competing prayers that their life might have a swift end as it slipped away’. As a result of this slight motion (4 inde), messengers (nuntiis) rush around the empire. The multitude which gathers to hail Caligula is put first in its halfsentence (4 multo gratantum concursu); but the news that physical faculties in Tiberius’ body are metaphorically returning (redire) causes (hinc) a mass dispersal (omnis, ceteri, passim). The abrupt shift at cum repente (4), and the undignified change in the motion of the throng (5), create a kind of comedy amid the tragedy. Caligula would seem to be staying in the villa at Misenum; where the multitude comes from is not made apparent.⁵⁶ The youthful and literal movement of C. Caesar egrediebatur (4) confronts the elderly and metaphorical movement of redire Tiberio uocem ac uisus. Tiberius obviously does not leave the villa (cf. adferrent), and his last sudden rising from bed (Seneca the Elder (?), FRHist 74 F 1) is no part of Tacitus’ account; but the news of faculties returning to Tiberius forces a passive immobility on Caligula. His fixity contrasts with the rapid dispersal of the rest: ceteri passim dispergi (5) is set against Caesar in silentium fixus. fixus indicates a frozen stance of terror and astonishment. Macro intrepidus and his determined causing of motion contrast with Caligula’s immobility and with the terror of all, pauor. That feeling moves into them all, in omnis, and causes most to move, as at 4.59.2 hinc metus in omnis, et fuga . . . .The commanded leaving of Macro’s men after their ruthless action is set against the instinctive departure of Caligula’s followers before anything happens to them (dispergi, discedi, similar in form).⁵⁷ Caligula’s passive fixity is unlike Tiberius’ determined animi rigor (1), which conveys fixity too. In other versions, Caligula causes the death (so Suet. Tib. 73.2) or there is no murder (cf. Jos. AJ 18.224).⁵⁸ Various levels of motion and the lack of motion are involved in the presentation of Tiberius. This is apparent when deserebat (1) is asserted of physical things, including his body, is denied of the more mental dissimulatio, and is shortly followed by the literal mutatisque saepius locis. Tiberius moves around, then comes to rest (consedit); but on another level of language he is moving towards ⁵⁶ C. Caesar . . . omnis, et ceteri (4) . . . Caesar (5) suggests the correctness of the standard view that the second Caesar too is Caligula, not Tiberius, though ceteri would make sense without a contrasting Caesar, cf. e.g. Hist. 2.78.1. For the quasi-comedy of cum repente, cf. Ann. 6.2.2 cum repente . . . per deridiculum . . . 4 . . . ludibria. ⁵⁷ fixus: cf. 1.68.2 quasi ob metum defixo, 13.5.2 pauore defixis, Apul. Met. 3.10.2 (astonishment) fixus in lapide steti gelidus, ‘I stood there, set into stone’ like a statue, Hom. Il. 13.434–9. ⁵⁸ rigor: cf. Val. Max. 3.8.3 . . . mentis suae flecti non uult rigorem, ‘he did not wish his unyielding mind to bend’; Quint. Inst. 9.3.101: the face ought not to look dumbstruck immobili rigore, ‘with unmoving stiffness’. sermone ac uultu intentus (1) shows resolute activity, unlike in silentium fixus (5); Tiberius forces the uultus to match the animus, cf. Eck, Caballos, Fernández (1996), 240 on S. C. de Cn. Pisone patre 131–2.

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death (2 adpropinquare). illic at the start of 2, illic eum adpropinquare, makes the change in level palpable. While Tiberius stays put (1 consedit), his ‘friend’ claims to be casually leaving (2 digrediens, 3 abeuntis; a contrast too with Caligula’s egrediebatur (4)). There is an intriguing interval between the simplicity of deceit in Charicles’ alleged literal motion (2 uelut propria ad negotia digrediens) and the interiority and inaccessibility of figurative motion in the deceptive Tiberius’ mind (3 incertum an offensus tantoque magis iram premens). digrediens and premens show a parallel pattern: a nominative participle ends a clause after an initial subject, 2 is, 3 Tiberius. Charicles has no deceptive intent in Suet. Tib. 72.3. The close depiction of Tiberius’ all-important body and mind is ended when Tiberium (1), Tiberius (3), Tiberio (4) are reduced to senem (5), and a brutal act of motion (iniectu multae uestis) ignores the princeps’s supreme standing. The structures of significance which had shaped the presentation of motion are now destroyed—or rather transferred to a new Caesar.

A Party Does Not Go Well (11.31.2–32) 31.2 at Messalina non alias solutior luxu, adulto autumno simulacrum uindemiae per domum celebrabat. urgeri prela, fluere lacus; et feminae pellibus accinctae adsultabant ut sacrificantes uel insanientes Bacchae. ipsa crine fluxo thyrsum quatiens, iuxtaque Silius hedera uinctus, gerere cothurnos, iacere caput, strepente circum procaci choro. 3 ferunt Vettium Valentem lasciuia in praealtam arborem conisum, interrogantibus quid aspiceret, respondisse tempestatem ab Ostia atrocem, siue coeperat ea species, seu forte lapsa uox in praesagium uertit. 32.1 non rumor interea, sed undique nuntii incedunt, qui gnara Claudio cuncta et uenire promptum ultioni adferrent. igitur Messalina Lucullianos in hortos, Silius dissimulando metu ad munia fori digrediuntur. ceteris passim dilabentibus adfuere centuriones, inditaque sunt uincla, ut quis reperiebatur in publico aut per latebras. 2 Messalina tamen, quamquam res aduersae consilium eximerent, ire obuiam et aspici a marito, quod saepe subsidium habuerat, haud segniter intendit; misitque ut Britannicus et Octauia in complexum patris pergerent. et Vibidiam, uirginum Vestalium uetustissimam, orauit pontificis maximi auris adire, clementiam expetere. 3 atque interim, tribus omnino comitantibus—id repente solitudinis erat—spatium urbis pedibus emensa, uehiculo quo purgamenta hortorum egeruntur Ostiensem uiam intrat, nulla cuiusquam misericordia, quia flagitiorum deformitas praeualebat. 32.3 egeruntur Lipsius: eripiuntur M: excipiuntur Heinsius: eiiciuntur Reeve

31.2 ‘As for Messalina, on no other occasion had her luxurious dissipation been greater; at the height of autumn she celebrated a mimicry of grape-gathering throughout house and gardens. Pressure was being applied to the wine-presses,

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the troughs were flowing. Women clad in skins were leaping about like bacchants engaged in offerings or out of their minds. Messalina herself, with hair streaming, was shaking a thyrsus; next to her was Silius, with an ivy wreath. They wore Bacchic footwear, and were throwing their heads about. Around them a wanton chorus was sounding loudly. 3 They say that Vettius Valens, playing around, struggled into a very high tree; when people asked what he could see, he said a terrible storm from Ostia. Either such a sight had begun; or an utterance slipped out by accident and turned into a prophecy. 32.1 In the meantime, not a rumour but messengers came from all directions to report that Claudius knew all, and was coming keen for vengeance. Messalina and Silius went off different ways, she to the Gardens of Lucullus, he, concealing his fear, to tasks in the forum. The others involved were dispersing everywhere; but centurions were there, and put people in chains, as each was found in public or in hiding. 2 Although the bad turn in events was removing Messalina’s ability to plan, she set briskly about going to meet her husband and being seen by him; she had often been helped by that in the past. She also sent instructions that Britannicus and Octavia should make for their father’s open arms. She begged Vibidia, oldest of the Vestal Virgins, to approach the ear of Claudius as Supreme Priest and seek for mercy. 3 In the meantime, with three people in all accompanying her—such was the isolation to which she had suddenly been reduced— she covered the space of Rome on foot. Then, in a contrivance that they use for taking out the waste in gardens, she embarked on the Via Ostiensis. No one felt sorry for her: the ugliness of her crimes had too much effect.’

The Dionysiac revelry comes shortly after the strange wedding of Claudius’ wife Messalina (PIR² V 241) to C. Silius (PIR² S 714), while Claudius is in Ostia. The year is  48. Silius was a consul designate in 47 and 48 for 48 or, probably, 49; he would have to have been at least 32 in the year of his consulship; Messalina’s age is not clear.⁵⁹ The passage sets two kinds of motion against each other. The first, the revelry (esp. 31.2), is physical movement for its own sake, with no proceeding to another place. The second (32.1–3), the reaction to the news, is a series of movements undertaken only for a purpose; it involves motion away from the house and in some cases towards Claudius. By the standards of historiography, considerable detail is lavished on both. The third set of movements, which causes the change

⁵⁹ Wedding: Ann. 11.26–31.1, Dio Cass. 60.31.1–4, iii.5–6 Boissevain (Exc. Val., Zon., Xiph.); [Sen.] Oct. 257–61 (260 nupta demens nupsit, ‘already married, she got married, madly’), Juv. 10.329–45, Suet. Claud. 26.2, 29.3. Silius’ age: cf. Dio 52.20.2, Mommsen (1887–8), i.574; his father (Dio 60.31.3 (Zon., Exc. Val.)) was consul in 13. On Silius, cf. T. D. Barnes (1974), 444, Syme (1986), 51 (note that ‘20’ means ‘20 ’), 175–6, Malloch (2013), 94–5, 201; on Messalina, e.g. Bauman (1994), 166–79, Hurley (2001), 183–5. On the passage, besides Malloch (2013), 432–3, see Henrichs (1978), 155–9, Santoro L’hoir (2006), 235–6, Hausmann (2009), 282–9, Nappa (2010), 194, Panoussi (2018), 212–19.

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between the first and second, is curtly indicated, especially the movement to which the arrival of the messengers points, the coming of Claudius for vengeance: 31.3 ab, 32.1 uenire (enhanced by 31.3 atrocem and 32.1 promptum ultioni). The curtness is effective, and adds to the terror for the revellers; the actual narrative will paint a less incisive picture: 33.1 trepidabatur nihilo minus a Caesare, ‘there was none the less anxiety from Claudius’.⁶⁰ The first type of motion, the Bacchic dancing, is unified activity. The second, the reaction, breaks the group into diverse movements (cf. the preverbs in 32.1 digrediuntur, dilabentibus), and brings in further separate acts of motion (the children, Vibidia: 32.2). The first type receives accumulated detail, to a degree uncommon in history; Dio Cass. 60.31.4 just says the party was famous, the revel ἀϲελγέϲτατοϲ. In Tacitus, the many brief parallel or near-parallel clauses evoke both the participants’ orgiastic wildness and the narrator’s oratorical disapprobation. The incredulous 27, then 30–31.1 on the growing danger, and 31.2 non alias solutior luxu ensure that the phrases on movement carry the narrator’s voice.⁶¹ The motion begins with no people mentioned, and no cult (31.2 urgeri prela, fluere lacus). Next appear anonymous Bacchic women, followed by Messalina (ipsa), and then, at the climax of incongruity, by the consul designate. crine fluxo of Messalina certainly conveys movement for readers familiar with bacchants; one may contrast Messalina’s neatly bound hair on RPC I 2033–4 obv., 2038 obv. (Nicaea,  c.47–8), in her imperial stance as ΝΕΑ ΗΡΑ, ‘a new Hera’. iacere caput brings out physical effort more strongly, and abnormal action. Messalina and Silius are in motion next to each other (iuxtaque); they are surrounded by an implicitly mobile chorus of dancers (cf. procaci and circum). Their ecstatic movements are repetitive: thyrsum quatiens, iacere caput.⁶² The numerous actions in the second type of motion, the response to the news, do not heap up details of single movements. We hear most about the sequence of Messalina’s journey. She originally goes from the Palatine to Lucullus’ Gardens in the north, by the start of the Aqua Virgo (32.1 Lucullianos in hortos); then she traverses the whole extent of Rome by foot, 32.2 spatium urbis pedibus emensa, to reach the start of the Via Ostiensis in the south. The cart for garden waste is naturally taken to come from the Gardens of Lucullus, which she owns; if so, it was evidently too embarrassing a mode of transport for the city, and has been brought separately (the particulars would not have helped the rhetoric). The vehicle none the less presents a pointed and extreme degradation from the roofed carpentum granted as an honour to her and some other imperial women. On the rhetorical ⁶⁰ Cf. 13.16.3. It could even be ‘there was no less anxiety’, cf. Cat. 61.189–91. ⁶¹ Not an element quite available in art, though moral looseness is made evident e.g. in the Dionysiac revels of sarcophagus, Naples, MAN (Gabinetto segreto) 27710, earlier ii ; Turcan (1966), 138–9, pl. 6a. ⁶² Bacchic hair: cf. e.g. Eur. Bacch. 150, Ov. Met. 3.726 mouitque per aera crinem, ‘she moved her hair through the air’. New Hera: Livia had been ΗΡΑ Λ(Ε)ΙΒΙΑ, RPC I 3143 obv.

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surface, its inglorious specifics continue the mere three companions (32.3 tribus omnino comitantibus): a minimal group motion. But the tonality here fluctuates, almost as in Juvenal, from largely sad (three) to vivaciously incongruous (gardencart). Bystanders are implied but separated from the group in the negative accompanying circumstance nulla cuiusquam misericordia. Messalina’s isolation is manifest, for all her deployment of others in further motion (for Vibidia cf. 34.3). repente in its expressively abrupt parenthesis marks the contrast with the earlier activity; one may compare the statim at the start of the sentence which announces more imposingly the desertion of Agrippina (13.19.1, above, p. 136).⁶³ Before 32.3, the physical details relate to Claudius in various capacities, and so to the purpose of all the motion: 32.2 aspici a marito, in complexum patris, pontificis maximi auris. The actual verbs of motion, except for whatever happens to the rubbish, are largely plain and colourless: 32.2 ire obuiam, misit, pergerent, adire, 32.3 emensa, intrat. They are quite different from the verbs of motion in the first part: 31.2 urgeri, fluere, adsultabant, quatiens, iacere—and 31.3 conisum of Vettius Valens’ arboreal endeavours. A few final remarks to draw the passages together in the reader’s mind. Groups are much more important than in Ovid, or even Homer. They appear in nearly all the passages (less forcefully in the passage on Soranus). Very often individual figures are set against large groups (so Arminius, or the dying Tiberius), sometimes to striking quasi-visual effect (so Agrippina the Elder with Germanicus’ ashes). But the groups themselves are commonly divided up into groups, sometimes visually, or with a point in military tactics, or both (Germanicus’ plans; patterns of dislodged Germani; Britons), sometimes with moral differentation (the fire). Sometimes the groups break themselves up (Caligula’s crowd, Messalina’s party-goers). The groups are not simply parts of two armies, Greek, and Trojan with Trojan allies: they include Germani, Britons, Hiberi, the population of Rome, multitudinous admirers of the dead Germanicus, less multitudinous visitors of the Younger Agrippina . . . . Structures of power are scrutinized in the patterns of motion. In the causation of motion, we see the parallel structures of two kingdoms illegally ignored when Mithridates is felled and dragged; we see the structure of imperial power reasserted but family ignored when Agrippina the Younger is moved from the Palatium. Germanicus in two passages causes his men to move with alacrity; he is the general (now accepted), and produces not just compliance but enthusiastic action. The existence of power, official or less official, causes, without intent from Sejanus or Claudius, strange movement and immobility from the populace of Rome (Sejanus), and wild movement from Messalina (Claudius). Messalina ⁶³ Location of Lucullus’ Gardens: Front. Aq. 22.2, Broise and Jolivet (1996). Vehicle and carpentum: cf. Malloch (2013), 441–2; Dio Cass. 60.22.2; Suet. Claud. 11.2, 17.3; RIC i². Claudius 103 rev., BMCRE i pl. 37.3.

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herself causes her children and a significant friend to move on her behalf. But motion can be impelled without another actual person: thus much and varied movement is forced by the somewhat personified fire. Specifics on motion have ethical and political point; but interacting with such significance, and not confined to it, is the liveliness of detail. High into trees clamber Germani and Valens (in summa arborum nisi; in praealtam arborem conisum); ablatives indicate ethical comment (turpi fuga; lasciuia), but there is an entertaining incongruity too (so Valens, PIR² V 492, was a significant intellectual). Extremes in motion by transport appear in the surprising slow dignity of the ships approaching with the remains of Germanicus and in the surprising hasty indignity of Messalina’s rubbish-cart. It might be objected that other texts, like Petronius, Juvenal, Seneca, are still fuller of colourful detail: history is not just a matter of vividness. But part of the point about the rubbish-cart lies in the austere disdain with which the narrator brings himself to mention uehiculo quo purgamenta hortorum egeruntur.⁶⁴ In Tacitus, the narratorial voice forms a particularly prominent part in the reader’s experience of motion; it guides responses and also stimulates responses beyond what it says. The narrator is a crucial element in the total world built up by the work, motion included. Perhaps he is its most important individual; but although he is elsewhere seen in metaliterary motion, it is his presentation of motion that adds a layer to the passages we have looked at closely. Explicit moral or related comment is characteristic; though it could sometimes be seen as showing somebody else’s point of view, the comment can hardly escape pure and untinged by narratorial colouring (so Sejanus foedum illud . . . seruitium spectanti). On the other hand, apparent acceptance by the narrator does not exclude other reactions. He seems to endorse flagitiorum deformitas of Messalina; but the touch of misericordia called forth in the reader by id repente solitudinis erat need not be eliminated by the report that no one felt misericordia. Conflicting evaluations by characters in the narrative suggest, without stating, that the narrator combines responses, and invite the reader to do likewise: so of Mithridates, after indicating the crowd’s anger at his harsh rule, et erant contra qui tantam fortunae commutationem miserarentur. The narrator’s own utterance can shift from assured generalization on movement to an arch multiplicity and uncertainty: so from nihil rerum mortalium etc. on the abandonment of Agrippina the Younger to amore an odio incertas of those few who come to her. The narrator commonly signals paradoxical oddity or irrationality in movement, explicitly with his mirumque dictu on the criss-cross of German flight, more implicitly and compassionately with . . . pars mora, pars festinans, cuncta impediebant on the fire. Later on the fire follows quamuis patente effugio interiere, where the motives

⁶⁴ Valens: cf. esp. Plin. NH 29.8.

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of some are not only tragic but admirable. All combines in a depiction of human movement which is made complex as a literary phenomenon by the conspicuous layer of the narrator’s presentation, and is complex and cohesive in the responses which the characterized narrator elicits. The visibility of levels beyond the events is furthered by the style of the work; the reader is always kept almost uncomfortably on the alert. Elaborate imaginative and verbal structures are built up around motion; the metaphorical, the mental, the unmoving are unusually important in this unusual historiography. The treatment of motion and its absence display with particular force the singular originality of the Annals.

5 Sophocles, Philoctetes and Oedipus at Colonus The Metamorphoses’ handling of motion culminates in a long philosophical speech. The Annals’ handling of motion is much bound up with the narrator’s voice and his historiographical thought. Tragedy, not a work but a multitude of works, does occasionally show commerce with philosophical systems that involve universal theories of motion (so Eur. Tro. 884–8, Hecuba’s prayer); but on the whole it deploys a mythological world. Its strictly dramatic form prevents the development of a narratorial voice. But at the centre of the handling of motion in tragedy stands an element which forms no part of narrative poetry or prose: motion is directly seen. In a paradox we hardly notice, tragedy, unlike historiographical and hexameter narrative, brings figures from the past in motion before our eyes, so that they are known to be past but are also in some way perceived as present, and in visible action. But this directness does not limit the audience to perception without thought. The language and imagination of the plays encompass many different levels of motion, significantly related.¹ To give two immediate examples: at Aesch. Cho. 935–41 Orestes and Pylades have just gone into the house to kill Clytemnestra. Choral song joins their coming into the house with the coming of justice to the Trojans. The emphatic and repeated verb ἔμολε, to which we shall return, brings figurative coming together with literal coming, unseen events in the Agamemnon together with seen events in the Choephoroe. At Soph. El. 453–92, Orestes’ future coming, simply presented at 295 ἥξοντ᾿ Ὀρέϲτην, 303–4, 317–18, is extended by song into the coming of Justice and of the Erinys (475 εἶϲιν, 489 ἥξει, both emphatically placed), and by instructions for prayer into the coming of Agamemnon to help (453–4, Electra speaking). Different levels of motion gather around the seen event of Orestes’ coming and the anticipated event of Electra’s knowing it.²

¹ On Eur. Tro. 884–8, see Kovacs (2018), 270–2. The kind of system drawn on there presupposes that all things are in motion: cf. e.g. Anaximen. A 5 Diels-Kranz = D1 Laks-Most, Diog. Apoll. A 6 Diels-Kranz = D15 Laks-Most. Motion may or may not be included in ὄχημα at 884 and Hipp. Flat. 3.3 p. 107 Jouanna, cf. e.g. Anaximen. A 7.4 = D4 ἐποχεῖϲθαι (note A 20 (Arist.) = D19); apparent at 887–8 is the figurative motion of the cosmic force in causing mortal events. ² At Soph. El. 455–6 the motion sought for Orestes himself advances from the coming to the smaller motion of stepping triumphantly on his enemies, ἐχθροῖϲιν . . . ἐπεμβῆναι ποδί. Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

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Actual movement on the stage, and particularly entrances and exits, have been studied closely and masterfully. But just as the space that concerns tragedy normally extends far beyond the small space actually seen on stage, so the motion that concerns tragedy typically involves much more extensive movement than the few metres’ length of entering, leaving, and other actions. And not only more extensive in space: tragedies are concerned with movements in the past, movements in the future, impossible movements, figurative movements. The movements are also treated, as we have started to see, in a variety of forms and types of language: a flagrant mixture of genres gives tragedy choral lyric and lyric dialogue, besides long speech, quick-fire dialogue, and spoken narration. The range is more considerable than in Homeric poetry, with its basic division between narrative and speech; the language has more metaphorical scope, the thought can have more extravagance.³ Each play, in the case of Sophocles and Euripides, is an hour and a half, in real time, from a story which is usually itself part of a larger myth; the larger myths characteristically involve substantial motion, between cities or continents. Of Sophocles’ entirely extant plays, the Ajax connects with the two expeditions from Greece to Troy, and the returns, the Philoctetes with the second expedition from Greece to Troy (the first 1439–40), the Electra with the expedition to and return from Troy, the OC and to a lesser extent the Antigone with the expedition from Argos to Thebes (only faintly visible in the OT ), the Trachiniae with the travels of Heracles around the world.⁴ Most of the plays include substantial motion in the immediate story of which only a part is enacted: the Philoctetes has travel between Lemnos and Troy, the Electra between Phocis and Mycenae, the OT between Corinth, Delphi, and Thebes, the Trachiniae between Trachis and Euboea, the OC between Thebes (and other cities) and Athens. All the plays in the short time which they cover include plenty of motion which extends a more limited distance beyond the stage: so in the Electra, OT, and Antigone between the country and the palace, in the Philoctetes between the cave and the ship (132), in the Ajax between the generals’ accommodation and Ajax’s (721–2), in the OC between the altar of Poseidon and the sacred area of the Eumenides (887–9), in the Trachiniae from the agora in Trachis to Heracles’ house (421–4).⁵ The motion on the stage is part of a much larger web. And the web does not consist merely of real motion: the plays, which can be called ποιήματα, create dense complexes from metaphor, from extension and turns of language, from ideas, and from straight statement and visible action. Like a song of Pindar or ³ On space in tragedy, see e.g. Rehm (2002), and 138–55 for the spaces involved in Philoctetes; somewhat less extensive in approach is Leontaridou (2012). Study of movement on stage: above all Taplin (1971), (1977), (1978). ⁴ On the connection between Sophocles’ plays and larger myths, cf. Jouanna (2007), 145–56. ⁵ Movement between country and palace: cf. e.g. El. 310–13, OT 760–2, 1047–55, Ant. 772–4.

,     

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much modern Western music, they contain more than anyone could perceive at one performance.⁶ The OT and Antigone are, we saw, particularly limited in conveying the space of an outermost myth (the motion of the Argive expedition is not strongly present, though cf. e.g. Ant. 106–7). But within their own stories consider, for example, the elaborate presentation and connections of the movement as Antigone is led across the stage (or into the orchestra) to go to the chamber of rock. The coalescence of chamber and underworld reaches its furthest point at 891–4: cf. 892–3 οἷ πορεύομαι | πρὸϲ τοὺϲ ἐμαυτῆϲ, ‘to which I am proceeding, to my family’. Throughout, though, the motion across the stage extends beyond it to the chamber and beyond the chamber to the world of the dead. The moment, as is well known, combines funeral and wedding (so marriage to Acheron, 816); the agency of motion repays attention too. Antigone says ἀλλά μ᾿ ὁ παγ|κοίταϲ Ἅιδαϲ ζῶϲαν ἄγει | τὰν Ἀχέροντοϲ | ἀκτάν (810–13), ‘Hades, who causes all to sleep, is taking me alive to the shores of Acheron’; compulsion predominates. That clause (810–13), with its transitive depiction of Antigone’s motion, immediately follows 806–10, where she is intransitively going on her last journey (807–8 τὰν νεάταν ὁδὸν | ϲτείχουϲαν). Going on journeys is normally presented as voluntary; here it is not. ἄγομαι | τὰν ἑτοίμαν ὁδόν, ‘I am led on the set journey’ (877–8), has a strange appearance. ἄγομαι sounds like the utterance of a helpless captive; ἑτοῖμοϲ, though accompanying a noun of action that extends the verb, is excluded from its common sense of willingness (willingness to move Aj. 813, Phil. 569) and suggests inevitability. It is Hades who leads Antigone at 811 (above), but at 773 it is Creon who leads her, in the language; at 760, 885, 931 it is Creon’s men (all with ἄγω). Yet Creon himself will urge and beseech his men to lead him away: 1324, 1339 ἄγετε . . . ἄγετε, 1339 ἄγοιτ᾿ ἄν.⁷ The verb ἄγω is an important one in the Antigone: 20 occurrences, proportionately more than in any other play. Whereas an unwilling Antigone had declared the powerful Hades was leading her to the underworld (810–13), Creon in 1328–32, closely related to 806–13, wishes passionately that the best of deaths (undeified) would come and bring his last day to him: 1331 ἐμοὶ τερμίαν ἄγων ἁμέραν. Fatal motion was forced on her and is desired by him.⁸ ⁶ Tragedy as a type of ποίημα, tragedies as one sort of ποιήματα: cf. e.g. Antiphan. 189.1–2 KasselAustin; Plat. Apol. 22a8–b5, Rep. 8.568b5–6. So Corneille’s Discours de l’utilité et des parties du poème dramatique (Œuvres complètes, ed. Couton (Pléiade), iii.117), and references to individual dramas as ‘ce Poème’ or, ‘un poème’ (e.g. Clitandre, Préface, i.94, Le Cid, Examen, i.699, Le Menteur, ‘Au lecteur’, ii.5, Don Sanche d’Aragon, ‘À Monsieur de Zuylichem’, ii.549). ⁷ Wedding and funeral: Seaford (1987), 107–8, Rehm (1994), esp. 63–4, Griffith (1999), 266–7. 813–15 stress Antigone is unmarried; the marriage to Acheron at 816 may restrospectively confer on 811 ἄγει perverted connotations of transporting in a bridal journey, cf. Pind. fr. 30.1–5 Snell-Maehler. ἄγομαι, ἀγόμεθα from captive: Eur. Tro. 614, 1310; Hec. 937 (narrative of past), Tro. 140 (general); Ar. Clouds 241 (metaphorical). ⁸ The sung passages 806–13 and 1328–32 are striking enough for a connection to be perceived (Antigone’s is her first utterance since 560), even though some elements recur elsewhere, cf. e.g. Eur.

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To take more isolated passages: OT 175–8 has the shore of Hades as the destination again. To it those dying in the plague fly like birds, more powerfully than fire: ἄλλον δ᾿ ἂν ἄλλαι προϲίδοιϲ ἅπερ εὔπτερον ὄρνιν | κρεῖϲϲον ἀμαιμακέτου πυρὸϲ ὄρμενον | ἀκτὰν πρὸϲ ἑϲπέρου θεοῦ. ‘Well-winged’ for bird and ‘irresistible’ for fire enhance the ironic force of the motion. After that, a different perspective appears, with a key Iliadic and Sophoclean verb for non-motion: the dead are lying on the ground (182 κεῖται). The strong, long flight of the birds contrasts with 16–17, where the living Theban children on stage are ‘not yet strong enough to fly far’.⁹ At Ant. 1040–1 a wild sweep of Creon’s fantasy postulates Zeus’s eagles snatching Polynices to the throne of Zeus to eat. The picturable motion embodies a cosmic impiety of attitude (the worlds of the dead, the gods, and mortals are all important for motion and non-motion in the play). Ganymede, eagles as on the reverse of the Acragas decadrachm BMC Sicily Agrigentum 55 (412/11 ), the ‘dogs and birds’ (697–8, 1016–18, cf. 29–30), the birds of Teiresias’ augury (999– 1003, 1021)—all unite in this conception. OT 477–82, lyric like the previous passage from the play, graphically shows the movement of Laius’ sinful slayer in the image of him as a bull: he is blundering around the landscape, between Delphi and Thebes. The μαντεῖα which he is fleeing from turn from being the seat of the oracle (plural as at e.g. [Aesch.] PV 829–30) to being the oracle’s pronouncements, which αἰεὶ | ζῶντα περιποτᾶται, ‘live for ever, and fly round him’. The image evokes the motion of Argus, who will not stay in Hades and comes to Io ([Aesch.] PV 569–70).¹⁰ Motion in the plays is not only a dense area of language; it is also dynamic. Velocity, a prime variable of motion, is an important aspect here. Tragedy likes speed. With some verbs which denote rapid movement, it is not always clear how far they literally denote speed, and how far speed has been fed into the general tragic language. θρώιϲκει, ‘leaps’, may suit the approach of the youthful Hyllus (Trach. 58) and ϲοῦται, ‘rushes’, fit Heracles’ return (645); but ϲυθείϲ, ‘rushing’, of Teiresias (OT 446) and ἔκθορε, ‘leap out’, of the aged Oedipus (OC 234) are more noteworthy, even from impatient speakers. In accounts of events that occur before the actual time of the play, speed can, as in the Iliad, mark out the vigour of the characters, and give the accounts themselves animation and excitement. Hec. 411–12. ἄγω comes 20 times in Antigone (1.48 per cent of number of lines), 23 in OC (1.29 per cent), where it is important to the action, as in Philoctetes (17, 1.16 per cent); other plays: Aj. 13 (0.92 per cent), Trach. 8, OT 7, El. 4. ⁹ For the change at OT 180–2, cf. Finglass (2018), 223. κεῖμαι: cf. e.g. Aj. 899 (start of line), 1206 (start of sentence), Ant. 1240 (start of line and sentence), Phil. 183 (start of colon). ¹⁰ Cf. also Virg. G. 3.146–56, the gadfly plurimus . . . uolitans, ‘flying in large numbers’, and terrifying the cattle into flight; for the grammar of uolitans, cf. Mynors (1990), 205. R. W. B. Burton (180), 151 mentions gadflies but not Argus. Living forever of course has further point, cf. e.g. Soph. Ant. 456–7. Decadrachms: see e.g. Kraay and Hirmer (1966), 296–7, pl. 179, Jenkins (1976), 47–9, (1990), 102–3.

,     

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A disconcerting instance is Ajax. He moves at speed in his madness: 30 πηδῶντα πεδία, ‘leaping about the plains’, a striking verb, 301 ἀπάιξαϲ, ‘darting away’, 305 ἐνάιξαϲ or ἐπάιξαϲ, ‘darted’; note also 294 ἐϲϲύθη, ‘rushed’. It is left somewhat open how far his speed is part of his insanity, and how far he is acting, while optically deluded, with the swiftness of a great warrior. Odysseus uses ἄιϲϲω, ‘I darted’, of his own pursuit (32); but at 306 Ajax’s darting (305) is succeeded by his gradually becoming sane, so that there could be a contrast. Even in his madness Ajax is not easy to interpret.¹¹ As to motion which happens within the time of the play, speed is often made visible, as it cannot be by hexameter narrative: the rapid motion happens partly offstage, partly on. It can be expressed through commentary on individuals’ entrances, often from the characters themselves: so El. 871–2 Χρ. ὑφ᾿ ἡδονῆϲ τοι . . . διώκομαι | τὸ κόϲμιον μεθεῖϲα ϲὺν τάχει μολεῖν, ‘[Chrysothemis] I am driven by delight [an image of transitive motion too] to abandon propriety, and come with speed’ (cf. 934–5). Speed is expressed also in hurried commands for swift action from bodies of people, often subdivided. So Aj. 804–5: hurry some to Teucer, some west, some east; OC 899: tell infantry and cavalry to hurry. Swift movement from chorus or extras will ensue: Aj. 814 τάχοϲ γὰρ ἔργου καὶ ποδῶν ἅμ᾿ ἕψεται, ‘speed of deed and feet will go together’, OC 897, 904. In both places, the verbal expression is crucial too. Crises in the action are particular moments for such speed (as in the passages just mentioned): each play is already a concentrated span of time, and the concentration is intensified yet further. But speed is constantly desiderated in tragedy: people must move ὡϲ τάχιϲτα, ‘as quickly as possible’, ἐν τάχει, ϲὺν τάχει, ‘with speed’, etc. Speed is urged on, and by, Creon in the hope of rescuing Haemon: Ant. 1103–4 ὅϲον . . . τάχιϲτα, ‘as quickly as possible’, to counter θεῶν ποδώκειϲ . . . Βλάβαι, ‘the swift-footed Harms from the gods/the gods’ swift harms’, 1215 (in narrative) ἴτ’ ἆϲϲον ὠκεῖϲ, ‘go nearer quickly!’. But Creon also wishes at the end of the play to be led away ὅτι τάχιϲτα (1324), ‘as quickly as possible’. At the end of the Trachiniae, Heracles must be taken off rapidly, before a fresh attack (1252–5). In the early part of the play, it is assumed Lichas wishes to hurry away: 333–4 ὡϲ . . . ϲπεύδηιϲ, ‘so that you may hurry’. Speed can indicate admirable vigour and determination (so Neoptolemus at Phil. 1222–3—but in a wish to amend his own misdeed); or it can indicate rashness, brutality, or panic, or feeling of other kinds (like Chrysothemis’ delight). The strong emotion and urgent events create an impetus of hurry in the play as a whole, sometimes reinforced as discussion and reflection are broken off for quick action: so El. 1503–4 πόλλ᾿ ἀντιφωνεῖϲ, ἡ δ’ ὁδὸϲ βραδύνεται. | ἀλλ᾿ ἕρφ᾿, ‘you are ¹¹ Finglass (2018), 311 sees speed in both OT 446 and OC 234, from the urgent wish of the speaker. On the text at Aj. 305, see Finglass (2011), 59, 229; 40 δυϲλόγιϲτον . . . ἦιξεν χέρα, ‘made his unfathomable hand dart’, should be mentioned too, though probably different, and disputed in sense and text.

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talking back a lot; our going inside is being slowed down. Get on!’; OC 1016–17 ἅλιϲ λόγων· ὡϲ οἱ μὲν ἐξειργαϲμένοι [F. W. Schmidt: ἐξηρπαϲμένοι/-ην/-ου codd.] | ϲπεύδουϲιν, ἡμεῖϲ δ᾿ οἱ παθόντεϲ ἕϲταμεν, ‘Enough speaking! Those who have done the deed are hurrying, we the victims are just standing there’ (after 897–904). The visuality and the compactness of time in tragedy generate a more febrile atmosphere than in the swift motion of the Iliad. For all the ebbs and flows of pace, the onward progress of the work is inescapable, and vitally supported by movement seen and spoken of.¹² The language of motion in Sophocles should be considered further, before we come to our two particular plays. As in Homer, words of motion often appear where they might seem superfluous or of lesser importance. So Trach. 164–5 χρόνον προτάξαϲ ὡϲ τρίμηνοϲ ἡνίκα | χώραϲ ἀπείη κἀνιαύϲιοϲ βεβώϲ . . . , ‘he set a time: when he was gone and had been away, he said, for a year and three months . . . ’: the going could be assumed, but receives some underlining. In some places the motion could be thought obvious, next to the act which is dwelt on, but is picked up as a significant cue to move: so Trach. 385–8 Δη. τί χρὴ ποεῖν, γυναῖκεϲ; . . . Χο. πεύθου μολοῦϲα τἀνδρόϲ, ὡϲ τάχ᾿ ἂν ϲαφῆ | λέξειεν . . . Δη. ἀλλ᾿ εἶμι, ‘[Deianeira] What should I do, women? . . . [Chorus] Go and question Lichas: he might perhaps speak the truth . . . [Deianeira] I'll go indeed’ (actually Lichas comes out first). The motion can be important too in the larger story, even while another action is stressed: so OT 391–7 (you did not help with the Sphinx) ἀλλ᾿ ἐγὼ μολών, | ὁ μηδὲν εἰδὼϲ Οἰδίπουϲ, ἔπαυϲά νιν, ‘but I, ignorant Oedipus, came and stopped her’ (note 393, ‘any old passer-by’, 399, ‘you try to throw me out of the land’). The position is the same when the word of motion is formally the main verb but the participles have more obvious weight: so OT 932–3 (Jocasta to the messenger from Corinth) ἀλλὰ φράζ᾿ ὅτου | χρήιζων ἀφῖξαι χὤτι ϲημῆναι θέλων, ‘say what it is that you want in arriving here, and what you wish to convey’ (the arrival is picked up in 935 ἀφιγμένοϲ), OC 877–8 (Chorus to Creon) ὅϲον λῆμ᾿ ἔχων ἀφίκου, ξέν᾿, εἰ τάδε δοκεῖϲ τελεῖν, ‘What outrageous audacity you have come with, stranger, if you think you can achieve this!’ (cf. 879, ‘in that case, I no longer inhabit this city’). Motion is a constant presence in the thought. The vocabulary of motion partly reflects changes in the poetic language since Homer. The surge in popularity of μολεῖν and its compound verbs is due not to a surge in everyday usage but to a change in poetic fashion. The simple and compound verbs (so not the fossilized adverb ἀγχίμολον, ‘near’ etc.) occur only 9 times in the Iliad (15,114 lines excluding Book 10, so 0.0595 per cent); they occur in extant Sophocles 86 times (10,341 lines, including possible interpolations, so ¹² It is not suggested that the impetus of the work itself is perceived by the audience as a figurative motion—even if the possibility of such perception in the period is suggested by the language of epinician. Cf. e.g. Pind. Pyth. 10.53–4: the best of epinician darts, θύνει, now to this subject, now that, like a bee (the speed is part of the argument). Note Long. 33.5: Pindar and Sophocles sometimes burn everything up with their onward sweep, τῆι φορᾶι.

,     

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0.8316 per cent). 21 of these instances are in the OC. The percentage for the Iliad is 7.1549 per cent of that for Sophocles. The verbs also appear clearly 6 times in Sophoclean fragments. They come 42 times in extant Aeschylus, excluding the PV and the last scene of the Septem, and the supplement at Cho. 1042a (so 0.6044 per cent of 6,949 lines). They come 179 times in extant Euripides, excluding the Rhesus (non-Euripidean) and IA (not clear how Euripidean), so 0.7646 per cent of 23,412 lines; as throughout, if they appear in anadiplosis, they are counted twice, not once. The verbs, or rather verb (no compounds), appears 17 times in Pindar’s complete epinicians, excluding Olympian 5, so 0.4943 per cent of 3,439 lines. On the other hand, χωρέω and its compound verbs have a real currency in prose (though in Attic fifth-century inscriptions only the supplement ἐπι[χορε῀ ν at IG i³.61.12); they enjoy a decidedly increased popularity in poetry of the second half of the fifth century as compared to the first. The simple verb has also undergone a change of meaning by the fifth century: no longer just ‘withdraw, give way’. The simple and compound verbs come 49 times in extant Sophocles (including two instances of ϲυχγωρέω): 0.4738 per cent. They come 7 times in fragments. They appear 25 times in the Iliad (0.1654 per cent), 7 times in Aeschylus (0.1007 per cent; 3 Pers., 2 Sept., 2 Eum.), twice in Pindar (0.0582 per cent), 90 times in Euripides (0.3844).¹³ Usage is handled with significant limitations and preferences. μολεῖν in the tragedians does not appear in the indicative or imperative in iambic dialogue; it comes in the indicative at Eur. Med. 1082 in an anapaestic sequence standing in for a stasimon, but does not otherwise appear in indicative or imperative in nonlyric anapaests, or trochees. Sophocles employs indicative and imperative a few times in lyric, mostly in late plays if Electra is late: Trach. 855, El. 506, 1234, OC 885 twice (anadiplosis), 1742 (future). Euripides uses them 34 times in the extant plays (overall there are 7 instances of anadiplosis); there are also 3 instances in his fragments, 2 of them in consecutive lines (fr. 74.2–3 Kannicht). Aeschylus had used the indicative (not the imperative) 3 times, and memorably, all in one stasimon: Cho. 935 ἔμολε μὲν δίκα, ‘justice came’ (ἔμολε first word of ode), 937 (ἔμολε first word of clause and dochmiac), 946 (ἔμολε first word of first antistrophe). χωρέω can be used by Sophocles, as by the other tragedians, in any form in dialogue. Commands or the like, usually at the beginning of line and utterance (or sentence), are especially common: Trach. 92, Phil. 1068, OC 824 (and 1020?) χώρει (cf. e.g. Eur. Med. 623, Andr. 91, Bacch. 509), OC 1544 χωρεῖτε (cf. e.g. Eur. Hipp. ¹³ For μολεῖν, see LSJ and Supplement under βλώϲκω (it is uncertain how far Attic poets would have connected this present with ἔμολον, related as it actually is, Beekes (2010), i.223). Note that IG iv².1.122.14 (iv ) concerns a god, cf. Kassel and Austin (1983), 182, S. Colvin (1999), 245, 259, Willi (2003), 27 n. 78; see also Henderson (1987), 166 (‘Ve.’ a slip of the fingers for ‘Eq.’). When αὐτόμολοϲ was formed, μολ- presumably existed in ordinary language. On the IA, see most recently Collard and Morwood (2017), 55–9 (upbeat).

160

   

108, Hec. 981, Hel. 1390), El. 1491, Phil. 674 χωροῖϲ ἂν εἴϲω, ‘do please go inside’; Trach. 333, 493, Aj. 811, Phil. 635, 645 χωρῶμεν (χωρῶμεν mostly at beginning of line, but mostly not at beginning of sentence). The language of motion, then, is a central area of tragic diction, and is elaborately organized. The range of words in Sophocles related to motion would not have been perceived by an ancient listener in listening to one work, as it could have been in the case of the Iliad. Aristophanes shows that it is entirely valid to think of listeners taking in and collating a series of works by one playwright; but we can hardly say whether such a process would extend to a perception on the extent of diction. Each play has a considerable number of words related to motion which do not occur in other extant plays. The fragments prevent us from assuming that any one such word was unique in all Sophocles’ plays; thus OC 348 γερονταγωγεῖ might seem a striking twist on παιδαγωγῶ, but it actually went back at least to a considerably earlier play (Pel. fr. 487 Radt), as educated listeners will have realized (cf. Ar. Knights 1099, Com. Adesp. fr. 740 Kassel-Austin). None the less, lists of words related to motion that are found, among extant plays, in only the Philoctetes or only the OC give some idea of the diversity in the Sophoclean language of motion. Lyric, and non-lyric anapaests, show a particular expansiveness in this respect; the Philoctetes has less in the way of choral lyric. The isolated words are often connected to the special events and circumstances of the play; but that only brings out how every play has its own distinctive world of motion.¹⁴ Philoctetes: ἄϲτιπτοϲ, ἐνθάκηϲιϲ, προϲτείχοι, ὁδίτηϲ [anap.], προχωρῶν [anap.], ὀγμεύει [anap.], ἀγροβάταϲ [lyr.], ναυϲτολῶ, νευροϲπαδήϲ, εἰλυόμην, ἐξέλκων, κατηγόμην [but Scyr. fr. 555b.18 Radt], ἀναϲτρέφοντεϲ [but fr. 1012], ϲτέλλεϲθε, ἀποϲτέλλουϲ’, χωλόϲ, αὐτόϲτολον, ὁρμιϲθείϲ, ϲυννεναυϲτοληκότεϲ, ξυνναυβάται, ἐξανηγόμην, ἀνελθεῖν, ὠκυβόλων [lyr.], προϲενώμα [lyr.], διέρχεται [but fr. 935; διῆλθε elsewhere], ἀντέχου [but fr. 354.2; and active elsewhere], ἀπόδοϲ, ὑπέδυ [lyr.], πελάταν [lyr.], ἐπήλυδεϲ [lyr.], παλίντροποϲ [but fr. 576.5], ἐκκαλεῖϲθε, ἀντέρειδε, κατερητύϲων [anap.], παρέπεμψεν [anap.]. OC: πλανήτην, θάκηϲιν, κἀξίδρυϲον, προὐϲτάληϲ, ἀλήτην, ἐπιϲτείβειϲ, ἐξήγαγ᾿ [but fr. 834], πέραϲιν, παραμειβόμεϲθ᾿ [lyr.; active elsewhere], ἐρατύοι [lyr.], μεταναϲτάϲ [anap.], προβίβαζε [lyr.], ὀκλάϲαϲ [lyr.; but fr. 314.96], καταθήϲειϲ [lyr.], ἔκτοποϲ, ἄφορμοϲ [lyr.], ἔκθορε [lyr.], πλανᾶϲθαι, γερονταγωγεῖ [but fr. 487.2], βιβῶν, ἐπαναίρονται, κατέϲτειψαϲ, ἄϲτροφοϲ, ἀγωγῆϲ, πλώϲιμον, ἐπινίϲεται [lyr.], παραπετομένα (?) [lyr.], ἀκόλουθοϲ [lyr.; but fr. 719], μεταϲπᾶν, ἀφέλκομαι, ἀπειργάθηι, ἐξοίχηι, ἐπεϲπεϲών, (ἐξηρπαϲμένοι not included) ἐξυφηγοῦ, ἄμβαϲιϲ

¹⁴ A good many of the words below do not appear in the lists of Earp (1944), 23–9, 50–5: the selectivity of his approach may not be realized. The lists here can be consulted for words in the passages that will be discussed. As often in the book, the forms given are the forms used rather than e.g. a firstperson singular present indicative.

,     

161

[lyr.], ῥιμφαρμάτοιϲ [lyr.], ἀελλαία [lyr.], ταχύρρωϲτοϲ [lyr.], ἐμφύντε, θακήματι, κυματοπλήξ [lyr.], κυματοαγεῖϲ [lyr.], κλόνωι (?), ϲυγκῦρϲαι, ἀποϲτροφή [but fr. 1130.11], ὡμαρτοῦμεν [but fr. 260.2], διαϲτάν. Now for some comments on these two late plays. They have been chosen because in them Sophocles enters into the basics of motion and so of drama with a special scrutiny. (We may leave aside the question whether such scrutiny has any connection with the lateness of the plays—as say Haydn’s late quartets especially scrutinize the basics of music.) The plays conjure up in the protagonists the massive weight of past experience; the Electra and the Trachiniae do similar things, but in the Philoctetes and OC the experience is in part graphically conveyed through motion on the stage (and through marked absence of motion there). The plays present, it is true, the usual framework of speed, of pressure for rapid movement. So Neoptolemus has already said ὁρμάϲθω ταχύϲ (526), ‘let him hurry fast’ (cf. 516 ταχείαϲ νεώϲ, ‘fast ship’), when two men arrive (539–42), in accordance with Odysseus’ plans against dallying (126–9). Urgency for swift motion increases (576–7, 620–1, 637–8). We noted earlier the rapidity desired in the rescue of Oedipus’ daughters; others told to be quick include Oedipus (219, cf. 1627–8), Antigone and Ismene (500, 1643), Theseus (1499, cf. 307, 887–90, 1461), Creon (824), and Polynices (1416). But into this framework is placed the difficult and laborious movement of Philoctetes and of Oedipus.¹⁵ The Philoctetes brings this movement home in many different forms, as we shall see (lyric, narrative, etc.); but it appears most excruciatingly and manifestly in the centre of the play, the short scene 729–826. The OC displays it in drama at the very beginning, which will be discussed in detail below, and in the parodos. There is much verbal evocation of Oedipus’ wanderings with Antigone, but most of the play presents his fixed refusal to move or be moved: cf. e.g. Creon’s inviting ἵκου πρὸϲ οἴκουϲ (741), ‘come home’, and Oedipus’ rejoinder πειρᾶι μεταϲπᾶν (774), ‘you try to pull me away’. The fixity may be emphasized through the posture of Oedipus, uncommon for tragedy, of sitting on a sort of seat, seemingly through most of the play. The Annals too were concerned with not moving, but drama makes the fixity visible and present. At the end, however, Oedipus moves off the stage with haste and independent assurance, eerily guided by the gods (1540–7, cf. 1587–9).¹⁶ Philoctetes’ healing will happen only after the end of the play: he and Neoptolemus will then be like λέοντε ϲυννόμω (1436), ‘two lions roving together’. ¹⁵ For Philoctetes, cf. Eur. Philoctetes fr. 789d Kannicht (Dio’s paraphrase) μόλιϲ καὶ χαλεπῶϲ προβαίνων, ‘coming forward with difficulty, hardly able to do so’: a description by Odysseus of what is seen on stage. Cf. Müller (2000), 357; Collard, Cropp, and Gibert (2004), 4. ¹⁶ Oedipus depicted sitting: Apulian red-figure calyx-krater, Melbourne, Geddes Coll. A 5:8 (c.340s , LIMC Ismene I 2), which offers a kind of summing up of the whole tragedy; cf. Taplin (2007), 25, 100–2. Exceptional are the chairs for the council in Phryn. TrGF 3 F 8 (cf. Hutchinson (1985), xxi–xxii). On sitting in tragedy, see further below, pp. 176–7, 188. Guidorizzi, in Guidorizzi, Avezzù, and Cerri (2008), xxx, speaks negatively, though tentatively, of the dialogue in the OC as sometimes almost reaching ‘staticità’; but this quality in the play could be differently regarded.

162

   

The dual there diverges from the bulk of the work. True, a joint movement into the cave is contemplated at 533–5 (with dual), and realized just after 674–5; and there are awkward attempts at assisted movement (so 879–81), realized when Neoptolemus and Philoctetes are leaving the stage together (1403; trochees). But for the most part, Philoctetes’ motion over the years has been solitary. Antigone γερονταγωγεῖ (OC 348), but Philoctetes has crawled παῖϲ ἄτερ ὡϲ φίλαϲ τιθήναϲ (Phil. 703), ‘like a little child without its dear nurse’. Oedipus has been ἀλήτην κἀπὶ προϲπόλου μιᾶϲ | . . . χωροῦντα (OC 746–7), ‘a wanderer, going along with a single woman attendant’, but Philoctetes has had to be his own servant, μόνον | διακονεῖϲθαι (Phil. 286–7), ‘to be my own servant, alone’ (he speaks of his motion 287–95). Motion has always been shared between Oedipus and Antigone: the descriptions present the intimacy and affection of their joint suffering as they wander, and dwell on her as well as him: so 345–52, Oedipus about Antigone, 744–52, Creon about them both.¹⁷ Those descriptions give less emphasis than with Philoctetes to the difficulties of actually moving. In both Oedipus and Philoctetes is shown the endurance admired in some of the disabled (e.g. OC 8, Phil. 175, 686–90). But Philoctetes is something perhaps more surprising, a severely disabled person with virtually no help or contacts (‘virtually’: cf. 305–9). In Euripides’ Philoctetes, he had charity from passers-by, and had the friend and frequent visitor Actor (cf. TrGF v.2.827. iiia7–8, 829 ivb (Dio Chr. 52.8)). Help and contacts are played down by the speaker in Lysias 24; but cf. 24.9, 11, 19–20 (6 no children ‘yet’). Both these plays of Sophocles show tragedy using motion to particularly searching effect.¹⁸

Abandonment (Phil. 268–80, 287–92) ξὺν ἧι μ᾿ ἐκεῖνοι, παῖ, προθέντεϲ ἐνθάδε ὤιχοντ᾿ ἔρημον, ἡνίκ᾿ ἐκ τῆϲ ποντίαϲ Χρύϲηϲ κατέϲχον δεῦρο ναυβάτηι ϲτόλωι. τότ᾿ ἄϲμενοί μ᾿, ὡϲ εἶδον ἐκ πολλοῦ ϲάλου εὕδοντ᾿ ἐπ᾿ ἀκτῆϲ ἐν κατηρεφεῖ πέτραι, ῥάκη προθέντεϲ βαιὰ καί τι καὶ βορᾶϲ,

270

¹⁷ Phil. 1306 λέοντε ϲυννόμω: cf. Hom. Il. [10.]297; even if lion and lioness, λέοντε implies motion. ¹⁸ Endurance in the disabled: cf. Lys. 24.3; cf. 24.10 with Phil. 285–97 for Philoctetes’ resourcefulness. On Lysias 24, cf. Carey (1990), M. L. Edwards (1995), 44–9, Rose (2003), 95–100, Garland (2010), 37, Sneed (2018), 148, 152, 156, 161, 219–20, 223–4; on disability and this play, Garland (2010), 29, (2017), Edwards (2012), Gagnon (2016); on disability more widely, besides works mentioned, Laes (2017), (2018), Sneed (2018). On Phil. 287 διακονεῖϲθαι, cf. Schein (2013), 174. On Euripides’ play (431 ), see Müller (1997), (2000), Collard, Cropp, and Gibert (2004), 1–34, Kannicht (2004), ii.827–44, Collard and Cropp (2008), 368–403.

,      λιπόντεϲ ὤιχονθ᾿, οἷα φωτὶ δυϲμόρωι ἐπωφέλημα ϲμικρόν—οἷ᾿ αὐτοῖϲ τύχοι. ϲὺ δή, τέκνον, ποίαν μ᾿ ἀνάϲταϲιν δοκεῖϲ αὐτῶν βεβώτων ἐξ ὕπνου ϲτῆναι τότε; ποῖ᾿ ἐκδακρῦϲαι, ποῖ᾿ ἀποιμῶξαι κακά; ὁρῶντα μὲν ναῦϲ ἃϲ ἔχων ἐναυϲτόλουν πάϲαϲ βεβώϲαϲ, ἄνδρα δ᾿ οὐδέν᾿ ἔντοπον . . . γαϲτρὶ μὲν τὰ ϲύμφορα τόξον τόδ᾿ ἐξηύριϲκε, τὰϲ ὑποπτέρουϲ βάλλον πελείαϲ· πρὸϲ δὲ τοῦθ᾿ ὅ μοι βάλοι νευροϲπαδὴϲ ἄτρακτοϲ, αὐτὸϲ ἂν τάλαϲ εἰλυόμην, δύϲτηνον ἐξέλκων πόδα, πρὸϲ τοῦτ᾿ ἄν·

163

275

280 287

290

276 ϲὺ: οὗ Kvíčala

‘With that disease, my son, they laid me out here, in isolation, and were gone, when they had put in here with their naval expedition from Chryse in the sea. They were delighted then to see me sleeping after much tumult, and left me on the shore in a cave, and were gone. They had put out some paltry rags and a bit of food—small help for a wretched man. I hope they get the same. You, my son, what kind of rising from sleep do you think I had then, when they had gone? What tears do you think I wept, what disasters did I lament? I saw that the ships I was commanding as I sailed to Troy had all gone, and there was no human in the place . . . . This bow here would find the things my stomach needed: it shot winged doves. Whatever the arrow, drawn back on the string, had hit for me, I would crawl towards miserably myself, dragging my wretched foot.’

The first part of the passage presents a sequence of motion which is the foundation of Philoctetes’ experience (the abandoning of Philoctetes on Lemnos), and follows it with the motion that contained his realization of that motion (his getting up from sleep). The act of leaving Philoctetes has already been mentioned: 265 ἔρριψαν αἰϲχρῶϲ ὧδ᾿ ἐρῆμον, ‘they left me here shamefully in this isolation’. It is now made part of a sequence. The going at the end is the critical point, and is reiterated in 269 ὤιχοντ᾿, 274 ὤιχονθ᾿, 277 βεβώτων, 280 βεβώϲαϲ, all showing the result. Before it comes the travel by sea: cf. 269 ποντίαϲ, 270 κατέϲχον, ναυβάτηι, 279 ναῦϲ, ναυϲτόλουν. The travel is to what from Philoctetes’ perspective is ‘here’, his location ever since: 270 δεῦρο, after 268 ἐνθάδε; 272 gives detail of the cave which is the stage-building now seen. Preverbs make vivid the movement involved in the actual act of giving Philoctetes his place: 268 προθέντεϲ, laying the inert body out to view, with suggestions of burial, and 273 προθέντεϲ of the conscience-salving specifics, with ironic suggestions of a feast for Philoctetes. ϲάλου (271) might indicate a rough

164

   

voyage, but that would be a trivial reason for the sleep; more likely, it depicts or includes the tormented motion of Philoctetes’ body, and pointedly goes beyond the maritime context. The lines 271–4 (τότ᾿ to ὤιχοντ᾿) give us both this corporeal and partly internal movement undergone by Philoctetes and the straightforward external movement of the Greek leaders (cf. 265–7).¹⁹ The leaders’ act itself is transitive: they put Philoctetes ashore and leave him. It is also strongly plural. The three leaders are the prime agents, no doubt to be imagined with hefty helpers. ϲτόλωι (270) and ναῦϲ . . . πάϲαϲ (279–80) indicate a much larger body in the voyage (evidently the whole Greek fleet). Philoctetes’ getting up after sleep (276–7 ἀνάϲταϲιν . . . ϲτῆναι) is intransitive, and completely solitary: cf. 277 αὐτῶν βεβώτων, 280 ἄνδρα δ᾿ οὐδέν᾿ ἔντοπον—contrast Euripides. Philoctetes’ seeing is a perception of the results of motion (279–80 ὁρῶντα . . . βεβώϲαϲ). His state of mind is to be recreated by the single individual Neoptolemus (276 ϲὺ δή, τέκνον); Philoctetes’ distress contrasts with the reconstructed delight of the three: 271 ἄϲμενοι, cf. 258. ποίαν μ᾿ ἀνάϲταϲιν δοκεῖϲ | αὐτῶν βεβώτων ἐξ ὕπνου ϲτῆναι τότε; (276–7) puts together their going, now finished, and the desolate motion which begins his new existence.²⁰ Leaving a bit of food had been part of the leaders’ one-off act in depositing Philoctetes and heading away (274–5). Getting food is a big effort of motion for Philoctetes (287–92), endlessly repeated over time, slow, limited in space, and painful. The solitude of Philoctetes has been much emphasized in between; in the clause before 287 γαϲτρὶ μέν, followed by this explanatory asyndeton, he says he was alone and had to be his own servant (286–7, see above, p. 162). The movement of the bow and the arrow (289 βάλλον, βάλοι, 290 νευροϲπαδήϲ) does not compromise the human’s solitude; the movement makes the weapons, not him, the agent, with their swift and transitive action. Philoctetes himself (290 αὐτόϲ), moves slowly and intransitively. His chief transitive action is on part of his own body (291 δύϲτηνον ἐξέλκων πόδα).²¹ The conclusion of his intransitive act of motion is not given (contrast 295, 297, where things look up slightly). The movement towards the catch is repeated (289 πρόϲ, 292 πρόϲ) in a laboriously constructed sentence. This separates off a trimeter to describe the motion, with an unusual main verb: 291 εἰλυόμην, δύϲτηνον

¹⁹ ϲάλου rough voyage: Jebb (1898), 53, Schein (2013), 171, Manuwald (2018), 134, but cf. 135; bodily motion: Finglass (2007), 431 (it seems). The stem is used of various kinds of shaking, cf. e.g. Eur. IT 46 of the earth, Soph. El. 1074 metaphorically of Electra’s position, Plat. Laws 11.923b2–3 ἐν νόϲωι ἢ γήραι ϲαλεύονταϲ, ‘tottering in illness or old age’, with literal and figurative senses in play. πόντιοϲ is explicitly added to ϲάλοϲ at Eur. IT 1443, Or. 994, as if ϲάλοϲ were not assumed to be at sea. ²⁰ In 277, | αὐτ- is not ips-, cf. e.g. Trach. 816. In 276 ϲὺ δή seems acceptable for turning to Neoptolemus’ judgement after 275 οἷ᾿ αὐτοῖϲ τύχοι, which is absorbed in him and them. οὗ (Kvíčala), with ὕπνου, does not seem easy. Cf. now Manuwald (2018), 136; Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990b), 185. ²¹ νευροϲπαδήϲ emphasizes the motion through its preliminaries, as often in the case of arrows (cf. e.g. 197–8), but gives as little emphasis as possible to Philoctetes as agent.

,     

165

ἐξέλκων πόδα. The employment of imperfect + ἄν to describe the repeated action is abnormal in tragedy, and so draws further attention to the description. The difficulty of motion is expressed in potent first-person narrative.²²

Neoptolemus Must Be Going (Phil. 459–67) ἀλλ᾿ ἡ πετραία Ϲκῦροϲ ἐξαρκοῦϲά μοι 460 ἔϲται τὸ λοιπόν, ὥϲτε τέρπεϲθαι δόμωι. νῦν δ᾿ εἶμι πρὸϲ ναῦν· καὶ ϲύ, Ποίαντοϲ τέκνον, χαῖρ᾿ ὡϲ μέγιϲτα, χαῖρε· καί ϲε δαίμονεϲ νόϲου μεταϲτήϲειαν, ὡϲ αὐτὸϲ θέλειϲ. ἡμεῖϲ δ᾿ ἴωμεν, ὡϲ ὁπηνίκ᾿ ἂν θεὸϲ 465 πλοῦν ἡμὶν εἴκηι, τηνικαῦθ᾿ ὁρμώμεθα. Φι. ἤδη, τέκνον, ϲτέλλεϲθε; Νε. καιρὸϲ γὰρ καλεῖ πλοῦν μὴ ᾿ξ ἀπόπτου μᾶλλον ἢ ᾿γγύθεν ϲκοπεῖν. ‘In future, rocky Scyros will be enough for me: I will enjoy my house there. Now I will go to the ship. To you, Philoctetes son of Poeas, my very best wishes; I hope the gods move you from disease just as you wish yourself. As for us, let us be going, so that whenever the god grants the chance to sail, we may then set off. Phil. Are you all going to voyage already, my son? Ne. Yes, the all-important right moment summons us not to view the sea journey from a distance rather than near at hand.’

Instead of making an offer to take Philoctetes, Neoptolemus affects to end the conversation sympathetically and leave. It is a forceful moment in the drama, and in Neoptolemus’ persuasion. The extract begins with Scyros (459), which will be the goal of the motion Neoptolemus is about to announce (461); but Neoptolemus is in 459–60 renouncing any further motion. He will not leave his own island fastness for heroic endeavours like the Trojan War; 460 δόμωι suggests indoors, whether or not the house on Scyros belongs to him. τέρπεϲθαι δόμωι strongly evokes Achilles’ wish to leave Troy and κτήμαϲι τέρπεϲθαι τὰ γέρων ἐκτήϲατο Πηλεύϲ (Hom. Il. 9.400), ‘enjoy the possessions which old Peleus has obtained’. The phrase pretends some self-absorbed

²² For the construction with ἄν, cf. Collard (2018), 127; the only examples with the imperfect in Sophocles are Phil. 294–5, accompanied with ἐξέρπων τάλαϲ, ‘creeping forth wretchedly’, and 701–2, accompanied with εἰλυόμενοϲ—where perhaps rather than Hermann’s εἷρπε δ᾿ . . . ἂν read εἷρπ᾿ ἂν . . . ἂν with Stinton. εἰλύω is found only in 291 and 702 in tragedy.

166

   

bitterness (cf. 352–3), but from Philoctetes’ viewpoint would offer an unqualified felicity: cf. 311 ϲῶϲαί μ’ ἐϲ οἴκουϲ, ‘to rescue me and take me home’.²³ The alleged plan to go begins as singular indicative (461 εἶμι), but shifts to a plural jussive (464 ἴωμεν), continued with ὁρμώμεθα (465) and Philoctetes’ plural indicative ϲτέλλεϲθε (466). The chorus make possible a graphic contrast of plural and excluded singular: that is, of Neoptolemus with chorus, and Philoctetes. The motion is known by the audience to be unreal, but is seen by them as seen by Philoctetes, and as seen by Neoptolemus to be seen by Philoctetes. The stress on starting soon (464–7) not only suggests the pressure of Odysseus’ concern about dawdling (126–7), but also feeds into the play’s constant evocation of promising winds and contrary winds, and of sailing. The suggested generalization at the end (466–7) promotes the maritime atmosphere created on stage, with little nautical detail. Philoctetes’ ἤδη, next to τέκνον, indicates a different temporal perspective on the motion.²⁴ Before Neoptolemus addresses the chorus (464), his μεταϲτήϲειαν (463) draws out the underlying motion in the word: when that movement will occur, if at all, is entirely vague, whereas their departure is now. The desired act of θεόϲ (464), unlike the desired act of δαίμονεϲ (462), is bound to happen shortly. Metaphorical motion is implied by the ablative genitive νόϲου; such motion is readily related to other movement in the context. Neoptolemus wishes for Philoctetes only movement from the illness, not from the island.²⁵

All Is to Change (Phil. 712–30) ὦ μελέα ψυχά· ὃϲ μηδ᾿ οἰνοχύτου πώματοϲ ἥϲθη δεκέτει χρόνωι, λεύϲϲων δ᾿ ὅπου γνοίη ϲτατὸν εἰϲ ὕδωρ, αἰεὶ προϲενώμα. νῦν δ᾿ ἀνδρῶν ἀγαθῶν παιδὸϲ ὑπαντήϲαϲ εὐδαίμων ἀνύϲει καὶ μέγαϲ ἐκ κείνων· ὅϲ νιν ποντοπόρωι δούρατι, πλήθει πολλῶν μηνῶν, πατρίαν ἄγει πρὸϲ αὐλὰν

715

ἀντ. β´ 720

²³ With 460, cf. also Pind. Ol. 1.82–4, 83 ἐν ϲκότωι καθήμενοϲ, ‘sitting in the darkness’, i.e. indoors. Not close to Homer is Eur. fr. 789a.1 Kannicht (Philoctetes, with no son of Achilles) μακάριοϲ ὅϲτιϲ εὐτυχῶν οἴκοι μένει, ‘happy the man who has good fortune and stays at home’. ²⁴ Nautical detail: a little less general are 1450–1 ὅδ’ ἐπείγει γὰρ | καιρὸϲ καὶ πλοῦϲ κατὰ πρύμναν, ‘this ripe moment and the voyage are urging you on at the stern’. ²⁵ Metaphorical motion with μεθίϲτημι, cf. e.g. Thuc. 8.48.4 ἐκ τοῦ παρόντοϲ κόϲμου τὴν πόλιν μεταϲτήϲαϲ, ‘(how he could) change the city from its present constitution and . . . ’; literal motion: Soph. Aj. 749–50. Relation between metaphorical motion with this verb and other motion in the context: cf. e.g. Eur. IT 1176–7.

,      Μαλιάδων νυμφᾶν Ϲπερχειοῦ τε παρ᾿ ὄχθαϲ, ἵν᾿ ὁ χάλκαϲπιϲ ἀνὴρ θεοῖϲ πλάθη {πᾶϲι{, θείωι πυρὶ παμφαήϲ, Οἴταϲ ὑπὲρ ὄχθων.

167

725

Νε. ἕρπ᾿, εἰ θέλειϲ. 728 πᾶϲι: θεὸϲ Hermann: alii alia

‘Oh the unhappy soul: he did not enjoy, either, in a time of ten years a drink of wine outpoured. Rather, he would always look towards some stagnant water, wherever he discerned it, and move towards it. But now he has met the offspring of excellent men; he will reach his goal, after all this, happy and mighty. Neoptolemus is taking him in a seafaring vessel, after the passing of many a month, to his father’s hall, to by the banks of the Spercheios, belonging too to the nymphs of Malis; there the man of the bronze shield, radiant with divine fire, drew near to the gods, above the ridges of Oeta. Ne. Please move.’

The chorus have been portraying in third-person lyric Philoctetes’ struggles for food and drink; these were earlier shown in a first-person trimeter speech (287–95, cf. above, pp. 163–5). They have already spoken of his problematic motion: 701–3 εἷρπ᾿ ἂν ἄλλοτ᾿ ἀλλαι | τότ᾿ ἂν εἰλυόμενοϲ | παῖϲ ἄτερ ὡϲ φίλαϲ τιθήναϲ, ‘he would then move on the ground, now here, now there, crawling like a little child without its dear nurse’. It is not merely that he has never drunk wine, a point to touch a pleasure-loving chorus (cf. Aj. 1199–1201), but that he has had to get himself towards the water. The water itself is unattractively without motion (715 ϲτατόν), but Philoctetes looks keenly for this commodity (cf. 716 ὅπου); he always proceeds to it, his motion indicating his desire (as with an animal). Cf. Thuc. 7.84.5, where drinking and fighting over the polluted water indicates the desire of the Athenians. προϲενώμα (717) is used intransitively (in a grammatical sense), an uncommon construction paralleled by ἐπινωμᾶν (168); it brings out, in our terms, the intransitive effort. The imperfect suits the repeated motion (cf. αἰεί); but the tense and the verb itself also underline the extended effort instead of the achieved end. The stanza ends lingering on the movement.²⁶ ἀνύϲει (720), by contrast (cf. ἐκ κείνων), indicates fulfilment; this absolute use of the verb, common in tragic lyric, suggests motion. μέγαϲ conveys triumph. But all will be due, in this motion which the chorus knows is imaginary, to the ‘son of fine men’ (719 ἀνδρῶν ἀγαθῶν παιδόϲ). Neoptolemus is given the transitive action, in a present which brings it closer, 724 ἄγει. It is supposed to be a single decisive deed, unlike the action repeated over ten years in the previous sentence: that time is resumed in 720 ἐκ κείνων, and 722–3 πλήθει | πολλῶν μηνῶν. Sailing is stressed ²⁶ προϲενώμα: cf. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1997), 109.

168

   

once more, now aggrandized through the epic and lyric compound ποντοπόρωι and form δούρατι (721). Abundant detail paints the destination: Philoctetes’ father’s house and Philoctetes’ homeland. The homeland has a proper river, which flows, unlike the ϲτατὸν . . . ὕδωρ (716): εὔροον | Ϲπερχειόν (491–2). The river seems to be complete with nymphs.²⁷ The final clause gives a motion as contrary as possible to the motion at the end of the strophe: shining motion (728 παμφαήϲ) above the earth (729 ὑπὲρ ὄχθων), by means of fire (728 πυρί), rather than motion on the ground (crawling in 701–3), towards stale water. For now, Heracles’ motion provides a magnificent parallel to Philoctetes emerging μέγαϲ from his woes. (παρ᾿ ὄχθαϲ (726) and ὑπὲρ ὄχθων (729) go together, though from distinct nouns.) But later it will provide a better one to Philoctetes emerging from them and going to Troy: 1421–2 καὶ ϲοί . . . τοῦτ᾿ ὀφείλεται παθεῖν, | ἐκ τῶν πόνων τῶνδ᾿ εὐκλεᾶ θέϲθαι βίον, ‘this fate awaits you too, to make your life glorious after these pains’. The play returns to earth with Neoptolemus’ polite injunction to move (730 ἕρπ’). Philoctetes has problems which he is struggling to conceal.

Leaving (Phil. 886–903) νῦν δ᾿ αἶρε ϲαυτόν· εἰ δέ ϲοι μᾶλλον φίλον, οἴϲουϲί ϲ᾿ οἵδε· τοῦ πόνου γὰρ οὐκ ὄκνοϲ, ἐπείπερ οὕτω ϲοί τ᾿ ἔδοξ᾿ ἐμοί τε δρᾶν. Φι. αἰνῶ τάδ᾿, ὦ παῖ, καί μ᾿ ἔπαιρ᾿, ὥϲπερ νοεῖϲ· τούτουϲ δ᾿ ἔαϲον, μὴ βαρυνθῶϲιν κακῆι ὀϲμῆι πρὸ τοῦ δέοντοϲ· οὑπὶ νηῒ γὰρ ἅλιϲ πόνοϲ τούτοιϲι ϲυνναίειν ἐμοί. Νε. ἔϲται τάδ᾿· ἀλλ᾿ ἵϲτω τε καὐτὸϲ ἀντέχου. Φι. θάρϲει· τό τοι ϲύνηθεϲ ὀρθώϲει μ᾿ ἔθοϲ. Νε. παπαῖ· τί δῆτ᾿ δρῶιμ᾿ ἐγὼ τοὐνθένδε γε; Φι. τί δ᾿ ἔϲτιν, ὦ παῖ; ποῖ ποτ᾿ ἐξέβηϲ λόγωι; Νε. οὐκ οἶδ᾿ ὅποι χρὴ τἄπορον τρέπειν ἔποϲ. Φι. ἀπορεῖϲ δὲ τοῦ ϲύ; μὴ λέγ᾿, ὦ τέκνον, τάδε.

890

895

²⁷ Cf. e.g. Hom. Il. 20.8–9, with Edwards (1991), 288, Ov. Am. 3.6.63–4. Nymphs are less easily brought into relation with an αὐλή, despite Jebb (1898), 119–20. Spercheius: cf. Hom. Il. 16.176 Ϲπερχειῶι ἀκάμαντι, ‘the unwearying Spercheius’, and note the verb ϲπερχ-; Aesch. fr. 249 Radt, from Philoctetes. μέγαϲ (720) better suits what will actually happen when Philoctetes goes to Troy than what would happen if he returned home still sick; cf. Pucci, Avezzù, and Cerri (2003), 245. For 721, cf. Aj. 250 ποντοπόρωι ναΐ; ποντοπόροϲ comes 3 times in Euripides’ lyric.

,      Νε. ἀλλ᾿ ἐνθάδ᾿ ἤδη τοῦδε τοῦ πάθουϲ κυρῶ. Φι. οὐ δή ϲε δυϲχέρεια τοῦ νοϲήματοϲ ἔπαιϲεν ὥϲτε μή μ᾿ ἄγειν ναύτην ἔτι; Νε. ἅπαντα δυϲχέρεια, τὴν αὑτοῦ φύϲιν ὅταν λιπών τιϲ δρᾶι τὰ μὴ προϲεικότα.

169

900

897 ὅποι laSVQZo: ὅπηι GRZgt

‘But now, lift yourself up; or if you prefer, these men here will carry you. There will be no hesitation in doing the work, since you and I have decided on it. Phil. That is all good, my son. Lift me, as you have in mind; let these men be, so that they are not burdened by the foul smell before they have to be. They will have enough to put up with in being with me on the ship. Ne. As you wish. Come now, stand up and hold on to me yourself. Phil. Not to worry: my usual practice will make me stand upright. Ne. Aah! What should I do from this point? Phil. My son, what is it? Where have you gone away to in what you say? Ne. I do not know where I should turn my utterance to. It is at a loss. Phil. What are you at a loss for? Don’t talk like this, my child. Ne. But this is where my feelings are now. Phil. The loathesomeness of the disease has not struck you, has it, so that you will not now take me as a traveller on your ship? Ne. Everything is loathesomeness, when someone leaves his own nature and does what does not befit him.’

Philoctetes at the start of this scene (865) is on the ground. He moves his eyes and raises his head (866 κινεῖ . . . ὄμμα κἀνάγει κάρα); but he is not standing in the first part of the passage. Presumably he stands just after 894; he is clearly mobile again by 952–3. There is more notable motion than is common on the tragic stage: it had looked as if Philoctetes was dead (860–1, 884–5). His condition means that even standing up is a problem; there is significant oscillation between intransitive and transitive motion. Philoctetes has asked Neoptolemus to lift him up (879 ϲὺ δ᾿ αὐτὸϲ ἆρον): transitive motion. Neoptolemus tells him to lift himself up (886 αἶρε ϲαυτόν)—intransitive motion in our terms—or offers transitive carrying from the chorus (887 οἴϲουϲί ϲ᾿ οἵδε). Philoctetes asks Neoptolemus to lift him (889 καί μ’ ἔπαιρ᾿ ); Neoptolemus tells him rather to stand (893 ἵϲτω). Holding on to Neoptolemus (ἀντέχου) will give him some help, but αὐτόϲ stresses it that it is Philoctetes’ own action. However all this is staged, Neoptolemus is keeping contact with Philoctetes at a minimum. As often, the audience will speculate about his motivation (respect? disgust at his own performance?). But the critical point is that Philoctetes decides to stand up himself, difficult as it is, thanks to his own accustomed behaviour: 894 τό τοι ϲύνηθεϲ ὀρθώϲει μ᾿ ἔθοϲ.²⁸

²⁸ In the artistic tradition, which goes back before 409 , Philoctetes is very often seated: cf. Pipili (1994), Simon (1996), Müller (1997), Taplin (2007), 98–100. Staging: see Schein (2013), 257–8; contrast

170

   

Motion leads us to a new understanding of a crucial moment in the play, as Neoptolemus is impelled to confess his plan. Philoctetes’ action, but still more Philoctetes’ words (894), make a strong impact on him. The reference in ϲύνηθεϲ . . . ἔθοϲ to habitual behaviour, and the metaphorical connotations in ὀρθώϲει of rightness and success (common with this stem in Sophocles), produce a jarring contrast with his own imminent conduct and speech. The point is made clear at 902–3 τὴν αὑτοῦ φύϲιν | ὅταν λιπών τιϲ δρᾶι τὰ μὴ προϲεικότα. λιπών (903) shifts to a metaphorical level after μή μ᾿ ἄγειν (901): rather than not taking Philoctetes, Neoptolemus is leaving his own nature (metaphorical transitive motion, but in relation to himself ). The stem returns to more literal motion, with moral significance, at 911–12 πρόδουϲ μ᾿ . . . κἀκλιπών . . . Νε. λιπὼν μὲν οὐκ ἔγωγε, ‘betraying and leaving me . . . Ne. Not leaving you . . . ’.²⁹ The reapplication of δυϲχέρεια (902) after δυϲχέρεια (900) brings out the change or expansion of sphere at this point. Metaphorical motion is already apparent at 896 ἐξέβηϲ and 897 ὅποι . . . τρέπειν; the motion relates to discourse, with moral implications.³⁰ For all the onstage action, the extension beyond the stage is essential, not only the extension to the ship but the travel once it is reached. After 889 καί μ’ ἔπαιρ’, 890–2 bring out how the present act of carrying would be only a lesser anticipation of the substantial voyage (250 km odd to the Malian Gulf ). At 901 ναύτην, dispensable for the sense, brings out the voyage with force. And of course a vital issue lies beyond the present motion to the ship: the course that the ship will take, to Malis or Troy.³¹

Philoctetes’ Agonies (Phil. 779–842) Νε. ὦ θεοί, γένοιτο ταῦτα νῶιν· γένοιτο δὲ πλοῦϲ οὔριόϲ τε κεὐϲταλὴϲ ὅποι ποτὲ

780

Eur. Or. 799–804, Pylades helping Orestes move. Neoptolemus’ motivation not open to audience: cf. Fulkerson (2013), 70. ²⁹ A pause for a few steps after 894 (cf. Taplin (1971), 27) would spoil the connection of 894 with what follows as well as the flow of stichomythia. λιπών (903): the stem is crucial in the play: cf. 58, 273, 470, 477 ἐκλιπόντι τοῦτ᾿, ‘if you abandon this obligation’, 653, 809, 969, 1177, 1215, 1414, 1462 (stressed in Philoctetes’ final sentence) λείπομεν ὑμᾶϲ, λείπομεν ἤδη, ‘I am leaving you now, waters of Lemnos, leaving you’. αὑτοῦ is emphatic in 902 τὴν αὑτοῦ φύϲιν: cf. Trach. 151–2, Ant. 182, El. 572 (with Finglass (2007), 270), Thuc. 2.35.2, Plat. Theat. 189c11–d3, etc., contrast Soph. Ant. 727. ³⁰ Cf. Segal (1981), 337. Motion remains in 897, whether ὅποι or ὅπηι is read, and whether ὅπηι would mean ‘where’ for ‘to where’, or ‘by what path’; cf. Porson (1826), 133–4, Ar. Knights 71–2, Wasps 665. ³¹ Evidently the smell (cf. M. L. Edwards (1995), 31), which would here and now be burdensome just at close quarters, would oppress all those on the same ship (890–2).

,      θεὸϲ δικαιοῖ χὠ ϲτόλοϲ πορϲύνεται. Φι. {ἀλλὰ δέδοικ᾿, ὦ παῖ,{ μὴ ἀτελὴϲ εὐχὴ · ϲτάζει γὰρ αὖ μοι φοίνιον τόδ’ ἐκ βυθοῦ κηκῖον αἷμα, καί τι προϲδοκῶ νέον. παπαῖ, φεῦ. παπαῖ μάλ’, ὦ πούϲ, οἷά μ’ ἐργάϲηι κακά. προϲέρπει, προϲέρχεται τόδ’ ἐγγύϲ. οἴμοι μοι τάλαϲ. ἔχετε τὸ πρᾶγμα· μὴ φύγητε μηδαμῆι. ἀτταταῖ. ὦ ξένε Κεφαλλήν, εἴθε ϲοῦ διαμπερὲϲ ϲτέρνων ἵκοιτ’ ἄλγηϲιϲ ἥδε. φεῦ, παπαῖ. παπαῖ μάλ’ αὖθιϲ. ὦ διπλοῖ ϲτρατηλάται, [Ἀγάμεμνον, ὦ Μενέλαε, πῶϲ ἂν ἀντ’ ἐμοῦ] τὸν ἴϲον χρόνον τρέφοιτε τήνδε τὴν νόϲον. ὤμοι μοι. ὦ Θάνατε, Θάνατε, πῶϲ ἀεὶ καλούμενοϲ οὕτω κατ’ ἦμαρ οὐ δύνηι μολεῖν ποτε; ὦ τέκνον ὦ γενναῖον, ἀλλὰ ϲυλλαβὼν τῶι Λημνίωι τῶιδ’ ἀνακαλουμένωι πυρὶ ἔμπρηϲον, ὦ γενναῖε· κἀγώ τοί ποτε τὸν τοῦ Διὸϲ παῖδ᾿ ἀντὶ τῶνδε τῶν ὅπλων, ἃ νῦν ϲὺ ϲώιζειϲ, τοῦτ’ ἐπηξίωϲα δρᾶν. τί φήϲ, παῖ; τί φήϲ; τί ϲιγᾶιϲ; ποῦ ποτ’ ὤν, τέκνον, κυρεῖϲ; Νε. ἀλγῶ πάλαι δὴ τἀπὶ ϲοὶ ϲτένων κακά. Φι. ἀλλ’, ὦ τέκνον, καὶ θάρϲοϲ ἴϲχ’· ὡϲ ἥδε μοι ὀξεῖα φοιτᾶι καὶ ταχεῖ’ ἀπέρχεται. ἀλλ’ ἀντιάζω, μή με καταλίπηιϲ μόνον. Νε. θάρϲει, μενοῦμεν. Φι. ἦ μενεῖϲ; Νε. ϲαφῶϲ φρόνει. Φι. οὐ μήν ϲ’ ἔνορκόν γ’ ἀξιῶ θέϲθαι, τέκνον. Νε. ὡϲ οὐ θέμιϲ γ’ ἐμοὔϲτι ϲοῦ μολεῖν ἄτερ. Φι. ἔμβαλλε χειρὸϲ πίϲτιν. Νε. ἐμβάλλω μενεῖν. Φι. ἐκεῖϲε νῦν μ’, ἐκεῖϲε— Νε. ποῖ λέγειϲ; Φι. ἄνω— Νε. τί παραφρονεῖϲ αὖ; τί τὸν ἄνω λεύϲϲειϲ κύκλον; Φι. μέθεϲ μέθεϲ με. Νε. ποῖ μεθῶ; Φι. μέθεϲ ποτέ. Νε. οὔ φημ’ ἐάϲειν. Φι. ἀπό μ’ ὀλεῖϲ, ἢν προϲθίγηιϲ. Νε. καὶ δὴ μεθίημ’, εἴ τι δὴ πλέον φρονεῖϲ. Φι. ὦ Γαῖα, δέξαι θανάϲιμόν μ’ ὅπωϲ ἔχω· τὸ γὰρ κακὸν τόδ’ οὐκέτ’ ὀρθοῦϲθαί μ’ ἐᾶι. Νε. τὸν ἄνδρ’ ἔοικεν ὕπνοϲ οὐ μακροῦ χρόνου ἕξειν· κάρα γὰρ ὑπτιάζεται τόδε·

785

790

795

800

805

810

815

820

171

172

    ἱδρώϲ γέ τοί νιν πᾶν καταϲτάζει δέμαϲ, μέλαινά τ’ ἄκρου τιϲ παρέρρωγεν ποδὸϲ αἱμορραγὴϲ φλέψ. ἀλλ’ ἐάϲωμεν, φίλοι, ἕκηλον αὐτόν, ὡϲ ἂν εἰϲ ὕπνον πέϲηι. Χο. Ὕπν’ ὀδύναϲ ἀδαήϲ, Ὕπνε δ’ ἀλγέων, εὐαὴϲ ἡμῖν ἔλθοιϲ, εὐαίων, εὐαίων, ὦναξ· ὄμμαϲι δ’ ἀντίϲχοιϲ τάνδ’ αἴγλαν, ἃ τέταται τανῦν. ἴθι ἴθι μοι, Παιών. ὦ τέκνον, ὅρα ποῦ ϲτάϲηι, ποῖ δὲ βάϲηι, πῶϲ δέ ϲοι τἀντεῦθεν φροντίδοϲ. ὁρᾶιϲ ἤδη. πρὸϲ τί μένομεν πράϲϲειν; καιρόϲ τοι πάντων γνώμαν ἴϲχων πολὺ παρὰ πόδα κράτοϲ ἄρνυται.

825 ϲτρ. 830

835

Νε. ἀλλ’ ὅδε μὲν κλύει οὐδέν, ἐγὼ δ’ ὁρῶ οὕνεκα θήραν 840 τήνδ’ ἁλίωϲ ἔχομεν τόξων δίχα τοῦδε πλέοντεϲ. τοῦδε γὰρ ὁ ϲτέφανοϲ, τοῦτον θεὸϲ εἶπε κομίζειν. κομπεῖν δ᾿ ἔργ᾿ ἀτελῆ ϲὺν ψεύδεϲιν αἰϲχρὸν ὄνειδοϲ. 782 ἀλλὰ (ἀλλ᾿ οὐ Zo, ἀλλ᾿ οὖν ZgT) δέδοικ᾿ ὦ παῖ: ὦ παῖ, δέδοικα Schneidewin: ἀλλὰ δέοϲ, ὦ παῖ Hermann: δέδοικα , ὦ παῖ Wunder: ἆ ἆ ἆ ἆ. | δέδοικα , ὦ παῖ Philp Wunder 800 ἀνακυκλουμένωι Toup

‘Ne. O gods, grant that to Philoctetes and me. May the voyage run easily with a fair wind to wherever heaven thinks right and for where we have the necessary equipment provided. Phil. I fear, my son, your prayer may not be answered. This crimson blood of mine is welling up again from the depths; I expect something bad. Oh, oh! Oh! Foot, what pain you will cause me! It is approaching, it is coming close. Oh I am so unlucky! You can all see the position now. Please don’t run away. Ah, ah! Odysseus of the Cephallenians, I wish this pain would go straight through your chest. Ai, oh! Oh again! You two leaders, the Atreidae, [794 omitted] may you nurse this disease for as long a time as me. Unhappy me! Death, Death, I call on you always like this, every day; how can you never come? My noble son, take me and burn me in this Lemnian fire, one which I have often called to. Once I myself did the same, as I thought right, for Heracles the son of Zeus, and so gained those weapons that you are keeping for me now. Child, what do you say to this? What do you say? Why are you silent? What world are you in, my son? Ne. For a while now I have been suffering and sorrowing for your pain. Phil. Don’t lose heart, my son: this illness of mine visits me with piercing speed and then quickly goes away. I beg you, do not leave me in solitude. Ne. Don’t worry, I will stay here. Phil. Will you? Ne. You can be sure of it. Phil. I don’t think I should subject you to making an oath, my son. Ne. It would be utterly wrong for

,     

173

me to go without you. Phil. Put your hand in mine to confirm it. Ne. Here; I will stay. Phil. To there, now, to there! Ne. Where do you mean? Phil. Up there! Ne. What madness is this now? Why are you looking at the sky above? Phil. Let me go, let me go! Ne. Where to? Phil. Just let me go. Ne. I tell you I will not. Phil. You will kill me if you touch me. Ne. I am letting you go—if you show more sense. Phil. Earth, receive me in death just as I am; my pain stops me from standing up. Ne. Sleep looks likely to take hold of him shortly. His head here is lying back. Sweat is dripping over his whole body. The dark blood of a vein has burst from his heel. Friends, let us leave him in peace, so that he falls into sleep. Cho. Sleep, Sleep, you know nothing of anguish and pain; come, I ask you, lord, with kindly breath, making life happy. Hold that radiance in front of his eyes, which is stretched there now. Come, come, I beg you, god of healing. Neoptolemus, my son, consider where you will stand, where you will go, where your next move in thought may be. You are considering already. Why are we waiting to act? The right moment, which has understanding of everything, wins much victory by acting at once. Ne. Philoctetes cannot hear, but I see: this quest of ours for his bow is in vain if we sail without him. His is the garland of victory, it was him that the god told us to bring. To boast falsely of deeds that cannot reach fulfilment is a shameful disgrace.’

In the last part of the passage, it looks to the chorus like a promising moment. Philoctetes, amid an onset of his disease, leaves Neoptolemus with the bow and falls asleep. Sailing away has been much in the minds of Neoptolemus, Philoctetes, and the chorus. The voyage was the subject of an elaborate but evasive prayer by Neoptolemus at the start of the passage, with 780 πλοῦϲ, οὔριοϲ, εὐϲταλήϲ, 781 ϲτόλοϲ; the destination of the motion was left piously or craftily open (780 ὅποι ποτέ). The end of the passage uses πλέοντεϲ (840), but does so to question the proposal of going without Philoctetes (the transitive motion of κομίζειν (841) is the crucial point, cf. 1465–8). Neoptolemus’ doubts about going with or without Philoctetes have evidently been increased since his deceitful prayer by the extremity of Philoctetes’ sufferings, words, and courage, from 782 on. Hence at 804–5 Neoptolemus threatens his own performance by his silence (805 τί ϲιγᾶιϲ;). In the climactic sequence 782–826, various types of motion are vigorously conjoined.³² Two sorts of motion are strikingly woven together that might in themselves appear too different to be connected: the movement of people, away from Philoctetes or on the sea, and movement within Philoctetes’ body. A clear indication of connection and contrast comes in Philoctetes’ first description here of corporeal events, 783–4 ϲτάζει γὰρ αὖ μοι φοίνιον τόδ’ ἐκ βυθοῦ | κηκῖον αἷμα. The word βυθόϲ is associated above all with the sea; its application to the body is ³² With 804–7, cf. Eur. Med. 922–7, Rutherford (2012), 332.

174

   

unexpected in the fifth century. The sentence 782–4 connects the description explicitly to the prayer 779–81 (εὐχή 782), and creates a pointed turn: the tempestuous movements in Philoctetes’ body could prevent any real voyage.³³ In what follows, the impending pain (cf. 786 οἷά μ’ ἐργάϲηι κακά) is presented as a hostile force approaching (787–8 προϲέρπει, | προϲέρχεται τόδ᾿ ἐγγύϲ). As the pain comes near to him, Philoctetes begs Neoptolemus and the sailors not to flee from him (789 μὴ φύγητε, the next line). The two motions are related misfortunes for him: it will arrive, they will go. Previously, he had thought that Neoptolemus and he would both be fleeing from κακά: 641 ἀεὶ καλὸϲ πλοῦϲ ἔϲθ᾿ ὅταν φεύγηιϲ κακά, ‘it’s always good for sailing when you’re fleeing from evils’ (with special reference to meeting Odysseus). Now the agony approaching Philoctetes might lead to motion on the part of Neoptolemus and his men (cf. the anxiety at 740–4). At 807–9, Philoctetes, with a sudden and tactical change of manner, informs Neoptolemus that the disease comes and goes away quickly (808 ὀξεῖα φοιτᾶι καὶ ταχεῖ᾿ ἀπέρχεται); this is a reason for Neoptolemus not to abandon him (809 μή με καταλίπηιϲ). The two sorts of movement are closely joined in argument; there is some play in the personifying φοιτᾶι (808), heightened by the designation of the disease just as ἥδε (807). But μόνον marks with pathos the difference between the rhetoric of personification and the actuality of loneliness (cf. OC 500–1 μόνον δέ με | μὴ λείπετ᾿ ). ἀλλ᾿ does not mark a new start at 809: 809 is parallel with 807–8, which begin with ἀλλ᾿. Neoptolemus’ answering agreement to stay, that is not to move (810 μενοῦμεν, cf. 810 μενεῖϲ, 813 μενεῖν), is opposed to the disease’s swift movement and his own feared departure (cf. 869–71).³⁴ The movements in Philoctetes’ body generate much other movement, real and imagined, and also prevent motion. Most extreme is his fall to the ground in 819– 20. He wishes the resulting position, like that of a corpse, to be extended into death and burial (819 ὦ Γαῖα, δέξαι θανάϲιμόν μ᾿ ὅπωϲ ἔχω). Neoptolemus hopes that Philoctetes will metaphorically fall (826 πέϲηι) into sleep. Immediately after securing Neoptolemus’ assurance that he will not go (812 μολεῖν) without him, i.e. by ship, Philoctetes initiates a wildly different movement with a repeated ἐκεῖϲε . . . ἐκεῖϲε (814). The goal is not clear to Neoptolemus or the audience, but this is plainly not a sea journey. There follows abruptly an agitated and undignified bustle between them as Neoptolemus tries to block Philoctetes’ movement, not Philoctetes Neoptolemus’ (816–18).³⁵

³³ The general sense at 782 is not in doubt; Wunder’s is not wanted, either after the ill-placed ἆ ἆ ἆ ἆ of Philp (1958), or beginning an utterance—it would not obey the norms for such a position by introducing a question, following an emphatic word, etc. Cf. also Manuwald (2018), 248. βυθόϲ and the sea: so cf. Aesch. Supp. 408, [PV] 431; Soph. Aj. 1083, OT 23–4 (metaphorical, of the city in a bloody storm), cf. fr. 552 Radt; Ar. Knights 607, 609. ³⁴ The change at 807–9 is to some degree sensed by Reinhardt (1947), 188–9. ³⁵ Cf. Telò (2001), esp. 237–8, Schein (2013), 245.

,     

175

Philoctetes has just begged Neoptolemus to take him (799 ϲυλλαβών) to be burned to death in the supposed volcanic fires of the island. For all the passion of this Heraclean fantasy, he was disconcerted by Neoptolemus’ lack of reaction, and reverted to less frenzied tones (807 ἀλλ’ κτλ.).³⁶ His mind has also run through other motions, expanding the pain in his foot to a pain which should go (792 ἵκοιτ’) right through Odysseus’ chest, and calling on Death to come to him (798 μολεῖν). The strong personification and deification in the latter should be apparent. The plan to go is temporarily forgotten in the long wish for divine visitation to the mortal trapped on Lemnos. The changes of address—Neoptolemus and chorus 789, Odysseus 791, Atreidae 793, Death 797, Neoptolemus 799—show the restless mental and imaginative extensions which Philoctetes’ attack brings about.³⁷ The chorus pray for Sleep, not Death, to come to Philoctetes (829 ἔλθοιϲ). They think of Sleep as a gentle breeze (829 εὐαήϲ), and at the start of the epode speak of the literal οὖροϲ . . . οὖροϲ (855). Here they turn abruptly from asking Sleep to come (829 ἔλθοιϲ, 832 ἴθι ἴθι) to telling Neoptolemus to think where he will go (833 ποῖ δὲ βάϲηι). The abruptness could be thought to show the crudity of their deception. Neoptolemus’ perception that it would be pointless to sail without Philoctetes (840) is delivered as an inspired insight in oracular hexameters; his abstraction earlier (804–5) has likewise detached him from the conspiracy to leave. On the stage, his movements have been relatively restricted, compared to Philoctetes’ fall and probably to much lively acting from Philoctetes in the passage: note 815 τί παραφρονεῖϲ αὖ; τί τὸν ἄνω λεύϲϲειϲ κύκλον;.³⁸ By pursuing motion in this part of the drama, we see, not merely an intense depiction of physical pain, but the imaginative development of the pain and the plot into a thick complex of poetry, drama, and thought. The whole scene 730–826 is unusually short; but intent spectators will think they have been taken through much.

³⁶ Fires of Lemnos: cf. S. R. West (2017), 219–25, with attractive advocacy of Toup’s ἀνακυκλουμένωι; note possibly too a thought at Zwierlein (2014), i.87. ³⁷ Capital for Θάνατε Θάνατε 797 rightly in Schein (2013), 90, Manuwald (2018), 250. Cf. Aesch. fr. 161.1–4, 255.1–3 Radt, the latter attributed to Philoctetes and here evoked, Hor. Odes 2.18.40 (Orcus or possibly Mercury) uocatus atque non uocatus audit (cf. Harrison (2017), 221). Note Alfieri’s version, Filottéte 883–5 (Opere xxxviii.66), ‘Deh Morte, Morte, | Perché invocata [NB] il dì ben mille e mille | Volte, venir non puoi pur una?’, ‘Ah Death, Death, I call on you thousands of times a day; why cannot you come once?’. This is taken without ‘venir’ into Mirra V.130–2, ‘—O Morte, Morte, | Cui tanto invoco [NB], al mio dolor tu sorda | Sempre sarai? . . . ’, ‘O Death, Death, I call on you so much; will you always be deaf to my anguish? . . . ’. ³⁸ ἡμῖν 829, 832 μοι 832 are ‘ethic’ datives, cf. Webster (1970), 121; for the cletic elements in the invocation, cf. Rodighiero (2012), 148. On deception and the stanza, cf. Goldhill (2012), 124–5. For the complications of the prophecy, cf. Budelmann (2000), 113–28.

176

   

Oedipus Sits on a Ledge of Rock (OC 195–202) Οι. ἦ ἑϲθῶ; Χο. λέχριόϲ γ᾿ ἐπ᾿ ἄκρου λάου βραχὺϲ ὀκλάϲαϲ. Αν. πάτερ, ἐμὸν τόδ᾿· ἐν ἁϲυχαίαι [ἰώ μοί μοι] βάϲει βάϲιν ἅρμοϲαι— Αν. γεραὸν ἐϲ χέρα ϲῶμα ϲὸν προκλίναϲ φιλίαν ἐμάν. Οι. ὤμοι δύϲφρονοϲ ἄταϲ.

195

200

197–9 τόδ᾿ ἐμόν (accentu primo scripto) P. Oxy. LXXIX 5195 (i a.C./i p.C.) ἁϲυχαίαι Hermann: ἡϲυχίαι codd. ἰώ μοί μοι del. Wilamowitz: om. P. Oxy., r: uerba Oedipodi iam tributa post ἅρμοϲαι transp. Hermann ἅρμοϲαι Elmsley: ἁρμόϲαι codd. 201 προκλίναϲ fere Lraz: πρόϲκλινον t: πρόκλινον Brunck; ex hoc uersu nihil nisi ].[ P. Oxy., spatio magis φι]λ̣[ quam ν]α̣[ϲ fauente

‘Oed. Shall I sit down? Chor. Yes. Crouch, make yourself low; sit at an angle on the edge of the rock. Ant. Father, this is for me to help with. Join your step to my gentle step—Oed. Ah, ah! Ant. And lean your old body forward into my loving arms. Oed. Oh my crazed folly!’

In the strophe, Oedipus, with Antigone’s help, had been accomplishing a movement away from the Eumenides’ sacred territory. Here in the antistrophe, Oedipus has already moved away sufficiently (191); there is now movement on a still smaller scale as he sits down on a low natural platform of rock (192). Steps are required as well: 197, 199 ἁϲυχαί|αι suggests that βάϲιϲ in βάϲει βάϲιν means ‘step’ rather than ‘foot’. But the motion is essentially a matter of getting Oedipus into sitting position, since he has already reached the rock where he should sit.³⁹ A word should be said on the text. This is the antistrophe; the strophe, in MSS and now P. Mich. III 140 (iv or v/vi ), lacks lines that would correspond to 198 ἰώ μοί μοι, 202 ὤμοι δύϲφρονοϲ ἄταϲ, and either 197 and 199 or 200–1 (2 gl, the first with resolved aeolic base). P. Oxy. LXXIX 5195 (i /i ) has 189–97, 199–200, i.e. not 198 ἰώ μοί μοι. The most insecure element is 198, which is missing from the Roman family (QR) and now from P. Oxy. LXXIX 5195, is somewhat oddly placed in the other MSS, and would not have been difficult to invent; it should be deleted. There might be a clue here about the other lines without responsion. The rest, once lightly altered, is not suspicious in language

³⁹ On the lowness of the rock, cf. Erfurdt and Hermann (1839), ii OC p. 49. The calyx-krater, Melbourne, Geddes Coll. A 5:8 (n. 16 above), glamourizes the rock into a regular altar, comfortably high, on which the sisters sit too.

,     

177

(the rarity of προκλίναϲ in 201 is not a problem). But just suppose that 197–9 and 202 were all inauthentic; 198 would be only the latest or least diffused part of the elaboration. We would have to emend προκλίναϲ to an imperative, like t and Brunck, or conceivably to infinitive as imperative (προκλῖναι). There would be the interesting theatrical consequence that what seem uncalled-for steps would be eliminated. But possibly they add to the intricate movement.⁴⁰ Oedipus has needed help in sitting before (21; sitting mentioned 100–1, cf. 36, 45); but there was not the same elaborate language and drama as here. λέχριοϲ (195) suggests a peculiar angle, βραχύϲ (196) an odd position, ὀκλάϲαϲ an action unusual in poetry, at any rate with this verb. προκλίναϲ (201) gives an unusual action and verb for Oedipus’ leaning forward into Antigone’s arms. As mentioned above, sitting on a seat was not common in tragedy (p. 161, cf. p. 188). The mechanics and strange appearance of the old man’s laborious motion are closely dwelt on. He needs assistance (197 ἐμὸν τόδ᾿). φιλίαν (201), and the juxapositions 199 βάϲει βάϲιν and 200 ἐϲ χέρα ϲῶμα, express the affectionate closeness of the cooperation. Oedipus’ final action on stage (1542–8), independent and commanding, will make a remarkable contrast.⁴¹ Oedipus’ cries of woe, 198, 202, especially the second, are unexpected after his precise questions 178 ἔτ᾿ οὖν;, 180 ἔτι;, 193 οὕτωϲ;, 195 ἦ ἑϲθῶ;. But a parallel exclamation in the strophe could possibly have helped 202 here. Provided 202 is genuine, δύϲφρονοϲ ἄταϲ is obscure to the chorus, and even to the audience. The motion is given a large background.⁴²

Antigone Is Carried Off (OC 822–47) Οι. ἰὼ ξένοι. τί δράϲετ᾿; ἦ προδώϲετε, κοὐκ ἐξελᾶτε τὸν ἀϲεβῆ τῆϲδε χθονόϲ; Χο. χώρει, ξέν᾿, ἔξω θᾶϲϲον· . . .

824

⁴⁰ On 202, see below. Deletion of 198: Wilamowitz (1917), 340 n. 3, cf. Buijs (1985), 79, Yuan and Henry (2014), 89, 91. Images of papyri: http://papyri.info/apis/michigan.apis.1992, http://163.1.169.40/ gsdl/collect/POxy/index/assoc/HASH55e0/c6dab9a7.dir/POxy.v0079.n5195.a.01.hires.jpg. I have looked at the original of P. Oxy. 5195. ⁴¹ λέχριοϲ: cf. Ant. 1345; Eur. Med. 1168, Call. H. 4.235–6. ὀκλάϲαϲ: before this passage there is extant only Hom. Il. 13.281 μετοκλάζει. προκλίναϲ: the verb not again before Plut. Soll. An. 980e (προϲκλίνει Reiske). ⁴² δύϲφρονοϲ ἄταϲ is not ‘sad misfortune’. ἄταϲ invites a different sense for δύϲφρονοϲ; δύϲφρων, if it can mean ‘of unhappy spirit’ at all, would not suit ‘misfortune’ as it would the mental λῦπαι at Eur. Andr. 1042—and even there a figurative ‘hostile’ would suit ϲοὶ . . . ἐπέπεϲον, ‘fell . . . upon you’. Similarly the problematic Aesch. Ag. 547, cf. 1308, perhaps Cho. 81. If the line were not genuine, it would not be needed to motivate 203 ὦ τλάμων (cf. 185 ὦ τλάμων) or the question (cf. 143). The chorus do not ask about the folly, but can proceed to inquiry now that the urgent practicality is dealt with (ὅτε νῦν χαλᾶιϲ; cf. 33–7).

178

    Κρ. ὑμῖν ἂν εἴη τήνδε καιρὸϲ ἐξάγειν ἄκουϲαν, εἰ θέλουϲα μὴ πορεύϲεται. Αν. οἴμοι τάλαινα, ποῖ φύγω; . . . Χο. ὦ ξέν᾿, οὐ δίκαια δρᾶιϲ. Κρ. δίκαια. Χο. πῶϲ δίκαια; Κρ. τοὺϲ ἐμοὺϲ ἄγω.

826

831

Οι. ἰὼ πόλιϲ. ϲτρ. Χο. τί δρᾶιϲ, ὦ ξέν᾿; οὐκ ἀφήϲειϲ; τάχ᾿ ἐϲ βάϲανον εἶ χερῶν. 835 Κρ. εἴργου. Χο. ϲοῦ μὲν οὔ, τάδε γε μωμένου. Κρ. πόλει μαχῆι γάρ, εἴ τι πημανεῖϲ ἐμέ. Οι. οὐκ ἠγόρευον ταῦτ᾿ ἐγώ; Χο. μέθεϲ χεροῖν τὴν παῖδα θᾶϲϲον. Κρ. μὴ ᾿πίταϲϲ᾿ ἃ μὴ κρατεῖϲ. 840 Χο. χαλᾶν λέγω ϲοι. Κρ. ϲοὶ δ᾿ ἔγωγ᾿ ὁδοιπορεῖν. Χο. πρόβαθ᾿ ὧδε, βᾶτε, βᾶτ᾿, ἔντοποι· πόλιϲ ἐναίρεται, πόλιϲ ἐμά, ϲθένει· πρόβαθ᾿ ὧδέ μοι. Αν. ἀφέλκομαι δύϲτηνοϲ, ὦ ξένοι, ξένοι. Οι. ποῦ, τέκνον, εἶ μοι; Αν. πρὸϲ βίαν πορεύομαι. Οι. ὄρεξον, ὦ παῖ, χεῖραϲ. Αν. ἀλλ᾿ οὐδὲν ϲθένω. Κρ. οὐκ ἄξεθ᾿ ὑμεῖϲ; Οι. ὦ τάλαϲ ἐγώ, τάλαϲ.

845

‘Oed. Hey there, my friends! What are you going to do? Will you betray me, and not drive that wicked man from this land? Cho. Get out of this land quickly, stranger! Cre. You, men, it would be the time for you to lead her off against her will, if she will not travel willingly. Ant. Oh wretched me! Where shall I flee to? . . . Cho. Stranger, your actions are not right. Cre. They are! Cho. How so? Cre. I am taking the people that belong to me. Oed. Hear me, city of Athens! Cho. What are you doing, stranger? Will you not let go of her? Soon you will come to the test of hands in fighting. Cre. Get off me! Cho. I will not, while you have such desires as these. Cre. You will fight with a city if you do me any harm. Oed. Did I not say this would happen? Cho. Take your hands off the child, quickly! Cre. Do not give orders when you have no power. Cho. I tell you to let her go. Cre. And I tell you to be on your way. Cho. Come forth here, men of Colonus, come forth, come forth! My city, my city is being destroyed by violence. I beg you, come forth! Ant. Strangers, strangers, I am being dragged away, unhappy me! Oed. My child, where are you? Ant. I am being made to journey by force. Oed. Stretch your hands out, daughter. Ant. I do not have the power to. Cre. All you, take her off! Oed. Oh wretched, wretched me!’

Such violent motion on stage is unusual in this period of tragedy. The scene can be compared with, and perhaps looks back to, the attempt of the fifty sons of

,     

179

Aegyptus to carry off their cousins in Aesch. Supp. 825–907; but there the king of Argos prevents the attempt. The present scene is much simpler in language— much of it a series of short utterances in very basic words; it is much more complicated in the stage action and sequence of events. Creon has captured Ismene offstage (818–19). He here takes hold of Antigone: cf. 835 οὐκ ἀφήϲειϲ;, 838 μέθεϲ χεροῖν, 840 χαλᾶν. He hands her over to his men, who drag her off: 845 ἀφέλκομαι, 848 οὐκ ἄξεθ᾿ ὑμεῖϲ;, cf. 825–6. The chorus eventually take hold of him (856–7); he threatens to take hold of Oedipus and carry him away (860 etc., contrast 830), but is prevented by the arrival of Theseus. The chorus in some way try to stop Creon holding Antigone (836 εἴργου). Whether or not there was a raised stage at this period, chorus and actors trespass into each other’s usual space. The abduction of Antigone alone is extended over iambic dialogue (821–32), a dialogue which mixes sung dochmiacs and spoken iambics (833–43), and more iambic dialogue (845–7). The passage is tumultuously full of efforts to cause, and prevent, motion by speech: especially 823 κοὐκ ἐξελᾶτε, 824 χώρει, 838 μέθεϲ, with meta-comment in 839, 840 χαλᾶν λέγω ϲοι.—ϲοὶ δ᾿ ἔγωγ᾿ ὁδοιπορεῖν, 841–3 πρόβαθ’ κτλ., 847 ὄρεξον . . . χεῖραϲ, 848 οὐκ ἄξεθ᾿ ὑμεῖϲ;. Transitive and intransitive motion are significantly opposed and juxtaposed. Oedipus asks passionately οὐκ ἐξελᾶτε . . . ; (823), but the chorus can only say χώρει (824). ἐξάγειν (826) and πορεύϲεται | (827) are accompanied by the opposed ἄκουϲαν and θέλουϲα (consent by Antigone is improbable, but suits Creon’s point that she is part of his family: 830, 832). At 845, on the other hand, the intransitive πορεύομαι | is paradoxically combined with πρὸϲ βίαν, and goes with the transitive | ἀφέλκομαι (844) and | οὐκ ἄξεθ᾿ . . . ; (848). The last brutally follows the impossibility of Antigone even moving her arms and hands, to touch her father: | ὄρεξον . . . χεῖραϲ (847). Linguistic pointing drives home the abnormality of the stage action. The pathos passes at the end from Antigone (845 ὦ ξένοι, ξένοι |) to Oedipus (847 ὢ τάλαϲ ἐγώ, τάλαϲ |). Creon’s next remark will give Oedipus an intransitive action, but one which he could scarcely accomplish unaided: 848–9 οὔκουν ποτ᾿ ἐκ τούτοιν γε μὴ ϲκήπτροιν ἔτι | ὁδοιπορήϲηιϲ, ‘you will never again journey with those two sticks to help you’, i.e. Antigone and Ismene. As 848–9 confirm, the action is made to seem particularly cruel by the relation between Oedipus and Antigone: that relation is embedded in prolonged time, and the accumulation of the play.⁴³ The motion extends beyond the stage in its range and meaning: Creon is to be driven out of Attica (823 τῆϲδε χθονόϲ), Athens is being destroyed (842 πόλιϲ), the men of Colonus are to come (841 ἔντοποι), Thebes will fight (837 πόλει), and Thebes is the implicit destination of Creon in recovering his own family (832 τοὺϲ ἐμοὺϲ ἄγω). ⁴³ On 848–9: the verb ὁδοιπορεῖν Creon had just used scornfully to the chorus at 840; for ϲκήπτροιν, cf. 1109, Lys. 24.12.

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   

Old Age Assailed from All Quarters (OC 1239–48) ἐν ὧι τλάμων ὅδ᾿, οὐκ ἐγὼ μόνοϲ, πάντοθεν βόρειοϲ ὥϲ τιϲ ἀκτὰ κυματοπλὴξ χειμερία κλονεῖται, ὣϲ καὶ τόνδε κατ᾿ ἄκραϲ δειναὶ κυματοαγεῖϲ ἆται κλονέουϲιν ἀεὶ ξυνοῦϲαι, αἱ μὲν ἀπ᾿ ἀελίου δυϲμᾶν, αἱ δ᾿ ἀνατέλλοντοϲ, αἱ δ᾿ ἀνὰ μέϲϲαν ἀκτῖν᾿, αἱ δ᾿ ἐννυχιᾶν ἀπὸ ῾Ριπᾶν.

ἐπ. 1240

1245

‘This wretched man is in old age, and he, not I alone, is like some headland in the north, buffeted from every side, hit by waves in a storm. Just so this man is buffeted from above by terrible woes which break on him like waves, and are always with him. Some come from the setting of the sun, some from its rising, some spring up at its midday ray, some from the Rhipaean mountains steeped in night.’

The trials of Oedipus, in and before the play, reach summation in this epode, with a simile of a motion (1240–1) that spreads into a metaphor (1242–8). The image of stormy waves assaulting the land is used of woes at the start of an ode at Ant. 586–92 (cf. Trach. 112–15); but the final position, in a separate epode, gives this passage monumental weight. Though the chorus are now applying their thoughts to Oedipus in particular (1239 ὅδ’), the οὐκ ἐγὼ μόνοϲ in fact suggests a wider application. In view of the special relevance of Colonus, subject of an earlier song (668–719), to the author himself, the audience will be drawn to see an uncommon authorial relevance here too, as well as the personal engagement of the choral speaker. The chorus had said of age ἵνα πρόπαντα | κακὰ κακῶν ξυνοικεῖ, ‘where dwell all possible ills’ (1237–8); but now the woes are put outside the old person, as well as with him (1244 ξυνοῦϲαι), and they move against him ferociously. The ‘all’ (1237) is now turned so that they attack him from all directions (1240 πάντοθεν). κατ᾿ ἄκραϲ (1242) even indicates that the waves crash up above the person (or headland) and fall down on him (cf. Hom. Od. 5.313). The enumeration of the directions from which waves are blown is relentless in its simplicity, and allencompassing in its spread across the world. The first three directions are expressed in terms of the sun (1245–7), the last draws in night (1248 ἐννυχιᾶν). Before this, adjectives are piled up and show the violence and grimness of the motion: 1241 κυματοπλὴξ χειμερία (with effective repetition of the same rhythm - ̆ ̆ -), 1243 δειναὶ κυματοαγεῖϲ. 1241 κλονεῖται and 1244 κλονέουϲιν suit

,     

181

the force of waves and wind against powerless things and people. A headland (1240 ἀκτά) allows less impression of valiant resistance than a solitary rock. The medium of choral song brings into the play new sorts of motion as well as space.⁴⁴

A Journey Robbed of Purpose (OC 1393, 1397–1404) καὶ ταῦτ᾿ ἀκούϲαϲ ϲτεῖχε, κἀξάγγελλ᾿ ἰὼν . . . Χο. Πολύνεικεϲ, οὔτε ταῖϲ παρελθούϲαιϲ ὁδοῖϲ ξυνήδομαί ϲοι, νῦν τ᾿ ἴθ᾿ ὡϲ τάχοϲ πάλιν. Πο. οἴμοι κελεύθου τῆϲ τ᾿ ἐμῆϲ δυϲπραξίαϲ, οἴμοι δ᾿ ἑταίρων· οἷον ἆρ᾿ ὁδοῦ τέλοϲ Ἄργουϲ ἀφωρμήθημεν, ὢ τάλαϲ ἐγώ, τοιοῦτον οἷον οὐδὲ φωνῆϲαί τινι ἔξεϲθ᾿ ἑταίρων, οὐδ᾿ ἀποϲτρέψαι πάλιν, ἀλλ᾿ ὄντ᾿ ἄναυδον τῆιδε ϲυγκῦρϲαι τύχηι.

1393 1397

1400

‘(Oed.) . . . Now you have heard this, be on your way; go and tell [all the Thebans and your faithful allies of Oedipus’ gifts to his sons]. Cho. Polynices, I take no pleasure in your past journeying; now return as swiftly as you can. Pol. Alas for my journey and my evil fortune, and that of my friends! What an end to our travel did we set off for from Argos! Wretched me! It is such as I cannot even speak of to any of my friends; nor can I turn back again. I must meet this lot of mine without a word.’

Polynices’ Argive allies are already in Theban territory (1312); his next journey will be back to see them. The looming war at Thebes, a huge event in mythology, has been important in the play; this scene has presented the campaign more tangibly as the movement of the Argives to Thebes, under Polynices’ leadership (1325, 1371–2, 1386–7). Polynices has also travelled from Thebes to Attica, and been allowed to proceed the short distance from the altar of Poseidon to by the grove of the Eumenides (1285–8). Earlier he had been expelled from Thebes and had travelled to Argos (1292–6, 1301–2). The journey to Thebes and the journey to Oedipus had had a definite goal: expelling Eteocles (1307, 1340–3). Now the goal has been removed by Oedipus’ prophecies and curses: only that of dying in ⁴⁴ The rhythm in 1245–8 is probably in counterpoint to the development at 1248: three dragged endings in 1245–7, then an ironically snappy - - ̆ ̆ - ̆ ̆ - -. Cf. Diggle (1994), 456–8, whose material favours this view. Different views: Dawe (1996), 96; Guidorizzi, Avezzù, and Cerri (2008), 396. κλονέω for wind and sea: cf. Trach. 144–6, Sem. fr. 1.15–17 West, Pind. Pyth. 9.46–8. Solitary rock: cf. Hom. Il. 15.618–20, Virg. Aen. 7.586–90, Sen. Ag. 539.

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   

the attempt remains (1306, cf. 1439–40). But the journey to Thebes cannot be undone, in Polynices’ perverse opinion.⁴⁵ There is here a variety of viewpoints on the motion; these viewpoints and their expression have their own complications. Oedipus ironically treats Polynices’ journey to him and back to Thebes as having a goal, which will be announced to all. Not just the announcement but the motion back are stressed (1393 ϲτεῖχε, taken up by ἰών). The chorus are more straightforward, neither furious like Oedipus nor distraught like Antigone in what follows (from 1414). They see all Polynices’ journeying as undesirable (1397–8 οὔτε . . . νῦν τ᾿ ), but just want him to go quickly, so the encounter can end: 1398 ὡϲ τάχοϲ, cf. 1346–7 . . . εἰπὼν ὁποῖα ξύμφορ᾿ ἔκπεμψαι πάλιν, ‘say what is appropriate, then send him away again’. Polynices now sees the mass motion from Argos as having a disastrous end and as it were goal (1400–1), and looks back with a different perspective to the purposeful start of the expedition (1400 ἆρ᾿, 1401 ἀφωρμήθημεν). He laments for his comrades as well as himself (1400 ἑταίρων); he deduces that they will be defeated (cf. 1372–4, 1385–6) and killed. But the sentence 1399–1404 takes a subtle turn. The structure of 1402–4 shows that ἀποϲτρέψαι (1403) must in its primary sense be grammatically intransitive. Just as φωνῆϲαι (1402) is opposed to ὄντ᾿ ἄναυδον (1404), so ἀποϲτρέψαι must be opposed to ϲυγκῦρϲαι (1404), where the metaphor of motion is accordingly felt. Despite the earlier part of the sentence and the recurrence of ἑταῖροι (1400 ἑταίρων, 1403 ἑταίρων), the constraint to continue onward to his fratricidal fate is more important to Polynices than the lot of the friends whom he will keep in the dark, his ‘own faithful allies’, in Oedipus’ withering phrase (1394–5). It is painful for him that he ‘cannot’ tell any of his comrades (Oedipus’ sarcastic ἐξάγγελλ’ (1394) has suggested he will not, cf. 1429–30). But what follows will indicate he is more concerned with himself (1405–13, 1416–19), even at their expense (1427–30). As the present lines are heard, with their loosely unfolding syntax, a transitive meaning seems possible for ἀποϲτρέψαι (1403), turning his comrades back; the exclusion of that meaning helps start the revelation of his intelligible but immoral attitude.⁴⁶

Missing Motion (OC 1638–52) ὅπωϲ δὲ ταῦτ᾿ ἔδραϲεν, εὐθὺϲ Οἰδίπουϲ ψαύϲαϲ ἀμαυραῖϲ χερϲὶν ὧν παίδων λέγει ⁴⁵ So 1418, against Antigone’s 1416 ϲτρέψαϲ ϲτράτευμ᾿ ἐϲ Ἄργοϲ ὡϲ τάχιϲτ’ ἄγε, ‘turn round, and take your army back to Thebes as quickly as you can’; for journeying in and after this passage, cf. Easterling (1967), 11–12. ⁴⁶ ἀποϲτρέψαι (1404), ϲτρέψαϲ (1416: A. Y. Campbell) intransitive: cf. e.g. Hdt. 5.117, Thuc. 6.65.3, Xen. Hell. 4.3.5. Apparent transitive sense for ἀποϲτρέψαι: taken as the only meaning by L. Campbell (1879–81), i.408.

,      ῾ὦ παῖδε, τλάϲαϲ χρὴ {τὸ γενναῖον φέρειν{ χωρεῖν τόπων ἐκ τῶνδε, μηδ᾿ ἃ μὴ θέμιϲ λεύϲϲειν δικαιοῦν, μηδὲ φωνούντων κλύειν. ἀλλ᾿ ἕρπεθ᾿ ὡϲ τάχιϲτα· πλὴν ὁ κύριοϲ Θηϲεὺϲ παρέϲτω μανθάνειν τὰ δρώμενα.᾿ τοϲαῦτα φωνήϲαντοϲ εἰϲηκούϲαμεν ξύμπαντεϲ· ἀϲτακτὶ δὲ ϲὺν ταῖϲ παρθένοιϲ ϲτένοντεϲ ὡμαρτοῦμεν. ὡϲ δ᾿ ἀπήλθομεν, χρόνωι βραχεῖ ϲτραφέντεϲ, ἐξαπείδομεν τὸν ἄνδρα τὸν μὲν οὐδαμοῦ παρόντ᾿ ἔτι, ἄνακτα δ᾿ αὐτὸν ὀμμάτων ἐπίϲκιον χεῖρ᾿ ἀντέχοντα κρατόϲ, ὡϲ δεινοῦ τινοϲ φόβου φανέντοϲ οὐδ᾿ ἀναϲχετοῦ βλέπειν.

183

1640

1645

1650

‘Immediately Theseus had done this, Oedipus touched his daughters with his blind man’s hands. He said, “My daughters, you must endure . . . and go from this place. You must not think you should see what it is not lawful to, nor hear of it when others speak. Now then, go as soon as possible. But let Theseus, the one with authority, remain with me, to learn what is being done.” We all heard him saying this. We accompanied the girls, weeping copiously with them. When we had left, in a short time we turned round. We saw that Oedipus was no longer anywhere there, and we saw the king himself holding his hand in front of his head to shade his eyes, as if some dread thing had occurred to view which he could not endure to look on.’

The death of Oedipus must be regarded by the audience as involving motion. The divine voice has asked τί μέλλομεν | χωρεῖν; (1627–8), ‘Why are we delaying going?’; that going must follow Oedipus’ farewell here (1638–46). Delphi has revealed his body will be in the earth (411); his entry to Hades has been contemplated in the preceding choral ode (1556–78), and after this passage a variety of motions appear, negated, possible, or unspecific. Here, in the narration of the death, there is, instead of a specific motion, an imposing blank. Long. 15.7 says that Sophocles ἄκρωϲ . . . πεφάνταϲται, ‘has displayed superb [visual] imagination’, in this scene; but Longinus’ bold phrase of Oedipus ἑαυτὸν . . . θάπτοντοϲ, ‘burying himself ’, shows his awareness of what is left unvisualized.⁴⁷ The blank is perceived as it were through the eyes of ‘all’ (1646 ξύμπαντεϲ), who see only that there is nothing to see (1648–9 ἐξαπείδομεν | . . . οὐδαμοῦ παρόντ’ ἔτι). It is also seen through the eyes of Theseus, who has seen or could not bear to look (1650

⁴⁷ Oedipus in the earth: cf. 582, 621–2, 1545–6; 1725–7, 1752, 1756–8. Motions in relation to death: 1658–60, 1679–80, not lightning, weapon, sea, or sea-storm—note 1660 κινηθεῖϲα, 1680 ἀντέκυρϲεν, cf. also 1663–4; 1661–2: either πομπόϲ or chasm διαϲτάν; 1681–2 ἄϲκοποι δὲ πλάκεϲ ἔμαρψαν | ἐν ἀφανεῖ τινι μόρωι φερόμενον, ‘the invisible regions seized him; he was carried off in some unseen death’.

184

   

ὀμμάτων, 1652 οὐδ’ ἀναϲχετοῦ βλέπειν), but is himself seen through the eyes of ‘all’, from whom his secret is hidden. The blank is intensified by tantalizing phrases: 1641–2 ἃ μὴ θέμιϲ | λεύϲϲειν, 1644 τὰ δρώμενα, 1651–2 δεινοῦ τινοϲ | φόβου.⁴⁸ The blank is intensified too by the motion that is actually narrated. The purpose of the departure of the daughters (1641 χωρεῖν, 1643 ἕρπεθ᾿ ) is to prevent sight of Oedipus’ end (1641–2). But they are not forbidden to look back (cf. 1648 ϲτραφέντεϲ). Although they are told χωρεῖν τόπων ἐκ τῶνδε (1641), they and the others are still close enough to see Theseus and the place where Oedipus was (1649), and they have not been moving long (1648 χρόνωι βραχεῖ). The motion away becomes a mass motion (1646 ξύμπαντεϲ, cf. 1589 πᾶϲιν), which isolates Oedipus and Theseus. The sudden motion of turning provides a mass nonaudience for the miracle.⁴⁹ There is poignancy in the sequence of touching—an important bodily movement between people in this play—and the severing of contact in swift departure: 1639 ψαύϲαϲ . . . χερϲὶν ὧν παίδων, 1643 ἕρπεθ᾿ ὡϲ τάχιϲτα. Affecting too is the spread of lamentation from the daughters (1607–9) and the daughters and Oedipus (1620–2) to the Athenians, in a shared movement of grief before death: 1646–7 ἀϲτακτὶ δὲ ϲὺν ταῖϲ παρθένοιϲ | ϲτένοντεϲ ὡμαρτοῦμεν (in ὡμαρτοῦμεν note the choice of verb and the tense). This grief contrasts with the restraint of Theseus at the time (1636) and later (1751–3), of the messenger himself later (1663), and of the chorus (1777–8, cf. 1693–6).

Oedipus Arrives (OC 1–52) ΟΙΔΙΠΟΥϹ Τέκνον τυφλοῦ γέροντοϲ Ἀντιγόνη, τίναϲ χώρουϲ ἀφίγμεθ’ ἢ τίνων ἀνδρῶν πόλιν; τίϲ τὸν πλανήτην Οἰδίπουν καθ’ ἡμέραν τὴν νῦν ϲπανιϲτοῖϲ δέξεται δωρήμαϲιν, ϲμικρὸν μὲν ἐξαιτοῦντα, τοῦ ϲμικροῦ δ’ ἔτι μεῖον φέροντα, καὶ τόδ’ ἐξαρκοῦν ἐμοί; ϲτέργειν γὰρ αἱ πάθαι με χὠ χρόνοϲ ξυνὼν μακρὸϲ διδάϲκει καὶ τὸ γενναῖον τρίτον.

5

⁴⁸ Theseus’ political authority (cf. 1643 ὁ κύριοϲ; 288) gives him by implication the religious authority for this special role, in a sort of one-off regulation; cf. 1526–32, and e.g. NGSL 14 (Beroia, c.180 ) B 21, 52 κύριοϲ δὲ ἔϲτω ὁ γυμναϲίαρχοϲ, ‘let the gymnasiarch have the authority’ to whip etc. For 1644 τὰ δρώμενα, cf. Rodighiero (1998), 233; for 1642 μηδὲ φωνούντων κλύειν, cf. Ar. Thesm. 632. ⁴⁹ On looking back, contrast 490 ἀφέρπειν ἄϲτροφοϲ, ‘go away without turning back’, with Gow (1950), ii.430.

,      ἀλλ’, ὦ τέκνον, θάκηϲιν εἴ τινα βλέπειϲ ἢ πρὸϲ βεβήλοιϲ ἢ πρὸϲ ἄλϲεϲιν θεῶν, ϲτῆϲόν με κἀξίδρυϲον, ὡϲ πυθώμεθα ὅπου ποτ’ ἐϲμέν· μανθάνειν γὰρ ἥκομεν ξένοι πρὸϲ ἀϲτῶν, ἃν δ’ ἀκούϲωμεν τελεῖν. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ πάτερ ταλαίπωρ’ Οἰδίπουϲ, πύργοι μὲν οἳ πόλιν ϲτέφουϲιν, ὡϲ ἀπ’ ὀμμάτων, πρόϲω· χῶροϲ δ’ ὅδ’ ἱερόϲ, ὡϲ ϲάφ’ εἰκάϲαι, βρύων δάφνηϲ, ἐλαίαϲ, ἀμπέλου· πυκνόπτεροι δ’ εἴϲω κατ’ αὐτὸν εὐϲτομοῦϲ’ ἀηδόνεϲ. οὗ κῶλα κάμψον τοῦδ’ ἐπ’ ἀξέϲτου πέτρου· μακρὰν γὰρ ὡϲ γέροντι προὐϲτάληϲ ὁδόν. Οι. κάθιζέ νύν με καὶ φύλαϲϲε τὸν τυφλόν. Αν. χρόνου μὲν οὕνεκ’ οὐ μαθεῖν με δεῖ τόδε. Οι. ἔχειϲ διδάξαι δή μ’ ὅποι καθέϲταμεν; Αν. τὰϲ γοῦν Ἀθήναϲ οἶδα, τὸν δὲ χῶρον οὔ. Οι. πᾶϲ γάρ τιϲ ηὔδα τοῦτό γ’ ἡμὶν ἐμπόρων. Αν. ἀλλ’ ὅϲτιϲ ὁ τόποϲ ἦ μάθω μολοῦϲά ποι; Οι. ναί, τέκνον, εἴπερ ἐϲτί γ’ ἐξοικήϲιμοϲ. Αν. ἀλλ’ ἐϲτὶ μὴν οἰκητόϲ· οἴομαι δὲ δεῖν οὐδέν· πέλαϲ γὰρ ἄνδρα τόνδε νῶιν ὁρῶ. Οι. ἦ δεῦρο προϲτείχοντα κἀξωρμημένον; Αν. καὶ δὴ μὲν οὖν παρόντα· χὤ τι ϲοι λέγειν εὔκαιρόν ἐϲτιν ἔννεφ’, ὡϲ ἁνὴρ ὅδε. Οι. ὦ ξεῖν’, ἀκούων τῆϲδε τῆϲ ὑπέρ τ’ ἐμοῦ αὑτῆϲ θ’ ὁρώϲηϲ οὕνεχ’ ἡμὶν αἴϲιοϲ ϲκοπὸϲ προϲήκειϲ ὧν ἀδηλοῦμεν φράϲαι— ΞΕΝΟϹ πρὶν νῦν τὰ πλείον’ ἱϲτορεῖν, ἐκ τῆϲδ’ ἕδραϲ ἔξελθ’· ἔχειϲ γὰρ χῶρον οὐχ ἁγνὸν πατεῖν. Οι. τίϲ δ’ ἔϲθ’ ὁ χῶροϲ; τοῦ θεῶν νομίζεται; Ξε. ἄθικτοϲ οὐδ’ οἰκητόϲ. αἱ γὰρ ἔμφοβοι θεαί ϲφ’ ἔχουϲι, Γῆϲ τε καὶ Ϲκότου κόραι. Οι. τίνων τὸ ϲεμνὸν ὄνομ᾿ ἂν εὐξαίμην κλυών; Ξε. τὰϲ πάνθ’ ὁρώϲαϲ Εὐμενίδαϲ ὅ γ’ ἐνθάδ’ ἂν εἴποι λεώϲ νιν· ἄλλα δ’ ἀλλαχοῦ καλά. Οι. ἀλλ’ ἵλεωι μὲν τὸν ἱκέτην δεξαίατο· ὡϲ οὐχ ἕδραϲ γε τῆϲδ’ ἂν ἐξέλθοιμ’ ἔτι. Ξε. τί δ’ ἐϲτὶ τοῦτο; Οι. ξυμφορᾶϲ ξύνθημ’ ἐμῆϲ. Ξε. ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ἐμοί τοι τοὐξανιϲτάναι πόλεωϲ δίχ’ ἐϲτὶ θάρϲοϲ, πρίν γ’ ἂν ἐνδείξω τί δρᾶιϲ.

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    Οι. πρόϲ νυν θεῶν, ὦ ξεῖνε, μή μ’ ἀτιμάϲηιϲ, τοιόνδ’ ἀλήτην, ὧν ϲε προϲτρέπω φράϲαι. Ξε. ϲήμαινε, κοὐκ ἄτιμοϲ ἔκ γ᾿ ἐμοῦ φανῆι. Οι. τίϲ δ᾿ ἔϲθ᾿ ὁ χῶροϲ δῆτ᾿ ἐν ὧι βεβήκαμεν;

50

‘Oedipus Antigone, child of the blind old man, what place have we arrived at, or the city of what people? Who will receive the wanderer Oedipus this day with scanty gifts? Little is sought, and less than that little is got; but for me even that is enough. I am taught to put up with these things by my sufferings, my long life, and, last, by my noble nature. My child, if you see somewhere I can sit, either on land that is not sacred or in groves of the gods, fix and seat me there, so that we can ask where we are. We have come so that we can learn, outsiders as we are, from citizens, and carry out whatever we are told. Antigone My father, unhappy Oedipus, the towers which crown the city are far off, by the look of it. You would guess that this place is sacred. It abounds in laurels, olive-trees, and vines. Inside the grove, nightingales with dense plumage make musical sound. So bend your legs here, on this unshaped rock: it was a long journey that you set out on, for an old man. Oed. Sit me down, then, and look after me, blind as I am. Ant. I have been doing so too long to need reminding. Oed. Can you tell me where we have got to? Ant. I know the city is Athens; I don’t know the place. Oed. Yes, Athens was what all the travellers told us. Ant. Shall I go somewhere and find out what the place is? Oed. Do, daughter, provided the place is inhabited. Ant. It certainly is; but no need for me to go: here is a man close to us, I see. Oed. Is he coming forward? Has he set out for this point? Ant. He is actually here. Say what the moment calls for, as the man is in front of you. Oed. Stranger, since I hear from this person who sees both for me and for herself that your arrival gives us a timely informant to explain what we are unclear about—Stranger Before you ask the rest, come out from that seat: it is unholy to tread on the place you are occupying. Oed. What place is it? What god is it thought to belong to? Str. It is a place that must not be touched or dwelt in; it is possessed by the dread goddesses, daughters of Earth and Darkness. Oed. What is their sacred name, for me to use when I learn it? Str. The people here would call them the all-seeing Eumenides; but other names find favour in other places. Oed. May they be gracious and receive their suppliant: I do not wish to leave this place where I am seated. Str. What’s all this? Oed. The sign which shows my fate. Str. Well, I myself am not bold enough to make you leave without the city’s approval, before I reveal what you are doing. Oed. By the gods, stranger, do not dishonour me, vagrant though you see I am, by refusing to inform me of the things I beg. Str. Just indicate what they are, and you will certainly not be dishonoured by me. Oed. What is the place which we have come to?’

The performance begins with the actors’ motion. It may reasonably be supposed that their entry on to the stage is a slow and laborious business, as the girl helps

,     

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along the blind and unkempt old man, who needs her support to proceed (cf. e.g. 180–3, 197–201, 848–9). The action will be like the entry of Teiresias led by his daughter at Eur. Phoen. 834–7. The movement, or else the scene after the characters have reached the centre of the acting-space, is thought to be depicted in a wall-painting which is certainly theatrical, Delos, Maison des Comédiens, oecus maior (N), south wall, east side, metope b (125–100 , LIMC Antigone 2). The painting perhaps rather depicts the end of the Phoenissae (cf. Eur. Phoen. 1710–15), with Antigone’s dark clothing an artist’s equivalent for her rent robes (1489–92); contrast the sisters’ clothes on the calyx-krater Melbourne Geddes coll. A 5:8. But the painting still points to the theatrical force of the spectacle, in the Phoenissae and in Sophocles. In Sophocles, it seems likely that speaking only begins after the motion has started, as in all but the earliest tragedies: the figures first advance into the unusual acting-space. In any case, the motion is here not a mere preliminary but a fundamental element in the play.⁵⁰ The first words invest the motion with further meaning. Oedipus’ identity could have been known from the proagon; but the words rapidly build up a sense of space and time. They indicate a planless wandering (3 πλανήτην) between the territory of different cities (1–2; 2 τίνων ἀνδρῶν πόλιν;). That wandering covered a distance long and painful for an old man (20 μακράν) and was prolonged in time (22 χρόνου). The clothes and appearance of the old man (cf. 1258–61) gain further point as it is made clear that he has been begging (5 ἐξαιτοῦντα, cf. 50 τοιόνδ’ ἀλήτην). The painfully repeated motion that has been seen is expanded to a daily repetition of journeying and of humiliating requests, with ungenerous outcome: cf. 3 καθ᾿ ἡμέραν, 4 δέξεται, ϲπανιϲτοῖϲ, 5–6 τοῦ ϲμικροῦ δ’ ἔτι | μεῖον. But Oedipus’ bearing and motion convey a more surprising characteristic too, τὸ γενναῖον (8), evident to the Stranger as a visible quality: 75–6 εἶ | γενναῖοϲ, ὡϲ ἰδόντι, ‘you are noble, to judge from seeing you’.⁵¹ The movement also communicates a relationship between the two figures. The wall-painting, of whichever play, gives prominence to Oedipus’ hand, resting on Antigone’s. The relationship is spelt out further here as they talk about movements, both through suggestion of temporal extension and through the specifics of their interaction. The dialogue in 19–22 mixes particulars of Antigone’s verbal and physical guidance with the length of the travelling for Oedipus, which she remarks on sympathetically, and the length of her time with him, which she brings in somewhat tartly: cf. 19 (Αν.) κῶλα κάμψον, 21 Οἰ. κάθιζέ νύν με; 20 μακρὰν γὰρ ὡϲ γέροντι προὐϲτάληϲ ὁδόν; 22 χρόνου μὲν οὕνεκ᾿ οὐ μαθεῖν με δεῖ τόδε. The tartness in 22 responds to the needless anxiety and self-dramatization of Oedipus’ φύλαϲϲε

⁵⁰ Teiresias’ entry: cf. Apulian red-figure oinochoe, Basel, Antikenmuseum BS 473, 340–330  (LIMC Oidipous 84: Teiresias), Soph. OT 297–8; fr. 487 Radt (a female on leading old Peleus). Wallpainting, Maison des Comédiens: see Bezerra de Meneses (1970), 168–9, 174–5, pl. 22.3–5. ⁵¹ Sense of time: cf. Hutchinson (1999), 58–9.

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   

τὸν τυφλόν (21). Antigone checks if it is all right to leave him (26 ἦ μάθω μολοῦϲά ποι;), though this was his plan in sitting (11 ὡϲ πυθώμεθα). A basis has been laid for Oedipus’ laudatory summation to a third party: 33–4 τῆϲδε τῆϲ ὑπέρ τ᾿ ἐμοῦ | αὑτῆϲ θ᾿ ὁρώϲηϲ. Long experience has been expressed through visible motion and words together; that experience is a premise of the whole play. The bodily motion of sitting down has still further aspects. In circumstances like these, it is highly unusual on the tragic stage. It is stressed with two verbs in 11 (ϲτῆϲόν με κἀξίδρυϲον), and detailed description of corporeal movement and destination in 19 (κῶλα κάμψον τοῦδ᾿ ἐπ᾿ ἀξέϲτου πέτρου). ‘Sitting’ in tragedy is mostly limited to acts of supplication. When he is told where he is, Oedipus turns his being seated into a sort of figurative supplication (44 τὸν ἱκέτην); but his original sitting (cf. 9 θάκηϲιϲ) is a practical requirement. The old man really needs to sit down, if Antigone is to go and find things out. The movement is theatrically distinctive, and captures the prosaic problems of disability. And yet, although Oedipus will have to move his position a little in the parodos, his unconscious settling in this spot embodies the crucial event of the play: cf. 46 ξυμφορᾶϲ ξύνθημ᾿ ἐμᾶϲ. The ‘reception’ he asks for from the goddesses differs from and ends the ‘reception’ he has been used to as a beggar (44 τὸν ἱκέτην δεξαίατο, cf. 4 δέξεται). His wandering is over; he will not leave this ἕδρα (45, cf. 36–7 ἐκ τῆϲδ᾿ ἕδραϲ | ἔξελθ᾿).⁵² Other acts and possibilities of motion in the opening connect to the developments of the entire play. The pair of Oedipus and Antigone is not actually separated yet: the arrival of the Stranger stops her going ‘somewhere’ (26 μολοῦϲά ποι), as she was about to. This possible movement away from him (cf. also 495–504) is at last actualized in very different circumstances by the violent onstage action of Creon and his men. The Stranger’s motion needs to be stated to Oedipus. The stress on his purposeful movement towards them in Oedipus’ question, ἦ δεῦρο προϲτείχοντα κἀξωρμημένον; (30), brings out for the audience the man’s determined stride. It has a pressing object, to get the interloper standing up and moved off the sacred space (47 τοὐξανιϲτάναι). The Stranger interrupts Oedipus’ courtly and complicated address (36 πρὶν νῦν τὰ πλείον᾿ ἱϲτορεῖν). His movement contrasts with the slow and less purposeful entry of Oedipus and Antigone, and begins the long sequence of controversy over where Oedipus should be and whether he should move.⁵³ Place is of course essential to this opening. The absence of a stage building is striking in the second half of the fifth century; painting of the landscape presumably enhanced the scene. At least two rocks were present in the acting space. In the unforgettable description (14–18) of this place which appears sacred, mention of motion is for a moment suspended; even the πυκνόπτεροι . . . ἀηδόνεϲ (17–18) are

⁵² Action of ‘sitting’ and supplication: so e.g. Aesch. Eum. 80 (imperative for the future), 409 (shows Orestes ‘sits’ before 259), Eur. Ion 1258, cf. 1314. Already in sitting position after mad violence: Soph. Aj. 311, 324–5, Eur. HF 1094–7, 1214–15. ⁵³ ‘The Stranger’ would be better called ‘an Athenian’, Ἀθηναῖόϲ τιϲ, as by Elmsley (1823), 89.

,     

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not shown flying. But the motion of people within and outside the sacred space, motion seen, described, and contemplated, is building up the world of the drama with remarkable economy, while the audience waits for 59 lines to discover it is in Colonus.⁵⁴ Motion in these two plays shows the spread and the complexity of what tragedy offers its audience. At one end of the scale of their imagination, the OC leaves in a narration a mysterious blank for the departure of Oedipus into the earth; the Philoctetes displays in a chorus the radiant entry of Heracles into heaven. At the other end of the scale, minute detail elaborates the tricky action of sitting down for Oedipus, on stage; the pain in Philoctetes’ body is drastically portrayed. The imagination is involved here too, as well as vision; in the case of Philoctetes’ suffering, the language of motion shrinks to internal movements which the spectator must mentally recreate. Large mythical movements and individual anguish interact in a single moment as Polynices contemplates the journey of the Argive army, and his own; his conceptions will be made different from theirs by his secret knowledge. With less emphasis on the mythical immensity, the expedition to Troy abandons Philoctetes, taking all his ships, and he is left to move on a very small scale in solitude. Polynices’ maintenance of concealment links to Neoptolemus’ relinquishing it; as Neoptolemus does so, language shifts from literal journeys to erroneous moral movements. Neither of these plays, however, is striving to paint an inner world of private thought—the audience’s imagination and guessing are to do the work. This can be part of the appeal of drama, as of art: the strongly visual can mark that other things are unseen, and intriguing. The weight of individual experience is built up as, at the start of the OC, witnessed motion is extended in space and time through words. It is built up too by Philoctetes’ exposition, as narrated motion is extended in time, but not much in space. Anger and hatred towards others are a part of the two men’s experience; they are forcefully conveyed in motion clamorously wished on Odysseus by Philoctetes and ironically enjoined on Polynices by Oedipus. Long and matching feeling between individuals comes through the seen motion and separation of Oedipus and Antigone, and their interaction in words. Short and not altogether matching feelings between Neoptolemus and Philoctetes are seen in their physical interaction and their exchanges, which eventually break down, over a future journey which will not be what Philoctetes supposes. Earlier the unreal motion of Neoptolemus’ journey back to Scyrus illustrates the place of feigned movements in a play vivid with the sea and ships. Further imaginary motion comes in with the obscure wishes of Philoctetes in his agonies. ⁵⁴ The title Οἰδίπουϲ ἐπὶ Κολωνῶι will have been devised later. It is at least doubtful whether Oedipus already had a tomb at Colonus, cf. Jacoby (1954), ii.155, Kearns (1989), 50–2, 189, 208–9, Scullion (1999–2000), 231–2, Rodighiero (2007), 11–14. Place and opening: cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980), 339–40.

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   

Choral song in the Philoctetes constructs a wonderful journey home for Philoctetes, which audience and chorus know will not happen. In the OC choral song draws the audience into Oedipus’ experience within the play, and into a wider experience of old age, through the imagined motion of waves from all parts of the earth. In the treatment of motion, we can see the vastness of what a whole play gives, even through the chamber minimalism of the Philoctetes; we can see the constant and drastic fluctuations from moment to moment, even through the fixity of the OC. Tragedy exploits motion with enormous scope and compacted intensity.

6 Parmenides, On Nature Parmenides’ creation is an extraordinary adventure in philosophy, but it is also a poem. The poetry is not regrettable ornamentation: it is a potent means to the compelling expression of the thought. So when reality is at last presented, unchanging and motionless, the poetic form gives emphasis and eloquence: B 8.3 Diels-Kranz = D8.8 Laks-Most ἀγένητον ἐὸν καὶ ἀνώλεθρόν ἐϲτιν |, ‘being unborn, it is also incapable of being destroyed’, 5 = 10 | οὐδέ ποτ᾿ ἦν οὐδ᾿ ἔϲται, ‘it never was, nor will be’ (but is), 29 = 34 | ταὐτόν τ᾿ ἐν ταὐτῶι τε μένει, ‘it remains the same and in the same place’. Beyond eloquence, the poetic form, and the overall poetic structure, create a rapt intensity as the true nature of all is disclosed; that part of the poem is both a sequence of arguments and an exalted vision, positive and created in language through negatives. To the whole poem poetry brings in audacity of imagery and language.¹ The poem consisted of: a an account of the narrator’s chariot ride and meeting with a goddess; b and c her speech, an account of the whole cosmos, as it is in reality (b), and as it is in mortal opinion (c). It is a striking aspect of the poem that a presents a metaphorical journey by chariot with remarkable vigour; b presents the process of arriving at truth through roads that are eliminated and followed (similarly the introduction of (b + c)); b presents reality as unmoving; c offers a world full of motion. The idea that motion is unreal, that reality is immobile, is not a passing detail in the exposition of b. Parmenides is drawing on important ideas of Xenophanes about god, as the language shows: so Xenoph. B 26.1 = D19.1 αἰεὶ δ᾿ ἐν ταὐτῶι μίμνει κινούμενοϲ οὐδέν, ‘he always remains in the same place, entirely unmoved’, cf. A 28.977b8–20 = R6.9–11, A 31.6–7 = R4 last para. Parmenides seems to be pointedly contradicting Anaximander and Anaximenes, who are said to have spoken of eternal motion. His followers Zeno and Melissus took his thought up with energy.² ¹ Regret for the medium goes back a long way: διὰ ποίηϲιν ἀϲαφὴϲ ὤν, ‘unclear because he is writing poetry’, says Proclus, in Tim. i.345.13 Diehl. Cf. Simplic. in Cael. CAG vii.558.17–18: Melissus revealed his view still more clearly than Parmenides ὡϲ καταλογάδην γράψαϲ, ‘since he wrote in prose’. But ancient views on Parmenides’ poetry are more involved than they seem, and need to be read in context (so A 16 = R2b, Plut. Aud. 45a–b, on versification). On Parmenides’ choice of poetry, cf. Cerri (1999), 85–96. Of commentaries on Parmenides, Coxon (2009) is especially valuable; Laks and Most (2016) provide a crucial new presentation of the material for Parmenides, as for all the ‘Presocratics’. ² Zeno A 25–8, B 4 = D14–19, Melissus B 7.7–10 = D10 last para. On Melissus, cf. Harriman (2019), 181–93. Eternal motion: cf. Anaximand. A 11.2 = D7.2, A 17 last part = D16, Anaximen. A 5 = D1. Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

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   

The opposition between motion and immobility in the poem is inescapable, and prominent. At the least on a poetic level, the structure sets a with its speedy and even noisy motion against the contemplation and fixed vision of the principal part of b (B 8.1–49 = D8.6–54). That principal part is itself reached within b by a sustained imagery of motion (roads) which soon disappears when the goal is reached (just B 8.1–3, 16–18 = D8.6–8, 21–3). We can say less about c in the structure, though the divergence from b on motion remains sharply visible. On a smaller scale, the oppositions are still clearer. The clash in language is pressed so that the same sentences, as we shall see, assert immobility and use metaphorical motion (B 8.1–4, 26–30 = D8.6–9, 31–5). This clash connects with, but is distinct from, the clash of world-views in b and c (so B 8.36–41 = D8.41–6). One of Parmenides’ concerns is the elimination of hypotheses through lucid argument; he uses motion to parody polemically the undermining of opposites, including contradictory propositions, in the book of Heraclitus (B 6 = D7). Despite Parmenides’ scorn, the comparison between them is of interest. Heraclitus arrests attention aesthetically and philosophically by the clashes within sentences and little entities, e.g. B 60 = D51 ὁδὸϲ ἄνω κάτω μία καὶ ὡυτή, ‘the road up and down are one and the same’. So far as can be seen, there is no sign of a large literary structure as in Parmenides (cf. Heracl. A 1.6–7 = R5c). At any rate, no one felt moved to give long extracts of him as Sextus and Simplicius do of Parmenides, and the tradition is predominantly of one-liners and as it were twoliners. γάρ is an important particle in Heraclitus, but does not reduce the epigram. The aesthetics of clashing is present in Parmenides too, but on a small scale operates mainly through different levels of metaphor: so e.g. B 8.26–8 = D8.31–3 ἀκίνητον . . . δεϲμῶν . . . τῆλε μάλ’ ἐπλάχθηϲαν, ‘[all reality] unmoved . . . chains . . . [birth and destruction] have wandered extremely far away’. On a larger scale, he has a structure both poetic and philosophical; these two aspects are less easily segregated than the attack on Heraclitus might lead us to suppose. The two world-views of b and c are separated by the poetic structure. The veridical status of the world-view in c is far from apparent. In b the world-view of c seems like illusion (B 8.36–41 = D8.41–6), especially in its dualism (54 = 59), but also in its notions of coming to be and ceasing to be (21 = 26, 40 = 45). In c, though, the narrator is told he will know things, including the coming to be of heavenly bodies: B 10.1 = D12.1 εἴϲηι, ‘you will know’, 5 εἰδήϲειϲ, ‘you will know’. The whole procedure of long exposition would seem strange if there was no value in the world-view of opinion. One can approach this question just as an issue of philosophical interpretation; but the air of mystery over the relationship looks at least an important part of the literary surface of the work—and in literature surfaces matter.³

³ On the relation between b and c, cf. recently Tor (2015). The literary confrontation of different world-views and sections is rewardingly exemplified in Schopenhauer’s Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, though Empedocles seems to have been more of an influence on it.

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There are teasing connections between the world-views of b and c, but the relationship is most puzzling in a, which the listener first encounters cold. The paths of Day and Night (B 1.11 = D4.11), admission to which is controlled by Dike, seem related to the light and night which fill all, on the view of c (cf. B 9 = D13), by contrast with b. But, though the narrator is duly admitted by Dike (B 1.15–21 = D4.15–21) and she has conducted him towards the path to the unnamed goddess (26–8), that path is outside the range of men (27 ἀνθρώπων), and so seems different from the opinions of mortals (30 βροτῶν; 24–8 look back to a at the start of b). The narrator is escorted into light (εἰϲ φάοϲ 10) by the daughters of the Sun, in what seems a journey beyond the normal scope of mortals. But they come leaving the house of Night (9), and the duality again suggests c: φάοϲ (10) is the next significant word after Νυκτόϲ | (9); cf. B 9.1 = D13.1 φάοϲ καὶ νύξ, ‘light and night’, 3 φάεοϲ καὶ νύκτοϲ. Lucretius’ prologue uses poetic convention to present a theological world which is immediately demolished; but the meaning of a is still more enigmatic.⁴ In his poem, Parmenides conjoins clarity and obscurity, or brings them into conflict; the listener should not be too quick to resolve and reduce. Thus the clashes through and concerning motion form part of the poem’s dynamic force. That force is certainly present on a poetic level; but it runs beyond forms of expression like metaphor into the philosophical and literary challenge posed by the work as a whole. Parmenides deployed his language of motion within a work no doubt far shorter than a tragedy. One may be struck by contrasting tendencies, to continue with a word and let it accumulate significance, and to vary and diverge. B 1.1–5 = D4.1–5 offer us, besides six other verbs, φέρουϲιν . . . φέρει . . . φερόμην . . . φέρον; the repetition, unparalleled with this stem in Homer, intensifies the stress on motion, largely transitive motion. The recurrence is shown to be significant by further repetition, now in the style of formulae, at 25 ἵπποιϲ ταί ϲε φέρουϲιν, ‘the horses which bear you’, cf. 1 Ἵπποι ταί με φέρουϲιν, ‘The horses which bear me’. At B 7.1–8.1 = D8.1–6 the repeated ὁδοῦ . . . ὁδόν . . . ὁδοῖο reinforces the process of choice for intellectual motion (whether two or three roads are in question); B 7.2 = D.2 ὁδοῦ διζήϲιοϲ, ‘road of searching’, itself picks up B 2.2 = D6.2 ὁδοὶ . . . διζήϲιοϲ, B 6.3 = D7.3 ὁδοῦ . . . διζήϲιοϲ (note also εἶργε and ). But when roads of searching are first introduced, the idea is reinforced by synonyms: B 2.2–6 = D6.2–6 ὁδοὶ . . . κέλευθοϲ . . . ἀταρπόν.⁵ On the whole, the tendency to repeat is more conspicuous, especially so in this short poem. So B 10.6 = D12.6 ἐπέδηϲεν (of Necessity, with infinitive) takes up

⁴ On relations between a and c, cf. Mackenzie (2017), 43–53 and also (2015). ⁵ Martin (2016), 99–100 argues that Parmenides differentiates carefully between different sorts of road or path; even so, the richness of vocabulary would remain significant. On the length of c, see Palmer (2009), 160–1.

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   

B 8.37 = D8.42 ἐπέδηϲεν (of Fate, with infinitive, cf. also B 8.14 = D.19 πέδηιϲιν). The repetition makes constraint connect the shackled worlds of b and c. There is little attempt to exploit a Homeric range of vocabulary for the sake of range. At B 1.25 = D4.25 ἱκάνων ἡμέτερον δῶ, ‘having reached my house’, and 26 προὔπεμπε νέεϲθαι, ‘conducted you to travel’, each phrase conjures up Homer (Il. 18.385, 424, Od. 4.139; Il. 21.598, Od. 4.8, 13.206, 21.374) rather than νέεϲθαι being used so as to vary ἱκάνων (somewhat different in meaning). The stem ἱκ- comes three other times in different contexts (B 1.1 = D4.1, B 5.2 = D5.2, B 8.46 = D8.51); such common stems as ἰ- (εἶμι), ἐλθ-, ἐρχ- do not occur at all.⁶ While the vocabulary of motion and its reverse draws heavily on the lineage of hexameter narrative, the metaphorical applications of that language are remote indeed from the Homeric restraint, thanks in particular to the novelty of the content. This is another clash. Parmenides chooses not to follow the daring step of Anaximander, Heraclitus, and probably Anaximenes and write without metre; in writing hexameters he uses the poetic tradition extensively. But the very uses of the tradition bring out the newness of what is being said.⁷ Take B 8.27–31 = D8.32–6 γένεϲιϲ καὶ ὄλεθροϲ | τῆλε μάλ᾿ ἐπλάχθηϲαν, ἀπῶϲε δὲ Πίϲτιϲ ἀληθήϲ . . . χοὔτωϲ ἔμπεδον αὖθι μένει· κρατερὴ γὰρ Ἀνάγκη | πείρατοϲ ἐν δεϲμοῖϲιν ἔχει, τό μιν ἀμφὶϲ ἐέργει, ‘birth and destruction have wandered far indeed from it; true Conviction has pushed them away . . . . It remains firm like that in that location. Mighty Necessity holds it in the chains of that limit which confines it all around’. Homer etc. offer τῆλε μάλ’ (Il. 8.14, throwing god into Tartarus), τῆλε δ’ ἀπεπλάγχθη (Il. 22.291, spear), ἀπῶϲε (17.649, Zeus and mist), πέδαϲ/ δεϲμούϲ . . . ὄφρ’ ἔμπεδον αὖθι μένοιεν (Il. 13.36–7, Poseidon’s shackles for his horses, Od. 8.274–5, Hephaestus’ chains for Ares and Aphrodite), οὐδ’ εἴ πέρ τε . . . δέϲματ᾿ ἔχηϲιν (Od. 1.204), ‘not even if . . . chains hold him’, i.e. Odysseus, κρατερὴ/ῆϲ . . . ἀνάγκη/ηϲ (Il. 6.458, Od. 10.273, H. Hom. 5.130, Hes. Theog. 517, the last on Atlas), ἀμφὶϲ ἐέργει (Il. 13.706, yoke for oxen). B 8.29 = D8.34 κεῖται could also look to a crucial Homeric verb of not moving (Hes. Theog. 795, 797 of a punished god). But the application of these words and phrases to γένεϲιϲ καὶ ὄλεθροϲ, Πίϲτιϲ, and all that is could not be more distant from the world even of Hesiod.⁸ More should be said on the chariot ride itself. The noise from the axle calls to mind Hom. Il. 5.838 μέγα δ’ ἔβραχε φήγινοϲ ἄξων | βριθοϲύνηι, ‘the oak axle gave a loud creak with the weight’; there Diomedes and Athena are in a chariot together. ⁶ In Heraclitus, cf. B 45 = D98 ἰών (Diels’s conjecture), B 66 = D84 ἐπελθόν, D92a (P. Oxy. LIII 3710 col. ii 44) ϲυνιόντων. ⁷ It may be noted, though, that philosophically the reaching of new thoughts in the poem is not considered as a change in the world. ⁸ ἀπῶϲε: cf. also the variant at Hom. Il. 1.97 (Rhianus, Aristarchus, edition of Massilia, καὶ ϲχεδὸν πᾶϲαι, ‘and almost all the texts’ Σ a.³ (T), a papyrus ante correctionem) . . . λοιγὸν ἀπώϲει, Apollo will not ‘push the plague away’ (cf. Ucciardello (2007), 68–9). Most of these references appear in Coxon (2009), 73, 75.

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But the description of the noise is closer to descriptions in the first half of the fifth century: Aesch. Sept. 204–5 (hearing) τὸν ἁρματόκτυπον ὄτοβον ὄτοβον, | ὅτε τε ϲύριγγεϲ ἔκλαγξαν ἑλίτροχοι, ‘the din, the din of the chariots’ noise, when the hubs that turn the wheels round resounded’, Suppl. 181 ϲύριγγεϲ οὐ ϲιγῶϲιν ἀξονήλατοι, ‘hubs, driven by axles, do not keep quiet’ (the senses of ϲῦριγξ connect). The journey of the young man guided and driven by goddesses has some affinity with Telemachus’; but Athene leads him (Hom. Od. 2.416, 3.29–30) only before he acquires his chariot. Other myths have a more pointed relevance, like Heracles going to Olympus in a chariot, driven by a goddess, especially Hebe or Athene, accompanied by deities male and female. The general glamour of riding in chariots was only increasing in the period, thanks partly to athletic contests. The image is not fixed just in the world of past poetry; its wide range of connotations makes its impact and enigma all the more enticing.⁹

A Fast Ride with Goddesses (B 1 Diels-Kranz, D4 Laks-Most (1 Coxon)) Ἵπποι ταί με φέρουϲιν ὅϲον τ᾿ ἐπὶ θυμὸϲ ἱκάνοι πέμπον, ἐπεί μ᾿ ἐϲ ὁδὸν βῆϲαν πολύφημον ἄγουϲαι δαίμονεϲ, ἣ κατὰ {παντατη{ φέρει εἰδότα φῶτα· τῆι φερόμην, τῆι γάρ με πολύφραϲτοι φέρον ἵπποι 5 ἅρμα τιταίνουϲαι, κοῦραι δ᾿ ὁδὸν ἡγεμόνευον. ἄξων δ᾿ ἐν χνοίηιϲιν ἵει ϲύριγγοϲ ἀϋτήν αἰθόμενοϲ· δοιοῖϲ γὰρ ἐπείγετο δινωτοῖϲιν κύκλοιϲ ἀμφοτέρωθεν, ὅτε ϲπερχοίατο πέμπειν Ἡλιάδεϲ κοῦραι, προλιποῦϲαι δώματα Νυκτόϲ, 10 εἰϲ φάοϲ, ὠϲάμεναι κράτων ἄπο χερϲὶ καλύπτραϲ. ἔνθα πύλαι Νυκτόϲ τε καὶ ῎Ηματόϲ εἰϲι κελεύθων, καί ϲφαϲ ὑπέρθυρον ἀμφὶϲ ἔχει καὶ λάϊνοϲ οὐδόϲ· αὐταὶ δ᾿ αἰθέριαι πλῆνται μεγάλοιϲι θυρέτροιϲ. τῶν δὲ Δίκη πολύποινοϲ ἔχει κληῗδαϲ ἀμοιβούϲ. τὴν δὴ παρφάμεναι κοῦραι μαλακοῖϲι λόγοιϲιν, 15 πεῖϲαν ἐπιφραδέωϲ, ὥϲ ϲφιν βαλανωτὸν ὀχῆα ἀπτερέωϲ ὤϲειε πυλέων ἄπο. ταὶ δὲ θυρέτροιϲ χάϲμ᾿ ἀχανὲϲ ποίηϲαν ἀναπτάμεναι, πολυχάλκουϲ

⁹ Noise and specifics: cf. Rossetti (2017), i.150–2. Heracles: LIMC 3292–303. Chariots in games: cf. e.g. obverse of tetradrachm, Syracuse, BMC Sicily Syracuse no. 2, c.520  (cf. Jenkins (1976), 7–8); Attic b.–f. Panathenaic amphora, Leagros Group, Taranto, Mus. Arch. Naz. 30.5.1917, 550–500 , Beazley Archive no. 302108. For further images, see Stampolidis and Tassoulas (2004), 212–30.

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    ἄξοναϲ ἐν ϲύριγξιν ἀμοιβαδὸν εἰλίξαϲαι γόμφοιϲ καὶ περόνηιϲιν ἀρηρότε. τῆι ῥα δι᾿ αὐτέων ἰθὺϲ ἔχον κοῦραι κατ᾿ ἀμαξιτὸν ἅρμα καὶ ἵππουϲ. καί με θεὰ πρόφρων ὑπεδέξατο, χεῖρα δὲ χειρί δεξιτερὴν ἕλεν, ὧδε δ᾿ ἔποϲ φάτο καί με προϲηύδα· ‘ὦ κοῦρ᾿ ἀθανάτηιϲι ϲυνήοροϲ ἡνιόχοιϲιν, ἵπποιϲ ταί ϲε φέρουϲιν ἱκάνων ἡμέτερον δῶ, χαῖρ᾿, ἐπεὶ οὔτι ϲε μοῖρα κακὴ προὔπεμπε νέεϲθαι τήνδ᾿ ὁδόν, ἦ γὰρ ἀπ᾿ ἀνθρώπων ἐκτὸϲ πάτου ἐϲτίν, ἀλλὰ Θέμιϲ τε Δίκη τε. χρεὼ δέ ϲε πάντα πυθέϲθαι ἠμὲν Ἀληθείηϲ εὐκυκλέοϲ ἀτρεμὲϲ ἦτορ ἠδὲ βροτῶν δόξαϲ, ταῖϲ οὐκ ἔνι πίϲτιϲ ἀληθήϲ. ἀλλ᾿ ἔμπηϲ καὶ ταῦτα μαθήϲεαι, ὡϲ τὰ δοκοῦντα χρῆν δοκίμωϲ εἶναι διὰ παντὸϲ πάντα περῶντα.

20

25

30

3 πάντ᾿ ἄϲτη Mutschmann: πάντ᾿ αὐτὴ Hermann 17 ταὶ: ταῖϲ N Sexti (Adv. Math. 7.111 ii.26.25 Mutschmann) θυρέτροιϲ N: -ων rell. 18 ἀναπτάμεναι: ἀναπταμέναι? 29 εὐκυκλέοϲ ἀτρεμὲϲ Simplic. in Cael. CAG vii.557.15: εὐφεγγέοϲ ἀτρεμὲϲ Procl. in Tim. 2 i.345.15 Diehl: εὐπειθέοϲ ἀτρεμὲϲ Sext. Adv. Math. 7.114: εὐπ. ἀτρεκὲϲ ib. 111, Diog. Laert. 9.22.20 Dorandi: εὐπ. ἀτρεκ (tum spatium) EB Plut. Adv. Col. 1114d (uide https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b10723269h/f896, https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/ btv1b10723082f/f446.image)

‘The horses which bear me were conveying me as far as my heart’s desire would reach: gods had led me and had put me on to the renowned road which carries . . . the person with knowledge. That was the route on which I was being borne along by those very wise horses. They were pulling the chariot along vigorously; girls were leading the way. The axle, burning, was sending out in the hubs the cry of a pipe: the axle was hurried along by twin whirling circles from either side, whenever the daughters of the Sun, after leaving the house of Night, were hastening to convey the chariot into the light, pushing the veils from their heads with their hands. There stand the gates of the paths of both Night and Day. A lintel and a stone threshold surround them; the gates themselves, in the air, have been filled with mighty door-leaves. Justice, who does much punishing, holds their keys, used in succession. Her the girls, pressing with soft words, wisely persuaded to push swiftly from the gates the bolt fastened by a peg. The gates, opened up, produced a gaping void with their doors. They made the two door-posts, with all their bronze, turn in their sockets, first one, then the other; they were joined to the doors with pegs and nails. By this way the girls kept the chariot and horses going through the gates and straight on along the road. A goddess received me graciously, and took my right hand with hers. She addressed me as follows: “Young man, accompanied by immortal charioteers, you have reached my house on the horses that bear you along. Greetings! No ill destiny conducted you to travel along this path, which lies beyond the ways frequented by men; rather it was Right and Justice. You must learn

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everything: both the round, unmoving heart of Truth and the opinions of mortals, in which there is no true trust. But none the less, you must learn about opinions too, how the things that seem were bound to be plausible, running through all things for always.” ’

The poem begins with abrupt mystery: contrast the address at the beginning of Empedocles’ Καθαρμοί (B 112 = D4). The transitive motion of the horses (1 ταί με φέρουϲιν) affects to identify them (cf. 25 ἵπποιϲ ταί ϲε φέρουϲιν). But a mental level of motion is introduced by the next clause, 1 ὅϲον τ᾿ ἐπὶ θυμὸϲ ἱκάνοι, which goes with 2 πέμπον, as the optative encourages. The clause suggests that the travel itself is not literal: it would be an odd thing to say of an ordinary journey with a destination. The epithet at the reprise 4 πολύφραϲτοι φέρον ἵπποι points again to something mental. The road, despite the teasing πολύφημον (2), is not identified. The paths of Day and Night (11 κελεύθων) seem to be different from this road, since motion (1–10) seems to precede the entreaty; the request is presumably to pass the gates to, not from, the paths. The description is becoming more particular, but the mystery only intensifies.¹⁰ The goddesses who help in the motion (3 ἄγουϲαι, 5 ἡγεμόνευον) are at first not specified beyond κοῦραι (5); but specification soon comes with Ἡλιάδεϲ κοῦραι (9), at the start of a line and the end of the clause. Not so the goddess (22 θεά) whose house (25 δῶ) is the destination (25 ἱκάνων), and the beginning of new mental travels. Her speech seems to constitute the rest of the poem; there is at least no sign of her being identified. The opacity when she is introduced contrasts with the naming of Δίκη (14) and Ἀληθείη (29 Ἀληθείηϲ), cf. 28 Θέμιϲ.¹¹ The abruptness and obscurity combine excitingly for the listener or reader with the eager speed of this and related journeys (7–10 are general, as ὅτε ϲπερχοίατο indicates). See 5 ἅρμα τιταίνουϲαι (cf. Hom. Il. 2.390, 12.58 ἅρμα τιταίνων), 7 αἰθόμενοϲ, ἐπείγετο, 8 ϲπερχοίατο, cf. 17 ἀπτερέωϲ. The enthusiasm and ease of this motion (cf. 21 ἰθὺϲ ἔχον) through unusual territory (cf. 13 αἰθέριαι, 27 ἀπ᾿ ἀνθρώπων ἐκτὸϲ πάτου ἐϲτίν) arouse attentive curiosity in the listener, as if from outside, and invite sympathetic participation, as if from inside. Any listener will have both perspectives in some measure, whatever their actual knowledge. These responses are literary and philosophical together.¹² The rapidity of the section on the journey in the time of telling contrasts with the hundreds of lines of speech; but it is no mere introductory triviality, since

¹⁰ Opening: cf. Ferrari (2007), 105. Note also Emped. B 1–3 = D41–2, 44 for Περὶ φύϲεωϲ, a separate poem in my view. If the proem alludes to actual mystery cult, as is often thought, the tendency of the allusion is important: presumably the appropriation differentiates rather than endorses (cf. Burkert (2008), 25; see also Tor (2017), 254–84). ¹¹ This difference leads Scuto (2005), 87–9 towards an identification with Persephone. Ruggiu (2014), 67–103 sees the named goddesses as aspects of the unnamed. ¹² The conjecture πάντ᾿ ἄϲτη for παντατη in 3 does not fit well with 13 and 27; Orph. 492.2 F Bernabé is completely uncertain in text and would not help anyway.

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   

the journeying continues inset within the speech, and the narrator’s achievement in arriving is stressed by the goddess (24–8). The motion is set against the goal, as part of which the goddess takes the hand of the narrator—a small corporeal motion of intimacy and acceptance: 22–3 χεῖρα δὲ χειρί | δεξιτέρην ἕλεν. There are numerous imperfects that precede and lead up to the decisive aorists ὑπεδέξατο (22) and ἕλεν (23), especially 2 πέμπον, 4 φερόμην, φέρον, 5 ἡγεμόνευον, 6 ἵει, 21 ἔχον. The detailed description of the noise from the burning axle (6–7) especially communicates the strenuous tumult of the motion. But there are aorists for a significant if subordinate moment, the opening of the gates by Justice: especially 18 ποίηϲαν, cf. also 16 πεῖϲαν, 17 ὤϲειε, and 19 εἰλίξαϲαι. This opening is a forceful symbol of revelation—or at least of the permission to advance in the motion of thought. The visual creation of void (18 χάϲμ᾿ ἀχανὲϲ ποίηϲαν, cf. Hom. Il. 21.358) is accompanied by motion from Dike (17 ἀπτερέωϲ ὤϲειε πυλέων ἄπο), and from the doors. These seem to match the movement of the chariot wheels: cf. 19 ἄξοναϲ, ἐν, and ϲύριγξιν with 6 ἄξων, ἐν, and ϲύριγγοϲ (the last figurative but suggests the working part). Metal and mechanisms abound.¹³ A smaller act of bodily motion by goddesses is also symbolic of revealed knowledge: when the daughters of the Sun push the veils from their heads with their hands (10 ὠϲάμεναι . . . καλύπτραϲ, cf. 17 ὤϲειε; with καλύπτραϲ, cf. καλύπτω). This comes immediately after 8–10 πέμπειν . . . εἰϲ φάοϲ and 9 προλιποῦϲαι δώματα Νυκτόϲ.¹⁴ Already an opposition can be seen early in the speech between the motion which the youth has undertaken (cf. 26–7 προὔπεμπε νέεϲθαι | τήνδ᾿ ὁδόν) and the unmoving reality which he will be shown—if we may suppose that at 29 the obvious Ἀληθείηϲ εὐπειθέοϲ ἀτρεκὲϲ ἦτορ was not likely to have been corrupted into Ἀληθείηϲ εὐκυκλέοϲ ἀτρεμὲϲ ἦτορ, which matches the spherical and immovable universe (B 8.4 = D7.9 ἀτρεμέϲ, 38 = 43, 43 = 48 εὐκύκλου). Contrasted with this stillness too is the motion of τὰ δοκοῦντα (31) in πάντα περῶντα (32).¹⁵ ¹³ For the chariot, cf. Barrett (1964), 388, Crouwel (1992), 16–17, 34–8 (and Egg and France-Lanord (1987), 7–11), Finglass (2007), 322; for the gates Maier (1959–61), i.88–92, ii.76, 91–2, Lawrence (1979), 249–62, cf. Coxon (2009), 278–80. θύρετρα (13 θυρέτροιϲ, 17 θυρέτροιϲ) should be taken to mean ‘doors’, i.e. ‘door-leaves’, as in Homer, rather than ‘door-frame’, as in Hellenistic inscriptions and Polybius. N is the best MS in this part of Sextus, and θυρέτροιϲ at the end of 17 need not come from the end of 13 (the text in N is written out as prose), still less from ταῖϲ (N). πλῆνται (13) is more likely from πίμπλημι than from πελάζω (cf. B 12.1 = D14b.1 below p. 211, and contrast here 18 χάϲμ᾿ ); with its η, unusual in a present, it is probably a perfect which has been created from πλῆντο (Homer, Hesiod) misinterpreted as a pluperfect with an omitted ‘augment’. Cf. ἔκτηνται, ἔκτητο (the latter ‘Hesiod’), ἐϲκήνηται, ἐϲκήνηντο, διέφθοραϲ (the last Homer), all with two consonants, e.g. κεῖνται, κεῖντο (the latter Homer), and most likely 18 ἀναπταμέναι, with two consonants, cf. ἀναπεπταμέναϲ (Homer), πταμένη (Homer, from different verb). ¹⁴ εἰϲ φάοϲ cannot naturally be made to depend on προλιποῦϲαι. ¹⁵ The formation of εὐκυκλήϲ is not from an s-stem noun, cf. e.g. εὐρυπυλήϲ in Homer, against Εὐρύπυλοϲ. In 32 one might even imagine ἰέναι for εἶναι, cf. Thales A 1.35 = P17c τάχιϲτον νοῦϲ· διὰ παντὸϲ γὰρ τρέχει, ‘the swiftest thing is mind: it runs through everything’; δοκίμωϲ would then be ‘assuredly’ (‘surely, for certain’, LSJ Suppl.), with χρῆν, rather than a more innovative ‘plausibly’ with εἶναι, cf. Hom. Il. 7.424 χαλεπῶϲ ἦν. The past χρῆν would apply to the beginning of this dominance, cf.

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The opening narrative, short and swift as it is, must have been essential to the impact of the total work.

Only Two Roads (B 2 Diels-Kranz, D6 Laks-Most (3 Coxon)) εἰ δ᾿ ἄγ᾿ ἐγὼν ἐρέω, κόμιϲαι δὲ ϲὺ μῦθον ἀκούϲαϲ, αἵπερ ὁδοὶ μοῦναι διζήϲιόϲ εἰϲι νοῆϲαι· ἡ μέν, ὅπωϲ ἔϲτιν τε καὶ ὡϲ οὐκ ἔϲτι μὴ εἶναι, Πειθοῦϲ ἐϲτι κέλευθοϲ, Ἀληθείηι γὰρ ὀπηδεῖ· ἡ δ᾿, ὡϲ οὐκ ἔϲτιν τε καὶ ὡϲ χρεών ἐϲτι μὴ εἶναι, τὴν δή τοι φράζω παναπευθέα ἔμμεν ἀταρπόν. οὔτε γὰρ ἂν γνοίηϲ τό γε μὴ ἐόν, οὐ γὰρ ἀνυϲτόν, οὔτε φράϲαιϲ.

5

‘Come now, I will speak, and you listen to what I say and take it to yourself; I will tell you which are the only roads of inquiry that can be perceived. One is that “it is” [see below, p. 200] and that not being does not exist; that is the path of Persuasion, for Persuasion accompanies Truth. The other is that “it is not” and that there must be not being. I tell you that that path is quite unknowable: one could not know that which does not exist, as it cannot be brought about, nor could one show it.’

The image of a road is frequent, and could be taken as either a fundamental ‘conceptual’ metaphor, or as not particularly notable in itself. The image seems alive in Xenoph. B 7.1 = D64.1 νῦν αὖτ᾿ ἄλλον ἔπειμι λόγον, δείξω δὲ κέλευθον, ‘now I will proceed to another utterance, and I will reveal the path’, and Emped. B 24 = D46 κορυφὰϲ ἑτέραϲ ἑτέρηιϲι προϲάπτων | μύθων, μήτε λέγειν (μὴ τελέειν Kantz) ἀτραπὸν μίαν . . . , ‘joining the tops of some utterances to others, neither to speak [‘not to fulfil’ with Kantz] a single path . . . ’. Here the initial narrative and the goddess’s opening comments (B 1.25–8 = D4.25–8) mark the image forcefully. Furthermore, the continued synonyms 2 ὁδοί, 4 κέλευθοϲ, 6 ἀταρπόν refresh the idea; 2 διζήϲιοϲ probably implies going for a search.¹⁶

B 8.53–6 = D8.58–61. Reinhardt (1959), 9 is strained with εἶναι, but along the right lines; otherwise Mourelatos (2008), 205–10 (χρῆν counterfactual). ¹⁶ Though note B 8.6 = D8.11. ‘Conceptual’ metaphor: cf. Lakoff and Johnson (2003), 89–91 for arguments, journeys, and paths. Intellectual journeying: Nightingale (2001), T. M. O’Sullivan (2006), 139–44. For the image in Parmenides see Becker (1937), 139–43. A study of its use, building on Heraclitus, in an extended work: Weiss (1965).

200

   

One of the ways belongs to a goddess (4 Πειθοῦϲ ἐϲτι κέλευθοϲ): this evokes the paths of Night and Day (B 1.11 = D4.11), and the connection of Dike and the goddess with roads. ὀπηδεῖ (4) might but need not suggest that Peitho and Aletheie move together. The consideration of roads recalls the Heliades putting the narrator on the appropriate road (B 1.2–3 = D4.1.2–3), and Circe telling Odysseus the route to Hades (Hom. Od. 10.501–40), and especially towards home (12.33–9), where she mentions two possibilities and leaves him the choice (55–8).¹⁷ Thought, then, is liable to be seen as movement along one of these paths: grant ἔϲτιν and refuse its opposite, and one can then proceed to further ideas, as will be seen in B 7–8 = D8. The activity remains challengingly intellectual; there is arresting novelty in the notion of isolating hypotheses and eventually eliminating all but one. νοῆϲαι (2) and παναπευθέα (6) can be taken on a more physical or a more intellectual level; but much of the language is bracingly austere and new, particularly the audacious use of ἔϲτιν (cf. B 6.1–2 = D7.1–2, B 8.2 = D8.7). One could domesticate ἔϲτιν by making its subject whatever one is inquiring about; but that seems not to suit B 8.32–8 = D8.37–43: those lines talk of all that is, and B 8.37–8 = D8.42–3 reprise B 8.30–1 = D8.35–6, lines that are alleged to describe the object of inquiry (note also B 8.22–5 = D8.27– 30, especially ἐὸν . . . ἐόντι). The subject of ἔϲτιν seems to be left unstated, like the name of the goddess. But the parallelism between 3 and 5 here and between the two halves of each suggests, especially through χρεών ἐϲτι μὴ εἶναι (5), that language is being used with extreme concision to represent the phenomenon of being, whether or not a subject like ‘what is’ should be supplied.¹⁸

No Splitting Reality (B 4 Diels-Kranz = D10 Laks-Most ( Coxon)) λεῦϲϲε δ᾿ ὅμωϲ ἀπεόντα νόωι παρεόντα βεβαίωϲ· οὐ γὰρ ἀποτμήξει τὸ ἐὸν τοῦ ἐόντοϲ ἔχεϲθαι οὔτε ϲκιδνάμενον πάντηι πάντωϲ κατὰ κόϲμον οὔτε ϲυνιϲτάμενον.

¹⁷ Cf. also Hes. WD 286–92. ¹⁸ Coxon (2009), 56 translates the end of line 3 as ‘that it is not for not being’ and of 5 ‘that it must needs not be’, but this removes the parallelism and is contrived for 3; for extended discussion and a range of opinions, see Malcolm (1991). For the subject of ἔϲτιν as whatever one is inquiring about, cf. J. Barnes (1999), 162–6; 220–2 for B 8.26–33 = D8.31–8 as on this. Mansfeld (2018), 178–80 thinks νοῆϲαι is the subject. Further discussion: Marcinkowska-Rosół (2010), 45–56 (takes ἔϲτιν and οὐκ ἔϲτιν as names for thoughts).

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201

‘But see how what is not present is firmly present to the mind: the mind will not cut what is off from holding on to what is, neither if that is being scattered about the world in all manners and directions, nor if it is coming together.’

The lines, quoted by Clem. Strom. 5.2.15.5 ii.335.23–336.7 GCS as showing the mind’s sight of τὰ νοητά, actually suggest (cf. 2 γάρ) that some real things can be seen only with the mind (1 ἀπεόντα), others with the senses too (cf. 2 οὐ . . . ἀποτμήξει). The mind prevents a sharp, divisive motion (2 ἀποτμήξει). The important element in the pair of 3–4 is ϲκιδνάμενον (3), elaborated with bravado in πάντηι πάντωϲ and probably in κατὰ κόϲμον. The sense ‘in regular order’ is quite unsuitable here; cosmic meanings for κόϲμοϲ were attributed to Parmenides by Theophrastus (fr. 227E Fortenbaugh) and probably others (note πρῶτον; cf. Heracl. B 30 = D85). οὔτε ϲυνιϲτάμενον adds to the unsettled motion supposed by the senses.¹⁹ Less relevant to this context seems relative fullness or emptiness (Meliss. B 7.7–10 = D10 vol. v.248 last para., Parm. B 8.23–4, 44–9 = D8.28–9, 49–54). Cf. rather Parm. B 8.22 = D8.27 οὐδὲ διαιρετόν ἐϲτιν, ‘nor can it be divided’, a point distinct from B 8.23–4 = D8.28–9.²⁰

The Goddess Can Start Anywhere (B 5 Diels-Kranz = D5 Laks-Most (2 Coxon)) ξυνὸν δὲ μοί ἐϲτιν ὁππόθεν ἄρξωμαι· τόθι γὰρ πάλιν ἵξομαι αὖθιϲ. ‘It is all one to me where I begin from, as I will come back there again.’

Procl. in Parm. 1 i.106.6–17 Steel suggests that the fragment relates only to the first part of the speech, which expounds reality. The goddess is speaking: the return in her motion, emphasized by both πάλιν and αὖθιϲ, contrasts with the decisive onward motion of the mortal narrator, as he advances towards knowledge and further knowledge in the initial narrative and along the path of Peitho. The goddess knows everything already; μοι suggests a divine insouciance.²¹ ¹⁹ οὐ . . . ἀποτμήξει: cf. B 8.25 = D8.30 τῶι ξυνεχὲϲ πᾶν ἐϲτιν· ἐὸν γὰρ ἐόντι πελάζει, ‘hence it is all continuous; it brings close a thing that is to another that is’. Anaxag. B 8 = D22, warm, ‘not chopped away with an axe’ from cold, suggests that the image was seen to have been reinvigorated after a weakened use in Homer (Il. 11.467–8, 22.455–6; [10.]363–4); cf. Coxon (2009), 307. The supposed ‘in regular order’: Coxon (2009), 60, 308. ²⁰ Heracl. B 91 fin. (not in Laks-Most) ϲκίδνηϲι καὶ πάλιν ϲυνάγει, ‘scatters and brings together again’, could be relevant, but is more likely to be Plutarch, cf. Pomp. 19.6–7, Is. Os. 383c, Comm. Not. 1083b. The rhythm is not against this. ²¹ On the relation of the fragment to b, cf. Coxon (2009), 286–8. Année (2012), 85–6, 89 stresses the self-contained, virtual space it uses, with no connection to a physical reality.

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   

A Third Way Not Recommended (B 6 Diels-Kranz = D7 Laks-Most (5 Coxon)) χρὴ τὸ λέγειν τε νοεῖν τ᾿ ἐὸν ἔμμεναι. ἔϲτι γὰρ εἶναι, μηδὲν δ᾿ οὐκ ἔϲτιν· τά ϲ᾿ ἐγὼ φράζεϲθαι ἄνωγα. πρώτηϲ γάρ ϲ᾿ ἀφ᾿ ὁδοῦ ταύτηϲ διζήϲιοϲ , αὐτὰρ ἔπειτ᾿ ἀπὸ τῆϲ, ἣν δὴ βροτοὶ εἰδότεϲ οὐδέν πλάζονται δίκρανοι· Ἀμηχανίη γὰρ ἐν αὐτῶν ϲτήθεϲιν ἰθύνει πλαγκτὸν νόον. οἱ δὲ φοροῦνται κωφοὶ ὁμῶϲ τυφλοί τε, τεθηπότεϲ, ἄκριτα φῦλα, οἷϲ τὸ πέλειν τε καὶ οὐκ εἶναι ταὐτὸν νενόμιϲται κοὐ ταὐτόν, πάντων δὲ παλίντροπόϲ ἐϲτι κέλευθοϲ. 3 Diels

5

5 πλάζονται Ald.: πλάττ- codd. Simplicii

‘ . . . one must . . . both saying and thinking that something that is exists: being exists, and Nothing does not. I bid you take notice of this. I am (keeping?) you from that road of searching, but also from one along which wander ignorant mortals with two heads. Hopelessness directs their wandering mind in their chests. They are swept along, both deaf and blind, in wonder, crowds without judgement [also: ‘without number’], who think that being and not being are the same and not the same. For them the journey to anything can be reversed.’

The first road (3 πρώτηϲ) must be ὡϲ οὐκ ἔϲτιν τε καὶ ὡϲ χρεών ἐϲτι μὴ εἶναι (B 2.5 = D6.5, above). The assertion of the opposite in 1–2 establishes, or so it appears, that this road is not viable. The order in 8 τὸ πέλειν τε makes it plausible that 1 τὸ λέγειν is article + infinitive; as χρή has no connecting particle, it may have had before it its invariable non-articular infinitive, with τὸ λέγειν governed, or in apposition to a noun or pronoun. The sentence will have been shortened by Simplicius or a scribe (in Phys. CAG ix.86.27). ἐόν is probably a thing that exists, cf. B 8.25, 46–8; 32 = D8.30, 51–3; and note B 8.32 = D8.37. Loss of the first part of the sentence makes it harder to judge the extent of tautology in what follows, but ἔϲτι γὰρ εἶναι (1) is a more general point.²² Despite B 2.2 = D6.2 μοῦναι, another road then appears (4): besides p and ¬p, i.e. not-p, a claim that p and ¬p are in some sense compatible (we would think of dialetheism). Since the proposition p is just the one word πέλειν and means ‘be’, the new view can seem to be reconciling opposite things and properties as well as propositions.²³

²² An alternative would be to make ἐόν a predicate, cf. Coxon (2009), 298–9; one might then wonder if χρὴ τὸ was once χρή τι. τὸ λέγειν article + infinitive: Fränkel (1930), 181 n. 3. εἶναι should be seen as the subject of ἔϲτι in 1, pace Laks-Most (2016), 41 n. 2, as μὴ εἶναι should of οὐκ ἔϲτι in B 2.3 = D6.3. ²³ Dialetheism: cf. Priest (2006).

,  

203

This takes us straight into the thought of Heraclitus. Cf. B 10 = D47 ϲυνάψιεϲ ὅλα καὶ οὐχ ὅλα, ‘combinations are whole things and not whole things’, B 26 = D71 ζῶν δὲ ἅπτεται τεθνεῶτοϲ εὕδων, ‘while asleep he is living and touches a dead man’, B 32 = D45 οὐκ ἐθέλει καὶ ἐθέλει, ‘wishes and does not wish’, B 51 = D49 οὐ ξυνιᾶϲιν ὅκωϲ διαφερόμενον ἑωυτῶι ὁμολογέει, ‘they do not understand how it agrees, while differing, with itself ’ (cf. Plat. Smp. 187a1–b2), B 57 = D25a (day and night one), B 59 = D52, B 60 = D51, B 88 = D68, etc. ταὐτόν (8) is what is needed for the argument; κοὐ ταὐτόν (9) with enjambement is a malevolent parodic addition. Ideas of motion are presented with malicious evocation of Heraclitus’ one-liners. ἰθύνει πλαγκτὸν νόον (6) shifts motion on to another metaphorical level (internal); it incorporates the opposites of straight and wandering, and points to Heracl. B 59 = D52 {γραφέων{ ὁδὸϲ εὐθεῖα καὶ ϲκολίη, ‘the way . . . is straight and crooked’. Ἀμηχανίη (5) is not like the goddesses who ἰθὺϲ ἔχον the narrator’s chariot (B 1.21 = D4.21). πάντων δὲ παλίντροπόϲ ἐϲτι κέλευθοϲ (9) recalls the road up and down being one and the same (Heracl. B 60 = D51), and the παλίντροποϲ ἁρμονίη, ‘back-turning stringing, contrary harmony’, of opposites (B 51 = D49).²⁴ Most unkindly of all, where Heraclitus had set himself apart from humans in general (Heracl. B 1 = D1), travel on this road is turned into a group motion: a plurality φοροῦνται (6). Cf. Parm. B 1.4 = D4.4 φερόμην. ἄκριτα φῦλα (7) suggests jumbled multitudes (cf. Heracl. B 104 = D10) as well as a lack of judgement. They are κωφοί (7), cf. Heracl. B 34 = D4 ἀξύνετοι ἀκούϲαντεϲ κωφοῖϲιν ἐοίκαϲι, ‘people without understanding when they have heard are like deaf people’. They are εἰδότεϲ οὐδέν (4), cf. Heracl. B 19 = D5, B 57 = D25a, etc. This rabble also have two heads (5 δίκρανοι)—perhaps a passing insult more than an image to retain. Their crowd motion is to be contrasted with the solitary travel of the narrator, who is kept (?) from this road wandered on by mortals (3–5), and has gone outside the ἀνθρώπων . . . πάτου (B 1.27 = D4.27).²⁵

Truth (B 7–8 Diels-Kranz = 8 Laks-Most (7–8 Coxon)) οὐ γὰρ μήποτε τοῦτο δαμῆι, εἶναι μὴ ἐόντα. ἀλλὰ ϲὺ τῆϲδ᾿ ἀφ᾿ ὁδοῦ διζήϲιοϲ εἶργε νόημα· ²⁴ Variant παλίντονοϲ. ²⁵ These wandering masses are presumably not in chariots; φοροῦνται may suggest a less straight movement, cf. Pind. fr. 123.10 Snell-Maehler φορεῖται πᾶϲαν ὁδόν, ‘is borne along every path’; Soph. El. 714–15, Eur. HF 653–4. Frère (2011), 142–4 thinks that the ἄκριτα φῦλα ‘are’ races of misguided thinkers like the race of Heracliteans; it is not altogether clear how the rhetoric is seen to work.

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    μηδέ ϲ᾿ ἔθοϲ πολύπειρον ὁδὸν κατὰ τήνδε βιάϲθω, νωμᾶν ἄϲκοπον ὄμμα καὶ ἠχήεϲϲαν ἀκουήν καὶ γλῶϲϲαν, κρῖναι δὲ λόγωι πολύδηριν ἔλεγχον 7.5 = 8.5 ἐξ ἐμέθεν ῥηθέντα. μόνοϲ δ᾿ ἔτι μῦθοϲ ὁδοῖο 8.1 = 8.6 λείπεται, ὡϲ ἔϲτιν. ταύτηι δ᾿ ἐπὶ ϲήματ᾿ ἔαϲι πολλὰ μάλ᾿, ὡϲ ἀγένητον ἐὸν καὶ ἀνώλεθρόν ἐϲτιν· ἔϲτι γὰρ οὐλομελέϲ τε καὶ ἀτρεμὲϲ ἠδ᾿ ἀτέλεϲτον. οὐδέ ποτ᾿ ἦν οὐδ᾿ ἔϲται, ἐπεὶ νῦν ἔϲτιν ὁμοῦ πᾶν, 5 = 10 ἕν, ϲυνεχέϲ· τίνα γὰρ γένναν διζήϲεαι αὐτοῦ; πῆι πόθεν αὐξηθέν; . . . 9 = 14 τί δ᾿ ἄν μιν καὶ χρέοϲ ὦρϲεν ...;... τοῦ εἵνεκεν οὔτε γενέϲθαι 13 = 18 οὔτ᾿ ὄλλυϲθαι ἀνῆκε Δίκη χαλάϲαϲα πέδηιϲιν, ἀλλ᾿ ἔχει. ἡ δὲ κρίϲιϲ περὶ τούτων ἐν τῶιδ᾿ ἔϲτιν· 15 = 20 ἔϲτιν ἢ οὐκ ἔϲτιν. κέκριται δ᾿ οὖν, ὥϲπερ ἀνάγκη, τὴν μὲν ἐᾶν ἀνόητον ἀνώνυμον, οὐ γὰρ ἀληθήϲ ἔϲτιν ὁδόϲ, τὴν δ᾿ ὥϲτε πέλειν καὶ ἐτήτυμον εἶναι . . . . οὐδὲ διαιρετόν ἐϲτιν, ἐπεὶ πᾶν ἐϲτιν ὁμοῖον· 22 = 27 οὐδέ τι τῆι μᾶλλον, τό κεν εἴργοι μιν ϲυνέχεϲθαι, οὐδέ τι χειρότερον, πᾶν δ᾿ ἔμπλεόν ἐϲτιν ἐόντοϲ. 25 = 30 τῶι ξυνεχὲϲ πᾶν ἐϲτιν· ἐὸν γὰρ ἐόντι πελάζει. αὐτὰρ ἀκίνητον μεγάλων ἐν πείραϲι δεϲμῶν ἔϲτιν ἄναρχον ἄπαυϲτον, ἐπεὶ γένεϲιϲ καὶ ὄλεθροϲ τῆλε μάλ᾿ ἐπλάχθηϲαν, ἀπῶϲε δὲ Πίϲτιϲ ἀληθήϲ. ταὐτόν τ᾿ ἐν ταὐτῶι τε μένον καθ᾿ ἑαυτό τε κεῖται χοὔτωϲ ἔμπεδον αὖθι μένει· κρατερὴ γὰρ Ἀνάγκη 30 = 35 πείρατοϲ ἐν δεϲμοῖϲιν ἔχει, τό μιν ἀμφὶϲ ἐέργει, οὕνεκεν οὐκ ἀτελεύτητον τὸ ἐὸν θέμιϲ εἶναι. ἔϲτι γὰρ οὐκ ἐπιδευέϲ· [μὴ] ἐὸν δ᾿ ἂν παντὸϲ ἐδεῖτο . . . . οὐδὲν γὰρ ἢ ἔϲτιν ἢ ἔϲται 36 = 41 ἄλλο πάρεξ τοῦ ἐόντοϲ, ἐπεὶ τό γε Μοῖρ᾿ ἐπέδηϲεν οὖλον ἀκίνητόν τ᾿ ἔμεναι· τῶι πάντ᾿ ὄνομ᾿ ἐϲτί, ὅϲϲα βροτοὶ κατέθεντο, πεποιθότεϲ εἶναι ἀληθῆ, γίγνεϲθαί τε καὶ ὄλλυϲθαι, εἶναί τε καὶ οὐχί, 40 = 45 καὶ τόπον ἀλλάϲϲειν διά τε χρόα φανὸν ἀμείβειν. αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ πεῖραϲ πύματον, τετελεϲμένον ἐϲτί πάντοθεν, εὐκύκλου ϲφαίρηϲ ἐναλίγκιον ὄγκωι, μεϲϲόθεν ἰϲοπαλὲϲ πάντηι· τὸ γὰρ οὔτε τι μεῖζον οὔτε τι βαιότερον πελέναι χρεόν ἐϲτι τῆι ἢ τῆι. 45 = 50 οὔτε γὰρ οὐκ ἐὸν ἔϲτι, τό κεν παύοι μιν ἱκνεῖϲθαι

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205

εἰϲ ὁμόν, οὔτ᾿ ἐὸν ἔϲτιν ὅπωϲ εἴη κεν ἐόντοϲ τῆι μᾶλλον τῆι δ᾿ ἧϲϲον, ἐπεὶ πᾶν ἐϲτιν ἄϲυλον· οἷ γὰρ πάντοθεν ἶϲον, ὁμῶϲ ἐν πείραϲι κύρει. ἐν τῶι ϲοι παύω πιϲτὸν λόγον ἠδὲ νόημα 50 = 55 ἀμφὶϲ ἀληθείηϲ· δόξαϲ δ᾿ ἀπὸ τοῦδε βροτείαϲ μάνθανε, κόϲμον ἐμῶν ἐπέων ἀπατηλὸν ἀκούων. μορφὰϲ γὰρ κατέθεντο δύο γνώμαιϲ ὀνομάζειν· τῶν μίαν οὐ χρεών ἐϲτιν, ἐν ὧι πεπλανημένοι εἰϲίν, ἀντία δ᾿ ἐκρίναντο δέμαϲ καὶ ϲήματ᾿ ἔθεντο 55 = 60 χωρὶϲ ἀπ᾿ ἀλλήλων, τῆι μὲν φλογὸϲ αἰθέριον πῦρ, ἤπιον ὄν, μέγ᾿ ἐλαφρόν, ἑωυτῶι πάντοϲε τωὐτόν, τῶι δ᾿ ἑτέρωι μὴ τωὐτόν· ἀτὰρ κἀκεῖνο κατ᾿ αὐτό τἀντία νύκτ᾿ ἀδαῆ, πυκινὸν δέμαϲ ἐμβριθέϲ τε. τόν ϲοι ἐγὼ διάκοϲμον ἐοικότα πάντα φατίζω· 60 = 65 ὣϲ οὐ μή ποτέ τίϲ ϲε βροτῶν γνώμη παρελάϲϲηι. 4 = 9 ἔϲτι γὰρ οὐλομελέϲ τε Plut. Adv. Col. 1114c (sed ἔϲτι γὰρ Plutarchi ipsius esse potest; οὐλομελέϲ etiam Procl. in Parm. 6.1077.20, 1078.19 iii.49, 50 Steel, etc.): οὖλον μουνομελέϲ τε fere codd. Procli in Parm. 7.1152.19 (iii.149 Steel): οὖλον μουνογενέϲ τε Clem. Strom. 5.14.112.1 ii. 402.9 Stählin GCS, Simplic. in Phys. CAG ix.78.13, ix.145.4, etc.: μοῦνον μουνογενὲϲ δὲ Euseb. Praep. 13.13.39 364.11 des Places 33 = 38 ἐπιδευὲϲ Simplic. EaF a 38 = 43 ix.30.10, E 40.6, DEF 146.6: ἐπιδεὲϲ DE 30.10, DE 40.6, DE 40.6 μὴ del. Bergk ὄνομ’ ἐϲτί(ν) Ald.: ὄνομ᾿ ἔϲται fere Simplic. DF ix.87.1 (ὄνομ᾿ εἶναι Plat. Theaet. 180e1, unde Simplic. ix.29.17, etc.): ὀνόμαϲται fere E ibid., DEF ix.146.12 53 = 58 γνώμαιϲ Simplic. ix.30.23, DEF² 180: γνώμαϲ ix.39.1, F¹ 180 56 = 61 αἰθερίαϲ? 57 = 62 ὄν, μέγ᾿ Diels: ὂν μέγ᾿ ἀραιὸν Simplic. F ix.30.27, 39.5: τὸ μέγ᾿ ἀραιὸν DE ix.30.27: ἀραιὸν DEEa ix.39.5: αρ fere DEF ix.180

‘This will never be defeated, for things to be which are not (?). As for you, keep your thought away from that road of searching. And do not let habit and long experience force you along this road, of exerting your eye without consideration, and your echoing ear and tongue. Evaluate by reason the contentious refutation that has been pronounced by me. And now only one road remains to be explained, that “it is”. On this road there are a great many signs that it, being unborn, cannot be destroyed either: for it is undamaged and still and cannot be ended. It never was, nor will be, since it now is, all together, one, continuous. What birth will you seek for it? How and from where has it grown? . . . What need made it arise . . . ? . . . For this reason Justice has not let it loose, in her fetters, and has not allowed it to be born or die; rather she holds it firm. The judgement to be made on these matters turns on this question: “it is” or “it is not”? In fact, the judgement has been made, as necessity demanded, that that road, unthinkable and nameless, should be abandoned, since it is not true, and that this road is and is true . . . .

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   

Nor can it be divided, since it is all alike. Nor is there a part that is more, that would prevent it from holding together continuously, nor is there a part that is worse; all is full of what is. Hence it is all continuous; it brings close a thing that is to another that is. It is immovable in the limits of great chains. It cannot begin or be stopped: birth and destruction have wandered far indeed from it; true Conviction has pushed them away. It remains the same and in the same place; it lies fixed by itself, and remains firm like that in that location. Mighty Necessity holds it in the chains of that limit which confines it all around, since it is not lawful that what is should stretch out without an end. For it does not lack anything; if it did, it would fall short of the whole . . . . . . . Nothing is or will be save what is; Fate has fettered it to be whole and immovable. Hence they are just a name, all the things that mortals have set down in the conviction that they are true: coming into being, perishing, being, not being, changing place and altering bright colour. Since its outermost feature is a limit, it is ended on every side, like the weight of a well-rounded ball, and from the middle is equal in every part. It must not at all be a bit bigger or smaller here or there. For there is not something that is not which would stop it arriving at equality, nor is there something that is in such a way as here to be more than something that is, there less: it is all inviolable. It is equal to itself from every side, all alike within its limits. Herewith I cease my trustworthy utterance and thought about truth; from now on, learn about mortal opinions as you hear the deceptive structure of my words. In their views mortals laid down two forms to name. They should have stopped at one—in this they have wandered astray. They separated the forms in their bodies in opposite ways, and gave them designations separately from each other. On the one side they set the fire of the heavens, made of flame, mild, very light, the same as itself in every direction, not the same as the other thing; that too they set on its own, in the opposite way, as unknowable night, a dense and heavy body. This apparent construction I am telling you of in its entirety; in this way no rival view of mortals will ever drive past you.’

The refutation ends (B 7.1–8.1 = D8.1–6), and a positive (or negative) vision of reality is offered (B 8.1–49 = D8.6–54). The passage then begins the consideration of mortal opinions (B 8.50–61 = D8.55–66). The road from which the narrator is told to keep his thought (B 7.2 = D8.2 τῆϲδ᾿ ἀφ᾿ ὁδοῦ διζήϲιοϲ εἶργε νόημα) looks like the first road to be avoided (B 6.1–3 = D7.1–3, cf. Simplic. in Phys. CAG ix.78.5, and Plat. Soph. 237a3–9, etc.). The impossibility of ¬p (B 7.1 = D8.1) could help to show that p and ¬p are not both true, as they are in the second road to be avoided; but B 6.4–9 = D7.4–9 suggest that for that road a different tack was taken. If we are back with the first road, the exposition was more complicated than simply shutting off successive roads in turn. The road in B 7.3 = D8.3 (ὁδὸν κατὰ τήνδε) could be a new road again, that of not reflecting at all (4 ἄϲκοπον). The infinitive would be easiest so; the way of supposing ὡϲ οὐκ ἔϲτιν would not seem

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the default position of ἔθοϲ πολύπειρον (3). At all events, κατά (3) indicates that the image of the road retains vitality; 3 βιάϲθω and 4–5 νωμᾶν . . . γλῶϲϲαν can be read in this context (cf. Thgn. 485 for the grammar of βιάϲθω). ἐπί (B 8.2 = D8.7) continues the spatial conception, to which ϲήματ᾿ (B 8.2 = D8.7) can again be related. The prepositions all imply motion, or refusing it, on the roads: the signs would be seen by a traveller. Thus the idea of thought as movement confronts in the same sentence the motionlessness of reality (B 8.4 = D8.9 ἀτρεμέϲ).²⁶ The encounter of motion and immobility on different levels is still more apparent in B 8.26–31 = D8.31–6 (note also 25 = 30, and 46 = 51). The immobility of what is is made drastic by the image δεϲμῶν (B 8.26 = D8.31), and the image is now heightened by μεγάλων (contrast B 8.14 = D8.19 πέδηιϲιν); in the same sentence, as was mentioned, birth and death have wandered τῆλε μάλ’ (B 8.28 = D8.33). That intransitive motion is intensified with the vigorous transitive action ἀπῶϲε, placed straight after ἐπλάχθηϲαν (B 8.28 = D8.33). It recalls the action of Dike (B 1.17 = D4.17 ὤϲειε πυλέων ἄπο—granted). It gives Πίϲτιϲ a goddess-like status, cf. B 8.12–14 = D8.17–19 οὐδέ ποτ’ . . . ἐφήϲει Πίϲτιοϲ ἰϲχύϲ [‘the might of Pistis will never allow’] . . . οὔτε . . . ἀνῆκε Δίκη, B 2.4 = D6.4 Πειθοῦϲ ἐϲτι κέλευθοϲ, Ἀληθείηι γὰρ ὀπηδεῖ, and perhaps B 1.29–30 = D4.29–30 Ἀληθείηϲ . . . ταῖϲ οὐκ ἔνι Π/πίϲτιϲ ἀληθήϲ. The transitive motion of Pistis’ action on this level is set against the prevention of motion on the most primary level by κρατερὴ . . . Ἀνάγκη (B 8.30 = D8.35, cf. also B 8.37 = D8.42 Μοῖρ᾿ ἐπέδηϲεν). τῆλε μάλ᾿ ἐπλάχθηϲαν (B 8.28 = D8.33) is opposed too to the insistent . . . ἐν ταὐτῶι τε μένον καθ᾿ ἑαυτό τε κεῖται | χοὔτωϲ ἔμπεδον αὖθι μένει (B 8.29–30 = D8.34–5). The argument against motion in B 8.26–33 = D8.31–8 is, unfortunately for us, quite opaque. An argument could be derived from B 8.22 = D8.27 οὐδὲ διαιρετόν ἐϲτιν; but the text does not visibly take this step. There has been much discussion of whether void is involved in B 8.26–33 = D8.31–8.²⁷ A significant question for us is what ἀκίνητον means (B 8.26 = D8.31, B 8.38 = D8.43). Parmenides’ usage has been subsumed into ‘philosophical Greek’; it has been supposed that ‘motion’ includes both locomotion and other kinds of alteration. The word certainly includes the idea of locomotion, since B 8.41 = D8.46

²⁶ Cf. B 1.29 = D4.29 (variants discussed above, p. 198). B 7.1 = D8.1 is problematic, the translation a stop-gap. The context calls for negation of νικήϲηι, not of the passive δαμῆι: τοῦτο actually introduces what follows, as Plat. Soph. 237a4–9, 257d1–3 indicate (cf. B 8.15–16 = D8.20–1). An infinitive of result or of purpose (cf. e.g. Hom. Il. 4.141–2) would in itself be very difficult here. A venturesome thought: εἶναι would give the sense needed. μή rather than οὐ poses no obstacle (and cf. B 2.3, 5 = D6.3, 5, B 6.2 = D7.2, etc.); for the prosody, cf. Hom. Od. 4.165. The loss would be so easily explained after δαμῆι and before μὴ ἐόντα that one might contemplate corruption in the text known to Plato, corruption unsurprisingly not emended by him, nor by Aristotle and Simplicius when taking the couplet over (B 7.1–2 = D8.1–2). Corruptions can begin early, as inscriptions show. ²⁷ Cf. Malcolm (1991), Harriman (2019), 181–2; against, e.g. Kirk and Stokes (1960), for, e.g. Bicknell (1967), whose paraphrase (3) requires a lot to be read in. Opacity: cf. J. Barnes (1999), 220–2. Argument derived from οὐδὲ διαιρετόν ἐϲτιν: cf. Malcolm (1991), 75–6. Some recent discussion: Wedin (2014), 118–33, T. Clarke (2019), 74–5; see further below, p. 208.

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τόπον ἀλλάϲϲειν must be opposed to B 8.37–8 = D8.42–3 ἐπέδηϲεν | . . . ἀκίνητόν τ᾿ ἔμεναι. The idea of motion, as in literal or metaphorical spatial movement, is not excluded from ἀκίνητον by the denial of birth and death in B 8.27–8 = D8.32–3: birth and death can, and obviously do, connect with B 8.27 = D8.32 ἄναρχον ἄπαυϲτον, which are conjoined with B 8.26–7 = D8.31–2 ἀκίνητον μεγάλων ἐν πείραϲι δεϲμῶν | ἔϲτιν. Now the non-existence of locomotion is particularly stressed at B 8.29–30 = D8.34–5, with the image of holding in chains (B 8.30–1 = D8.35–6). As that image relates with particular readiness to spatial motion, literal or not, such motion will not easily be excluded from the same image just before at B 8.26 = D8.31. The image is admittedly used earlier of birth and death at B 8.13–15 = D8.18–20, but there there is no competition with motion. ‘Immovable’, then, rather than ‘changeless’ at B 8.26 = D8.31.²⁸ The motion denied could include what from an earlier viewpoint could be called metaphorical motion, as κιν- can be used metaphorically before Plato and Aristotle, especially of changing customs; but it is hard to see how the listener could exclude literal locomotion. We need not discuss here whether, as is usually assumed, the spatial motion of x ranks as a change of x for Parmenides; it should be borne in mind that if x is everything, then change of or in anything involves x.²⁹ The argument in B 8.32–3 = D8.37–8 that τὸ ἐόν must have a πεῖραϲ is especially obscure. ἐπιδευέϲ, with Bergk’s deletion of μή, is better attested than ἐπιδεέϲ; it is a more suitable word in hexameters; and it seems to give a more pointed argument. The meaning of ἂν παντὸϲ ἐδεῖτο is ‘would fall short of, be less than, all’; note the sense ‘be inferior to’ with ἐπιδεύομαι and δεύομαι at Hom. Il. 5.636, 23.483–4. At B 8.32 = D8.37 θέμιϲ, γάρ, and ἐπιδευέϲ together present πεῖραϲ as now a seemly possession of τὸ ἐόν rather than a brutal external constraint (B 8.31 = D8.36, cf. B 8.42 = D8.47).³⁰ The general conception is that reality is spatially bounded, and that its motion would violate those bounds. It is ἀτέλεϲτον (B 8.4 = D8.9) in time (contrast in c B 19.2 = D62.2); but in its place, it is not ἀτελεύτητον but τετελεϲμένον (B 8.42 = D8.47). The strangeness is heightened by the use of words usually related to time.³¹ Xenophanes, who thought that god was unmoving, is said to have made him spherical too (A 1.19 = R8a, A 28.977b1–2 = R6.7, A 34 = R8b). Parmenides’ expression B8.43 = D8.48 εὐκύκλου ϲφαίρηϲ ἐναλίγκιον ὄγκωι brings out the ²⁸ Contrast Coxon (2009), 68, 206. ἀκίνητον referring to both locomotion and other alteration: J. Barnes (1999), 220; cf. e.g. Hahmann (2017), 22. Bicknell (1967), 2–3 supposes that B 8.26 = D8.31 ἀκίνητον refers only to changes of quality. ²⁹ κιν- of changing customs: e.g. Hdt. 3.80.5. For changes of quality, cf. here B 8.29 = D8.34 ταὐτόν, B 8.41 = D8.46 διά τε χρόα φανὸν ἀμείβειν. As to locomotion, B 8.25 = D8.30 πελάζει operates on a different (non-literal) level, cf. B 8.46–7 = D8.51–2 ἱκνεῖϲθαι | εἰϲ ὁμόν. ³⁰ Note Xenoph. A 28.978a37–b15 = R14.13. Attestation of ἐπιδευέϲ and ἐπιδεέϲ: cf. Diels (1882), vii, Coxon (1968), 72–3. ³¹ All versions of B 8.4 = D8.9 but Plutarch’s begin with an unwelcome asyndeton; if γάρ is right and not just Plutarch, ἀτέλεϲτον does not in itself add a fresh point to explain ἀνώλεθρον, but together with the other adjectives offers a wider explanatory picture.

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physical object, a ball. That underlines the difference from the thing in the familiar world, which exists to be thrown. Cf. e.g. Hom. Od. 8.372–6: performance with ball-throwing; Il. 13.204 ϲφαιρηδόν, gruesomely, of throwing a severed head. Another contrast with unmoving reality is offered by the first μορφή we hear of, shortly, in the world of opinion: fire is μέγ᾿ ἐλαφρόν (B 8.57 = D8.62), and so clearly prone to move (cf. B 12.2 = D14b.2).³² Reality and not those who might perceive it has been in the limelight of the depiction and argument. After the perhaps general second person in B 8.6 = D8.11 τίνα γὰρ γένναν διζήϲεαι αὐτοῦ; the narrator and others have faded from view. Mortals appear briefly near the end of b, in B 8.38–41 = D8.43–6; the lines are taken up when attention returns properly to mortals and the narrator at the start of c. Cf. B 8.38–9 = D8.53–4 πάντ’ ὄνομ’ ἐϲτί, | ὅϲϲα βροτοὶ κατέθεντο, πεποιθότεϲ εἶναι ἀληθῆ with B 8.52 = D8.57 βροτείαϲ, B 8.53 = D8.58 μορφὰϲ γὰρ κατέθεντο δύο γνώμαιϲ ὀνομάζειν. At the start of c, mortals have been πεπλανημένοι (B 8.54 = D8.59), by contrast with the solitary narrator, who has been led firmly along the single road to truth. So a large group had wandered along the Heraclitean way at B 6.4–5, cf. 7 = D7.4–5, 7. At B 8.61 = D8.66, with a witty twist, metaphorical charioteering returns, and this time a competitive race, not an isolated journey. Emphatic negation assures the narrator of victory, in this lower world: B 8.61 = D8.66 ὣϲ οὐ μή ποτέ τίϲ ϲε βροτῶν γνώμη παρελάϲϲηι.³³

Prefatory Promises (B 10 Diels-Kranz = 12 Laks-Most (9 Coxon)) εἴϲηι δ᾿ αἰθερίαν τε φύϲιν τά τ᾿ ἐν αἰθέρι πάντα ϲήματα καὶ καθαρᾶϲ εὐαγέοϲ ἠελίοιο λαμπάδοϲ ἔργ᾿ ἀΐδηλα καὶ ὁππόθεν ἐξεγένοντο, ἔργα τε κύκλωποϲ πεύϲηι περίφοιτα ϲελήνηϲ καὶ φύϲιν, εἰδήϲειϲ δὲ καὶ οὐρανὸν ἀμφὶϲ ἔχοντα 5 ἔνθεν [μὲν γὰρ] ἔφυ τε καὶ ὥϲ μιν ἄγουϲ᾿ ἐπέδηϲεν Ἀνάγκη πείρατ᾿ ἔχειν ἄϲτρων. 3 ἀρίδηλα Bergk

³² φλογόϲ with no adjective forms an odd and grammatically dubious addition; if the accusative αἰθέριον were corrupt, the corruption might have been encouraged by, or have encouraged, the lineending αἰθέριον πῦρ, cf. Opp. Hal. 5.282, Nonn. Dion. 2.448, etc. At B8.43 = D8.48 the object would be less plausibly, in a comparison, a globe, cf. Anaximand. A 1.2 = D5. ³³ Gallop (1984), 74 rightly prefers this accentuation to the contortions of φατίζω, | ὡϲ οὐ μὴ; ὡϲ οὐ μή cannot introduce a purpose, cf. Diels (2003), 100. κατέθεντο is used in the same way both at B 8.39 = D8.54 and at B 8.53 = D8.58, cf. also B 8.55 = D8.60 ϲήματ᾿ ἔθεντο; accepting the usual γνώμαϲ in B 8.53 = D8.58 leads to painful convolution. Cf. e.g. Untersteiner (1958), clxx n. 11, Mackenzie (2017), 47 for discussion.

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   

‘You will know the nature of the aether and all the constellations in the aether and the destructive deeds of the pure beacon of the untainted sun, and where these bodies sprang from. You will learn the wandering actions and the nature of the round-faced moon. You will know too where the heaven that surrounds all was born from, and how in leading it Necessity chained it fast to hold the limits of where stars could be.’

The copious promises εἴϲηι, πεύϲηι, εἰδήϲειϲ (1, 4, 5) indicate a place near the start of the part on opinion (c), so not long after B 8.50–61 = D8.55–66, and perhaps very soon after B 11 = D11 (see below). These terms of knowledge intensify the puzzle for the listener.³⁴ We are now in a version of the world with motion (i.e. locomotion). περίφοιτα (4) stands out, with reference to the conspicuously mobile moon (cf. on B 14 below, p. 212). Birth is also a feature of this version; ἐξεγένοντο in the context, and ὁππόθεν (3) and ἔνθεν (6), may or may not present birth with thought of motion. The encompassing οὐρανόϲ itself (οὐρανὸν ἀμφὶϲ ἔχοντα 5) was the object of transitive motion in the past (6 ἄγουϲα); now it has been chained by Necessity (6 ἐπέδηϲεν Ἀνάγκη). The language strongly recalls the recent B 8.31–2 = D8.36–7 κρατερὴ γὰρ Ἀνάγκη | πείρατοϲ ἐν δεϲμοῖϲιν ἔχει and B 8.37 = D8.42 Μοῖρ᾿ ἐπέδηϲεν; but in B 10.6–7 = D12.6–7 the temporal beginning to the fixity is apparent, and it applies not to all that is but to the οὐρανόϲ. The πείρατ᾿ (7) are those of the stars, not that of the whole (B 8.42 = D8.47 πεῖραϲ). The new version seems a distortion of the old.³⁵

Heavenly Births (B 11 Diels-Kranz = D11 Laks-Most (10 Coxon)) πῶϲ γαῖα καὶ ἥλιοϲ ἠδὲ ϲελήνη αἰθήρ τε ξυνὸϲ γάλα τ᾿ οὐράνιον καὶ Ὄλυμποϲ ἔϲχατοϲ ἠδ᾿ ἄϲτρων θερμὸν μένοϲ ὡρμήθηϲαν γίγνεϲθαι. ‘ . . . how earth, sun, moon, the shared aether, the milk of the heavens, furthest Olympus, and the hot power of the stars set forth into being.’

It is unclear how much motion there is in ὡρμήθηϲαν (3). The word could denote volition, motion, or a combination. In any event, with γίγνεϲθαι (4) the word is ³⁴ Promises: cf. Clem. Strom. 5.14.138, GCS ii².419.12–13 ὑπιϲχνουμένου. B 9 = D13, which itself followed B 8.53–9 = D8.58–64 μετ’ ὀλίγα (Simplic. in Phys. CAG ix.180.8), probably followed B 10 = D12. ³⁵ For no thought of motion (in 3 and 6 on birth), cf. Hom. Il. 4.58 γένοϲ δέ μοι ἔνθεν ὅθεν ϲοι, ‘my family origin is the same as yours’.

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paradoxical (moving or striving before coming into existence). Simplic. in Cael. CAG vii.559.20–1, in quoting the passage, says Parmenides περὶ τῶν αἰϲθητῶν ἄρξαϲθαί φηϲι λέγειν πῶϲ κτλ. (he ignores the goddess as elsewhere): in his section ‘on things perceived by the senses’, Parmenides ‘says that he had begun to say “How” ’ etc. This is not the introduction to an exposition, for which see Simplic. 558.3–4, quoting B 8.50–2 = D8.55–7, and see B 10 = D12 above (pp. 209–10); it is the resumption of an exposition after an excursus. These lines include the earth, unlike B 10 = D12 so far as quoted; but the emphasis is on celestial phenomena. Two of the three one-word items in line 1 are heavenly bodies, and lines 2–3 subdivide the heavens with vivid phrases (especially 3 ἄϲτρων θερμὸν μένοϲ). μένοϲ makes most sense in a world with motion.³⁶

Love and Rings (B 12 Diels-Kranz = D14b Laks-Most (12 Coxon)) αἱ γὰρ ϲτεινότεραι πλῆνται πυρὸϲ ἀκρήτοιο, αἱ δ᾿ ἐπὶ ταῖϲ νυκτόϲ, μετὰ δὲ φλογὸϲ ἵεται αἶϲα. ἐν δὲ μέϲωι τούτων δαίμων ἣ πάντα κυβερνᾶι· πᾶϲιν γὰρ ϲτυγεροῖο τόκου καὶ μίξιοϲ ἄρχει, πέμπουϲ᾿ ἄρϲενι θῆλυ μιγῆν, τό τ᾿ ἐναντίον αὖτιϲ ἄρϲεν θηλυτέρωι.

5

1 πλῆνται Bergk: παηντο fere Simplic. in Phys. CAG ix.39.14 EaD¹: πύηντο D²E: om. F: πλῆντο idem Bergk 4 πᾶϲιν Stein: πάντα Simplic. in Phys. CAG ix.31.15; πάντα γὰρ Diels

‘The narrower rings have been filled with undiluted fire, those that surround them, with night; in between a portion of flame rushes forward. In the midst of these is the divinity that guides everything. For everything she begins the hateful business of union and birth; she sends the female to the male to unite with, and conversely the male to the female.’

The different circles of the universe contain different quantities of fire and night. ἵεται (2) strikingly presents the mobility of flame (cf. B 8.57 = D8.62). Birth and motion are again connected: 4 τόκου (notably called ϲτυγεροῖο) and 5 πέμπουϲ᾿. The antecedents of birth as well as birth are a concern of the poem.³⁷

³⁶ ὡρμήθηϲαν: cf. Führer (2000). The Simplicius should be understood as above rather than ‘says that he “begins to say” How’ (Laks-Most (2016), 55); another view again: Coxon (2009), 357. ³⁷ Cf. B 18, 19, and 11 = D49, 62, and 11. πλῆνται, cf. B 1.13 = D4.13, suits the context and metre better than πλῆντο; B 8.7 = D8.15 is different.

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The spatial setting encourages an element of metaphorical motion in κυβερνᾶι (3). Goddesses rather than gods dominate what is left of Parmenides’ poem. Even in B 13 = D16 πρώτιϲτον μὲν Ἔρωτα θεῶν μητίϲατο πάντων, ‘she devised Eros very first of all the gods’, the subject is Aphrodite, says Plut. Amat. 756e–f; the subject there is the deity of the present lines, says Simplic. in Phys. CAG ix.39.17. The goddesses of the poem variously lead, guide, and chain, that is, they themselves move, and they facilitate and prevent motion. Here πάντα and πᾶϲιν γάρ indicate the importance of the goddess’s transitive motion and its results.³⁸

The Inadequate Moon (B 14 Diels-Kranz = D27 Laks-Most (14 Coxon)) νυκτιφαὲϲ περὶ γαῖαν ἀλώμενον ἀλλότριον φῶϲ νυκτιφαὲϲ Scaliger: νυκτὶ φάοϲ Plut. Col. 1116a (EB)

‘ . . . a borrowed light, shining at night, wandering round the earth.’

Parmenides holds that the moon takes its light from the sun (cf. A 42 = D29), and is αἰεὶ παπταίνουϲα πρὸϲ αὐγὰϲ ἠελίοιο (B 15 = D28), ‘always gazing at the rays of the sun’; that line was presumably located very close to this. Although the moon is the same size as the sun (A 42 = D29), its inferiority to the sun in brightness and perhaps power is made apparent in B 10 = D12 (above): καθαρᾶϲ εὐαγέοϲ ἠελίοιο | λαμπάδοϲ ἔργ᾿ ἀΐδηλα (3–4, ἀρίδηλα Bergk) are set against ἔργα . . . κύκλωποϲ . . . περίφοιτα ϲελήνηϲ (5). B 15 = D28 (just above) depicts the moon’s dependence with witty anthromorphism; ἀλλότριον φῶϲ is uncomplimentary humour, with a play on the Homeric ἀλλότριοϲ φώϲ, ‘an outsider’ (Il. 5.214, Od. 16.102, 18.219). νυκτιφαέϲ looks unfriendly too, since in the world of opinion the cosmos is a mixture of φάοϲ καὶ νύξ (B 9.1, 3 = D13.1, 3), and the moon is made with more admixture than the sun of the heavy, cold, and night-like element.³⁹ The whole line looks a lively and hostile phrase, in apposition to the moon: ἀλώμενον applies more to the moon itself than to the light. It seems reasonable to infer, from this line and from B 10 = D12, that the moon’s manner of motion is part of its inferiority. One would be surprised to find περίφοιτα or περὶ γαῖαν ἀλώμενον applied to the sun or its works, even apart from the purposeful actions of the Heliades in B 1 = D4.

³⁸ Goddesses predominant: cf. Cherubin (2019), 55–62. On Aphrodite and these lines, cf. Ferrari (2010), 81–119. ³⁹ Cf. B 8.58–9 = D8.63–4, A 43 = D25, and the more problematic B 21 = D31 ψευδοφανῆ, ‘shining falsely’, with Diels (2003), 110–12, Rossetti (2017), ii.17–23.

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Thought and the Limbs (B 16 Diels-Kranz = D51 Laks-Most (17 Coxon)) ὡϲ γὰρ ἑκάϲτοτ’ ἔχει κρᾶϲιν μελέων πολυπλάγκτων, τὼϲ νόοϲ ἀνθρώποιϲι παρέϲτηκεν· τὸ γὰρ αὐτό ἔϲτιν ὅπερ φρονέει μελέων φύϲιϲ ἀνθρώποιϲιν καὶ πᾶϲιν καὶ παντί· τὸ γὰρ πλέον ἐϲτὶ νόημα. 1 ἑκάϲτοτ’ Theophr. Sens. 3 (Diels (1879), 499.18–21), Arist. Metaph. Γ 1009b22 codd. E¹J: ἑκάϲτωι Ab: ἕκαϲτοϲ E², Alex. Aphr. in Metaph. CAG i.306.29, 35: ἕκαϲτον Asclep. in Metaph. CAG vi.2.277.19, qui tamen hic non exacte transcribit πολυπλάγκτων Theophr.: πολυκάμπτων Arist. 2 παρέϲτηκεν Theophr. (-ε codd.): παρίϲταται Arist. Metaph. Γ 1009b23

‘As a person has a mixture in their much-wandering limbs on each occasion, such is the thought that stands present for humans. The same thing which thinks is the nature of the limbs for humans, both for all and for each alone; what is full is thought.’

Theophrastus may be the more reliable witness: he is here studying Parmenides more closely. If we suppose that Theophrastus’ πολυπλάγκτων is correct, wandering is again attributed to what is inferior. λόγοϲ is preferred to bodily organs at B 7.4–8.1 = D8.4–6. In Theophrastus’ paraphrase of the context (Sens. 3–4), the more of the hot element at a given point, the better and purer the διάνοια; in the dead body (so the body at its most bodily) there is no perception of light, heat, or sound, only of cold and silence. Even though here the νόοϲ is not simply separated from the body, the activity of thought has more promising associations than the unrewarding and laborious motion of the limbs; this is so whether πλέον is ‘full’ or ‘more’.⁴⁰ The poem shows contrasts in motion that extend beyond that of movement and immobility. The sun and moon both move, but the moon wanders (B 10.4 = D12.4, B 14 = D 27): a movement without firm direction and impetus. Limbs wander wearily (B 16.1 = D51.1), in implicit contrast with the mind, which can bring all easily together (B 4.1 = D10.1). The minds of the mistaken wander (B 6.6 = D7.6, B 8.54 = D8.59), while the narrator is to keep his νόημα from wrong roads (B 7.2 = D8.2). While the mistaken have been along such roads, and are in the state of πεπλανημένοι, the narrator has been put on the right road by goddesses (B 1.2 = D4.2 βῆϲαν). He was led straight along it by them (B 1.21 = D4.21 ἰθὺϲ ἔχον), with thunderous rapidity (B 1.4–10 = D4.4.10); the straightness and speed ⁴⁰ Even should παρίϲταται in 2 go back to Aristotle, its scansion is dubious; cf. Tarán (1965), 170–1.

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seem the reverse of wandering. He reached his goal or one goal of his, the goddess, and he takes the path of conviction (B 2.4 = D6.4); the mortals on the third way think all paths can be reversed (B 6.8 = D7.8). There is a contrast between the narrator’s movement and that of some or all mortals (B 1.26–8 = D4.26–8, B 6.3–8 = D7.3–8); but there is too between his and that of the goddess—for her there need be no purposeful and excited movement towards truth (B 5 = D5). If other mortals outdid him, they would be beating him in a race (B 8.61 = D8.66).⁴¹ The narrator is an isolated mortal, even if groups of goddesses attend him (B 1.2–3, 8–10, 21–2 = D4. 2–3, 8–10, 21–2). His solitary movement is separated from that of mortals (B 1.27 = D4.27), including the group that bustle along in ignorance, and on foot (B 6.3–7 = D7.3–7); he knows (B 1.3 = D4.3), and is borne purposefully along in his chariot (B 1.1–5, 25 = D4.1–5, 25). The poem develops a rhetoric and ideology of movement, on some levels, while also hymning the immobile and unchanging. The treatment of motion is a vital aspect of this doubly spectacular philosophical poem.

⁴¹ With B 1.2 = D4.2 βῆϲαν, cf. Hes. WD 659 ἔνθα με τὸ πρῶτον λιγυρῆϲ ἐπέβηϲαν ἀοιδῆϲ, ‘where they first set me on the path of bright-toned song’.

7 Seneca, Natural Questions With Seneca’s Natural Questions, we take a turn towards the posthuman. Motion helps avert the risk, as for didactic poetry, of interpreting the work with too narrowly human an emphasis; as with didactic poetry, the ‘purple passages’ can obscure the total work from view. Attention must be given to the differences from, as well as the connections with, Seneca’s other works in prose. The Natural Questions are physical as well as ethical philosophy; Seneca directs much art to the complex presentation of motion.¹ The extant parts of Parmenides’ On Nature (Chapter 6) include in their narrative and their means of expression humans, animals, and anthropomorphized gods; in their thought, they are principally concerned with all reality, the cosmos, heavenly bodies, and humans, especially but not only human views. The NQ is a text that has less place for animals and anthropomorphized gods, and much place for entities which have no mammalian form, and which are either defined by motion or fundamentally transformed by it. So wind is defined at the start of Book 5 as fluens aer (5.1.1), ‘air that is in flow’. Refinements are considered, since the air like the sea is always to some degree in motion; but in any case the element of strong movement in some direction is crucial to uentus. So in the distinction at 13.4, leuiter [ZU: leniter rell.] fluens aer, ‘air flowing lightly’, is not a uentus, just a spiritus. The sea, on the other hand, is per se languidum et iacens (2.6.4), ‘in itself inert and lying still’, and it is taut spiritus (intentus) which stirs it up (incitat). Because of wind, water contra naturam suam multa conatur, et ascendit, nata defluere (9.2), ‘makes attempts at many things in defiance of its own nature, and rises when it was born to flow downwards’. It is this forceful motion which makes the sea a terrifying proposition; in an earthquake it is even emotum sedibus suis (6.2.5), ‘removed from its own place’.²

¹ For study of the NQ, basic resources are Hine’s text (1996a), with (1996b), and his survey of scholarship (2009), (2010a). Motion in didactic poetry: Hutchinson (2018a); ‘didactic prose’ and didactic poetry: Hutchinson (2008), 228–50, (2009). ² Animals made at least some appearance in the later part of Parmenides: cf. B 11 fin. = D11 fin., Simplic. in Cael. CAG vii.559.26–7. For the definition fluens aer, cf. Aët. 3.6.1–2 (Diels (1879), 374–5), Cic. Div. 2.44, Vitr. 1.6.2, etc. In Book 5, the generalizing singular uentus is soon enriched by a generalizing plural (so 4.1); the twelve winds occur in different places (cf. 17.1), but there is also an infinity of purely local winds (17.5, G. D. Williams (2012), 200–1). [Arist.] Vent. 973b13–20 seems to take a different view on how local some of these are. On intenti spiritus (NQ 2.6.4), cf. Sandbach (1989), 76–8, Gunderson (2015), 64. Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

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It will already be seen how much suggestion of personality and mind plays around the language (languidum, conatur). In the observant distinctions of the NQ, even some particular winds are given an un-windlike character: etesiae ob hoc somniculosi a nautis et delicati uocantur, quod, ut ait Gallio, mane nesciunt surgere (5.11.1), ‘sailors call the etesian winds “sleepy” and “living it easy”, because, as Gallio puts it, they don’t know how to get up in the morning’. Here the humorous personification is displaced on to others; at the same time, the human element of the text is enlarged, with the rough and jokey sailors, and the relationship of the author, his brother, and the addressee (cf. 4a.pr.10–12). Similar language is used more directly of spiritus (here air) which, in the view of some, gives up on its characteristic mobility and restlessness, and changes its identity: piger et immotus in aquam, cum se desiit ferre, conuertitur (3.9.1), ‘having become lazy and not moving, it is changed into water, once it can no longer bear itself’ (cf. e.g. 7.22.1: air fluit semper, ‘is always in flow’). se desiit ferre hints at tortured dissatisfaction with the self, cf. Ep. 96.1. The Nile changes its manner of motion in an opposite direction. It displays rapidam insaniam (4a.2.6), ‘swift madness’; uiolentus et torrens . . . prosilit, dissimilis sibi, quippe ad id lutosus et turbidus fluit (2.5), ‘it leaps forth with torrential violence; it is not its usual self, as up to this point it flows along in muddy murkiness’. The whiteness of its foam comes non ex natura sua sed ex iniuria loci, ‘not from its nature but from the wrong done it by the place’. These entities are not only given wills, feelings, and rights, but are often made explicitly to controvert their own character—an interesting situation for literature.³ Personification is a complicated aspect of an intricate literary and philosophical universe; motion plays a crucial part in it. The language of the Natural Questions is endlessly resourceful. Apart from the one-book productions De motu terrarum (early) and De forma mundi (T 55–6 Vottero), Senecan language had been mainly focused on humans; it is now turned in a different direction. The cosmos of the Natural Questions is elaborately hierarchical. Anything in the aether, above the mere air, is liable to be actually living (see below, p. 236). In other areas, personality is commonly figurative, though elements do have something uitale in them (5.5.2, cf. 6), and air, for example, has a naturalem uim mouendi se (5.5.1), ‘a natural force for moving itself ’.⁴ ³ Cf. Neoptolemus, who thinks he has ‘left’ his own φύϲιϲ (Soph. Phil. 902–3, see Chapter 5, pp. 169– 70). At Eur. Phoen. 395, Polynices says ἀλλ᾿ ἐϲ τὸ κέρδοϲ παρὰ φύϲιν δουλευτέον, ‘for the sake of advantage, one must act as a slave in despite of one’s nature’ (probably not ‘nature’ in general, cf. 394). NQ 2.9.2 (above, p. 215) and 53.2 subtilissimo igni et [del. et?] contra naturam suam acto, ‘very fine fire, driven against its own nature’, are two of the three instances of contra naturam suam in Seneca rather than contra naturam. At Plat. Tim. 63c8, in the same context of counteracting the intrinsic direction of an element, παρὰ φύϲιν is probably general, as usual in Plato; the passage does have some personification. For Gallio (PIR² I 757), see M. T. Griffin (1976), 47, 319 n. 5, 339, 445. ⁴ On the dates of the two lost works of natural philosophy, cf. Vottero (1998), 32–3, 34–5; for the content of the De situ Indiae, cf. T 20b Vottero (peoples as well as rivers). For personification and esp. wind, cf. G. D. Williams (2012), 188, 190–3; on 5.5.1–5.6, Inwood (2005), 177–8. The twilight notion of

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The universe does not just have a large layout with different divisions, but is an awkward place full of local challenges to things like wind or a river. Whether or not personality is supposed, or linguistically suggested, transitive action on something else is typically admirable or impressive, on some level; intransitive motion is like a sign of agency. Transitive action on an entity, seen for example in passive verbs, puts that entity lower down in the causal scale. This is apparent from some of the verbs chosen: so of the Nile per angusta luctatus, ubicumque uincit aut uincitur fluctuat (4a.2.5), ‘it has struggled through narrow rocks, and surges wherever it conquers or is conquered’; of water in general, more inertly presented, aliquando in aduersum spiritu impellitur: tunc cogitur, non fluit (3.3), ‘sometimes it is driven uphill by wind; in those circumstances it is being forced somewhere rather than flowing’. It is an area for controversies and complications. 2.1.1 mentions the question about the caelum, agatur an agat, ‘whether it is driven by something else or driving’, 2.1.4 about the earth, an . . . in orbem partes suas cogat, alliget aquas an aquis alligetur, ipsa animal sit an iners corpus et sine sensu, ‘whether it . . . forces its various parts into a sphere, whether it enclose waters or is enclosed by them, whether it is itself a living creature or a lifeless body without consciousness’. Of water 2.9.3 says aqua enim cederet nec posset pondera sustinere nisi ipsa sustineretur, ‘for water would simply yield, and could not hold up weights unless it were held up itself ’.⁵ ago is an intriguing verb in this context, with a touch of willed motion from an agent: cf. e.g. 3.27.11 cum liberis coniugibusque fugerunt [intransitive motion, though in terror] actis ante se gregibus, ‘they have fled with their wives and children, driving their flocks before them’. At any rate, it can suggest a powerless inertia in what is driven. Cf. e.g. NQ 1.1.1 . . . ignibus . . . quos aer transuersos agit. magna illos ui excuti argumentum est quod . . . ; apparet illos non ire [a plain intransitive verb] sed proici, ‘ . . . the fires which the air drives sideways. An argument that they are thrown off course with great force is that . . . ; it is clear they are not going but are hurled forth’; 2.28.1 (to produce thunder) non tantum ire nubes oportet, sed agi magna ui et procellosa, ‘clouds have not just to move along but to be driven by a great stormy force’; 6.24.4 nobis, quos externa causa in horrorem agit, ‘to us, whom an outside cause drives into shivering’ (simile quiddam nostrae affectioni, ‘something like what happens to us’ could befall the earth, but only from a more internal cause).⁶ having some degree of life finds an analogy in the very rough perception of their own ϲύϲταϲιϲ that Seneca finds in animals and small children (Ep. 121.10–13, cf. Inwood (2007), 338, Hahmann (2017), 177–8). ⁵ On 2.1.4, cf. Hine (1981), 140–2. ⁶ Cf. for ago, ἄγω in Simplic. in Categ. CAG viii.371.465–372.2, 12–15 (Anon. Paraphr. Categ. CAG xxiii.2.68.28–35, 69.6–9), with Arist. Metaph. Δ 1023a8–11: in the Simplicius what ἄγει has the

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A particularly important verb is quaero. Wind, air, water, and other things are driven by a figurative wish to find a path for themselves (uia, exitus, fuga, etc.); cf. 5.12.2 maius desiderat spatium, ‘wants a greater space’. They destroy the things that block them, with violent consequences, which include thunder and lightning and, especially, earthquakes. The motion springs as if from an inevitable passion to forge the space in which they can follow their nature. The following passages exhibit this fierce sense of will: 2.52.1 (lightning bolt destroys hard materials) quia uiam necesse est per illa impetu quaerat, itaque facit qua effugiat, ‘because it must seek a path for itself by charging violently; so it makes an escape route for itself ’; 54.1–2 (dry part in air) includi se nubibus non fert sed rumpit claudentia . . . hoc quoque si inclusum est, aeque fugam quaerit et cum sono euadit ac modo uniuersum eruptionem facit . . . , ‘does not allow itself to be closed up in clouds but bursts the things that are closing it . . . . If this part too has been shut in, it likewise seeks flight, and escapes with a noise; now the whole of it breaks out . . . ’; 5.14.4 (spiritus must) uiam cum fremitu uasto atque impetu quaerere, ‘seek a path with an onslaught and a fearsome rumbling’; 6.9.1 (fire, on the theory of Anaxagoras and others) in obuia incurrit exitum quaerens ac diuellit repugnantia, donec per angustum aut nactus est uiam exeundi ad caelum aut ui et iniuria fecit, ‘charges against the things in its way, as it seeks a route out, and tears them apart if they resist, until it has either obtained a path for emerging to the sky or made one by unlawful violence’; 12.2 (spiritus) quaerens locum omnes angustias dimouet et claustra sua conatur effringere, ‘seeking a place for itself it moves apart all that hems it in and it tries to break its prison open’.⁷ Motion runs too through the treatment of actual people in the work. The work itself takes the writer and reader through the cosmos and into the secrets of nature. The former notion (through the cosmos) involves metaliterary movement amid the actual spaces seen in the work; the latter focuses metaphor on the intellectual activity which the work entails. The ideas come together in 1.pr.7–8 (the animus) petit altum et in interiorem naturae sinum uenit . . . inter ipsa sidera uagantem (sc. animum) . . . (sc. animus) totum circumit mundum, ‘has sought the heights and come into the inner heart of nature . . . wandering among the very stars . . . has gone round the whole universe’. The exploration of nature’s mysteries appears at 2.59.2, with regard to the work in general, cum imus per occulta naturae, ‘when we have travelled through the hidden places of nature’. It is beset with more epistemological doubt at 7.29.3: the gods know; nobis . . . coniectura ire in occulta tantum licet, ‘we . . . can only reach these secret places by guesswork’.

beginning of (transitive) motion in itself, for what ἄγεται the beginning is in what ἄγει. For inertia, cf. e.g. Arist. Div. somn. 464a22–4: the mind of such people is κενὴ πάντων, καὶ κινηθεῖϲα κατὰ τὸ κινοῦν ἄγεται, ‘empty of everything, and when it is moved it is led in accordance with the thing that moves it’. ⁷ Cf. (quaero) 2.27.4, 3.11.1, 5.8.2, 6.17.2, 20.4, 30.4.

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Other elements of motion in 2.59.2 are notable. The intellectual journey does not enable us to flee the world of fortune: non ut effugiamus ictus rerum (undique enim in nos tela iaciuntur), sed ut fortiter constanterque patiamur, ‘not so that we can escape the blows of events (weapons are hurled at us from all sides), but so that we can undergo them with firm courage’. In this transitive motion (spears thrown) and intransitive non-motion (standing bravely), author and addressee are put on a battlefield. The relation between author and addressee is important: sequor quo uocas, the author has said, ‘I follow to the place you summon me to’—spiritual help must be included with the physical philosophy. Through the work, on a metaliterary level, Seneca will take Lucilius far away from the province of Sicily, where he is procurator, to the Nile, but also to philosophy (4a.pr.20–1.1): ut subinde te iniecta manu ad meliora perducam, ‘that I can put a hand on your shoulder straight away and lead you all the way to better things’. The inner psychological motion matters too: in se recedendum est, immo etiam a se recedendum, ‘one must withdraw into oneself, or rather withdraw even from oneself ’.⁸ The follies of the depraved, a populous cast, are commonly expressed through motion: so an impersonal passive isolates the motion at 3.18.6 ad mortem mulli concurritur, ‘they all run to see the death of a mullet’, and at 5.18.10 (of Crassus, with a figurative element too) per hominum et deorum iras ad aurum ibitur, ‘the way to gold lies through the wrath of gods and men’. The chapters on the vogue for fish that die just before consumption combines different scales of motion, as often in the work: 3.17.1 nos maria transimus, ‘we cross the seas’, 18.2 ideo gerulis cum anhelitu et clamore properantibus dabatur uia, ‘that is why people were having to make way for men carrying the fish, as they hurried along panting and shouting’, 4 da mihi in manus uitreum, in quo exsultet trepidet, ‘give me a glass vessel for this fish to leap and shake in’. The work cultivates exact attention to motion, whether in humans or in things. So at 7.30.1 si ad sacrificium accessuri uultum submittimus, togam adducimus, ‘if, when we are to go to a sacrifice, we cast our eyes down, and pull our toga in towards us’; 31.2 tenero et molli ingressu suspendimus gradum (non ambulamus sed incedimus), ‘we step daintily with soft and effeminate gait, not on a walk but on the cat-walk’. The precision of suspendimus gradum is followed by a distinction between an ordinary verb and frame of mind and something more showy. The description of a bouncing ball absorbs itself in the multiplicity of motion, with an argumentative point: quae cum cecidit, exultat ac saepius pellitur, totiens a solo in

⁸ Cf. Traina (1974), 19–20, 63–5, G. D. Williams (2015), 145–7; but the a se marks a further stage. For Lucilius (PIR² L 388) here, cf. M. T. Griffin (1976), 91; Hutchinson (2013), 80, 250–3.

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nouum impetum missa (6.10.2), ‘when it has fallen, it springs up, and is made to move time and again, so often is it sent from the ground into a fresh bounce up’.⁹ The language emphasizes its involvement in motion with differentiation between preverbs: so 3.30.4 (accumulation) undique ergo erit causa diluuio, cum aliae aquae subterfluant terras, aliae circumfluant, ‘there will be a cause for the flood from every side, since some waters flow under the lands, some around them’; 7.29.3 (argumentative), ‘sed quia graues sunt, inferius deferuntur’. primum non defertur quod circumfertur, ‘ “It is because they are heavy that they are borne down lower.” First point: what is borne around is not borne down’ (cf. further e.g. 6.4.1). 5.18.2 presents contraries: nam modo adducunt (of winds) nubes, modo deducunt, ut per totum orbem pluuiae diuidi possint, ‘now the winds bring the clouds along, now they lead them away, so that showers of rain can be divided over the whole world’.¹⁰ The work often shows a distinctive profile within Seneca’s œuvre in its use of preverbs. Appearances of verbs unique in Seneca include 2.9.4 permeat, of spiritus, at the end of a paragraph: media non circumfundit tantum . . . sed permeat, ‘things that are in the middle it does not merely surround but passes through’; 7.6.1 praetermeant; 7.13.1 intercurrunt; 2.9.1 prorepit and 6.8.1 prorepunt: 2.9.1 lumen non paulatim prorepit sed semel uniuersis rebus infunditur, ‘light does not creep forward gradually but in a single moment is poured over all things’, 6.8.1 of underground waters; 3.23 supernatantes, of waters, with ut ita dicam; 6.14.2 perfluebat and 6.18.7 perfluit, both times of spiritus; 2.7.2 refluant and 7.6.2 refluat, waters and spiritus. Seneca is expanding his ample vocabulary to take on the motion of the Natural Questions.¹¹ In doing so, he is not inventing words, but taking up words most of which appear sparsely in earlier prose. Earlier poets employ them; some come in contemporary prose and poetry; they are often used by the Elder Pliny. The verbs are not unemployable outside a technical context; but Seneca is enlarging his range so as to depict motion expressively and precisely. permeo is used once in prose before Seneca, Varr. Vit. pop. Rom. fr. 437 Salvadore, in a medical metaphor,

⁹ Galen says less about the ball’s motion in his essay dedicated to ball-games; but he mentions perception of its ῥοπή: v.904 Kühn, i.97.6–9 Marquardt. For the scientific interest of the bouncing ball, see French and Ebison (1986), 131–3. Writing about balls and ball-games: e.g. Simons (2015). ¹⁰ Cf., not explicitly opposed, e.g. 6.4.1 comprimat . . . exprimat, ‘closes up . . . presses out’. At 5.18.2, Hine’s text has an improbable niues for nubes and no note on δ (nubes is the reading of such MSS as can be found online); something would seem to have gone astray, for once. ¹¹ meare itself comes 2 or 3 times in the tragedies (Phaed. 642 is probably spurious), once in Helv. of stars, 4 times in NQ. Other compounds of meo: remeare 7 times in Senecan tragedy (excluding 4 in HO), 3 times in prose (not NQ); commeare twice in Ep., once in Ben., twice in NQ. repere and reptare are used of literal motion at 3.23 (waters), 5.15.4 (homo, in mines), Ben. 5.24.2 (Julius Caesar), tragedies twice. Other compounds of repo are used only of non-literal motion in Seneca, except erepsi at Const. 6.5, erepo at Ep. 53.4, irrepat at NQ 6.14.4 of air, subreperet at 6.6.4 nec uelut per rimam sentina subreperet, sed fieret ingens inundatio, ‘it would not be like bilge water seeping in through a hole; a mighty inundation would take place’.

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twice in the geographer Mela, who writes before the Natural Questions; it occurs in Manilius and Ovid, and, of a river, in Lucan; 3 times in Seneca’s contemporary Columella, 8 times in the Elder Pliny, often of water. praetermeo, in classical Latin, comes only at Lucr. 1.318, in tmesis. intercurro occurs twice in Cicero, once in Livy, twice in Vitruvius, once in Lucretius, once in Scribonius Largus, once in Columella, 4 times in the Elder Pliny, who uses intercurso 4 times too. prorepo is found once in Caecilius, twice in Horace, Satires 1, 22 times in Columella, twice in the Elder Pliny, once each in the Younger Pliny and Suetonius. supernato is used once in Largus, 6 times in Columella, 7 times in the Elder Pliny, 3 in Apuleius. perfluo appears twice in Lucretius; once each in Mela and the Elder Pliny, Tacitus, [Quintilian], Major Declamations, and Festus, twice in Apuleius; once each in Terence, Sisenna, Tibullus, Phaedrus and the Priapea. refluo comes once in Mela, the only prose occurrence before the Natural Questions, once each in Ovid, Grattius, Manilius, 4 times in Virgil.¹² For the lack of motion one may note 3.27.10 restagnat, of water. Otherwise Seneca uses it only at Oed. 546. It comes 3 times in the Elder Pliny, twice in Livy and Columella, once each in Caesar, Vitruvius, Ovid, Lucan. stagnare itself, more specific than stare, comes 7 times in NQ, not elsewhere in Seneca, once each in Sallust, Propertius, Columella (verse), twice each in Ovid, Virgil, Tacitus, and Apuleius, 4 times each in Curtius and Lucan, 7 times in the Elder Pliny. A problem in conceiving of the work as a whole is the order of its books. cometas nostri putant, de quibus dictum est (1.15.4), ‘my Stoic school think they are comets, which have already been spoken of ’ seems to indicate that Book 7 came before Book 1—unless Hine’s lacuna before 1.14.2 uidemus included a mention of comets, as would be possible. The MSS in their order of books indicate considerable upheavals in the tradition, with, on the most popular view, one catastrophe and two different major mistakes in repairing it. Probably, and fortunately, the indications in some MSS that there were 10 books are mistaken too.¹³ The work is scarcely a complete account of the cosmos: there is no substantial treatment of celestial bodies other than comets, and the earth appears only for waters and earthquakes. One might fairly say that those things on which the work concentrates move. Problems and controversies attend them. In what was perhaps the first book (3), water on (and under) the land turns out to be more problematic and interesting than might have been expected; the Nile will have a book of its

¹² Poets after Seneca are not mentioned. intercursus, which comes 4 times in Livy, is used by Seneca twice in the NQ and once, of moon and sun, at Ben. 5.6.5. ¹³ The order 1 followed by 7 would have been more expected, with the rise in subject in 7; it would enable the prologue of 1 to encompass both (for another possible way out, cf. Hutchinson (1993), 234 n. 19). In favour of 7 not coming before 1, cf. Waiblinger (1977), esp. 96–9 (he would like 7 to be last). On the whole question see Hine (1981), 2–19, (1983), 376–7, (1996a), 22–5, (2010), 28–31, Codoñer (1989), 1784–95, Gauly (2004), 53–67, G. D. Williams (2014), 182–3.

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own (4a), and Book 3 ends with the flood that will bring a version of the world to an end—tanta mutatio, ‘so great an alteration’ (3.27.3).¹⁴ The motion of the sun, moon, and fixed stars is not significantly examined, but it is an important presence in the world that the work depicts: it presents an ideal of regular, unceasing, and beneficial action. It is unlike what is so to speak a leading agent in the work, spiritus (especially as wind). The motions that particular engage the work are ones of change and disruption. So the air is called re fugaci et mutabili (7.22.1), ‘a thing prone to flight and change’. Its lowest part is especially so: circa terras plurimum audet, plurimum patitur, exagitat et exagitatur (2.11.1), ‘around the lands of the earth, it is most daring in its deeds, and has the most done to it, it shakes and is shaken’. The work, though, enables the human reader not only to comprehend and accept its world, but to gain immunity from its terrors. The reader is exorted to metaphorical motion, undaunted even by the heavens: eo itaque fortior aduersus caeli minas surge (2.59.11), ‘so rise up all the more courageously against heaven’s threats’. On a more literal level, the wise man in an earthquake stabit super illam uoraginem intrepidus, et fortasse quo debebit cadere desiliet (6.32.4), ‘will stand without terror above that chasm, and perhaps, into the place where he will have to fall, he will jump’. He is depicted as, first, without physical motion (stabit) when the earth opens, and then, as altering the physical movement of a fall slightly in what he does and completely in what he thinks.¹⁵

Throwing Stones (1.2.1–2) quae quemadmodum fieri dicatur exponam. 2 cum in piscinam lapis missus est, uidemus in multos orbes aquam discedere et fieri primum angustissimum orbem, deinde laxiorem, ac deinde alios maiores, donec euanescat impetus et in planitiem immotarum aquarum soluatur. tale quiddam cogitemus fieri etiam in aere: cum spissior factus est, sentire plagam potest; lux solis aut lunae uel cuiuslibet sideris incurrens recedere illum in circulos cogit. nam umor et aer et omne quod ex ictu formam accipit in talem habitum impellitur qualis est eius quod impellit; omne autem lumen rotundum est; ergo et aer in hunc modum lumine percussus exibit.

¹⁴ Codoñer (1989), 1799–803, G. D. Williams (2014), 182–3 stress the cohesion of the structure on Codoñer and Hine’s hypothesis, without maintaining its completeness as an account of the universe. ¹⁵ At 2.59.11 eo . . . fortior without an explicit quo, quia, etc. is unusual in Seneca (at Ep. 21.9 eo links with ut, cf. Cic. Caecin. 27); and the connection to what precedes seems redundant with itaque. Perhaps there is something missing.

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‘I will set out how the corona round heavenly bodies is said to come about. 2 When a stone has been thrown into a pool, we see the water move apart into many circles. First a very narrow circle comes into being, then a looser circle, then other larger ones, until the force fades away, and is dissolved into the flat surface of the motionless waters. Let us suppose that something like this happens in the air too. When it has become thicker, it can feel the blow. The light of the sun, moon, or any star at all rushes at it, and compels it to withdraw into circles. Liquid, air, and everything that takes its shape from a blow is driven into a form like that of the thing which drives it. Now everything that gives light is round; hence air too that has been struck by light will emerge looking thus.’

Seneca makes a comparison across the elements; this comparison makes the thing investigated dynamic. The image offers a lucid conception of a phenomenon which, static as it looks, consists of motion. recedere (2) of the air matches discedere of the water—save that after incurrens rather than missus est, recedere sounds more like a weaker group of soldiers yielding to an attack. The heavenly motion shows more significant power. There is an impetus in the throwing of the stone, but it soon dissipates, cf. euanescat and soluatur. cogit sounds more masterful. The effect lasts: cf. exibit, which stresses the result and the transformation. The stone, which need not be circular to create circles, seems rather forgotten in the generalization on the forma (cf. formam) imposed by that which impellit. plagam, ictu, and percussus reinforce the physical vigour with which light acts. An a fortiori argument is suggested; it is suggested even more strongly at 1.2.7, where what ‘creates countless circles’, circulos facit innumerabiles (cf. multos here), is a mere lapillus.¹⁶ The vivid picture of the enlarging circles, rendered through the temporal sequence primum, deinde, deinde, makes the causality and the surprising impact tangible (less vivid Vitr. 3.5.6). Other possible theories stressed the forward movement of the air or reflection proceeding from the eye. For Seneca, the eye deceives us on the distance of the halo, actually nearer to us than the heavenly bodies; but that only brings out their superiority. Those bodies, unlike the halo, are high above disruptive winds (1.2.5). While the waters are evocatively called immotarum, cum spissior factus est indicates that the changeable air is not necessarily either dense or in repose.¹⁷

¹⁶ Comparison across elements: cf. Arist. Meteo. 3.372a29–31, on Aristotle’s different theory. The image of stone and water had been applied to sound, cf. Chrysipp. frr. 439, 877 Dufour, ArmisenMarchetti (1989), 290. Z’s quo impellitur is less elegant than quod impellit, though acceptable rhythmically; cf. Hine (1996a), 13. ¹⁷ Cf. 6–8; 7 for other states of water. Forward movement of air on different theory: Epic. Pyth. 110 παντόθεν ἀέροϲ προϲφερομένου πρὸϲ τὴν ϲελήνην, ‘air proceeds from everywhere towards the moon’. Reflection proceeding from eye: Arist. Meteo. 3.372a18, etc., Olympiod. in Meteo. CAG xii.2.223.9–17; note also Mansfeld and Runia (2010), 502–3.

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Deceptive Speed (1.14.2–4) uidemus ergo stellarum ‘longos a tergo albescere tractus’. 3 hae uelut stellae exiliunt et transuolant, uidenturque longum ignem porrigere propter immensam celeritatem, cum acies nostra non discernat transitum earum, sed, quacumque cucurrerunt, id totum igneum credat. tanta est enim uelocitas motus ut partes eius non dispiciantur, summa prendatur; intellegimus magis qua ierit stella quam qua eat. 4 itaque uelut igne continuo totum iter signat, quia uisus nostri tarditas non subsequitur momenta currentis, sed uidet simul et unde exiluerit et quo peruenerit. 2 de lacuna ante uidemus statuenda cogitauit Hine stellarum: flammarum Verg. G. 1.367, cod. Memmianus Senecae 3 hi Gercke olim earum ed. Ven.: eorum codd. 4 itaque: ita Watt: ideoque (cf. e.g. Marc. 22.1)?

‘So we see “long trails whitening at the back” of stars. 3 These quasi-stars leap forth and fly across the sky. They seem to extend a long fire because of their measureless speed. Our sight is not able to distinguish their passing; it thinks that wherever they have run is all filled with fire. Such is the rapidity of their motion that its parts cannot be discerned, only the totality can be grasped. We understand more by what route a star has gone than by what route it is going. 4 It marks its whole journey as if by unbroken fire because the slowness of our vision does not follow closely the individual moments as it runs; rather it sees together where it has leapt from and where it has arrived at.’

Seneca uses motion here to differentiate and to contrast. He differentiates between these phenomena of the air, whichever they are, and heavenly bodies: hence uelut stellae (3), cf. 1.1.13 quasi stellae. The phrase would mark a modification of stellarum (2) if that, not flammarum, was presented by Seneca as Virgil or his adaptation of Virgil. stella (3) could be embedded focalization here, unless the precision is now abandoned, cf. 1.14.1, and 1.1.12, 2.55.3, etc. Seneca is particularly eager to separate these items from comets, which are heavenly bodies on his unusual view (7.21–3, perhaps in the book before this one; 1.15.4). The present quasi-stars may seem to present a long stretch of fire like comets (3 longum ignem, cf. e.g. 7.10.3). That, however, is mere appearance caused by the speed of their movement, which we fail to perceive properly.¹⁸

¹⁸ Hippocrates of Chios’ view that the tail of comets results merely from our sight does not have to do with rapidity in the comets, which he thinks are slow, fr. 5.231–52 (Timpanaro Cardini (1958–64), ii.66–8). stellarum (2): the lost codex Memmianus probably took flammarum from Virgil. On this MS, see Gercke (1895), 40, 48–9, (1900), 26–7, Hine (1980), 216. Cf. also 7.20.1 (flammarum, with a different order), Vottero (1989), 129–30, Timpanaro (1994), 308–9. Other notions of comets: note 7.5.4–5, and e.g. [Arist.] Mund. 395a28–32. 7.26.2 does not contradict 7.10.3 etc. on the long fire of comets.

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Still more important is the contrast between the celeritas (cf. 3 celeritatem) and uelocitas of their motion and the tarditas (4) of our sight. non subsequitur . . . currentis puts together their literal motion and our visual failure to pursue it. (subsequens is used literally at 1.14.5.) The speed of their actual motion is impressive, cf. immensam celeritatem (3). Their apparent motion is impressive in a different way, as introduced by the poetic quotation; but that motion changes its status to a striking but imaginary vision. uidemus (2) turns to uidenturque (3), cf. non discernat (3), credat, non dispiciantur, non subsequitur (4), and finally uidet (4) of what we are really seeing. igne continuo totum iter signat (4) is imposing, contrast 1.1.6 ignes tenuissimi exile iter designant, ‘those very slight fires trace out a narrow path’; but uelut (4) makes it an imposing illusion. Human understanding is decried as well as the human senses: cf. 3 intellegimus after acies nostra . . . credat. But a further contrast lurks. Philosophy, unlike poetry, can construct the truth, and can organize the reality, the illusion, and the causation of the illusion into an intellectually and aesthetically arresting passage. ut partes . . . non dispiciantur, summa prendatur (3), magis qua ierit . . . quam qua eat (3), uidet simul et unde exiluerit et quo peruenerit (4) analyse the cause of the error with pithy penetration.¹⁹

Can Fire Fall? (2.13.1–4) deinde nullam rationem reddiderunt quare ignis, quem natura sursum uocat, defluat. alia enim condicio nostrorum ignium est, ex quibus fauillae cadunt, quae ponderis aliquid secum habent; ita non descendit ignis, sed praecipitatur et deducitur. 2 huic simile nihil accidet in illo igne purissimo, in quo nihil est quod deprimatur; aut si ulla pars eius exciderit, in periculo totus est, quia totum potest excidere quod potest carpi. deinde illud quod cadit leue est an graue? leue est? non potest ruere: [quod potest carpi, deinde illud] quod cadere leuitas prohibet, illud se in edito tenet. graue est? quomodo illic esse potuit unde caderet? 3 ‘quid ergo? non aliqui ignes in inferiora ferri solent, sicut haec ipsa de quibus quaerimus fulmina?’ fateor. non eunt tamen sed feruntur; aliqua illos potentia deprimit, quae non est in aethere. nihil enim illic iniuria cogitur, nihil rumpitur, nihil praeter solitum euenit; 4 ordo rerum est, et expurgatus ignis in custodia mundi summa sortitus oras operis pulcherrimi circumit. hinc descendere non potest, sed ne ab externo quidem deprimi, quia in aethere nulli incerto corpori locus est; certa et ordinata non pugnant.

¹⁹ With uidemus (2), cf. uidebis Virg. G. 1.325, uides Lucr. 2.207.

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2 quod . . . illud del. Oltramare se Russell: suo codd. edito Hine: ad(d)ito fere codd. plerique: abdito VW: adyto Oltramare 4 deprimi B: comprimi RFH: cum primi Z: primi PUW: exprimi AV

‘Next point: they [i.e. those who want the fire for lightning to be stored in the clouds] have given no reason why fire should flow downwards when nature summons it upwards. The position is different with our earthly fires. From them fall burning ashes, which possess some weight; the fire does not come down but is brought and thrown down. 2 Nothing like that can happen in the case of that most pure heavenly fire, which contains nothing that could be forced downwards. Even if any part of it falls away, the whole of it is in danger: if something can have bits pulled off, the whole thing can fall away. Next: is what falls light or heavy? Light? It cannot tumble down. If something is prevented from falling by its lightness, it keeps itself on high. Heavy? How could it have been in a place it could fall from? 3 “Come now—are there not some fires which commonly bear downwards, like the very lightning bolts we are investigating?” There are, I admit. But they don’t go, they are borne; they are pressed down by some power, which does not exist in the aether. There nothing is wrongly forced or broken, nothing happens that is not normal. 4 There there is order in things; the purified fire has been assigned the highest regions in guarding the cosmos and goes round the edges of that most beauteous creation. It cannot come down from there; it cannot even be pressed down by some body outside itself. In the aether there is no place for a body that wanders without purpose; bodies that are fixed and ordered in their course do not fight among themselves.’

The passage refutes with animated argumentation the idea that fire can be kept so low as the clouds, before turning into lightning, and especially Anaxagoras’ idea that this fire has come from the aether (A 84 Diels-Kranz = D53 Laks-Most). Motion is considered in both intransitive and transitive forms. Even fires on earth can only show some downward movement because heavier things in them (ash) are forced down by weight: hence passive praecipitatur et deducitur (1) rather than active descendit. But the fire in the heavens contains no such things. Hence intransitive motion down is not possible either beneath or in the aether, transitive motion down is possible only beneath it. It is presupposed that fire for lightning can only come down from the heavens, not rise from the earth (cf. 12.3). A brisk argument by ‘dilemma’ shows the incompatibility of x being in the aether and x falling (2 leue est? . . . graue est?). An objection (3) maintains the reality of downward movement for fire, especially lightning; it employs ferri, poised between transitive (passive) and intransitive (middle, reflexive). But the reply uses the simple verb eunt in denying intransitive motion, and makes feruntur firmly transitive, i.e. passive. aliqua . . . potentia (3) asserts the existence of some external force, as aliqui ignes asserts the existence of some

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downward-moving fires. But the external force cannot be located in the heavenly regions, as Anaxagoras’ theory demands (12.3); so intransitive and transitive downward motion in the heavens are again being disproved.²⁰ In this second run of argument, the refutation of transitive motion turns not on the nature of heavenly fire, illo igne purissimo (2), but on the nature of the whole heavenly world. The passage expands in negative lyricism: 3 nihil . . . nihil . . . nihil. But in the antecedents from Homer and Lucretius, there is mainly a negation of unwelcome meteorological motion: so Hom. Od. 6.43–4 οὔτ᾿ ἀνέμοιϲι τινάϲϲεται κτλ., ‘it [the gods’ dwelling] is not shaken by the winds’ etc., Lucr. 3.19–21 quas neque concutiunt uenti etc., (the seats of the gods) ‘which are neither shaken by the winds’, etc. This is followed by an assertion of radiance, with a touch of motion in ἐπιδέδρομεν (Hom. Od. 6.45), ‘has run all over, is spread over’. In Seneca’s passage violent transitive motion is negated (3 cogitur, rumpitur), but incessant orderly intransitive motion is asserted. Fire is made to patrol the heavens, and so the cosmos, like an imperial governor (4 sortitus, cf. e.g. Tac. Ann. 6.40.2), or a military force (custodia, circumit), though without conflict (non pugnant). The cosmos is already operis pulcherrimi, but existence in the heavens is filled with useful and purposeful movement. Other Stoics speak of fire going to the περίγεια (SVF i.495), ‘the regions that surround the earth’ (statement given to Cleanthes), or going up and whirling around (Chrysipp. fr. 573 Dufour περιδινεῖϲθαι); but Seneca gives a moral atmosphere and a whimsical humanity to the world he has separated from our own.

Two Active Old Men (3.pr.1, 4, 6–7) Non praeterit me, Lucili uirorum optime, quam magnarum rerum fundamenta ponam senex, qui mundum circumire constitui et causas secretaque eius eruere atque aliis noscenda producere. quando tam multa consequar, tam sparsa colligam, tam occulta perspiciam? . . . 4 faciamus quod in itinere fieri solet: qui tardius exierunt, uelocitate pensant moram. festinemus et opus nescio an insuperabile, magnum certe, sine aetatis excusatione tractemus . . . . 6 quemadmodum Hannibal Alpes superiecerit scribunt, quemadmodum confirmatum Hispaniae cladibus bellum Italiae inopinatus intulerit, fractisque rebus, etiam post Carthaginem pertinax, reges pererrauerit, contra Romanos ducem

²⁰ ‘Dilemma’: cf. Craig (1993), 8–26, Apsin. 10 i.285.9–12, 288.2–9 Spengel. non eunt tamen sed feruntur (3): so too Ep. 28.3 non eunt sed feruntur, ‘they do not go but are borne along’, 37.5.

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promittens, exercitum petens, quemadmodum non desierit omnibus angulis bellum senex quaerere. adeo sine patria pati poterat, sine hoste non poterat. 7 quanto satius est quid faciendum sit quam quid factum quaerere, ac docere eos qui sua permisere Fortunae nihil stabile ab illa datum esse, munus eius omne aura fluere mobilius! nescit enim quiescere . . . 1 producere ABV: prodere fere rell. 4 insuperabile Kroll: superabile codd. 7 munus Z: om. rell. omne Hine: omni Z: omnia rell.

‘It does not escape me, Lucilius, best of men, how large the things are for which I am laying the foundations as an old man. I have decided to go all round the cosmos, unearth its causes and secrets, and bring them into view for others to gain knowledge of. When will I pursue so many things, gather material that is so scattered, scrutinize things that are so hidden? . . . 4 Let me do what is usually done in the case of a journey: those who have set out rather late make up for their delay by speed. Let me hurry and, without making excuses about my age, deal with a task that might never be overcome, and is certainly big . . . . 6 They write about how Hannibal got over the Alps, how he unexpectedly brought into Italy a force of war that had been strengthened by disasters inflicted on Spain; how, after the destruction of his endeavours he persisted, even after exile from Carthage; how he wandered among kings, promising a general, and seeking an army, to fight the Romans; how he did not cease to search for war in every corner of the world. To such a degree could he bear to be without a country, but could not bear to be without an enemy. 7 How much better it is to find out what should be done rather than what has been done, and to teach those who have entrusted their all to Fortune that she has never given anything that is fixed, and that every gift of hers flows with more mobility than a breeze! She does not know how to keep still . . . ’.

The prelude to Book 3 may well be the prelude to the whole work; if not, it is a sort of proem in the middle. Its thought presents an interwoven complexity of motion; the ideas and images have their own traditions, but they connect in many ways. So after this, the prologue portrays vigorously, among other things, the metaphorical movements up and down caused by Fortune and divinity (7–9); the value of raising one’s mind above fortune (11, 15), rather than the large movements of kings conquering and of voyagers (10); the value of moving away from sordida by studying nature, and leading the mind away from the body (18). As often in Stoicism, the metaphorical and mental are more primary than the literal and physical (to put it roughly); but here the subject of study is itself physical, and bigger than the sphere of human history.

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The opening brings in biographical time as a problem for the immense metaliterary movement planned by Seneca (1 senex). He is travelling all parts, and the circuit, of the cosmos (circumire); what follows shows the vitality of the metaphor here. tam multa consequar, sparsa, eruere, producere (livelier than prodere), tam occulta suggest movement over a large area and into depths and obscure regions. It is a journey no less enterprising, but with more detailed investigation, than Epicurus’ in Lucretius (1.72–7). With dream-like ease, the image shifts in 4 (after some intermediate alterations) to ordinary journeys. Although Seneca’s own journey is not literal, the rapid motion (uelocitate, cf. festinemus) still sounds notable for an old man: cf. sine aetatis excusatione, 3 si puer iuuenisque molirer, ‘even if I were producing these things as a boy or a young man’. Different levels of meaning here interact.²¹ A contrast with history-writing ensues (5). It is assumed that natural philosophy, unlike historiography, will be morally beneficial. The reasons for introducing Philip and Alexander are made clear; but it is not made explicit why Hannibal is brought in (6). Partly he displays a decline in fortune, and so fits with what follows. Hannibal’s movements decline from remarkable achievements on a large spatial scale (Alpes superiecerit; after Spain, bellum Italiae . . . intulerit). Instead, unsuccessful wandering on a large spatial scale (pererrauerit, omnibus angulis). The passage is about to shift from the restless motion of Hannibal to the restless motion of Fortune (7 nescit enim quiescere) and of her gifts (nihil stabile, aura fluere mobilius).²² But, as the predicative senex (6) brings out (cf. the predicative senex in 1), a comparison between Hannibal and Seneca is indicated too. The range of their motion relates them, though Seneca’s is larger and grander (1 mundum circumire; 6 reges pererrauerit, omnibus angulis). Seneca is making a great effort now after alleged time-wasting in youth (2–3); Hannibal is vainly continuing his life-long efforts (cf. 6 pertinax) after he has lost not only his army (exercitum petens) but his country (post Carthaginem, sine patria), which provided the supposed point of those efforts. In fact he wants but cannot have bellum. The possessor of Seneca’s rolls can see that the aged Seneca’s journey has reached its goal.²³

²¹ On 3, cf. Trinacty (2018), 365–7. ²² On the contrast with historiography, cf. Hine (2006), 49, (2010b), 216, Costa (2013), 110–11, Master (2015), esp. 338, Nießen (2016), 30–1. The breeze steps up Fortune’s flowing to air from its more usual water, cf. Ov. Ib. 423–4 etc., and creates a passing link to Seneca’s work, like inundatio in (3.pr.)5. ²³ Comparison: cf. Master (2015), 341–2. On 2–3, cf. Gauly (2004), 215, Hine (2006), 48–9, De Vivo (2012), 97. There is some simplification of the history in 6, cf. e.g. Nep. Hann. 8–11 (a questionable source), Livy 37.23.7, etc., App. Syr. 34–44; Juv. 10.147–62.

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Roundness (4b.3.3–5) quare autem rotunda sit grando etiam sine magistro scire possis, cum adnotaueris stillicidium omne glomerari. quod et in speculis apparet quae umorem halitu colligunt, et in poculis sparsis aliaque omni leuitate. non minus foliis si quae guttae adhaeserunt in rotundum iacent. 4 quid magis est saxo durum? quid mollius unda? dura tamen molli saxa cauantur aqua; aut, ut alius poeta ait: stillicidi casus lapidem cauat. haec ipsa excauatio rotunda fit. ex quo apparet illud quoque huic esse simile quod cauat: locum enim sibi ad formam et habitum sui exsculpit. 5 praeterea potest, etiamsi non fuit grando talis, dum defertur corrotundari et, totiens per spatium iacens aeris densi deuoluta, aequabiliter atque in orbem teri. quod nix pati non potest, quia non est tam solida, immo quia fusa est, et non per magnam altitudinem cadit, sed circa terras initium eius est. ita non longus illi per aera sed ex proximo lapsus est. 5 iacens Z: om. rell. Z: longius rell.

non δW: ne ZθρU: nec STX

longus Gertz: longus quidem

‘But why hail is round you can discover even without a teacher, when you observe that every drop is formed into a ball. This is apparent in the case of mirrors which gather moisture from breath, or cups that are sprinkled with drops, or any other smooth surface. Equally, any drops that have stuck to leaves lie there shaped into roundness. 4 “What is harder than rock? What softer than water? Yet hard rocks are hollowed out by soft water.” Or, in the words of another poet: “The fall of a drop makes a hollow in a stone.” This very hollowing out is made round. It is clear from this that what is hollowed is like the thing which hollows: that thing carves out a place for itself to fit its own shape and characteristics. 5 Even if hail did not start off like this, it can be rounded while it is rushing down. It has rolled down so often through a still space of thick air that it can be rubbed away smoothly into a sphere. Snow could not undergo this: it is not so solid, indeed it is loose; and it does not fall through a great height—rather its beginnings are near the earth. So it does not have a long glide through the air—rather from near at hand.’

The passage looks closely at formations and shapes in nature, and the processes involved. After some play with Posidonius’ and his own authority (4b.3.1–2),

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Seneca turns to what Lucilius can find out etiam sine magistro (3). Lucilius is drawn to the observation of small things (cum adnotaueris), even if the second person hides the first. The last two sentences (5) draw to some extent on Greek philosophers; 3–4, with their Latin poetic quotations, are more independent. The second quote (4), Lucr. 1.313, appeals to our sight: cf. 1.319 haec igitur minui cum sint detrita uidemus, ‘so we see that these things are being diminished since they have been worn away’. Seneca, though, avoids Lucretius’ inferences to what we cannot see, but gets deeper, as he would view it, into causality and connection. This resembles his move on the cause of the shape of coronas: cf. 4 illud quoque huic esse simile quod cauat, ad formam et habitum sui with 1.2.2 (above, pp. 222–3) et omne quod ex ictu formam accipit in talem habitum impellitur qualis est eius quod impellit.²⁴ Motion enters the passage on different scales. Hail falls a great distance (5 totiens per spatium iacens aeris densi); snow falls through the air (per aera), but less far (non per magnam altitudinem). defertur and deuoluta convey a different type of movement from lapsus. The spatium iacens stands in contrast. Opinions varied on the height at which hail and snow were formed; Seneca maximizes the movement of hail.²⁵ stillicidi casus (4) is a much smaller movement, and stillicidium in itself suggests falling, unlike guttae (cf. 1.3.6). Small movements include the gathering of moisture by mirrors (3 colligunt). The rounding of drops itself is put in terms that suggest motion: 3 glomerari, 5 in orbem, even 3 in rotundum; the violent fall of hail contrasts with 5 aequabiliter atque in orbem teri. iacent (3) of the drops on leaves suggests a viewpoint on rain from a time of stillness (humans are absent from the phenomena here as they are not from mirrors, breath, cups, and sprinkled wine). But even the scarcely perceptible hollowing of rock by water seems presented as motion in 4 locum enim sibi . . . exsculpit and excauatio. Alertness to small detail and differentiated nuance on motion and material invest the exposition with subtlety and refinement. Lightly personifying presentation of motion as in colligunt (3) and locum enim sibi . . . exsculpit (4) increase the attractiveness of the writing, no less for this prose than for didactic poetry.²⁶

²⁴ In 4 conceivably the somewhat strange illud quoque should be replaced by illud quod [qđ > qq] ̅ , ‘the area being hollowed out’. With 3 etiam sine magistro scire possis, cum adnotaueris (Lucilius, cf. 1–2), cf. the third person hiding the first at Hdt. 2.5.1 δῆλα . . . καὶ μὴ προακούϲαντι, ἰδόντι δέ κτλ., ‘it is clear even to someone who has not heard the thought before, but has used his eyes’, etc., with Hecat. FGrHist 1 F 301. For 5, cf. Arist. Meteo. 1.348a26–36, Aët. 3.4.5 (Epicurus; Diels (1879), 371), Pendrick (2002), 299; Gilbert (1907), 508. ²⁵ Cf. Anaxag. A 85 Diels-Kranz = D54 Laks-Most, Arist. Meteo. 1.347b28–348b2 (note two types), Alex. Aphr. in Meteo. CAG iii.2.48.21–50.16, Philop. in Meteo. CAG xiv.1.123.18–124.38. On 5 spatium iacens, cf. Hine (1996b), 77. ²⁶ in rotundum iacent (3) implies at least notional movement along a curved line, cf. 1.9.1 in rectum iacent. si quae guttae adhaeserunt is apt to rain rather than dew.

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Winds Got Wrong (5.2) Democritus ait, cum in angusto inani multa sint corpuscula, quae ille atomos uocat, sequi uentum; at contra quietum et placidum aeris statum esse cum in multo inani pauca sint corpora. ‘nam quemadmodum in foro aut uico, quamdiu paucitas est, sine tumultu ambulatur, ubi turba in angustum concurrit, aliorum in alios incidentium rixa fit, sic in hoc quo circumdati sumus spatio, cum exiguum locum multa corpora impleuerint, necesse est alia aliis incidant et impellant ac repellantur, implicenturque et comprimantur. ex quibus nascitur uentus, cum illa quae colluctabantur incubuere, et diu fluctuata ac dubia inclinauere se. at ubi in magna laxitate corpora pauca uersantur, nec arietare possunt nec impelli.’ pauca sint corpora Z: p. s. corpuscula rell. illa: illa Castiglioni

‘Democritus says that when there are many small bodies, which he calls “atoms”, in a narrow space of void, wind ensues; conversely, the state of the air is still and peaceful when there are a few bodies in a large void. “It is just as in a forum or area of town: as long as there is only a small number of people, one can walk without any disturbance. But when a crowd runs into a narrow space, one person bumps into another, and a brawl breaks out. Even so, in this void by which we are surrounded, when many bodies fill a tiny space, inevitably some bump into others, and push and are pushed back, and get entangled and pressed together. This gives birth to wind, when the bodies that were struggling with each other have thrown themselves in some direction, and after long eddying and doubt have taken a decisive turn. When there are few bodies moving in a large, loose space, they cannot batter or be pushed.” ’

An important and distinctive aspect of the Natural Questions is its numerous substantial citations or expositions of other authors. Seneca’s renderings of authors we have, such as Aristotle, show at the least reordering, omission, addition, and tightening and reshaping of phrases (so 1.3.7–8). And this might not be intended as a direct quotation; cf. e.g. 6.9.1. We are not in a position to say exactly what this passage does with or to Democritus (A 93a = (Atomists) D118); some of Seneca’s readers may not have been either. But the passage will certainly have had its own impact.²⁷ It seems plausible that the comparison is Seneca’s own helpful amplification (cf. 2.12.4 utraque . . . cedit, not in Aristotle): so akin is it to De ira 3.54.3 iter ²⁷ The preference of Hall (1977), 415–16 for actual reading of Aristotle by Seneca is more sensible than the confident minimalism of Oltramare (1929), i.xvii, 4–5, ii.330 n. 1, cf. Ramsey (2008), 64–5, 144; Hine (2010a), 38–50. At 6.9.1 (Anaxag. A 89 (Seneca) = D63 Laks-Most), Gercke and Hine’s colon before cum is better than the comma in Diels and Laks-Most. Note also De Jonge (1977), 198–200. On a probably closer use of Democritus at Tranq. 13.1 (note coepisse), cf. Setaioli (1988), 97–107.

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angustum rixas transeuntium concitat, diffusa et late patens uia ne populos quidem collidit, ‘a narrow path stirs up brawls between those who pass by, while a spreadout road which stretches out widely does not bring even peoples into conflict’. The uses of fantasy and comparison at Democr. B 159 = D233a, B 281 = D264 are not much like this. At all events, though the Latin for ‘agora’ is forum, in foro aut uico will for the reader in the first instance conjure up Rome, and quamdiu paucitas est cause wry smiles: cf. e.g. De ira 2.7.3, thousands hurrying to the Forum at first light. ambulatur and concurrit are effectively contrasted, in tempo and emotion, and as individual against group action; but the group splits into conflicting individuals (aliorum in alios incidentium). With the atoms, we see the reverse process too. The mass of verbs moves on from incidant, cf. incidentium, to the shove and counter-shove of impellant ac repellantur, and from there to the more entangled implicenturque et comprimantur. Finally the struggle of individuals in colluctabantur and the overall uncertainty in diu fluctuata ac dubia yield to the united action of incubuere and inclinauere se.²⁸ The whole passage seems to go beyond even Lucretius in making atomism vivid. nec impelli might recall Lucr. 6.1060 nequeunt impellier, ‘cannot be driven’ (by a magnet), but the verb is not much used of atomic interaction in Lucretius. In view of the subject-matter, the difference of vocabulary is notable. Not Lucretian verbs are impleuerint (Lucretius goes for complere), repellantur, implicenturque (implexis Lucr. 3.331), colluctabantur (luctantes of mortals 5.1130), arietare. Lucretius does not use incumbo of atoms (cf. incubuere); he uses comprimo of atoms only at 6.454 (cf. comprimantur).²⁹ Aesthetically and morally, the picture given to Democritus sounds unpleasant. Seneca will justify wind in the book; his reply here closes with the attractive picture of the sun thinning the morning mist. tunc surgit aura, ‘it is then that a breeze rises up’ (cf. nascitur uentus), when the particles are given welcome space, et stipatio illorum ac turba resoluta est (5.3.3), ‘and their crowding and tumult have been loosened away’.³⁰

A Typology of Earthquakes (6.21.2) duo genera sunt, ut Posidonio placet, quibus mouetur terra. utrique nomen est proprium: altera succussio est, cum terra quatitur et sursum ac deorsum

²⁸ With impellant ac repellantur, cf. Ben. 1.10.3 pellunt inuicem, ‘they drive each other away’; Democr. A 47 = D52 κατ᾿ ἀλληλοτυπίαν, ‘by striking each other’. For the joining -que in implicenturque, cf. e.g. De ira 1.15.1. ²⁹ arietare is used by Virgil (Aen. 11.890). On the verb in Seneca, cf. Vottero (1989), 534 n. 2. ³⁰ For corporibus in 5.3.3, cf. 5.4.3 corpuscula.

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mouetur, altera inclinatio, qua in latera nutat alternis nauigi more. ego et tertium illud existimo quod nostro uocabulo signatum est. non enim sine causa tremorem terrae dixere maiores, qui utrique dissimilis est; nam nec succutiuntur tunc omnia nec inclinantur, sed uibrantur, res minime in eiusmodi casu noxia, sicut longe perniciosior est inclinatio concussione: nam, nisi celeriter ex altera parte properabit motus qui inclinata restituat, ruina necessario sequitur. sicut . Gercke

‘As Posidonius would have it, there are two ways in which the earth is moved. Each has its own term: one is “shaking from beneath”, when the earth quakes and moves up and down; the other is “tilting”, in which it tips to either side alternately, like a ship. I myself think there is also that third sort which has been designated by a word in our own language. It was not without reason that our ancestors spoke of a “trembling” of the earth, unlike both the other sorts. In it everything is not shaken from beneath or tilted, but vibrates. That is not at all damaging, for this kind of happening; in the same way, tilting is much more harmful than shaking: unless a motion from the other side hastens rapidly to restore what has been tilted, collapse inevitably follows.’

It may be that Seneca’s third type is a later thought, not fully carried through in revision. Straight after this passage, causes for the other types are then given, but not for the third, tremor (cf. tremorem). trem- is used in relation to the other two types as they are explained: 22.2 tremore, 24.4 tremor, 25.4, 26.1, 4 causae . . . propter quas tremat terra, ‘reasons why the earth shakes’. Greek, and Posidonian, classification seems in fact to have been more elaborate. But Seneca is able to present an enrichment of Posidonius’ view as both his own thought and a possession of Latin (ego . . . nostro).³¹ uibrantur appears as a subtle refinement of motion after the verbs that go with the two technical terms: succutiuntur, inclinantur, cf. succussio, inclinatio, inclinatio succussione. The subtlety does not disqualify the type from serious consideration: the typology ranks the three in a sequence of harmfulness.³² The description of the first type uses inherited language: cf. sursum ac deorsum mouetur with [Arist.] Mund. 396a2 ἄνω ῥιπτοῦντεϲ καὶ κάτω, ‘hurling up and down’. The second type may do so too to some extent, though Lydus draws elsewhere on Seneca; cf. in latera nutat alternis nauigi more with Lyd. Ost. 53 108.13–14

³¹ Cf. De Vivo (2012), 98; Vottero (1989), 630 n. 11; and, on a different issue, Asmis (2015), 228–30, 237. With existimo (et tertium illud existimo) understand esse from sunt in duo genera sunt, cf. TLL v.2.1523.51–65. Classification in Posidionius etc.: see I. G. Kidd (1988), 816–20, on Posid. F 230 Edelstein-Kidd (threefold in Heracl. Alleg. 38 p. 56.2–6 Ölmann). ³² The thought is slightly elliptical with sicut, but seems tolerable, and what the sense needs.

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Wachsmuth οἱ κυματηδὸν ἐπὶ τὰ πλάγια ϲείοντεϲ, ‘those earthquakes that like waves shake things in a sideways direction’ ([Arist.] Mund. 396a1 εἰϲ πλάγια ϲείοντεϲ). But Seneca’s phrasing captures more nightmarishly what it feels like to be in the ship of the earthquake. alternis prepares the point which comes at the end. There celeriter ex altera parte properabit . . . qui . . . restituat gives a strangely personifying touch, as if that motion were a helpful person (the terms like οἱ ἐπικλίνται in [Aristotle] or Lydus are personifying too, but in a more straightforwardly menacing fashion). Motion is considered here (nam etc.) in regard to speed, direction, and pattern; the situation is arrestingly conveyed. ruina creates a climax; in Book 6 the word is deployed insistently. What might have been a dry paragraph of classification is animated by the intellectual structuring and the memorable expression.

Comets Sure and Steady (7.23.2–3) hi autem agunt aliquid et uadunt et tenorem suum seruant paresque sunt. non alternis diebus maiores minoresque fierent, si ignis esset collecticius et ex aliqua causa repentinus? minor enim esset ac maior, prout plenius aleretur aut malignius. 3 dicebam modo nihil diuturnum esse quod exarsit aeris uitio. nunc amplius adicio: morari ac stare nullo modo potest. nam et fax et fulmen et stella transcurrens et quisquis alius est ignis aere expressus in fuga est, nec apparet nisi dum cadit. cometes habet suam sedem et ideo non cito expellitur sed emetitur spatium suum, nec extinguitur sed excedit. ‘Now, comets are doing a job; they go with purpose, they keep their even course, and they remain the same. Would they not become larger or smaller on alternate days if their fire were scraped together from all over the place, and for some reason sudden? It would become greater or smaller, according to whether it received fuller or meaner nourishment. 3 I said a moment ago that nothing lasts for long which has blazed up through a fault in the air. Now I add further: in no way can it delay and remain fixed. Torch, thunderbolt, shooting star, and any other fire pressed forth by the air are in flight; they only appear while they are falling. A comet has its own place. Hence it is not rapidly driven out, and rather traverses its own space; its fire is not put out, rather it departs.’

This is part of Seneca’s argument against his own school. They think comets are generated in the air, and follow their fuel or food (21.1–2); ego nostris non assentior: non enim existimo cometen subitaneum ignem sed inter aeterna opera

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naturae (22.1), ‘I disagree with my school; I think that a comet is not a fire that suddenly arises but is among Nature’s eternal creations’. Comets, like fixed stars, are produced in the aether, not the air, have a regular path, and do not perish quickly (22.1–23.2).³³ The language used of motion shows the firm purpose of the comets—not merely a literary turn, since the Stoics viewed the fixed stars as living and divine. uadunt (2) is finely differentiated from the general it used of all fires (23.1); the word suggests determined motion, and is picked up with this colour at 24.2 uadere and 25.6 uadunt. The prose gives a will to other fires too with in fuga est (3); but this frantic and defeated movement contrasts with the orderly execution of a comet’s plan. agunt aliquid (2) in a playfully humdrum phrase conveys Seneca’s notion of the heavens as full of brisk and useful activity. Movement willed by the comets is conveyed through the neat opposition of intransitive motion to semantically passive verbs: against the true passive expellitur (3) the deponent emetitur, against the passive extinguitur the active excedit—another plain verb which gains personifying nuance. The comets’ movement is regular and sustained (2 tenorem suum seruant, cf. 25.6, 3.11.6; 3 emetitur). It is unlike the sudden flash of transient movement from fires in the air (2 repentinus, 3 transcurrens, cadit, cito expellitur).³⁴ But lack of movement is also a proof of superiority: 3 stare and the less obviously impressive morari (cf. 2 in suo mora est, ‘can delay in their own territory’, in the sentence before this passage). Seneca embraces the controversial Stoic notion of restless divine movement; but he also uses divine stability to accommodate the comets’ disappearance. One problem with divine motion, it might be thought, is that it constitutes a sort of change; but the present motion is connected to not changing: 2 uadunt et tenorem suum seruant paresque sunt. Comets do not change size or need feeding; still less do they cease to exist (cf. 3 nihil diuturnum esse, cadit, extinguitur). suam sedem (3—possessive emphatically first) conveys fixity, while spatium suum displays motion in an area which belongs to the comet. Seneca’s hierarchical oppositions are heavy with ethical and aesthetic connotations. These give weight to the argument on which region and which group the comets should be placed in.³⁵

³³ Seneca is in fact closer to the truth, cf. e.g. Inwood (2005), 187, Gauly (2012), G. D. Williams (2012), 274–5. ³⁴ Stars living and divine: cf. Chrysipp. frr. 689–91 Dufour, 1034, with Long (2018), 439–44; Sen. NQ 7.24.1, etc. ³⁵ On the permanence and motion of comets, cf. Waiblinger (1977), 84–5, 95. On sedem, cf. e.g. 12.4 and note 27.4.

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Sailing to War (5.18.5–10) non in hoc prouidentia ac dispositor ille mundi deus aera uentis exercendum dedit et illos ab omni parte ne quid esset situ squalidum effudit, ut nos classes partem freti occupaturas compleremus milite armato, et hostem in mari aut post mare quaereremus. 6 quae nos dementia exagitat et in mutuum componit exitium? uela uentis damus bellum petituri et periclitamur periculi causa. incertam fortunam experimur, uim tempestatum nulla ope humana superabilem et mortem sine spe sepulturae. 7 non erat tanti si ad pacem per ista ueheremur; nunc, cum euaserimus tot scopulos latentes et insidias uadosi maris, cum effugerimus procellosos desuper montes, per quos praeceps in nauigantes uentus impingitur, cum inuolutos nubilo dies et nimbis ac tonitribus horridas noctes, cum turbinibus diuulsa nauigia, quis erit huius laboris ac metus fructus, quis nos fessos tot malis portus excipiet? bellum scilicet et obuius in litore hostis et trucidandae gentes tracturaeque magna ex parte uictorem et antiquarum urbium flamma. 8 quid in arma cogimus populos? quid exercitus scribimus directuros aciem in mediis fluctibus? quid maria inquietamus? parum uidelicet ad mortes nostras terra late patet! nimis delicate Fortuna nos tractat; nimis dura dedit nobis corpora, felicem ualetudinem! non depopulatur nos casus incurrens; emetiri cuique annos suos ex commodo licet et ad senectutem decurrere! itaque eamus in pelagus et uocemus in nos fata cessantia. 9 miseri, quid quaeritis? Mortem, quae ubique superest? petet illa uos et ex lectulo, sed innocentes petat! occupabit uos in uestra domo, sed occupet nullum molientes malum! hoc uero quid aliud quis dixerit quam insaniam, circumferre pericula et ruere in ignotos, iratum sine iniuria, occurrentia deuastantem, ac ferarum more occidere quem non oderis? illis tamen in ultionem aut ex fame morsus est; nos sine ulla parsimonia nostri alienique sanguinis mouemus manum et nauigia deducimus, salutem committimus fluctibus, secundos optamus uentos, quorum felicitas est ad bella perferri. 10 quousque nos mala nostra rapuerunt? 5 componit ZA¹θπ: compellit BV, Av.l.

‘When providence and the god that organized the cosmos gave the air to the winds to exercise, and poured forth winds from every direction so that there should be nothing left dirtied with neglect, their purpose was not for us to fill with armed soldiers fleets that would take up a portion of the sea, and for us to look for enemies at sea, or after it. 6 What insanity is driving us, and setting us against each other for our mutual destruction? We give our sails to the winds so that we can seek war; we take on danger for the sake of more danger. We try out an unsure fortune, that is the force of storms which cannot be overcome by any human aid and death without hope of burial. 7 It would not have been

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worth it even if we were travelling to peace through these things. As it is, when we have escaped so many hidden rocks and so many traps in the shallows of the sea, when we have fled stormy mountains above us, through which the headlong wind dashes against those sailing, and have fled days wrapped in fog and nights that shudder with rain-clouds and thunder, and have fled ships ripped apart by whirlwinds, what will be the reward for this struggle and fear, what harbour will receive us, worn out with so many misfortunes? War, obviously: an enemy on the shore to block our advance; races for us to slaughter, who will drag their victors along with them in large part; the flames that destroy ancient cities. 8 Why do we bring peoples together to fight? Why do we enlist armies to draw up their battle-lines in the midst of the waves? Why do we disturb the seas? Obviously the earth is not spread wide enough with a view to our deaths! Fortune treats us too nicely; it has given us bodies that are too hard, health that is too happy! Chance does not run against us and lay us waste; everyone can get through their allotted years as suits them and run their course down to old age! So let us go into the sea and call upon us the fates that are tarrying. 9 You poor wretches, what are you looking for? Death, which is available everywhere? She will come and seek you all, even from your bed, but let her seek you without guilt on your part. She will seize you in your houses; but let her seize you when you are not setting about a misdeed! What name but madness could anyone give to carrying one’s peril around with one, to charging against people you do not know, to slaughtering, angry when no wrong has been done you, people who get in your path, and, like animals, killing people you do not hate. Animals, though, bite to take revenge or satisfy hunger. We do not in the least spare our blood or that of others in moving our hands and in launching ships; we entrust our safety to the waves; we wish for favourable winds, and for us success is to be borne all the way to wars. 10 To what point have our evils snatched us?

Part of the peroration to the book. The argument is not merely to decry the folly of voyaging to war, a well-worn theme (cf. e.g. Prop. 3.5.11–12); it is to set the benevolent wisdom of deity in producing the winds (5.18.1–2, 13–14) against the guilty madness of mortals who pervert the gift. The first sentence, with its asserted and negated purposes, sets against each other: the generous movement of god (ab omni parte, effudit), with its benign creation of healthy motion (exercendum); and the self-destructive, large-scale manœuvres of humans (5 ut nos classes partem freti occupaturas compleremus milite—a filling of empty spaces twice over, with soldiers and with ships). A single being is set against the plurality of us (a turba at 18.16). The innocent-seeming cliché uela uentis damus (6, cf. Nep. Hann. 8.2 etc.) is made part of a larger structure of

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intention. uela uentis damus bellum petituri contrasts with aera uentis exercendum dedit (5).³⁶ But humans themselves are the object of mental and physical stirring and manœuvring (6 exagitat, componit) by another force—their unfathomable madness (quae . . . dementia, cf. Luc. 1.8 quis furor . . . ?, ‘what madness . . . ?’). They are the victims of motion outside themselves when the singular and military casus runs to attack them (8 depopulatur . . . incurrens) and Mors comes to find them (9 petet, occupabit). They have foolishly been seeking her (quaeritis), as they cause the fates to arrive, by calling them (8 uocemus in nos). In the last sentence given here, a plural subject mala (10) has subjected humans to swift and extensive transitive motion, rapuerunt. quousque with a direct question in Seneca, temporal or spatial, usually accompanies a future or present verb with a person or people possibly doing or continuing to do something. The alteration here is gloomy—we have already been acted on—and leads into examples from the past, Roman as well as Persian and Macedonian (10).³⁷ Yet mostly the movements are humanity’s own, our own: 5–8 first-person plural, second-person plural in 9 miseri . . . malum, a single individual in hoc uero etc.; back to first-person plural from 9 nos. This predominance in movement suits the argument for humanity’s perversion of god’s benefit. There are at least three types of motion involved: moving at sea, and in battle, and causing others so to move. In 7 the difficult motion over the sea, with a whole string of cums, finds its destination in war, and in particular battle on the very shore as we disembark, obuius in litore hostis—an allusion, one might think, to the very recent encounter with Britons in Anglesey (Tac. Ann. 14.30.1–2,  61).³⁸ The borders between sea and battle are not inviolable, however: thus battle at sea is contemplated (5 in mari, 8 directuros aciem in mediis fluctibus). The borders are also toyed with. The sarcastic call itaque eamus in pelagus et uocemus in nos fata cessantia (8) distorts Sarpedon’s valorous νῦν δ᾿ ἔμπηϲ γὰρ κῆρεϲ ἐφεϲτᾶϲιν θανάτοιο | μυρίαι . . . , | ἴομεν (Hom. Il. 12.326–8), ‘but as it is, since countless demons of death stand over us . . . , let us go’. With 12.326–7, cf. also 9 Mortem, quae ubique superest; with 327 ἃϲ οὐκ ἔϲτι φυγεῖν βροτὸν οὐδ᾿ ὑπαλύξαι, ‘which a ³⁶ Cf. 18.13, 14 dedit (ille) uentos, ‘he gave the winds’. For the construction in petituri, mainly used with verbs of motion, cf. e.g. K.-St. i.761, Pinkster (2015), 546. Perversion: cf. Berno (2003), 202–3. With the healthy exercendum (5), cf. 18.1 ut aera non sinerent pigrescere, ‘so that they should not let the air get sluggish’. ³⁷ Cf. Chapter 5 n. 37, with passages on calling death to come. For 9 petet . . . occupabit uos in uestra domo, cf. Sol. fr. 4.26–9 West. For 10 . . . nos mala nostra rapuerunt, cf. e.g. Hor. Epod. 7.17 acerba fata Romanos agunt, ‘harsh fates drive the Romans on’, after 1 Quo . . . ruitis . . . ?, ‘Where are you rushing to?’; G. D. Williams (2012), 207. ³⁸ On the passage of Tacitus see Chapter 4, pp. 138, 140. The allusion carries force despite the actual brevity of the voyage. NQ 6 was written soon after an earthquake which occurred in  62 or less probably 63, cf. Wallace-Hadrill (2003), Hine (2006), 68–72, (2010a), 24–6, Ramsey (2008), 136–48, Savino (2009), Marshall (2014), 42–3. Seneca was probably involved in Britain on some level, cf. Dio Cass. 62.2 iii.43–4 Boissevain (Xiph.), M. T. Griffin (1976), 232–3.

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mortal cannot flee or escape from’, cf. 7 euaserimus, effugerimus; with 323 (if we would be) ἀγήρω, ‘unaging’, cf. 7 ad senectutem decurrere. These connections have various twists. The movement eamus (8) would happen before we even get to the warfare.³⁹ In battle itself, motion is presented at the level of the individual fighter: cf. the singulars iratum and deuastantem (9). mouemus manum (9) is a small-scale bodily action; it is to seem peculiar and futile, waving a hand about, in comparison to the beasts’ instinctive morsus. It passes easily into the action on ships, nauigia deducimus, prior to the fighting but closer to the theme of wind, which the sentence is approaching (secundos optamus uentos). The causing of motion might be thought the province of individual kings and generals (cf. 18.10, and note 5 partem freti occupaturas). But it is a group action too, what the human race does: classes . . . compleremus (5), in arma cogimus populos (8), exercitus scribimus (8). The compound of folly, sailing to war, enables voyaging to be seen as part of this context. The reader is kept from wondering how the horrors of voyaging fit with the benefits of commerce and communication which voyaging providentially supplies (18.4, 14). The thematic winds blow through the passage with destructive movement: uim tempestatum (6), per quos praeceps in nauigantes uentus impingitur (7, unexpected detail on their route), turbinibus diuulsa nauigia. Even the favourable winds we wish for (9 secundos optamus uentos) prove favourable (cf. felicitas) only in carrying us all the way to war (ad bella perferri). Such is the ingenious intricacy of what human madness has invented: 18.4 quae in perniciem suam generis humani dementia excogitat, ‘which the madness of the human race thinks up for its own ruin’, contrast 18.15 uentos quoque natura bono futuros inuenerat, ‘winds too Nature had invented to be for our good’.

A Whirlwind Gets above Itself (7.8.1–9.1, 10.2) 8.1 illam nunc rationem eius—utraque enim utitur—refellamus. ‘quicquid umidi aridique terra efflauit, cum in unum coit, ipsa discordia corporum spiritum uersat in turbinem. tunc illa uis uenti circumeuntis quicquid intra se comprehendit cursu suo accendit et leuat in altum, ac tam diu manet splendor ignis expressi quamdiu alimenta sufficiunt; quibus desinentibus et ipse subsidit.’ 8.2 qui hoc dicit, non notat qualis sit turbinum cursus et qualis cometarum: illorum rapidus ac uiolentus et ipsis uentis citatior est, cometarum lenis et qui per diem noctemque quantum transierit abscondat. deinde turbinum motus uagus est et ³⁹ Homer is referred to at 6.26.1, cf. 23.4. Cf. also for use of Sarpedon’s speech Theopomp. FGrHist 115 F 287, with Jacoby (1927), 393.

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disiectus et, ut Sallustii uerbo utar, uerticosus, cometarum autem compositus et destinatum iter carpens. 8.3 num quis nostrum crederet lunam aut quinque sidera rapi uento aut turbine rotari? non, ut puto. quare? quia non est illis perturbatus et impotens cursus. ad cometas idem transferamus: non confuse nec tumultuose eunt, ut aliquis credat illos causis turbulentis et inconstantibus pelli. 8.4 deinde, etiamsi uertices isti comprehendere terrena umidaque et ex humili in altum exprimere possent, non tamen supra lunam efferrent; omnis illis usque in nubilum uis est. cometas autem immixtos stellis uidemus per superiora labentes. ergo ueri simile non est in tantum spatium perseuerare turbinem, qui quo maior est maturius corrumpitur. 9.1 utrumlibet itaque eligat; aut leuis uis tam alte peruenire non poterit, aut magna et concitata citius ipsa se franget. . . . 10.2 deinde duo debent esse motus eodem loco, alter ille diuinus et assiduus, suum sine intermissione peragens opus, alter nouus et recens et turbine illatus; necesse est ergo alter alteri impedimento sit. atqui lunaris illa orbita ceterorumque supra lunam meantium motus irreuocabilis est nec haesitat usquam nec resistit nec dat ullam nobis suspicionem obiectae sibi morae. fidem non habet turbinem, uiolentissimum et perturbatissimum tempestatis genus, in medios siderum ordines peruenire et inter disposita ac tranquilla uersari. ‘Let me refute Epigenes’ second explanation (he uses both). “Whatever of moist and dry the earth has breathed out, when it comes together into one place, the very discord of the particles drives the wind into a whirlwind. Then that forceful wind as it goes about enflames in its progress whatever it has embraced within itself and raises it on high. The brightness of the fire it has pressed forth remains for as long as there is enough fuel; as that stops, the fire itself dies down.” 8.2 The person that says this does not observe what the movement of whirlwinds and of comets is like. That of whirlwinds is swift, violent, and speedier than the winds themselves; that of comets is gentle and such as to conceal how much distance it has covered by day and by night. Second, the motion of whirlwinds is wandering, scattered, and, to use Sallust’s word, “whirlpool-like”; that of comets is collected and pursues the path they have fixed on. 8.3 None of us would believe, would they, that the moon or the five planets are snatched along by a wind or whisked round by a whirlwind? I think not. Why not? Because their movement is not turbulent and wild. Let us carry the same point over to comets. They do not proceed in a chaotic or disorderly way, so that one might think they were being driven by tumultuous and changeable causes. 8.4 Next, even if those vortexes could encompass things moist and things of earth and press them up from a low position to on high, they would still not bear them up above the moon: their force only extends as far as the clouds. Now, we see comets mixed in with the stars and gliding through the high regions. So it is not likely that a whirlwind would forge its way on into such a vast space. The bigger a whirlwind is, the quicker it is destroyed. 9.1 Thus the person who voices this view can choose whichever option

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he prefers: either a light force will be unable to reach such a lofty destination, or a great and violent force will break itself up too quickly. . . . 10.2 Further: on this view there must be two sorts of motion in the same place, one divine and constantly active, carrying its work out without any let-up, the other new, lately created, brought on the scene by a whirlwind. So one must necessarily interfere with the other. But the well-known orbit of the moon and the movement of the other bodies that travel above the moon is unalterable; nowhere does it falter or stop, and it gives us no grounds to suspect some delay has been put in its path. It is not credible that a whirlwind, the most violent and disordered kind of storm, should get all the way into the midst of the ranks of stars and move around amid those bodies which are calm and have been carefully organized.’

Seneca in NQ 7.4–10 confutes the theories of the probably Hellenistic Epigenes. The higher sort of comet, which moves in the aether, can on one of Epigenes’ possible explanations be the product of a whirlwind.⁴⁰ Seneca’s contrast between the motion of comets and stars on the one hand and whirlwinds on the other (8.2–3, 10.2) resembles his contrast between comets and other fires in 23.1–3 (see on 23.2–3 above, pp. 235–6). But here the oppositions are more strongly drawn. In 8.2 the motion of comets and of whirlwinds are juxtaposed within each of two structures, each with a sort of μέν and δέ form: illorum . . . , cometarum . . . ; and turbinum . . . , cometarum autem . . . . In both the structures, style mimics motion. The first structure gives the whirlwinds three adjectives joined by impetuous polysyndeton; the adjectives rise in sense and weight with the last member: rapidus ac uiolentus et ipsis uentis citatior est. The structure gives the comets only two members, the second an elaborate relative clause with subjunctive, which includes a reported question and dwells on modest concealment: lenis et qui per diem noctemque quantum transierit abscondat. Quite how this concealment relates to speed is not spelt out (cf. 29.2); but uiolentus, uentis, citatior, and lenis create a contrast in ethos. The second structure follows the same basic pattern, with three adjectives in polysyndeton for the whirlwind, uagus est et disiectus et . . . uerticosus, and only two members for the comets, the second a clause: compositus et destinatum iter carpens. The first structure had suggested just ferocious movement in the whirlwinds; this one brings out their surprising lack of purpose and continuity, to which the purposeful movement of the comets is opposed: uagus . . . et disiectus against destinatum iter carpens. The reference to Sallust adds a hint of destructive

⁴⁰ Epigenes: cf. Gilbert (1907), 653–4, Gross (1989), 283–4, 290–2; Aët. 3.2.6 (Diels (1879), 367) Ἐπιγένηϲ [sc. τὸν κομήτην φηϲὶν εἶναι] πνεύματοϲ ἀναφορὰν γεωμιγοῦϲ πεπυρωμένου, ‘Epigenes says that a comet is a rising of wind which has been mixed with earth and turned into fire’.

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violence: at Hist. 4.28 Maurenbrecher the word is used of Charybdis, mare uerticosum, which destroys vessels and moves them a long distance.⁴¹ In 10.2 the pattern is much the same: the motion of the stars gets two adjectives, diuinus et assiduus, that of the comets on Epigenes’ theory three elements in polysyndeton, nouus et recens et turbine illatus. But here a participial clause expands assiduus, and suits the non-stop and effective busy action of the stars, suum sine intermissione peragens opus. The initial and separated suum suggests a specific function for this movement in the scheme of things. nouus and recens might seem excessively synonymous, but nouus has a suggestion of the political nouus motus (Cic. Sest. 99, Tac. Hist. 1.80.2, etc.), of res nouae. This strand is still more apparent with in medios siderum ordines; the whirlwind is now singular, but would disrupt disposita ac tranquilla. The last word, like uiolentissimum, lends itself readily to political situations: cf. e.g. Cic. Clu. 94 tempus hoc tranquillum . . . , illud omnibus inuidiae tempestatibus concitatum, ‘this time is calm . . . , that time was stirred up with all the storms of ill will’. Cf. also here 8.1 discordia. The stem turb- of turbo finds itself turned into perturbatus (8.3), turbulentis (8.3), perturbatissimum (10.2). turbulentis, like impotens (8.3) and tumultuose (8.3), easily evokes politics, and impotens, like uiolentus (8.2) and uiolentissimum (10.2), certainly personifies. While the political and social suggestions of ordines (10.2) are figurative, the ascription of a will to the heavenly bodies is not. The passive rapi and rotari (8.3) would not suit them, especially with such low-grade causes as uento and turbine (8.3), here grammatically treated as things rather than people. No more would the heavenly bodies be suited by the transitive motion in turbine illatus (10.2), again with the turbo as a thing. There is indeed an asymmetry in the presentation of the motion: while the heavenly bodies, including the comets, are cohesively treated as steadily purposeful beings, the whirlwinds are treated now as forcefully purposeful, now as aimlessly wandering, now as people, now as things. It is partly that the personality of the whirlwinds is metaphorical, and the metaphorical sphere can contain conflicting suggestions. The very conflict, however, thanks to the oblique workings of literature, fits their presentation as wildly inconsistent and irrational: cf. confuse (8.3), inconstantibus (8.3), and the self-destructive ipsa se franget (7.9; the ipsa is essential). Akin is Cicero’s treatment of, say, Clodius as simultaneously a weak coward and a terrifying danger: it is all part of Clodian madness.⁴² Some problems remain about the motion of comets (cf. 7.25.6–7), but essentially in the presentation of these heavenly bodies there is no conflict, just noble paradox: though they are not actually slower than other stars (29.2), lenis (8.2) and labentes (8.4) are used of their motion. The motion of heavenly bodies in general is assiduus (10.2) and irreuocabilis (10.2, cf. 2.35.2 of unpitying fata); but they are

⁴¹ uerticosus is actually used by Livy too: 21.5.15 uerticoso amni.

⁴² Cf. e.g. Cic. Mil. 89.

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tranquilla. Aristotle says that κίνηϲιϲ . . . βραδεῖα τοῦ μεγαλοψύχου δοκεῖ εἶναι (EN 4.1125a12–13), ‘the movement of the great-spirited man is thought to be slow’; but the heavenly bodies seem to have both swiftness and μεγαλοψυχία. Observable basics in motion like regularity, continuity, and duration are used in building up a picture rich in colours aesthetic and ethical.⁴³ The picture contributes not only to the character of the whole work but to the persuasiveness of the specific case. What makes it particularly awkward to assimilate comets and Seneca’s idea of the heavenly bodies is that comets seem to cease. The view of Epigenes exploits this: cf. 8.1 et ipse subsidit when the fuel runs out. Seneca evidently does not have a notion of comets recurring, as opposed to continuing in existence (cf. 22.1, 30.2). But he makes the motion of comets seem qualitatively like that of the other bodies. And he hierarchically separates the aether, where comets can be seen to occur (cf. 8.4 immixtos stellis uidemus per superiora labentes), from the territory proper to mere whirlwinds (cf. omnis illis usque in nubilum uis est). These points make the apparent cessation look a relatively unimportant difference. Comets move in the same space and in the same manner as bodies that are clearly eternal and divine. The motion depicted in the Natural Questions comes across as vividly to the reader as motion in narrative works, and none the less so for most of that motion being not straighforwardly animate. But narrative and dramatic works involve their receivers mostly in a single world, at some distance from the readers’ own, and the involvement is part of the entrancement of the work. Tacitus often raises questions of truth, as does Ovid, subversively; but the works still sustain the flow of events presented as if actual. The conception of the Natural Questions places argument much more to the fore, and there is less bewitched immersion in one world even than in Lucretius. A world is conveyed, but evocation and explicit argument are bound together as they are not in narrative. In the passages we have looked at, other views are prominent. The closest thing in narrative are the motions that cannot happen but are contemplated in the speech of characters, as possibilities or impossibilities (see Chapter 3 for Ovid, pp. 86–7). But in this work, the primary voice is locked with other views in detailed disputation; the parallels in Ovid are not frequent or close (cf. e.g. Met. 3.430–6). On shooting stars or the like, Seneca begins from a poet, then shows the error both of the poet and of our human perception. On lightning, Anaxagoras and others are confuted with oratorical tactics, before the diatribe-like interlocutor takes the baton. Historiographers describe the extensive movements of Hannibal, missing the ethical point. Democritus’ notions of atomic movement and wind are made tangible, before demolition. Posidonius’ two types of earthquake are enriched with a third; the Stoic view of comets is shown not to fit their motion; on sailing to war, ⁴³ Cf. Ben. 7.3.2 for divine tranquillity; Chrysipp. fr. 1121 Dufour (Lact. De ira dei 5.5 Ingremeau) is from a trickier source.

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not a physical but a moral view is assailed, and the folly of the motion exposed. One of Epigenes’ ideas about comets is expounded, then refuted through a contrast in types of motion. Alternative views and evaluations are constantly present, but are defeated by the writer’s vision and the articulacy and eloquence which support it.⁴⁴ Truth is reached both by observation and by understanding. Epigenes’ theory springs from not observing (cf. 7.8.2 non notat) the differing nature (qualis . . . qualis) of motion in whirlwinds and comets. Seneca puts this difference across through lively contrast, with ethical and political colouring. He accepts (2.13.3 fateor) the empirical observation with which the interlocutor defends Anaxagoras against his, Seneca’s, general argument. But he interprets the phenomena by neatly separating intransitive and transitive motion, and by returning to the view of the cosmos and its divisions which had given his general argument its basis. That view of the cosmos is made attractive through lyrical anaphora (nihil . . . nihil . . . nihil), but rests too on astronomers’ and philosophers’ observations of the heavens.⁴⁵ Seneca draws on his and his reader’s experience to depict, with expressive slowness, what happens when a stone is thrown into a pond, or to offer us round drops around the house and outside it. Observation without special authority can reach the truth: cf. 4b.3.3 quare . . . etiam sine magistro scire possis, cum adnotaueris stillicidium omne glomerari. But the observation still involves a generalized deduction. Seneca’s discussion of drops on rock and of stones in ponds is informed by a wider thought on the impact of the dominant moving body; it is this thought which gets him from ponds to haloes. The small world of ponds may have the appearance of a simile, but it is aimed at understanding as well as visualization (and the primary world is not a narrative world, the secondary not a Homeric mini-world). Seneca’s accounts of motion have a richness that some philosophical writing does not; but their different ingredients interact, and should not be too quickly separated.⁴⁶

⁴⁴ A salient contrast with Lucretius: while Lucretius presents himself as if merely the disciple of Epicurus, Seneca displays his independence, sometimes, from even Stoic masters. So 2.21.1 dimissis nunc praeceptoribus nostris incipimus per nos moueri, ‘we’ve now sent our teachers away and are beginning to move on our own’, draws the addressee into joint escape, with two sorts of metaphorical motion (the second refreshes the metaphor in the first). Cf. Hine (2012), 40–2, Costa (2013), 113, Asmis (2015), 227. With beginning from a brief quotation which is then assailed (1.14.2–4), one could compare, purely in structure, a passage of Lucan, 8.791–822. ⁴⁵ In 2.13 the view of the cosmos, once accepted, would show that Aristotle’s requirement for a cause in Anaxagoras’ theory (Meteo. 2.369b21–2 δεῖ λέγεϲθαι τὴν αἰτίαν, cf. NQ 2.13.1 nullam rationem reddiderunt quare . . . ) not only has not been but cannot be met. ⁴⁶ Thus Seneca’s rhythmical writing both adds to the harmony and organization of the prose and sharpens the presentation of the argument. So the last sentence of the last passage, at 7.10.2 falls into rhythmic phrases thus: | fidem non habet turbinem, | uiolentissimum et perturbatissimum | tempestatis genus, | in medios siderum ordines | peruenire | et inter disposita ac tranquilla uersari. | That division gives further underlining to, for example, the pair of superlatives on wild movement (uiolentissimum et perturbatissimum), the outrageous peruenire, and the outrageous in medios siderum ordines. For more on this subject, cf. Axelson (1933), 7–9; Hutchinson (2018b). On analogies in the NQ, cf. ArmisenMarchetti (1989), 283–311.

Conclusion The reader, or dipper, should by now have seen across a range of works the interest of considering motion. There are many connections between the treatment of motion in the various texts; this conclusion will only offer some examples and pointers, to get the wheels whirring for the reader. We will turn shortly to confront the treatment of the same aspects in different works. First, though, a little should be said on the genres and chronological sequence of the works, not to produce triumphant answers but to raise, as it is hoped, enlivening questions. The works have been grouped by genre rather than by time of writing; but what has been seen throws intriguing light on both genre and time, and on the often surprising relations of one axis to the other. The time spanned by the creation of the works covers remarkable changes, not only in the history of events (such as the growth of Roman power), but in literary and intellectual history (including the growth or explosion of genres). As regards intellectual history, the most important change of all is the beginning and development of philosophy. The beginning of philosophy affects the direct consideration of motion by texts as a general subject. Even before philosophy, motion can at least be legitimately isolated by us as a crucial concern in a work (as can, say, the treatment of character). Once philosophy has begun, how explicitly motion appears as a general subject can bear a relation both to genre and to the impact of philosophy in the period and on the author. Philosophy is not clearly apparent in Sophocles’ version of motion in tragedy (matters would be somewhat different with Euripides). The visuality and searching closeness of tragedy, as conceived in these two dramas, offers different and more concrete ways into the phenomenon. Something similar could be said of historiography and historical data in Tacitus; yet in his work especially, political thought may be more related to philosophy than appears on the surface. Philosophy is purposefully given a low profile in Roman, unlike some Hellenistic and Imperial Greek, historiography: it is part of the archaic Roman pose. In the world of the Annals, the centre is Rome, and to a lesser extent Italy; there is less motion in the centre than at the edges, but in the centre motion and immobility display slavery and political instability (thus the exodus of Romans in Ann. 4.74.3–4). The Natural Questions, while intensely conscious of Rome, Italy, and empire, has a far larger world in view, as the prologue to Book 3 brings out. The uppermost part of that world is marked by swift and orderly movement; that is the superior and most important part. But the work is largely dominated by Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art. G. O. Hutchinson, Oxford University Press (2020). © G. O. Hutchinson. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198855620.001.0001

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the violent and unpredictable chaos of sublunary motion. Annals and Natural Questions are only fifty odd years apart; but their whole spatial framework for motion is radically different. Fifty odd years before the Natural Questions, philosophy plays a role in the Metamorphoses which emerges most explicitly and fully in the final book, where Pythagoras depicts at length a universe in constant movement. Even before that, and after the opening, puzzles of motion (so Cephalus) and scientific ideas (so Phaethon) have kept philosophy in view, and helped the broad consideration of motion. The philosophical element makes more apparent what is intrinsic to the whole work: it presents a range of divine and marvellous movement still greater than Homer’s, and remote from Seneca or Tacitus; but the relation of work and narrative world is not the same as in the Iliad. In the Iliad, the narrative world seems to express the outlook of the poem; it is a challenging one for conceptions as seen outside the poem in Hesiod and the Odyssey and inside it in its deluded mortals. In the Metamorphoses, the outlook of the poem is not simply expressed by its narrative world, which is marked internally as unbelievable. Vital factors here are not only the rise of philosophy but the cynical and critical intelligence of the Metamorphoses’ narrator and poet. That stance has a relation to historical period: Ovid sees himself elsewhere as a thoroughly modern Roman (e.g. Med. 3–26, Fast. 3.101–20). The narrative world of the poem is derived from its genre, not directly from any contemporary worldviews. Yet time has enabled a fundamental difference to the impact of motion in mythological narrative. Motion in the Philoctetes and Oedipus Coloneus and in the Iliad takes place within a broadly similar frame of mortal and immortal. The greatest differences in portraying motion are connected with genre, which is again connected with cultural time: the emergence of drama as the pre-eminent literary form in the fifth century, especially its second half. But as elsewhere, genre does not simply determine. The enormous range of people, gods, and animals set in motion by the Iliad is much less extensive in the Odyssey; these two tragedies of Sophocles take particularly far the staged investigation of difficult movement. In other ways, these works of Homer and Sophocles come closer than might have been imagined: the Iliad like the two plays shows intense choices, and struggles, on motion. The generic relationship of On Nature and the Natural Questions is problematic. Both are philosophy, and Seneca treats Parmenides and Empedocles as predecessors like others (NQ 3.24.1, 3, Ep. 88.44–5). But Parmenides’ work is also a poem—as its allegorical narrative of motion brings out. The time of literary and intellectual history is important here. Prose, and philosophical writing, are recent developments for Parmenides—who might have written when as young as his narrator. For Seneca there is a long sequence of other thinkers, and a formed antagonism of schools; prose allows the sequence to be more omnipresent than

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even in Lucretius (or even in Lucretius 1). However, both Parmenides and Seneca use images of isolated journeying to convey their originality and independence. In language on motion, the difference between the Iliad and the two tragedies is generated both by the difference in genre and by linguistic development over time. Between the Iliad and On Nature there is a broad resemblance, thanks to generic tradition; but differences are produced by great audacities from Parmenides in expressing astonishing thoughts, and by an entirely different attitude to metaphor. Metaphorical levels of motion are important in Sophocles too. The Latin texts, in language on motion, differ among themselves for generic reasons: not only through Ovid’s version of narrative hexameter, but through Tacitus’ distorted version of Sallustian archaizing historiography. The difference of the three texts from the Greek ones is not only the primary difference of which language. There is a self-contemplating ingenuity and finesse which has its origin in Greek after the fifth century: Hellenistic poetry for Ovid, rhythmical prose for Seneca, declamation for them all. Declamation, however, is one incarnation of rhetoric. Rhetoric begins in Sicily a little after Parmenides (connections need not be considered here); it is one source of difference between Homer and Sophocles. But Greek declamation and rhetoric are intensified through attention to the potential of Latin: it tamen (Ovid on Myrrha) or habet suam sedem (Seneca on the comet) would not be the same in Greek. Time, then, brings prose, philosophy, historiography, rhetoric, declamation, drama, Latin literature, and much else. Genre and time interact in unpredictable ways to create proximity and difference. The potency of both forces is evident; so is the inventiveness of authors. Instead of neat patterns, we see a variety of intriguing relationships; comparison only becomes more intriguing when we cease to give special attention to closeness in time or genre, and look freely across our works. The main purpose here is to underline some features that have been confirmed as important; but we can also see how differently they are used at specific moments, and how the differences and affinities are of interest for the passages and texts themselves. The features that will be recollected here are: motion intransitive and transitive, motion willed and imposed; speed; shape of movement; motion of groups and individuals; scales of motion; presence and absence of motion; motion beyond a work’s immediate and primary account of action, as in imagery and possible or hypothetical movement. Two basic questions, then, are whether the motion is executed by or on a person, or thing, and whether from their wish or not (for things the wish is broadly metaphorical). In Seneca, mere earthly fire, thanks to ash, non descendit . . . sed praecipitatur et deducitur, ‘does not come down but is brought and thrown down’ (NQ 2.13.1); it is acted on by something else, despite its nature. The fire in Tacitus ualidus . . . longitudinem circi conripuit, ‘strong, . . . seized the full length of the circus’ (Ann. 15.38.2); it acts on something else. Seneca depicts a hierarchy of fire, Tacitus’ language creates a monster.

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Antigone in the OC calls out as she is pulled off stage ἀφέλκομαι δύϲτηνοϲ, ὦ ξένοι, ξένοι, ‘strangers, strangers, I am being dragged away, unhappy me!’ (844); she is acted on by others. She then says πρὸϲ βίαν πορεύομαι, ‘I am journeying by force’ (845); the verb is as if this were her own motion, but it is actually not willed. Staging apart, Ovid on Persephone chooses a less vivid verb than ἀφέλκομαι, and deliberately reduces possible drama: Persephone is rapta, in the curt dilectaque raptaque Diti, ‘loved and abducted by Dis’ (Ov. Met. 5.395). The ironically brisk narrator reports the action in an argument about speed, and does not quote Persephone’s cries direct (396–8). None the less, rapta, ‘abducted/snatched’, leads on to raptor (402). Dis’s unpitying mastery of the action is seen in the motion he causes and wills: 402 raptor agit currus, ‘the abductor drove his chariot forward’. Ovid, however, creates more drama of conflict in the scene of Cyane’s resistance to this motion. Her nec longius ibitis, ‘the two of you will go no further’ (414), pointedly unites willing and unwilling agents in a movement she means to stop because Persephone (and Persephone’s mother) are unwilling. Much more limited movement between people is in question when Philoctetes asks Neoptolemus ϲύ μ᾿ αὐτὸϲ ἆρον, ‘lift me up yourself ’ (Soph. Phil. 879). Neoptolemus tells him to perform the action himself, νῦν δ᾿ αἶρε ϲαυτόν, ‘now lift yourself up’ (886), or to let the sailors do so (886–7). The complexities of personal interaction and unseen thought are worked out on the stage. This brings us to a crucial variable: speed. Philoctetes’ slow and painful motion is variously conveyed through the directness and range of tragedy. So in a narrative, but a first-person narrative, and one which the spectators see him deliver: 290–1 αὐτὸϲ ἂν τάλαϲ | εἰλυόμην, δύϲτηνον ἐξέλκων πόδα, ‘I would crawl towards it miserably myself, dragging my wretched foot’—note the adjectives of first-person distress, as with Antigone. The pathos is less extreme when there emerge from their huts ϲκάζοντε . . . Τυδείδηϲ τε μενεπτόλεμοϲ καὶ δῖοϲ Ὀδυϲϲεύϲ, | ἔγχει ἐρειδομένω, ‘limping . . . , the son of Tydeus accustomed to await the onslaught and noble Odysseus, leaning on their spears’ (Hom. Il. 19.47–9). But the organization of these lines, grand names in the middle, sad phrase at the end, makes it a shock that the famous pair should look thus reduced. Speed, so essential to the construction and narrative of the Iliad, is an important marker of hierarchy. Gods are usually swift in a way quite beyond mortals. Poseidon goes on foot from Samothrace to Aegae in four moves: 13.20 τρὶϲ μὲν ὀρέξατ᾿ ἰών, τὸ δὲ τέτρατον ἵκετο τέκμωρ. The geographical distance is probably much the same as Dis’s chariot covers (Ov. Met. 5.405–8), in two stages. But Dis’s velocity is less magnificent than Poseidon’s: his speed shows the undignified haste of a humiliating passion: 396 usque adeo properatus amor, ‘so much was that passion hurried on’. The sea and its creatures rejoice in Poseidon’s rapid journey (Il. 13.27–30); a nymph attempts to block Pluto’s, and points out his wrongful conduct (Met. 5.409–20). As so often in the Metamorphoses, the narrative calls hierarchy into question.

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The inferiority of humans is vast in Seneca. The tarditas of even sight in us cannot keep up with the celeritas even of falling stars below the aether (NQ 1.14.3 immensam celeritatem). The Iliad exhibits divine superiority in a more teasing manner, as the disguised Apollo just outruns the hopeful Achilles (21.604 τυτθὸν ὑπεκπροθέοντα). The narrator of Parmenides is helped to a rapid allegorical chariot ride by attendant goddesses, his charioteers (B 1.24 = D4.24 ὦ κοῦρ᾿ ἀθανάτηιϲι ϲυνήοροϲ ἡνιόχοιϲιν). Heraclitus-like mortals πλάζονται (B 6.5 = D7.5, cf. B 8.54 = D8.59 πεπλανημένοι εἰϲίν), a verb suggesting among other things a lack of impetus (B 1.21 = D4.24). Overall hierarchical structure is maintained, but exploited to give the human narrator a new place. In a historiographical scene of catastrophe, with no gods but some personification, human efforts against the fire are outrun uelocitate mali (Tac. Ann. 15.38.3), ‘by the speed of the disaster’; the fire gets ahead of people—and around them, for it expands in space (5). Humans in Homer can be assimilated to quicker non-divine creatures, but only through simile and metaphor: Achilles ἰθὺϲ πέτετο (Il. 22.143), ‘flew straight’, after Hector and is compared to the ἐλαφρότατοϲ πετεηνῶν (139), ‘the most rapid of birds’. In Ovid, those whom the god wished to be inuictos . . . certamine cursus (7.792–3), ‘undefeated in the contest of running’, are two animals, Laelaps and the fera. Speed creates its own hierarchy; philosophical conundrums hover around. That brings us to shape. The fox deliberately deviates from straight motion (782 limite . . . recto), et redit in gyrum (784), ‘and came back in a circle’. Shapes of movement are registered in the Iliad, especially for animals, which play such a part in the poem: the snake catching the mother bird ἐλελιξάμενοϲ (2.316), the boar twisting like Ajax running straight (17.281, 283), the boar or lion often turning, but also rushing straight against men (12.42, 47, 48 ἰθύϲηι). In the predominantly non-human world of the Natural Questions, Seneca sets the motion of whirlwinds, uagus . . . et disiectus et . . . uerticosus (7.8.2), ‘wandering, scattered, and . . . whirlpool-like’, against the orderly motion of comets along destinatum iter, ‘the path they have fixed on’. One antithesis is especially full of meaning. In Parmenides wandering is set against straight, and purposeful, motion. We have just seen the difference between the narrator and wandering mortals (cf. also B 8.54 = D8.59). The περίφοιτα deeds of the moon, a light περὶ γαῖαν ἀλώμενον, ‘wandering round the earth’, mark it as inferior to the sun (B 10.4 = D12.4, B 14 = D27). In Seneca’s preface, the aged Hannibal wandered from kingdom to kingdom uselessly (NQ 3.pr.6 reges pererrauerit), while the aged Seneca’s mental journey round the cosmos seems to possess a firm itinerary (3.pr.1, 4). In Sophocles’ drama, with its visual force, the aged Oedipus is a wanderer (OC 3, 50), who has been roaming around Greece. His wandering is opposed to a cessation of movement near the beginning of the play (45), as the divine sign is recognized (44, 46), and opposed too to firm and purposeful movement at the end (1540–8, 1587). It will be remembered that there is much aimless wandering in the narrative of the unforeseeable

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Metamorphoses, as fits the cosmos depicted by Pythagoras (15.177–8): so Myrrha’s prolonged wandering (10.479 errauit) after her short and direct—if terrified— journey towards sin (448, 454–62). An important element in most of these texts is the opposition between motion by a group and by an individual—sometimes individuals. In tragedy, the opposition of group and individual is a visual and structural basis of the genre. In the OC, it is animated into genre-bursting action by the tumult on stage as the chorus tussle with Creon and Creon’s men, the chorus calls on the city, Antigone is separated from Oedipus (822–47). Such an opposition can also connect to the relation between the limited stage and massive events. So Polynices will go from the stage alone; but his motion is connected to movements of an army which are recent or are impending and still reversible. He ‘cannot’ allow to weigh with him the immense consequences beyond himself (1393–1446). In the Iliad, the all-engrossing war is conceived in a way that highlights individuals, but in a context of mass movement. Hector, like a hunter with dogs, makes the Trojans and allies move against the Greeks (11.289–90, 293–5); his own movement and glory stand out (288–9, 292–8). An image of a single animal fighting hordes of men and dogs turns into Hector’s motion along the ranks whom he is urging to move (12.41–50). At 21.606–22.6 the mass of Trojans rushes into the city, without dignity; Hector does not move. Critics are liable to underestimate the group element in the Iliad; the continuing prominence of individuals is striking in the warfare of the Annales. At 1.51.2–3 Germanicus’ motion causes the decisive motion of the Twentieth, thanks to his exhortation (like Hector’s). His words cause and inspire motion too at 2.17.1–3; and we have the motion of Arminius. Arminius stands out among his own side; his movement is set against that of the enemy forces (4). His bold escape is contrasted with the ignominious and doomed group attempts (5–6). The historian, though, conveys much more intricate sub-divisions and patterns of group movements in these passages than we find in poetry. In the parallel scenes of Hector’s body being brought back to Troy, Germanicus’ to Italy, Priam’s and Agrippina’s movement stands out in each case against mourning masses (Hom. Il. 24.703–18, Tac. Ann. 3.1.3–4). But Tacitus’ organization is visually more complicated, and the immense scene which he paints reflects the imperial scale of the tragedy and the work. The imperial structure generates many contrasts between all too important individuals and the frantic motion of multitudes: so the movements of Tiberius and Sejanus, and of much of the abject population of Rome (4.74.3). In Parmenides the solitary narrator stands out in his motion from that of other groups, including mankind; he is an exceptional figure. In the last part of NQ 5, Seneca does not segregate himself as sage: cf. 18.16 illorum furorem . . . id est nostrum, in eadem enim turba uolutamur, ‘their madness . . . that is to say ours, Lucilius, for we flounder around in the same crowd’. Seneca rather sets the action

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of the individual deus against the vast group actions of ‘us’, the human race. But even so there are intricacies: ‘we’ are sometimes seen as generals, causing huge group motion (5.18.5, 8), sometimes as armies and as members of armies (9). Scales of motion are often contrasted. Sometimes this relates to the contrasts of individual and group, as when small movements in the princeps’s body generate movements of large numbers in the vicinity, and large movements in the provinces (Tac. Ann. 6.50.3–4). Ovid is not only writing in the particularly detailed genre of hexameter narrative, but he is concerned with changing bodies and the small movements significant in love. He takes up the possibilities of the genre when he follows the movement of a thousand ships with an attack on a nest of eight birds (Met. 12.6–7, 15–17). After Niobe has caused the people to move (6.274 populum summouerat), the narrative narrows to the absence of movement around and in her body (her hair, her veins: 303, 307). There is just the flow of tears (310, cf. 312). In the cosmic investigations of the Natural Questions, ordinary experience leads to striking differences in the scale of motion. So at 4b.3.3–5 the fall of drops on to rock and the indentations they make, and the formation of drops on mirrors and leaves, illuminate movements through the vast distance of the air. The same principle is at work on both these scales, as it is at 1.2.2, where throwing a stone into a pond illuminates coronae in the air caused by light from the far distant aether. Conversely, Seneca’s expansion (probably) of Democritus illuminates the motion of atoms through the motion of masses in a city (5.2)—with the turn that the tiny motions (cf. exiguum locum) unite into a wind. In the Philoctetes, a sea voyage is interrupted by motion from the figurative sea of Philoctetes’ blood (779–84)—a much smaller and more intimate scale. That play and the OC exploit the possibilities of drama for scrutinizing small, laborious movements, as in the movement of Oedipus sitting, with Antigone’s help (OC 195–202). Such a movement is juxtaposed with his painful wandering between cities: κῶλα κάμψον . . . μακρὰν γὰρ ὡϲ γέροντι προυϲτάληϲ ὁδόν (19–20), ‘bend your legs . . . : it was a long journey that you set out on, for an old man’. Extensive motion pervades the action and projected action of both plays. The Iliad, with its war across the seas, its mass of divine intervention, and its generic evocation of close detail, contains much significant opposition of scales. Thus Helen, with sensational audacity, refuses the short journey to Paris’ house (3.410), and enjoins it on Aphrodite: Aphrodite is to go and sit next to him (406). This is said in a context of journeys between cities (400–4), and from heaven (405); Aphrodite is to told to renounce divine motion (406 θεῶν δ᾿ ἀπόειπε κελεύθουϲ). The scene potently expresses divine micro-management and human violation of boundaries. Parmenides’ poem exploits divergences of scale in fusing cosmic thought, allegorical narrative, and the detail typical of hexameter story-telling. The daughters of the Sun leave the house of Night (B 1.9 = D4.9), and push the veils from

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their heads with their hands (10): these are, on different scales, significant and related movements. Parmenides wins prime place when it comes to the marked absence of motion—an idea very differently handled and evaluated both between works and within them. Parmenides’ conception of the cosmos as an unmoving entity is presented in a poem full of motion; these forceful clashes are realized even in individual sentences, as in the one which begins αὐτὰρ ἀκίνητον and soon proceeds τῆλε μάλ᾿ ἐπλάγχθηϲαν, ἀπῶϲε . . . then τωὐτόν τ᾿ ἐν τωὐτῶι τε μένον (B 8.26, 28, 29 = D8.31, 33, 34), ‘have wandered far indeed from it . . . has pushed away . . . it remains the same and in the same place’. Lack of motion is not for the most part presented in the poem as a dignified absence of change. Predominantly it is presented as compulsion from external forces: Ἀνάγκη . . . ἐν δεϲμοῖϲιν ἔχει (B 8.30–1 = D8.35–6), ‘Mighty Necessity holds it in chains’, Μοῖρ’ ἐπέδηϲεν (B 8.37 = D8.42), ‘Fate has fettered it’. The language in the second phrase is Homeric. μεῖναι . . . Μοῖρ᾿ ἐπέδηϲεν (Il. 22.5), ‘Fate bound Hector to remain’, emphasizes compulsion rather than courage. Yet μίμν᾿ (22.92) shows Hector’s brave determination; that depiction in turn is soon complicated by ponderings and eventual flight. At 22.5 Hector’s immobility is set against the ignoble refusal of the masses μεῖναι . . . ἀλλήλουϲ (21.609), ‘to wait for each other’, and against their own lack of motion as they rest relieved inside the city (22.1–3). In the Philoctetes, a (pretend) decision not to move is a renunciation of valour: Neoptolemus claims he will just enjoy himself at home on rocky Scyros (459–60). One may contrast Philoctetes, who is resolved not to move from his rocky island, at the cost of his life (999–1002); note Odysseus’ sarcastic χαῖρε τὴν Λῆμνον πατῶν (1060), ‘enjoy walking on Lemnos’. Seneca, in a complicated argumentative position, depicts an ability morari ac stare (NQ 7.23.3), ‘to delay and remain fixed’, as showing the superiority of heavenly fires. At the same time, the dignity of the heavenly bodies is shown in their motion, a motion suum sine intermissione peragens opus (10.2), ‘carrying its work out without a pause’. An inability for fixed stars to move would not be fitting to the greatness of the cosmos (24.3). In the situation of battle, the resolute stance of the Britons (Tac. Ann. 14.30.1 stabat, first word) is different from the involuntary lack of movement in the terrified Romans, ut quasi haerentibus membris immobile corpus uulneribus praeberent, ‘so that their limbs were practically stuck, and they offered for wounding bodies which could not move’. Tacitus can find abject slavery (seruitium) in Romans’ lying in one place, nullo discrimine noctem ac diem (Ann. 4.74.4), ‘through day or night without distinction’; but he finds it too in their return to Rome (5), as in their original departure from it (3). Pathos more than the reward for folly springs from Ovid’s graphic picture of bits from Phaethon’s chariot no longer in motion: illic frena iacent, . . . in hac radii fractarum parte rotarum, | sparsaque sunt late laceri uestigia currus (Met. 2.316– 17), ‘in one place lay the harness, . . . in another the spokes of the broken wheels;

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the remains of the mangled chariot had been scattered far and wide’. It is like a version of Hom. Il. 16.775–6 with no person and with less of the grandeur: in the dust Cebriones κεῖτο μέγαϲ μεγαλωϲτί, λελαϲμένοϲ ἱπποϲυνάων, ‘lay there in all his great size, covering a great space, his art of horsemanship forgotten’. The next sentence in Ovid proceeds to the headlong fall of the dead ‘charioteer’ Phaethon himself (319–21; 312 aurigam). Contrasts between motion and the lack of motion abound in these texts. The lack of motion is exploited, we have seen, with a range of valuations. Arist. Top. 4.127b16 βέλτιον ἡ ϲτάϲιϲ, ‘lack of motion is better’, does not say it all (even here, εἰ precedes). Many of the aspects mentioned appear in visual art, or find corresponding features there, as the discussion in the first chapter has brought out. An area where the verbal and the visual particularly diverge is departure from the literal and immediate events. Visual art can deal in pondered possibilities, and in metaphor. But words offer special elaboration, notably so in Greek and Latin language and literature, which are much attached to counterfactuals and remote possibilities. The literary works treat less real or immediate motion with abundant argumentative and imagistic invention. The limits are not clearly marked. Lyssai or Furies appear in the wall-painting of Pentheus, Pompeii VI 15,1, triclinium n (Chapter 1, pp. 14–16). Rectum Pietasque Pudorque, ‘Right, Dutifulness, and Maidenhood’, and even Cupid are not taken by the reader as occupying the same narrative and ontological plane as Medea; but the passage is written as if their stand and his retreat were part of the physical account (Ov. Met. 7.72–3). In these texts, complications abound. In Parmenides, every narrative level is figurative, and mental, and related to the narrator, who is related to the poet. The narrator travels on a path to the home of a goddess, and is then told there are only two paths ‘of searching’ which εἰϲι νοῆϲαι (B 2.2 = D6.2), ‘can be perceived’; the first belongs to Πειθώ, the second is ‘quite unknowable’ (B 2.6 = D6.6 παναπευθέα). The narrative status of motion along these paths has a stimulating obscurity. In the narratives of the Metamorphoses and especially the Iliad, images in motion often take us not just to a level outside the literal narrative but into new narratives: so, in a mere two lines, the marauding lion destroyed by his own courage (Hom. Il. 16.752–3). The nature of these mini-worlds is teasingly drawn to attention when the blocked and foaming river forms part of the main narrator’s actual experience (Ov. Met. 3.568–71). In the epode Soph. OC 1239–48, imagery is made to display the choral speaker’s own experience as well as Oedipus’, and, by suggestion, the poet’s too. The imagery begins in simile and changes to metaphor, but the winds of the metaphor, coming from every point of the compass, take on a life of their own, and expand the total imaginative world of an expansive play. The journey of the old author at what may well be the start of the Natural Questions (3.pr.1, 4), though it is metaphorical, appears closer to the reader than

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much of the forthcoming aerial and subterranean explorations; it is not a divagation from a primary narrative. And, typically of Stoic language, the metaphorical level has primacy over the literal, as the miserable journeying of Hannibal brings out (6). Tacitus opens a paragraph with nihil rerum mortalium tam instabile ac fluxum est quam fama potentiae non sua ui nixae (Ann. 13.19.1), ‘nothing in mortal affairs is so unsteady and in flux as the reputation of power which is not supported by its own force’. One can see a suggested type of figurative motion which interrupts the main narrative on Agrippina; but one can also see a level of generalized wisdom which gives the main narrative meaning. Different levels of motion can bring out different levels of significance. So Philoctetes’ comment on trying to stand up—a gripping practicality in front of the spectators’ eyes—leads Neoptolemus to more fundamental questions. τό τοι ϲύνηθεϲ ὀρθώϲει μ᾿ ἔθοϲ (894), ‘my usual practice will make me stand upright’, says Philoctetes; but Neoptolemus has ‘left’ his own nature (902–3). These issues do not only concern metaphor and suggested metaphor. There is an element of metaphorical motion when the chorus say of Philoctetes εὐδαίμων ἀνύϲει καὶ μέγαϲ (720), ‘he will reach his goal, after all this, happy and mighty’; but it is more important that they are describing a return to Malis which they themselves do not think is real. The motion that will actually occur in the end—their ensuing reference to Heracles is a pointer—suits μέγαϲ in 720 much better. In the brisk pathos of historiography, Soranus asks for a largely metaphorical motion, nimiae tantum pietatis ream separarent (Tac. Ann. 16.32.1), ‘he said that the senate should set apart someone against whom the only charge was of too much daughterly love’. He tries to carry out a literal motion, in amplexus occurrentis filiae ruebat, ‘he was rushing into the arms of his daughter, who was running to join him’. Neither motion is allowed: neither possibility is realized. Hector’s involved consideration of possible motions, and their consequences and accompaniments, brings out the special ethical validity of the path he thinks he will take (Hom. Il. 22.99–130). Nestor, held suspended like a wave, considers two possible motions, but nicely goes for the safer one (14.20–4). In a different poetic world, Medea dreams of escape with Jason: gremioque in Iasonis haerens | per freta longa ferar (Ov. Met. 7.67–8), ‘fixed in Jason’s bosom, I will be borne through the long seas’. Her fantasies bring her to see her moral position, and metaphorically to flee the crime (71 effuge crimen). In fact she will escape with Jason. Seneca’s writing thrives on what he rejects. Theories and possibilities that he will refute are often developed first; ideas of motion can be vivid in the reader’s mind, but suspected untrue, then proved it. So with Democritus’ jostling atoms (NQ 5.2). An assertion can be made with an authoritative-sounding phrase of poetry: uidemus ergo stellarum ‘longos a tergo albescere tractus’ (1.14.2), ‘so we see “long trails whitening at the back” of stars’. But it is a trick: the motion which we

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see turns out to be an illusion. Even a sentence beginning fidem non habet, ‘it is not credible’, challenges the reader with its lively depiction of the whirlwind bursting in among the stars (7.10.2). Unreal but tangible conceptions enhance the imaginative scope of the work, and invigorate two great sources of its dynamic energy: motion and argument. In the first part of her speech, Parmenides’ goddess gives short shrift to false theories. The avoidance of paths is made vivid (B 7.2 = D8.2 etc.), as are the throngs of two-headed mortals confusedly pouring along one (B 6 = D7); but the theories themselves, abused as soon as mentioned, are permitted little purchase in the mind. The second, and probably much longer, part of the speech looks as if it depicted the motion of sun, moon, and other bodies with animation (B 10 = D12, B 14 = D27). The epistemological status of the depiction is, and probably was, uncertain. Familiar patterns of movement, and new theories on them, were present for the reader or listener but known to be less than true, in the attractive deception of the goddess’s words (cf. B 8.52 = D8.57 κόϲμον ἐμῶν ἐπέων ἀπατηλόν). The discussion has given indications of how motion helps to reinforce, and animate, the hierarchies and oppositions of each work, and so the meaning or meanings of each. The works differ notably in their attitudes to the theological and political structures they depict. So the admiration for human and divine motion seen in the Iliad is less apparent in the Metamorphoses; in the narrative of the Iliad itself, the divine is sometimes challenged through motion, unsuccessfully. Tacitus and Seneca alike depict folly through motion and—especially Tacitus—the lack of motion. But Seneca has the larger perspectives of a threatening non-human sublunary world (seen a little in Tacitus), of an ordered non-human aetherial world, and of human understanding which can contemn the one and reach the other. Looking more closely at motion adds to our appreciation of individual works, the firmest entities in classical literature; looking at it over a range of works enables us to value all the more the riches and cohesion of that literature. Were the author better-read, it would be of interest to see how important motion is in later literature too: of interest both for the general study of motion in literature and for the study of motion in ancient Greek and Latin works. One path would be reception, to see how aspects of motion in particular passages are spotted, highlighted, and transformed in clear adaptations of them, and how larger features of works are taken up in works clearly related. That would naturally be illuminating for the ancient literature too; Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata, say, would offer a notably promising example for the passages. Another path would be more comparative: while not disregarding classical influence, one could see in what ways new patterns and ideas exploited motion and how distinctive worlds of motion are created in individual works. That path would, if pursued at length, make it possible to set the classical literature in a larger context, and to notice

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things about it more clearly. Here only one little step will be taken along it, by way of coda: one work will be briefly discussed. The sole rewards will be to confirm that motion can be important in later literature too, and to stimulate readers’ own reflections—for the work is exceedingly well known, and on this aspect particularly suggestive. In Tolstoy’s War and Peace, mentioned in an earlier chapter, motion is important on many levels. Even on what might seem the relatively simple level of narrated action, it is an expressive element, much bound up with the novel’s thoughts and theories. Natasha does a lot of running, from her first entry into the room as a 13-year-old (Vol. I, Part 1, ch. 11, PSS 9: 46–7) to reunion with her husband returning from a trip (IV Epil. 1.11, PSS 12: 271–2). In the latter case, she wants to run, and her feet instinctively make a movement (PSS 12: 271 движение), but she cannot at first, as she is feeding her baby, and then hesitates over leaving the baby so quickly; in the end she ‘flies’ to her husband (cf. PSS 12: 272 налетев). Life has now acquired sweet complications, and Natasha has changed. There is a greater difference of motion in her dark period of guilt and humiliation: she walks among crowds ‘as women know how to walk (так, кaк умеют ходить женщины)—the more calmly and grandly the more sick and ashamed she felt at heart’ (III.1.18, PSS 11: 72). Her initial response to the discovery of her plans with Anatole had been to lie motionless in the same position (II.5.18, PSS 10: 356): a striking reversal of her usual swift mobility. But youth has its effect (III.1.16, PSS 11: 68), and eventually Pierre finds her strolling up and down the room (прохаживающуюся), doing her singing; she comes quickly (быстро) to meet him (III.1.20, PSS 11: 80). Character, age, events, society, personal interaction: all are involved in Natasha’s motion and lack of motion.¹ So far, there are obvious resemblances to the uses of movement in ancient narrative (so see Chapter 4, pp. 143–4, on Tac. Ann. 16.32.1, and especially the running in Chariton mentioned there). Distinctive aspects are brought in here by Tolstoyan theories, say on youth, and by preoccupations of novelistic narrative in the nineteenth century. But in this work, motion on the level of narrated action is connected to motion as investigated by history, the aim of which is ‘the description of the movement of humankind and of peoples’ (IV. Epil. 2.1, PSS 12: 300 описание движения человечества и народов). The connection has indeed broad parallels in ancient historiography. An austere Tacitean sentence that we have seen is like a seed for the Tolstoyan forest: non tamen sine usu fuerit ¹ On age note the ‘sedateness and sluggishness’ (III.1.21, PSS 11: 86 степенности и медлнтельности) of grown-up movement which, soon after, Petya tries briefly to imitate, and the ‘quick, supple, young movement’ with which Natasha kneels beside the wounded Prince Andrei (III.3.31, PSS 11: 380). References are to the version of 1886, in L. N. Tolstoy, Полное собрание сочинений, ed. V. G. Čertkov (91 vols, Moscow and Leningrad, 1928–64); in accord with practice in the book, words tend to be quoted in the grammatical forms actually used in the text.

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introspicere illa primo aspectu leuia ex quis magnarum saepe rerum motus oriuntur (Ann. 4.32.2), ‘it will not prove without use to investigate those matters, at first sight trivial, from which the movements of great events often arise’. But the fiction and fullness of the small-scale motion is on a quite different level in War and Peace, and the concept of ‘movement’ (движение) has a singular importance and frequency as the work develops.² The concept could assuredly be thought to extend beyond locomotion, for example in the insistent question of the Epilogue, ‘What force brings about the movement of peoples?’ (this version IV. Epil. 2.7, PPS 12: 322). But a strong connection is suggested between locomotion and other change when discussion of the former and of Achilles and the tortoise proceeds to ‘the laws of historical motion’ (III.3.1, PSS 11: 265 законов исторического движения). And the events that most concern the work are seen as precisely the movements of armies between East and West (so in III.3.1 itself, and e.g. III.1.1, PSS 11: 3, IV. Epil. 1.3, PSS 12: 242–3).³ The answer to the question ‘What force . . . ?’ is the activity of ‘all’ participants in events (Tolstoy’s italics, IV. Epil. 2.7, PPS 12: 322). Accordingly, the big movements of armies can be atomized: so ‘each step’ (III.1.12, PSS 11: 54 каждый шаг) of the Russian retreat from Vilnius has complex political causes, but seems simple to the hussars of the Pavlograd regiment.⁴ Tolstoy sees himself as part of a discussion in various disciplines which goes back to antiquity, but has evolved; he also separates himself strongly from his contemporary context, and is creating a work generically unique. It does not greatly matter how far the relationship of large and small, especially on motion, is present to authorial consciousness at every point. The manifestation of the relationship is a great ambition of the novel overall, and hence an essential part of its vision. The Epilogue presents motion on many scales. The movement of peoples can be pictured as a great sea, stirring into tumult and quietening down, and carrying on it all the deluded diplomats (IV. Epil. 1.4, PSS 12: 244). ‘Atoms are attracted,

² Especially in the second half (Volumes 3 and 4). As to actual classical influences on the narrative, Homer is certainly a central author for Tolstoy (cf. Orwin (2015), and note PSS 14: 60). But it is seldom possible to be sure that Tolstoy is affected by Homer’s depiction of women’s movements and other motion. Homer is certainly part of the context in which his characters are discussed, as by his friend the poet Fet (cf. L. N. Tolstoy, Переписка с русскими писателями², ed. S. A. Rozanova (2 vols, Moscow, 1978), i.380 (16.7.1866), 397–8 (1.1.1870, including Natasha)). ³ For discussion of the passage in III.3.1, see Love (2004), 58–95; motion itself has been less considered than other aspects of it. Linguistically and argumentatively, closer attention to motion would seem to give a sharper edge to the work’s conceptions. ⁴ A clock’s mechanism provides an earlier image, initially more hierarchical and orderly, to convey the intricacy of movement leading up to a historical event (I.3.11, PSS 9: 312).

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atoms are repelled’: a phenomenon parallel to historical events (IV. Epil. 2.7, PSS 12: 322). One of the most haunting images of motion and stillness receives a prominent place at the very end of Volume 2; it thus confronts the discussion of historical motion which begins in earnest at the very start of Volume 3.⁵ That discussion of the movement from East to West begins with an extremely negative atomization of war. In a contrast of mood, at the end of Volume 2 Pierre, exalted by his love for Natasha, sees with joy the Great Comet of 1812 (actually 1811–12). It is now ‘standing’, hence motionless; but it seems ‘with inexpressible speed’ to have ‘flown immeasurable spaces in a parabolic line’ (II.5.22, PSS 10: 378). A meaningfully long sentence presents the sequence of motion and fixity. That combination naturally resembles the treatment of the comets in Seneca; so does the division of the cosmos. Both motion and fixity belong in this passage to a heavenly and transcendent world; in fixity the comet amid its fellow stars has something of a delightful cosmic animal, tail ‘energetically’ raised. But the comet has come close to the earth, as Pierre’s soul has now transcended earthly baseness; Pierre sees an apt link between his present state of mind and the star. His joyful interpretation is subjective, no less than people’s grim interpretation of the comet as a sign of horrors to come—war obviously included. Yet in the unique world of the work, this transcendent epiphany in the heavens has no less validity than Prince Andrei’s sight of the clouds ‘quietly drifting’ (тихо ползущими) in the infinite sky. Prince Andrei contrasts that solemn and peaceful motion with the agitated running and fighting of himself and others (I.3.16, PPS 9: 341). War is put in its place.⁶ Even this rough and inexpert sketch may point to what motion has to give outside as well as within the literature of the ancient world; it may hint at what further and more learned comparison could offer. The subject—for metaphors of motion are not easily avoided—leads one’s thoughts constantly onwards.

⁵ III.1.1 was omitted from the edition of 1873 but restored in that of 1886. Atoms were before 1897 thought indivisible, the smallest entities. ⁶ For the animal-like expressivity of the comet’s tail, cf. e.g. Lermontov’s horse in Chapter 2 of this book (p. 48), and the little dog at Borodino ‘with firmly raised tail’ (III.2.36, PSS 11: 250). The heavens are used in a contrary way at the end of the main part of Schopenhauer’s Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, a work important for this one. The renunciation of Will turns the world with all its suns and Milky Ways into nothing, Nichts, a final monosyllable, preceded by a dash (Sämtliche Werke, edd. Frauenstadt-Hübscher (6 vols, Wiesbaden, 1946–50), ii.487).

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Index of Passages and Works of Art NB Reference to a page includes the footnote at the end of the relevant paragraph, even if that footnote appears on the following page. Aeschylus Ag. 547: 177 n. 42 1308: 177 n. 42 Cho. 81: 177 n. 42 935–46: 153, 159 Eum. 80: 188 n. 51 409: 188 n. 51 Sept. 130–1: 10 n. 4 204–5: 195 Supp. 181: 195 825–907: 178–9 fr. 154a.6 Radt: 93 fr. 255.1–3: 175 n. 37 [Aeschylus] PV 569–70: 156 Aëtius 3.2.6: 242 n. 40 Anaxagoras A 84 Diels-Kranz = D53 Laks-Most: 226 A 85 = D54: 231 n. 25 A 89 = D63: 232 n. 27 B 8 = D22: 201 n. 19 Anaximander A 1.2 Diels-Kranz = D5 Laks-Most: 209 n. 32 A 11.2 = D7.2: 191 A 17 last part = D16: 191 Anaximenes A 5 Diels-Kranz = D1 Laks-Most: 191 Anonymus Paraphr. Categ. CAG xxiii.2.68.28–35, 69.6–9: 217 n. 6 Anthologia Planudea 136.7–8: 22 n. 17 138.6: 22 n. 17 140: 20–22 Antiphilus GP XLVIII.7–8: 22 n. 17 Antoninus Liberalis 17.4–6: 99 34.3–4: 114, 115 [Apollodorus] 2.57–9: 97

Apollonius Rhodius 1.735–41: 28 3.636–44: 95 3.645–65: 114 3.755–60: 91 3.771–801: 95 4.1480: 90 Apuleius Met. 3.10.2: 146 n. 57 Archilochus fr. 182.1 West: 58 Aristophanes Clouds 241: 155 n. 7 Frogs 52–3: 14 Aristotle Div. Somn. 464a22–4: 217 n. 6 EN 4.1125a12–13: 244 Metaph. Δ 1023a8–11: 217 n. 6 Θ 1048b18–35: 5 n. 3 Meteo. 1.347b28–348b2: 231 n. 25 2.369b21–2: 245 n. 45 3.372a18: 223 n. 17 3.372a29–31: 223 n. 16 Phys. 6.239b15–16: 97 Top. 4.127b16: 254 [Aristotle] Mund. 396a2: 234 Vent. 973b13–20: 215 n. 2 Augustus Epist. 36 Malcovati: 82 n. 8 Bacchylides 9.27–32: 18 Callimachus H. 1.30–1: 110 Catullus 64.62: 58 Chariton 5.8.1: 143, 257 Chrysippus fr. 439 Dufour: 223 n. 16 fr. 507: 81

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      

Chrysippus (cont.) fr. 573: 227 frr. 689–91: 236 n. 34 fr. 877: 223 n. 16 fr. 1121: 243 n. 43 Cicero Brut. 2: 118 n. 1 Clu. 94: 243 Div. 2.63–4: 102, 103 n. 38 Mil. 89: 243 n. 42 Sex. Rosc. 67: 139 n. 44 Ver. 2.85: 141 n. 49 Cinna FRP 7(a). 5: 114–15 FRP 8: 114 FRP 10: 115 n. 56 Claudian Rapt. Pros. 2.197–201: 108 Cleanthes SVF i.495: 227 Damoxenus fr. 2.21–3 Kassel-Austin: 82 n. 7 Democritus A 47 Diels-Kranz = Atomists D52 Laks-Most: 232 n. 28 A 93a = D118: 232 B 159 = D233a: 233 B 281 = D264: 233 Dio Cassius 58.28.2, 5: 145 n. 55 60.31.1–4: 148 n. 59, 149 61.8.4–6: 138 62.2.4: 139 n. 44 62.7.1, 8.1: 139 n. 45 62.16–18.2: 141–2 62.26.1–2: 144 n. 54 Diogenes Laertius 9.8.88–9: 104 Empedocles B 1–3 Diels-Kranz = D41–2, 44 Laks-Most: 197 n. 10 B 24 = D46: 199 B 112 = D4: 197 Ennius Ann. 538 Skutsch: 48 Epicurus Pyth. 110: 223 n. 17 Euripides Andr. 1041–2: 177 n. 42 Bacch. 150: 149 n. 62 1096–7: 15 Hec. 937: 155 n. 7

Med. 922–7: 173 n. 32 1082: 159 Or. 799–804: 169 n. 28 1491: 30 n. 28 Phoen. 395: 216 n. 3 834–7: 187 1489–92: 187 1710–15: 187 Tro. 140: 155 n. 7 884–8: 153 fr. 74.2–3 Kannicht: 159 fr. 789a.1: 166 n. 23 fr. 789d: 161 n. 15 Galen Pil. i.97.6–9 Marquardt: 220 n. 9 i.98.23–99.1: 40 n. 16 Heraclitus A 1.6–7 Diels-Kranz = R5c LaksMost: 192 A 6 = R47: 104 B 10 = D47: 203 B 26 = D71: 203 B 30 = D85: 201 B 32 = D45: 203 B 34 = D4: 203 B 45 = D98: 193 n. 6 B 51 = D49: 203 B 57 = D25a: 203 B 59 = D52: 203 B 60 = D51: 192, 203 B 66 = D84: 193 n. 6 B 67 = D48: 105 B 91: 201 n. 20 B 104 = D10: 203 D 65a–d: 105 D 66: 104 D 92a: 193 n. 6 R 36: 104 Heraclitus Homericus Alleg. 38 p. 56.2–6 Ölmann: 234 n. 31 Herodotus 2.5.1: 231 n. 24 2.156: 95 n. 25 Hesiod Theog. 795, 797: 194 WD 207: 75 219–24: 51 259–62: 50 286–92: 200 n. 18 659: 214 n. 41 Hippocrates Flat. 3.3 p. 107 Jouanna: 153 n. 1

       Hippocrates of Chios fr. 5.231–52 Timpanaro Cardini: 224 n. 18 Homer Il. 1.47: 77 n. 64 1.97: 194 n. 8 1.245: 110 1.254: 41 1.349–50: 60 1.394: 50 1.417: 32 1.488–92: 32 1.528–30: 31 2.144–9: 77 n. 64 2.308–21: 42–3, 76, 102–3, 250 2.390: 52 2.688: 39 2.769–79: 32 3.399–412: 43–5, 76, 100–1, 252 4.27: 52 4.58: 210 n. 35 4.75–7: 90 5.129–32: 46 5.157: 64 n. 50 5.406–14: 46 5.434–44: 45–6, 56, 77 5.459: 46 5.586: 68 5.838: 194 5.884: 46 6.201–2: 79 6.336: 48 6.407: 54 6.479–81: 64 6.494–516: 47–8, 55–6, 76 6.524: 48 7.97–100: 40 7.124: 41 7.213: 75 8.10–16: 37, 49 8.41–4: 56 n. 36 8.78–82: 40 8.78–115: 50 8.96–8: 40 n. 16 8.339: 34 n. 5 8.348: 38 8.399–406: 48–50, 77, 89 8.432: 49 8.479–81: 40 9.19–22: 38 n. 11 9.400: 165 9.502–12: 50–1, 76 9.618–19: 32 9.650–5: 33 9.701–2: 33

[10].91, 141: 35 [10].297–8: 101 [10].541: 68 11.113–19: 41 11.248–53: 61 11.274: 52 11.280–5, 288–90: 51–3, 76, 251 11.292–5: 52 11.297–8: 54 n. 33 11.362–3: 41 11.603–44: 33 11.790–805: 57 11.811: 61 11.839–40: 57 12.37–53: 53–5, 76, 77, 250, 251 12.60–80: 54 12.71–4: 54 12.106–7: 34 12.125–7: 34 12.131–4: 34 12.145–50: 34 12.154–60: 34 12.167–70: 34 12.204–5: 42 12.278–89: 34 12.305: 39 12.322–8: 41, 239–40 12.373–6: 34 12.385–6: 68 12.399: 35 n. 7 12.417–20: 34, 58 12.421–3: 35 12.433–5: 34–5 12.459–62: 35 13.17–31: 55–6, 76, 249 13.36–7: 194 13.50: 38 13.73–5: 46 13.87: 38 13.152: 54 13.204: 209 13.414–16: 41 13.434–40: 40, 63 n. 48, 146 n. 56 13.798: 57 14.13–24: 56–8, 77, 91, 255 14.422–3: 54 15.7–8: 57 n. 39 15.80–2: 39 n. 15 15.150: 38 15.262–8: 48 n. 27 15.405–13: 58 15.618–20: 181 n. 44 16.24: 39 16.38: 33

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      

Homer (cont.) 16.149: 52 16.176: 168 n. 27 16.187–8: 38, 81 16.239–40: 33 16.426–7: 68 16.472: 70 16.558–9: 39–40, 83 16.702–11: 46 16.726–76: 49, 65–70, 76–7, 254 16.753: 54 16.781–3: 39 16.849: 62 16.864–5: 70 17.92: 70 17.207–8: 64 17.274–87: 58–9, 76, 77, 250 17.432–6: 40 18.20: 40, 70 n. 54 18.26–7: 70 n. 54 18.64: 65 18.104: 40 18.330–2: 65 18.440, 442–3: 37–8 18.599–600: 69 19.12–18: 60 19.40–53: 60, 76, 249 19.86–138: 51, 63 n. 48 19.110: 38 n. 13 19.409–10: 62 19.411–17: 33, 60 20.8–9: 168 n. 27 20.99: 82 20.226–9: 52, 56 20.447: 33 n. 4, 46 n. 25 20.449–50: 41 20.490–503: 33 21.20–6: 33 21.222: 33 n. 4 21.227: 33 21.234: 33 21.251–6: 33, 69 21.383–90: 49 21.553–70: 74 21.564: 34 n. 5 21.596–22.20: 61–3, 73, 76, 250, 251, 253 22.8: 33 22.38: 73 22.90–144: 70–6, 76, 77, 82, 95 n. 26, 250, 253, 255 22.163: 56 22.199–204: 63 22.202–4: 33–4

22.252–3: 40 22.386–7: 83 22.393: 83 22.410–11: 63 22.444: 64 22.460: 65 23.97–8: 83 23.257–897: 35 23.352–3: 39 23.506: 52 24.469: 68 24.614–18: 93 24.697: 64 24.703–18: 63–5, 251 24.776: 65 n. 51 Od. 2.80: 110 2.416: 195 3.29–30: 195 3.269: 62–3 4.512–13: 41 n. 20 5.268–70: 10 5.291–318: 10 5.388–9: 35 6.43–5: 227 8.274–5: 194 9.416: 113 n. 53 10.25: 10 10.501–40: 200 12.33–9: 200 12.413–14: 68 13.81–9: 3 14.29–36: 35 22.95–107: 35 24.39–40: 70 n. 54 Homeric Hymns Ap. 119: 38 n. 12 Dem. 4–16: 109 236: 46 n. 25 7 (Dion.): 13–14 Horace Epod. 7: 28 n. 27, 239 n. 37 Odes 2.18.40: 175 n. 37 4.2.5–12: 118 n. 1 Hyginus Fab. 58.1: 114 Inscriptions CEG i no. 432: 8 n. 2 i no. 452: 6–8 CIL vi.6319.8: 116 n. 59 vi.7872.11: 116 n. 59 vi.7898.8–9: 116 n. 59 IG i³.61.12: 158 ii².6217: 10, 12

       ii².13092.4: 116 n. 59 iv².1.122.14: 158 n. 12 LSAG 131 no. 14 (c): 6–8 NGSL 14 B 21, 52: 184 n. 48 S. C. de Cn.Pisone patre 131–2: 146 n. 58 SEG xiv no. 303: 6–8 Cipollone (2011), 9: 131 n. 27, 132 Istros FGrHist 334 F 65: 97 Josephus AJ 18.224: 146 Juvenal 3.198–9: 142 n. 51 3.208–9: 142 10.329–45: 148 n. 59 Livy 3.54.6: 123 n. 10 9.24.8: 136 n. 39 21.5.15: 243 n. 41 27.8.19: 125 n. 15 Longinus 9.8: 56 n. 36 15.4: 3 15.7: 183 33.5: 158 n. 12 Lucan 8.791–822: 245 n. 44 Lucian Philops. 18: 19 Lucretius 1.72–7: 229 1.311–19: 221, 231 2.777: 14 n. 10 3.19–21: 227 5.399–405: 88, 89 6.454: 233 6.1060: 233 Lydus Ost. 53 108.13–14 Wachsmuth: 234–5 Lysias 24: 162 24.3: 162 n. 18 24.10: 162 n. 18 24.12: 179 n. 43 Manilius 5.65: 134 n. 34 Martial 4.78.3: 134 n. 34 Melissus B 7.7–10 Diels-Kranz = D10 Laks-Most, last para.: 191 n. 2, 201

Nepos Hann. 8–11: 229 n. 23 Nicander Heter. 2, fr. 45 O. Schneider: 99 n. 31 Ther. 264–70: 43 n. 21 Nonnus Dion. 38.410–11: 88 n. 14 Olympiodorus in Meteo. CAG xii.2.223.9–17: 223 n. 17 Origen Cels. 4.91 i.363–4 Koetschau: 102 Orphica 492.2 F Bernabé: 197–8 n. 12 Ovid Am. 1.9.41–6: 101 2.18.3: 101 3.6.63–4: 168 n. 27 Fast. 3.21: 109 3.101–20: 247 3.137: 105 n. 39 4.429–44: 109 4.445–6: 108, 109 Med. 3–26: 247 Met. 1.1–4: 82 1.21–75: 82, 106 1.502–47: 78, 79, 83, 97 1.548–67: 80–1 1.600: 83 1.635–6: 89 1.703: 83 1.720: 83 1.739–42: 80 1.778–9: 85 2.61: 89 2.108: 90 2.150–324: 78, 79, 83, 88 2.304–22: 87–90, 116, 247, 253–4 2.401–37: 88 2.445–6, 465: 85 2.547–8: 84 2.572–3: 79 2.624: 89 2.669: 84 2.808: 93 2.829: 84 3.175, 198–236: 78, 79, 80 3.370: 79 3.430–6: 244 3.477: 83 3.531–64: 91–2 3.566–71: 90–1, 254 3.679–80: 89 3.726: 149 n. 62 4.46: 84

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      

Ovid (cont.) 4.200–1: 87 4.244, 254–5: 83 4.264–6: 83 4.294: 79 4.302–15: 101 4.415: 82 4.433–80: 78, 79 4.452–4: 25 4.473–4: 25 4.591: 83 4.688–734: 78, 79 5.186: 84 5.195–9: 87 5.290: 86 5.391–424: 106–10, 113, 116, 117, 249 5.427–37: 80, 110 n. 51 5.548: 84 5.601–20: 78, 79 6.165–9: 92 6.274: 252 6.275: 92 6.301–12: 92–3, 116, 117, 252 6.370–81: 80 6.624–5: 85 6.702–10: 78, 79 7.11–71: 94 7.62–74: 93–6, 116, 117, 254, 255 7.127: 81 7.697, 704: 109 n. 49 7.755: 97 7.767: 84 n. 11 7.772–86: 96–8, 116, 117, 247, 250 7.789–93: 97–8, 250 8.13: 82 8.40–2: 86–7 8.51–2: 86–7 8.178: 82 8.185–7: 79 8.200–35: 78, 79, 82, 84 9.31, 41: 85 9.309–10: 85 9.347–55: 80, 83 9.409: 86 9.639: 115 n. 56 9.666–797: 98–9 9.704–5: 81 9.780–7: 98–9, 116 9.792: 116 10.316–17: 115 n. 56 10.341–2: 86 10.437–89: 79, 110–15, 116, 117, 248 10.504–5: 81 10.529–36: 99–101, 116, 117

10.553–7: 101 10.560–680: 78, 80, 82 10.709: 84 11.517–18: 79, 85 11.524–36: 78 11.676: 83 11.777: 83 12.4–23: 101–3, 115–16, 117, 252 12.203–5: 99 12.416–18: 79 13.178: 83 13.776: 78 13.868–9: 86 13.901: 79 14.188–90: 78, 113 n. 53 14.398–9: 80 14.468: 109 n. 49 14.497–501: 80 n. 3 14.526: 87 14.636: 83 14.756–7: 83 14.759–60: 102 15.72–481: 81–2, 106, 247 15.143–9: 104 15.165–7: 79 15.176–95: 81, 103–6, 116, 117, 138 15.218–27: 81 15.237–51: 82 15.337–9: 95 15.506–29: 78 15.683–744: 78, 79, 84 15.843–51: 78 Parmenides A 16 Diels-Kranz = R2b Laks-Most: 191 n. 1 B 1 = D4: 191, 192, 193, 194, 195–9, 207, 212, 213–14, 247, 250, 252–3, 254 B 1.2–3 = D4.2–3: 200, 214 B 1.21 = D4.21: 203, 250 B 1.24–8 = D4.24–8: 194, 199, 203, 214 B 2 = D6: 194, 199–200, 202, 207, 214 B 4 = D10: 200–1, 213 B 5 = D5: 201, 214 B 6 = D7: 192, 200, 202–3, 206, 209, 213, 214, 250, 256 B 7–8 = D8: 191, 192, 203–9, 210 B 7.1–8.1 = D8.1–6: 193, 213, 256 B 8.1–6 = D8.6–11: 191, 192, 194, 199 n. 16 B 8.22 = D 8.27: 201 B 8.23–4 = D8.28–9: 201 B 8.25 = D8.30: 201 n. 19 B 8.26–31 = D8.31–6: 191, 192, 194, 200, 253 B 8.32–8 = D8.37–43: 200, 253

       B 8.36–41 = D8.41–6: 191, 192, 198 B 8.43 = D8.48: 198 B 8.44–9 = D8.49–54: 201 B 8.53–6 = D8.58–61: 198 n. 15, 213, 250 B 8.52 = D8.57: 256 B 8.57 = D8.62: 211 B 8.58–9 = D8.63–4: 212 n. 39 B 8.61 = D8.66: 214 B 9 = D13: 193, 210 n. 34, 212 B 10 = D12: 192, 194, 209–10, 211, 212, 213, 250, 256 B 11 = D11: 210, 215 n. 2 B 12 = D14b: 198 n. 13, 209, 211–12 B 13 = D16: 212 B 14 = D27: 212, 213, 250, 256 B 15 = D28: 212 B 16 = D51: 213 B 21 = D31: 212 n. 39 Philodemus De Dis 3 col. 10.12–13: 80 n. 4 Phrynichus TrGF 3 F 8: 161 n. 16 Pindar Ol. 1.82–4: 166 n. 23 Pyth. 4.207–11: 95 6: 29–30 6.35–9: 29–30 8.91–3: 30 n. 28 10.27–30: 3 10.53–4: 158 n. 12 Nem. 5.1–20: 29 fr. 124a-b Snell-Maehler: 14 Plato Gorg. 524e5: 121 n. 6 Laws 10.893b1–895b9: 81 11.923b2–3: 164 n. 19 Parm. 138b7–139b3: 81 161c2–3: 81 Phaedo 99b4–5: 113 n. 53 Rep. 9.579e4: 121 n. 6 Theaet. 181b8–182d5: 81, 104 Tim. 63c8: 216 n. 3 Pliny the Younger Ep. 6.16: 141 n. 47 Ep. 6.20: 141 n. 47 Plutarch Alex. 63.3: 26 Amat. 756e–f: 212 Aud. 45a–b: 191 n. 1 Soll. An.980e: 177 n. 41 Virt. Mor. 446d–e: 133 n. 32 Poetae Epici Graeci ii.1 387–8 F: 109 ii.1 389.3 F: 108 n. 48

Pollux 5.39: 97 Polybius 8.20.9–12: 136 30.11.6: 31 n. 30 Proclus in Parm. 1 i.106.6–17 Steel: 201 in Tim. i.345.13 Diehl: 191 n. 1 Propertius 3.5.11–12: 238 Quintilian Inst. 2.13.10: 18 5.14.30–1: 118 n. 1 9.3.101: 146 n. 58 10.1.32: 118 n. 1 10.5.15: 118 n. 1 Sallust Hist. 4.28 Maurenbrecher: 242–3 Jug. 88.4: 125 n. 19 Scholia in Homerum ΣT Il. 1.97: 194 n. 8 ΣAbT Il. 2.308–19: 102 Scholia in Theocritum 1.109a: 114 Semonides fr. 7.37–40 West: 57 Seneca the Elder Contr. 6.2.1: 86 10.3.5: 141 n. 49 FRHist 74 F 1: 146 Seneca the Younger Ag. 539: 181 n. 44 Oed. 546: 221 Phaed. 642: 220 n. 11 Const. 6.5: 220 n. 11 Ben. 5.6.5: 221 n. 12 5.24.2: 220 n. 11 7.3.2: 244 n. 43 De ira 3.54.3: 232–3 Ep. 21.9: 222 n. 15 28.3: 227 n. 20 37.5: 227 n. 20 53.4: 220 n. 11 88.44–5: 247 96.1: 216 115.15: 129 n. 24 121.10–13: 216 n. 4 NQ 1.pr.7–8: 218 1.1.1: 217 1.1.6: 225 1.2.1–2: 222–3, 231, 245, 252 1.2.5: 223

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      

Seneca the Younger (cont.) 1.2.7: 223 1.3.7–8: 232 1.14.2–4: 221, 224–5, 244, 245 n. 44, 255–6 1.15.4: 221 2.1.1: 217 2.1.4: 217 2.6.4: 215 2.7.2: 220 2.9.1: 220 2.9.2: 215, 216 n. 3 2.9.3: 217 2.9.4: 220 2.11.1: 222 2.12.4: 232 2.13.1–4: 225–7, 244, 245, 248 2.21.1: 245 n. 44 2.28.1: 217 2.35.2: 243 2.52.1: 218 2.53.2: 216 n. 3 2.54.1–2: 218 2.59.2: 218, 219 2.59.11: 222 3.pr.: 228 3.pr.1–7: 227–9, 244, 246, 250, 254–5 3.3: 217 3.9.1: 216 3.17.1: 219 3.18.2: 219 3.18.4: 219 3.18.6: 219 3.23: 220 3.24.1, 3: 247 3.27.3: 222 3.27.10: 221 3.27.11: 217 3.30.4: 220 4a.pr.10–12: 216 4a.pr.20–1.1: 219 4a.2.5–6: 216, 217 4b.3.1–2: 230–1 4b.3.3–5: 230, 245, 252 5.1: 215 5.2: 232–3, 244, 252, 255 5.3.3: 233 5.5.1–2: 216 5.11.1: 216 5.12.2: 218 5.13.4: 215 5.14.4: 218 5.15.4: 220 n. 11 5.17.1, 5: 215 n. 2 5.18.1–2: 220, 238

5.18.4: 230 5.18.5–10: 140, 219, 237–40, 251–2 5.18.13–16: 238, 240, 251 6.2.5: 215 6.4.1: 220 6.6.4: 220 n. 11 6.8.1: 220 6.9.1: 218, 232 n. 27 6.10.2: 219–20 6.12.2: 218 6.14.2: 220 6.14.4: 220 n. 11 6.18.7: 220 6.21.2: 233–5, 244 6.22–6: 234 6.24.4: 217 6.32.4: 222 7.4–10: 242 7.6.1: 220 7.6.2: 220 7.8.1–9.1, 10.2: 240–4, 245, 250, 253, 256 7.9.3: 105 n. 42 7.10.3: 224 n. 18 7.13.1: 220 7.20.1: 224 n. 18 7.21–3: 224 7.22.1: 216, 222, 235–6 7.22.1–23.2: 236, 242 7.23.2–3: 235–6, 242, 244, 248, 253, 259 7.24.2: 236 7.24.3: 253 7.25.6: 236 7.26.2: 224 n. 18 7.29.3: 218, 220 7.30.1: 219 7.31.2: 219 Sit. Ind. T 20b Vottero: 216 n. 4 Tranq. 13.1: 232 n. 27 [Seneca] HO 1971: 105 n. 42 Oct. 257–61: 148 n. 59 Sextus Empiricus Math. 10.42–4: 81 10.121: 106 n. 44 Silius Italicus 5.475–509: 131 7.667–79: 131 Simplicius in Cael. CAG vii.558.3–4: 211 558.17–18: 191 n. 1 559.20–1: 211 559.26.7: 215 n. 2

       in Categ. 371.465–372.2, 12–15: 217 n. 6 in Phys. CAG ix.39.17: 212 86.27: 202 Solon fr. 4.26–9 West: 239 n. 37 Sophocles Aj. 30: 157 40: 157 n. 11 294: 157 301: 157 305–6: 157 721–2: 154 804–5: 157 814: 157 899: 156 n. 9 1199–201: 167 1206: 156 n. 9 Ant. 106–7: 155 586–92: 180 697–8: 156 773: 155 806–13: 155 877–8: 155 891–4: 155 999–1003: 156 1016–18: 156 1021: 157 1040–1: 156 1103–4: 157 1215: 157 1240: 156 n. 9 1324: 155 1328–33: 155 1339: 155 El. 453–92: 153 871–2: 157 1074: 164 n. 19 1503–4: 157–8 OC 1–52: 161, 177, 184–9, 189, 250, 252 117–253: 161 191–2: 176 195–202: 176–7, 189, 252 203–6: 177 n. 42 234: 156 305–9: 162 345–52: 162 348: 160, 162 495–504: 188 500–1: 174 668–719: 180 741: 161 744–52: 162 746–7: 161 774: 161

818–19: 179 822–47: 177–9, 189, 249, 251 848–9: 179 856–7: 179 877–8: 158 887–9: 154 899: 157 1016–17: 158 1239–48: 180–1, 190, 254 1305–7: 181–2 1340–3: 181 1346–7: 182 1393–1404: 181–2, 189, 251 1405–13: 182, 251 1414–46: 182, 251 1416–19: 182 n. 45, 182 n. 46 1540–7: 161 1556–78: 183 1627–8: 183 1636: 184 1638–52: 182–4, 189 1658–62: 183 n. 47 1679–80: 183 n. 47 1751–3: 184 1777–8: 184 OT 16–17: 155 23–4: 174 n. 33 175–82: 155 391–10: 158 477–82: 156 932–3: 158 Phil. 126–7: 166 132: 154 183: 156 n. 9 265: 163 268–95: 162–5, 189, 249 285–97: 162 n. 18, 167 459–67: 165, 189, 253 477: 170 n. 29 491–2: 168 526: 161 533–5: 162 641: 174 701–3: 165 n. 22, 167 703: 162 712–30: 166–8, 188, 190, 255 729–86: 161 730–826: 175 779–842: 170–5, 189, 252 855: 175 860–1: 169 865–6: 169 879–81: 162, 169, 249 884–5: 169

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      

Sophocles (cont.) 886–903: 168–70, 189, 216 n. 3, 249, 255 911–12: 170 952–3: 169 999–1002: 253 1060: 253 1222–3: 157 1403: 162 1421–2: 168 n. 27 1436: 162 1439–40: 154 1450–1: 165–6 n. 23 1462: 170 n. 29 Trach. 58: 156 164–5: 158 333–4: 157 385–8: 158 421–4: 154 645: 156 1252–5: 157 fr. 487 Radt: 160 Statius Silv. 2.7.60–1: 141, 142 n. 50 Stobaeus 1.19.1 i.162.14–15 Wachsmuth-Hense: 104 Suetonius Ner. 34.1: 138 Tib. 72.3–73.2: 145 n. 55, 146 Tacitus Agr. 40.3: 138 n. 41 Ann.1.2.2: 121 1.32.3: 129 1.35.4: 126 1.46.2–47.2: 120 1.49.3: 127 1.50.4: 128 1.51.1–2: 128 1.51.3–4: 127–9, 150, 251 1.55–6: 121–2 1.69.3: 120 1.73.1: 121 1.81.4: 127 n. 21 2.16.1–2: 130 2.17.1: 130, 251 2.17.2–6: 129–31, 150, 151, 251 2.36.1–3: 121 2.77.1: 126–7 2.88–3.1: 130 3.1.1–2: 132 3.1.3–4: 131–3, 136, 150, 151, 251 3.4.2: 120 3.47.3: 120 n. 5, 133 3.56.1: 126

3.66.4: 133 4.2.1: 127 4.32: 118, 127, 257–8 4.33.3–4: 118 n. 1, 126–7 4.35.3: 126 4.47.3: 127 n. 20 4.57–8: 120 4.59.2: 146 4.66.1: 127 n. 20 4.74.1: 134 n. 33 4.74.3–4: 133–4, 150, 151, 246, 251, 253 5.9.1–2: 136 6.2.2,4: 146 n. 56 6.3.4: 127 6.6.2: 121 6.7.3: 134 n. 34 6.15.3: 120 6.28.1–29.1: 121 6.38.2: 126 6.50: 136, 144–7, 150, 252 6.51: 145 n. 55 11.26–31.1: 148 n. 59 11.31.2–32: 147–50, 151 11.33.1: 146 12.19.1: 136 12.36.1: 141 n. 49 12.47: 134–6, 150, 151 12.48.2: 136 12.51.2: 122 12.66–7: 136 13.6.3: 120 13.8.1: 120 13.18.3–19.1: 136–8, 150, 151, 255 13.19.2: 137 13.50.2: 126 13.57.3: 142 n. 50 14.1.3: 121 14.4.4: 138 n. 41 14.29.3: 139 14.30.1–2: 138–40, 150, 239, 253 14.30.3: 139 14.56.3: 126 14.65.2: 119 15.16.3: 119 15.24.2: 126 15.27.2: 120 n. 3 15.29: 123 15.36.1–2: 119 15.38.1: 119–20 15.38.2–6: 140–2, 150, 151–2, 248, 250 15.38.7: 142 15.46.2: 119 15.53.1: 120 n. 3 15.70.1: 146

       16.2.2: 125 n. 15 16.11.2: 146 16.15: 122 16.21.1: 121, 143 16.30: 143, 144 16.31: 143, 144 16.32.1–2: 142–4, 150, 255, 257 16.33.1: 144 Dial. 4.2: 118 n. 1 32.4: 118 n. 1 Hist. 1.16.3: 119 n. 2 1.17.2: 119 n. 2 2.14.3: 126 4.10: 144 n. 54 Thales A 1.35 Diels-Kranz = P17c Laks-Most: 198 n. 15 Themistius in Phys. CAG v.2.199.23–4: 97 n. 28 Theocritus 13.50–1: 90 Theodorus SH 749: 114 Theophrastus Sens. 3–4: 213 fr. 227E Fortenbaugh: 201 Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 287: 240 n. 39 Thucydides 1.1.2: 118 2.8.3: 119 n. 2 2.51.5: 142 n. 51 3.82.1: 119 n. 2 7.84.1–85.1: 130–1, 167 8.66.3–4: 134 n. 34 8.68.4: 134 n. 34 Tibullus 1.8.59–60: 114 1.9.42: 113 n. 53 Valerius Maximus 3.8.3: 146 n. 58 9.11 ext. 3: 135, 136 Varro Vit. pop. Rom. fr. 437 Salvadore: 220 Velleius 2.105.1: 131 2.118.2: 128 n. 23 Virgil Aen.1.314–20, 329: 101 n. 36 4.15: 120 4.597–9: 121 n. 8 6.454: 90 7.586–90: 181 n. 44

295

8.625–731: 28–9 9.427–30: 143 n. 53 9.417: 89 9.553: 84 n. 11 9.815–16: 26 10.116–17: 88 11.497: 48 12.747: 83 n. 10 12.753–4: 97 Ecl. 6: 79 n. 2 G. 1.303–4: 132 n. 30 1.328–9: 89 1.367: 224 3.146–56: 156 n. 10 Vitruvius 3.5.6: 223 Xenophanes A 1.19 Diels-Kranz = R8a Laks-Most: 208 A 28.977b1–2 = R6.7: 208 A 34 = R8b: 208 B 7.1 = D64.1: 199 B 26.1 = D19.1: 191 Xenophon Hipparch. 8.25: 12 n. 6 Zeno A 25–8, B 4 Diels-Kranz = D14–19 LaksMost: 191 n. 2 A 26 = D15: 97 n. 28

Modern authors Alfieri Filottéte 883–5: 175 n. 37 Mirra Atti IV–V: 115 V.130–2: 175 n. 37 V.159–60,172–4: 115 n. 59 Vita IV 14: 115 Corneille Clitandre, Préface, i.94 ed. Couton (Pléiade): 155 n. 6 Le Cid, Examen, i.699: 155 n. 6 Le Menteur, ‘Au lecteur’, ii.5: 155 n. 6 Don Sanche d’Aragon, ‘À Monsieur de Zuylichem’, ii.549: 155 n. 6 Evelyn Diary 2–7 Sept. 1666: 141 n. 47, 142 n. 51 iii.452 de Beer: 142 n. 51

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      

Fet L. N.Tolstoy, Переписка с русскими писателями², ed. Rozanova, i.380: 258 n. 2 i.397–8: 258 n. 2 Lermontov ‘Узник’: 48, 259 n. 6 Lessing Laokoon XVI: 27 XVIII: 25–6 XXII: 26 Paralipomena zu Laokoon no.1: 25 no.5: 24–5 Newton Principia, Definitio III: 91 n. 19 Pepys Diary 2–7 Sept. 1666: 141 n. 47, 142 n. 51 Racine 1675 Préface to Britannicus, Œuvres complètes i.443 Forestier (Pléiade): 132 n. 28 Schopenhauer Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, Sämtliche Werke, edd. Frauenstadt-Hübscher, ii.487: 259 n. 6 Tolstoy Война и мир, Vol. I, Part 1, ch. 11, PSS 9: 46–7: 257 I.3.11, PSS 9: 312: 258 n. 5 I.3.16, PPS 9: 341: 259 II.5.18, PSS 10: 356: 257 II.5.22, PSS 10: 378: 259 III.1.1, PSS 11: 3: 258 III.1.12, PSS 11: 54: 258 III.1.16, PSS 11: 68: 257 III.1.18, PSS 11: 72: 257 III.1.20, PSS 11: 80: 257 III.1.21, PSS 11: 86: 257 n. 1 III.2.36, PSS 11: 250: 259 n. 6 III.3.1, PSS 11: 265: 258 III.3.31, PSS 11: 380: 257 n. 1 IV. Epilogue: 82 IV. Epil. 1.3, PSS 12: 242–3: 258 IV. Epil. 1.4, PSS 12: 244: 258 IV. Epil. 1.11, PSS 12: 271–2: 257 IV. Epil. 2.1, PSS 12: 300: 257 IV. Epil. 2.7, PPS 12: 322: 258

Works of art Amphipolis, Tomb mosaic: 16 n. 11, 17 Athens, Kerameikos Museum stele, 1158: 10–12, 20, 23, 27 Athens, National Museum oinochoe, 192: 8 n. 2 relief plaque, 2744: 10 skyphos, 10429: 97 stele, 3708: 10 n. 5 Bari, Museo Archeologico Provinciale bell-krater, 5597: 90 n. 16 Basel, Antikenmuseum oinochoe, BS473: 187 n. 50 Berlin, Staatliche Museen stele, Inv. nr. 742: 10 n. 5 volute-krater, 1984.40: 16 Boston, Museum of Fine Arts pelike, 1973.88: 26 n. 23 skyphos, 99.532: 73 n. 57 Boulogne, Musée amphora, 558: 24, 31 Corinth, Archaeological Museum aryballos, C-54–1: 6–8, 22, 26, 28 krater, T 2545: 43 n. 21 Delos wall-painting, Maison des Comédiens, oecus maior (N), south wall, east side: 187 Delphi, Archaeological Museum Siphnian Treasury, east frieze: 29–30 London, British Museum amphora, 1848,0619.4: 13 decadrachm, BMC Sicily Agrigentum 33: 156 tetradrachm, BMC Sicily Syracuse 2: 195 n. 9 tetradrachms, BMC Sicily Syracuse 160, 190: 16 n. 11 Melbourne, Geddes collection calyx-krater, A5: 8: 161 n. 16, 176 n. 29, 187 Munich, Antikensammlungen eye-cup Type A, 8729 KM 3179: 12–14, 23, 27 statue, Inv. 3012: 19 n. 15 Munich, Glyptothek relief, Inv. 239: 56

      

297

Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale mosaic, 10007: 56 nestoris, 82124: 139 n. 44 sarcophagus, 27710 (Gabinetto segreto): 149 n. 61 wall-painting, 8977: 20–2, 23, 24, 27, 31, 94–5 wall-painting, 8998: 22

Rome, Musei Nazionali (Terme) statue, 126371: 18–20, 22, 23, 24, 28 Rome, Musei Capitolini (Palazzo dei Conservatori) mosaic, 1235: 16–17, 108, 109 n. 48 Rome, Villa Albani stele, 985: 10 n. 5, 20

Oxford, Ashmolean Museum skyphos, G249: 8–10, 13, 14 n. 10, 22, 23–4, 27

Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale Panathenaic amphora, 30.5.1917: 195 n. 9 Tarquinia, Museo Nazionale amphora, 678: 14 n. 10

Paestum, Museo Archeologico Nazionale Tomba del Tuffatore: 69 n. 52 Paris, Louvre kylix, G111: 18 sarcophagus, Ma 1017: 89 Pompeii wall-painting, VI 15.1 triclinium n, east wall: 14–16, 23, 24, 27, 254 wall-painting, VI 15.1 triclinium n, south wall: 16 Rome, Antiquarium Comunale mosaic: 108

Vatican, Musei Vaticani mosaic, 135: 8 n. 3 wall-painting, inv. 79633: 114 Vergina, Tomb I wall-painting, north wall: 16–18, 22, 23, 28, 108, 109, 110 coin issues RIC i². Claudius 103: 150 n. 63 RPC I 2033–4: 149 RPC I 2038: 149 RPC I 3143: 149 n. 62

General Index Achilles approaches Hector 73, 74–5 aristeia of 33 attempt to persuade 50 and dead Patroclus 83 dynamism 60 at Hector’s death 83 lack of motion 32–3, 76 motion of in vain 63 not returning 64 outrun by Apollo 250 pursues Hector 75–6, 97, 250 swiftness of 32, 75 and tortoise 97, 258 uncertainty of motion 32–3, 40 wish to leave Troy 165 Actaeon 78 Actium 29 Adonis 81, 100–1 Aeschylus 93, 153, 178–9, 195 Aesculapius 78, 79, 84 Agamemnon 51–3, 60–1 Agave 14–16 Agenor 74 Agrippina the Elder 131–3, 136, 150, 251 Agrippina the Younger 136–8, 150, 151, 255 air 216, 217, 222, 224 Ajax 24, 58–9, 75, 157 Alexander the Great 26 Alfieri 115, 175 n. 37 Anaxagoras 218, 226, 226–7, 244 Anaxarete 83 Anaximander 191, 194 Anaximenes 191, 194 Andrei, Prince 257 n. 1, 259 Andromache 47–8, 54, 64 Andromeda 22 Anglesey 138–40, 239 animals in Iliad 79, 102, 250, 251 in Metamorphoses 102–3, 115–16, 250 in NQ 240 in On Nature 215 Antigone 155, 162, 176, 177–9, 182, 184–9, 249, 251, 252 Antilochus 29–30

Antoninus Liberalis 99, 114, 115 aorists in Parmenides 198 Aphrodite 43–5, 100, 212, 252 Venus 99–101, 116 Apollo in Iliad 33–4, 45–6, 61–3, 68, 77, 250 in Metamorphoses 78, 80 Apollonius Rhodius 28, 91, 114 apostrophe 69, 83 Arethusa 78 Argonauts 32 Argus (of many eyes) 83 Aristophanes 160 Aristotle comparison of elements 223 n. 16 κίνηϲιϲ in 1 n. 1 on lack of motion 254 literary approaches to 5 motion in 4–5, 81 and Seneca 232 and Zeno 97 Arminius 128 n. 23, 129–31, 150, 251 art ancient comment on 18–21, 31 and attention 17 chariots in 17 circles in 18 colour in Exekias 12–13, 14 wall-painting 16 diagonals in 11–12, 15, 22 direction in 8, 10, 12–13, 16–17, 30 direction of reading 17 Egyptian 22 and external knowledge 20–2, 24 frame in 12, 22, 23 and horizontality 14 imagination of viewer 20 landscape in 16 and literature 2, 24–31, 56, 131–2, 254 Euripides 14 Homeric Hymn 7: 13–14 and metamorphosis 13 and minds 21, 23–4, 26 and mythology 13, 20–2, 24 objects in 20, 23

300

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art (cont.) relation of one image to others 28 sea in 10, 13, 14, 23 sport in 1, 18–20, 24 synoptic? 20, 22, 27 throwing in 18–20 and time 22, 27 verticality in 15 viewer of 28 words in 6–8, 12, 24, 28 Asclepiodotus 144 Atalanta 78 Ate 50–1 Athena 48–50 athletics 1, 18–20 atoms, motion of 232–3, 252, 258 attention in art 17 and motion 3 to motion 1, 31, 76, 81–2, 197–8, 219 and repetition 34 n. 5 Augustus 120, 121 authors and addressee 219 and motion 3, 180, 219, 248, 254–5 ball 208–9, 219–20 Barea Soranus (cos. suff.  52) 142–4, 150, 255 Bellerophon 79 birds in Homer 42–3, 75, 76, 250 in Ovid 252 in Sophocles 156 virtue in 121 n. 8 birth and motion 38, 81, 210, 211 boar 53–4, 58–9 body and motion 31, 48, 81, 84, 113, 122, 145–6, 164, 173–4, 198, 240, 256 Boreas on Boeotian skyphos 8–10, 22, 23 in Metamorphoses 78, 79 Britons 138–40, 150, 253 Bruttedius Niger 133 Caenis 99 Caesar, Julius (dictator) 78 Caesennius Paetus, L. (cos.  61) 119 Caligula 144–7, 150 Callisto 88 Cassandra 63–5 Cebriones 65–70, 254 Cephalus 96–8, 246 Ceyx 78, 79

change and motion in art 22 in Ovid 104–6 in Parmenides 207 in philosophy 81–2 in Seneca 222 in Tacitus 118–19 character and motion 216 Charicles 144–7, 146 chariots in art 17 in Iliad 68–70 in Metamorphoses 253–4 motion from 49–50, 68–9 in On Nature 194–5, 198, 213–14 Chariton 143, 257 Cherusci 130, 131 Chrysippus imagery in 223 n. 16 κίνηϲιϲ in 81 Cicero 102–3, 243 Cinna 114–15 Cinyras 110–15 Circe 9–10, 35, 200 circles in art 18, 23 in poetry 18, 93, 250 city and country 134 and family 65 Claudius in Britain 120 death 135–6 and Messalina 147–50 cloaks Dexileos’ 11–12 Hermes’ 17 Odysseus’ 8–10 Clodius 243 Clytie 83 comets 224, 235–6, 240–4, 248, 250, 259 Corneille 155 n. 6 Cornelius Dolabella, P. (cos.  10) 133 coronas 222–3, 231, 252 Cremutius Cordus, A. 126–7 Creon 155, 156, 157, 158, 161, 162, 177–9, 251 Cupid 94, 95 Cyane 80, 106–10, 249 Daedalus 78, 82 Daphne 78, 79, 80–1, 83 daughter and father 142–4, 162, 179, 186–8 and mother 98–9

  declamation 86, 100–1, 120, 248 Demeter 16 Democritus 232–3, 244, 252, 255 Dexileos 10–12, 15, 20 dialetheism 202 Diana 101 Dike 51, 193, 197–8, 198, 200, 207–8 ‘dilemma’ in Seneca 226 Dio Cassius 138, 141–2 Diomedes 32–3, 45–6, 60–1, 249 Dionysus Exekias 12–14 voyage 14 Dirce 16 direction in art 8–10, 12–13, 16–17, 30 in literature 30, 39, 59, 180, 235 disability and motion 162 discus-throwing 18–20 dog 96–8 dolphins 12–14, 33 Dryope 80, 83 движение 257–8 eagles 69, 156 earthquakes 222, 233–5 edicts 120 n. 3 Egnatius Celer, P. 142–3, 144 Egyptian art 22 ekphrasis 28–9 elements comparison of 223 will in 218 Eliot, T. S. 200 n. 16 embraces 143 Empedocles 192 n. 3, 197, 199, 247 enjambement in Metamorphoses 89 in On Nature 203 entry into Rome, as if victorious 120 Epicurus 229 κίνηϲιϲ in 81–2 Epigenes 242, 243, 244, 245 ethnography 135 Euphranor 31 Evelyn 141 n. 47, 142 n. 51 fall of dead person 68–9, 90, 254 of objects 109 of part of body 68–9 of sick person 174 Fet 82 n. 8, 258 n. 2 filling 238

301

fire as image 121, 156 motion of 141–2, 156, 218, 225–7, 248 in Parmenides 209, 211 in Seneca 218, 225–7, 236, 248, 253 in Tacitus 119–20, 140–2, 151–2, 248, 250 first person narrative 165, 249 plural 251–2 and second 231, 239 and third 167, 231 n. 24 fish 219 fleeing 85 flying 56, 82 focalization, embedded 134, 224 fortune 219, 228, 229 fox, Teumessian 96–8, 250 frame in art 12, 23 Furies 139 Gallio, L. Iunius, Annaeanus 216 gender and motion 2, 75, 76, 99, 139, 257 Germani 127–9, 150, 151 Germanicus and Arminius 130 causes motion 128, 150, 251 dead 131–3, 251 eloquence of 128, 130 fights Chatti 121–2 tactics 150 and Twentieth 127–9 at Weser 129–31 gods and causation 31, 238–9, 249 in art 23 in Campanian wall-painting 15 in Macedonian wall-painting 17 defiance towards 44–5, 100 divine and human action 49–50 divine movement and change 236 and mortals 10, 13–14, 249–50 in Homer 44–5, 46, 61–3, 68, 76, 77, 250, 252, 256 in Ovid 99–101, 116, 256 in Parmenides 197–8, 201, 213–14, 250 in Seneca 239, 252 movements of 44–5, 55–6, 88–9, 100–1, 108–10, 116, 256 slow motion of some 50 Greek words ἄγω 155, 167, 179, 217 n. 6 αἰόλοϲ 34 n. 6 ἀΐϲϲω 36, 39

302

 

Greek words (cont.) ἀκίνητοϲ 207–8 ἄλλομαι 39, 39, 68 ἀνύω 167 ἀποϲτρέφω 182 ἀπωθέω 194 βαδίζω 85 βαίνω 36 βυθόϲ 173–4 γάρ in Heraclitus 192 δαίμονι ἶϲοϲ 33, 46 δαιμόνιοϲ 45 n. 24 δέ at start of utterance 174 n. 33 -δε 38 n. 13 δέομαι, δεύομαι 208 δοκίμωϲ 198 n. 15 δοῦλοϲ, δούλη 45 δύϲφρων 177 n. 42 εἰλύω 164–5 εἶμι 36 ἔρχομαι 36 ἔϲτιν 200 ἑτοῖμοϲ 155 ἔχω 40 n. 17, 253 ἦλθον 36 ἧμαι 40, 44 θέω 3 θοόϲ 36 θρώιϲκω 39, 70, 156 θύνω 36, 158 n. 12 θύρετρον 198 n. 13 ἰθύω 36 ἱκάνω 41, 65 ἴϲ 99 n. 32 καρπάλιμοϲ 36 κεῖμαι 39–40, 69–70, 83, 156, 194 κέλευθοϲ 84 κινέω 84, 119 n. 2, 191, 208 κίνηϲιϲ in Aristotle 1 n. 1 in Chrysippus 81 in Epicurus 81 in Heraclitus 81 in Plato 81 in Thucydides 81, 118 κίνυμαι 84 κόϲμοϲ 201 κραιπνόϲ 36 λαιψηρόϲ 36 λείπω 170 n. 29 μαντεῖον 156 μεθίϲτημι 166 μένω 40, 73, 253 μίμνω 40, 73, 83, 191, 253

μοῖρα 62–3 μολεῖν and compounds 158–9 ὁδόϲ 84, 193 ὀκλάζω 177 n. 41 ὀρθ- 170 ὁρμάω 210–11 πεδάω 253 πεῖραϲ 208, 210 περίγειοϲ 227 πλάζομαι 250 ποδάρκηϲ 36 ποδώκηϲ 36 ποίημα 154 πορεύομαι 249 προτίθημι 163 ῥίμφα 36 ῥώομαι 36 ϲάλοϲ 163–4 ϲεύω 36, 39, 156–7 ταχύϲ 37 φέρω 193 φορέομαι 203 n. 25 φύϲιϲ 216 n. 3 χωρέω and compounds 159–60 ὠκυπέτηϲ 56 ὠκύϲ 37 Hades Dis 106–10, 116, 249 house of 41 in inscriptions 116 n. 59 in Sophocles 155 in wall-painting 17 hair, motion of 17, 78, 80–1, 92, 149 Hannibal 226–9, 244, 250, 255 Haydn 161 Hector awaiting Achilles 70–6, 255 body returns 63–5, 251 cannot escape 41 chase of 33–4, 97 complex situation of 54–5 and Patroclus 65–70 shifting motion 38 unmoving 63, 251, 253 urges men on 51–3, 251 Helen 43–5, 100, 252 Hera 48–50 Heracles 168, 189, 195, 255 Heraclitus 81 choice of prose 194 clashes in 192, 203 opposites in 192, 203 in Ovid 104–5

  p and ¬p in 202–3 in Plato 104 Hermaphroditus 79 Hermes on amphora near Exekias 13 in Macedonian wall-painting 16–17 and Persephone 16–17, 108 Hesiod 194, 247 hierarchy and motion 2, 150–1, 222, 249–50, 256, 259 Hippocrates of Chios 224 n. 18 Hippolytus 78 historiography and hexameter narrative 122 motion in 118–19, 257–8 not just vivid 151 and philosophy 229, 246–7 Roman 246 scales of motion 257–8 history and motion 1 Homer Iliad: 4 and Annals 251 contrasts in scale of motion 252–3 and Hesiod 247 horses in 2–3, 35, 48, 52–3, 53–4 imperatives and imperfects in 73 language of motion 34–40 language of non-motion 39–40, 69–70, 73 long-range connections in 61 and Metamorphoses 4, 82–4, 100–1, 102–3, 110, 116, 247, 255, 256 and OC and Philoctetes 247 narrator 68–9 and Odyssey 247 plot of and motion 32–4 similes in 33–5, 48, 54–5, 57, 59, 69, 69–70, 73, 75, 245, 251 slow motion in 50, 249 swift motion in 34–7, 75–6, 249 words of swiftness 35–7 Odyssey and Iliad 247 less swiftness 34–7 swiftness in 37 leaping 26, 39, 68–9, 70 oral tradition and 34 n. 5 papyri of 44 n. 22, 52 n. 32 and Tolstoy 258 n. 3 swimming in 37 verbs of motion added 37–8, 74, 158 wandering in 37

303

horses of Achilles 32, 33, 40 in art 12, 89–90 in art and literature 89–90 of Dis 108–9 in Iliad 3, 35, 48, 52–3, 53–4 of Phaethon 89–90 imagery of motion 34, 191, 223, 233, 251 of non-motion 34 imagination of viewer 20 imperfect + ἄν of repeated action in tragedy 165 in Homer 73 in Ovid 95–6 in Parmenides 198 in Sophocles 167 inequality and motion 23 intransitive motion see motion: transitive and intransitive Io 13, 80 Iphis 98–9, 116 Isis 98–9 Iunia Silana 137 Jason 94–5 journeys 229, 248, 250, 252, 254–5 Juno 78 Laelaps 96–8, 116, 250 landscape in art 16 Latin styles, relation to Greek 248 Latin words adsulto 128 ago 217, 236 animus 218 arieto 233 attineo 126 compono 132 n. 30 concussio 119 n. 2 concutio 119 n. 2 contrarius 89 curro and compounds 82, 128, 220 damnum 102 egressus 118, 123 eo and compounds 85, 110, 113, 123, 125–6, 132–3, 141, 226 erro 79 exspatior 84 fero and compounds 220, 226, 231 non fert 218 se ferre 216 figo 146 n. 57

304

 

Latin words (cont.) fluo and compounds 215, 217, 220 forum 233 fuga 83, 218, 236 fugio and compounds and cognates 79, 86, 255 gradior and compounds 123, 124, 126 grassor 127 n. 20 -gressus, nouns 118, 123 haereo 83, 139 iaceo 83, 90, 105 immotus 119, 120 impleo 233 implico 233 incumbo 233 incurro 128 ingruo 126–7 intercurso 221 intercursus 221 n. 12 iter 83–4 labor 101 libertas 29 limen 138 locus 218, 231, 252 luctor and compounds 233 maneo 83 meo and compounds 122, 220 motus 3, 84, 97, 118 moueo and compounds 84, 92, 99 nato and compounds 220 natura 215, 216, 218, 240 nihilo minus 149 nouus 243 pello and compounds 233 penetro 120–1 pietas 95 n. 27 premo and compounds 147, 220 n. 10, 233 prorumpo 127 pudor 95 n. 27 quaero 218, 239 -que 233 n. 28 quousque 239 rapio 109–10, 116 n. 59, 249 repente 146 repo and compounds 220 repto 220 n. 11 rigor 146 salio and compounds 82 saltus 83 spiritus 215, 216, 218, 220, 222 stagno and compound 221 stella 224 sto 236, 267 suus 236, 243

tranquillus 243 trem- 234 turbo, turb- 243 uado 236 uagor and compounds 79, 101, 141 uenio and compounds 85 n. 12, 113, 123, 125–6, 134 uentus 215 uerticosus 243, 250 uia 83–4 uolare and compounds 82, 127 leaping 26 see also Homer: leaping Lermontov 48, 259 n. 6 Lessing 24–8 Leucothoe 83 light 220 lion 53–4, 69, 254 Litai 50–1 literature and art 2, 24–31, 56, 131–2, 254 meaning of term 1 n. 1 Livy, language of motion 123–7 locomotion 1 n. 1, 81 Lucan 141 Lucilius Iunior (Seneca’s friend) 219, 227–8, 231, 251 Lucretius builds then demolishes 193 language on atoms 233 motion in 4, 233 other authors in 247–8 Macro, Q. Naevius Sutorius 144–7 Medea in Apollonius 114 in Ovid 93–6, 116, 254, 255 in wall-painting 20–2, 94–5 Melissus 191, 201 Mendelssohn, Moses 24 n. 19 Messalina 147–50, 151 metamorphosis 79–81 in archaic art 13 metaphor conceptual 199 n. 16 dead? 41, 133 in Homer 40–1 revived 133, 200 n. 19 suitable term? 40–1 mind in art 22, 24, 27 in literature 27, 28 n. 26, 57–8 in Parmenides 213 in Tacitus 120–1

  Mithridates, king of Armenia 134–6, 151 monarchs, non-Roman 135 monologues in Iliad 73–5 in Metamorphoses 94–6, 98–9 moon 113, 212, 250 mortals and narrator in Parmenides 193, 209, 213–14, 250, 251 mother and daughter 98–9 and son 137–8 motion and age 229, 254–5 age, contrasts of 146 and agency 98–9, 217, 248–9 in art 24 in Athens 134 n. 34 and attention 3 attention to 1, 31, 76–7, 81–2, 197–8, 219 and authors 3, 180, 219, 229 Bacchic 14–16, 149 and birth 38, 81, 210, 211 blank instead of 183–4, 189 and body 31, 48, 81, 84, 113, 121–2, 145–6, 164, 173–4, 198, 252 and causation 23, 217, 231, 257–8 causing 150–1, 212, 238–9, 241, 249 and ‘character’ 216 and change in art 22 in Ovid 104–6 in philosophy 81–2 in Seneca 222, 236 in Tacitus 118–19 and child 98–9 in Chrysippus 81 as concept for authors 3–4, 77, 81–2, 246 conflict of wills 77, 91, 249 in constructed worlds 86–7 contrasts of scale 102, 108, 109, 145, 231, 252–3 differences of scale 189, 231 cosmic dimensions in Metamorphoses 79, 106, 110, 113, 115 and cosmos 79, 109–10 and courage 74–5 and death 64, 122, 155, 156, 174, 183, 239 and desire 46, 167 destructive 14–16 detail on 121–2, 135, 145, 148–9, 189, 231, 252–3 different viewpoints on 182 and disability 162 of disease 174

305

and emotion 91 in Epicurus 81 and experience 161, 188 and gender 2, 75, 76, 99, 139, 257 and genre 246–8 goal of 56 as goal in self 8 group family and city 65 ignorant people 203 esp. important in Tacitus 150 sets of 128 soldiers 128–9, 137–8 split up 149, 150–1, 233 subdivided 141, 150, 251 throng 146 group and individual 65, 76, 129–31, 134, 138, 184, 189, 203, 233, 238, 251–2 on Corinthian aryballos 6, 23 on cup of Exekias 12–14 in Iliad 62–3, 251 in Sophocles 251 in Tacitus 128–9, 150 in wall-painting 14–15 of hair 17, 78, 80–1, 92, 149 and heavenly bodies 105–6, 113, 221–2, 224, 242–4, 253 in Heraclitus 81 and hierarchy 2, 150–1, 222, 249–50, 256, 259 and historians 1 and historiography 118, 118–19 in historiography and hexameter 122–3 in history 1 and immobility contrasted 23, 42, 69–70, 73, 74, 118, 118–19, 134, 146, 150, 191–2, 198, 209, 254, 257 confronted 191–2, 207, 214 individual 143, 214 and inequality 23 inner 219 interior 147 less real 254–6 and life 64, 81, 92–3 literal and metaphorical clash 192 combined 143, 166, 228 conjoined 89, 118 fused 113, 114 in sequence 170, 189 and literary history 246–8 in literature, what counts as? 30–1 in Lucretius 4, 233 meaning of term 1 n. 1

306

 

motion (cont.) metaliterary 219, 229 metamorphosis and 79–81 metaphors of 30, 40–1, 65, 126–7, 132–3, 146, 166, 199, 208, 222, 228–9, 254–5 mimicked in language 128 and monologue 73–5, 94–6, 255 in mythology 1, 32, 154 and noise 48, 99, 195, 198, 218 non-motion in art 23, 24 language of in Annals 126, 253 in Iliad 39–40, 69–70, 73, 83, 253 in Metamorphoses 83 in NQ 236, 253 in On Nature 191, 252 varied evaluation of 253–4 not of primary narrative 40–1 nouns of 83–4 of one and of two people 161–2 oppositions 2, 30, 31 for own sake 148 and personal interaction 249 in philosophy 81–2, 246 see also Parmenides: On Nature; Seneca: NQ of plant 83 in Plato 81 and practicality 65 and pregnancy 122 prepositions and preverbs 39 and purpose 18, 148, 182, 188, 242, 243, 250 and reader 78, 81–2, 117, 151, 152, 222, 240, 244, 254–5 and regularity 22–3, 244 repeated 187 ritual, perverted 113, 148, 155 as in ritual 132 in Rome 134, 149, 233 scholarship on 1 shapes of 31, 42, 48, 59, 73, 76–7, 97, 213–14, 223, 250 metapoetic suggestions 54, 59, 73, 118 and sight 225, 250 singular and plural 141, 166 and sky 105–6 small-scale 75, 80–1, 102, 109, 115–16, 119, 252, 257–8 small scale and big significance 115–16, 118–19 and space 1, 25–6, 27, 79, 128, 188–9 making space 218

and time 25–6, 27, 90, 104–6, 114 unusual relation 141–2, 250 and statues 92–3 and style 117, 152, 242–3 and symbolism 43 and thought 73–5, 77 time contrast of times 64 set-up in tragedy 153 in tragedy levels of 153 not seen 183–4 seen 153 transitive and intransitive 30 (definition), 93, 137–8, 164, 169, 179, 207, 217, 219, 226–7, 236, 248–9 in trees 130, 150, 151 unreal 189–90, 244–5, 254–6 variables 2, 30 verbs of 35–7 added 37–8, 74 distinctions between 220 future participles with (Latin) 239 n. 36 passive and active 130, 141, 217, 222 passive, impersonal 219 passive, true, and deponent 236 see also Greek words, Latin words water 104–5 waves 10, 57–8, 58, 78, 180–1 willed and unwilled 248–9 in Zeno 97 Myron 18–20 Myrrha in Alfieri 115 myth of 114 in Ovid 79, 86, 110–15, 116, 248, 251 in wall-painting 114 mythology and art 13–14, 20–2, 24 and motion 1, 32, 154 Narcissus 83 narrative first-person 165, 249 world and work 247 narrator in Homer 68–9 in Ovid 82, 91, 94, 95, 247, 249 in Parmenides 191, 193, 198, 200, 201, 203, 206, 213–14, 251, 254 in Tacitus 119, 149, 151–2, 153 Natasha Rostova 257, 259

  negative lyricism in Parmenides 191 in Seneca 227 Neoptolemus audience speculate on 169 avoids moving Philoctetes 249 claims to leave Philoctetes 165–6 contrast with Philoctetes 253 evasive language 173 his motion and Philoctetes’ 175 language changes 189 leaves nature 216 n. 3, 255 moves with Philoctetes 162 Nero breach with Agrippina 136–8 fears M. Ostorius 122 heartless 144 image of 123 impulse of 126 mind entered 120–1 plans journey 119 possible campaign 120 Nestor 32, 40, 50, 58, 91, 91, 255 Nicander 99 Niobe 92–3, 116, 117, 252 objects in art 20 Odysseus on Boeotian skyphos 8–10 and Circe 9–10, 35, 200 in Iliad 60–1, 249 myth of 32 in Odyssey 35, 200 in Sophocles 157, 253 Ulysses in Metamorphoses 83 Oedipus 176–90, 250, 251, 252 fixity 161 and Philoctetes 162 opening in Parmenides 198 Orestes 153 Origen 102 Ostorius, M., Scapula (cos. suff.  59) 122 Ovid Fasti gods in 108, 109 language of motion in 82–6 Metamorphoses and animals 102–3, 115–16, 250 and Annals 247 bodies in 80–1 composition of 82 n. 8 compound verbs of motion 84–6 and declamation 86–7, 100–1 enjambement in 89

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extreme brevity in 113, 248 and genre 252 genre and world 247 and hierarchy 249 horses in 79, 89–90, 108–9 and Iliad 4, 78–9, 82–6, 100–1, 102–3, 109–10, 116, 247, 254, 255, 256 language of motion 82–6 levels of reality 254 problems of belief 95, 99, 116 love in 78–9, 86, 100–1, 109 metamorphosis in 79–81, 116 narrator 83, 91, 116, 247, 249, 254 and NQ 247 and OC 249 philosophy in 81–2, 97, 104–6, 153, 247 possible worlds in 86–7 preverbs accumulated 85 preverbs opposed 85 repetition in 89, 101 science in 81, 90 similes in 91, 254 simple verbs 113 style in 117 wandering in 79, 114, 250–1 as modern 247 pace dramatic 158 narrative 109, 114, 121–2 and speed of motion 122 pain, depiction of 175 papyri of Homer 44 n. 22, 52 n. 32 of Sophocles 176–7 paradox 97, 116 Paris 44–5, 47–8, 100, 252 Parmenides On Nature absence of motion 252 clarity and obscurity in 193, 254 clashes in 192, 193, 194, 252 divergent views on motion 191–2 eliminates hypotheses 192, 200 and Empedocles 197 false theories in 256 goddess in 191, 197–8, 256 goddess ignored by Simplicius 211 goddesses in 197–8, 200, 212, 250 and Heraclitus 192, 203, 250 and Hesiod 194 hierarchy in 250 and Homer 194, 195, 212, 248, 253 language of motion in 193–4

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Parmenides (cont.) levels of narrative 254 listener of inside or outside? 197–8 and mysteries 197 negatives in 191 novelty in 200 philosophy and poetry in 191, 214 repetition and variation in 193–4 roads in 197, 199–200, 206–7, 213–14, 254, 256 and Seneca 251 status of section on opinion 192, 256 structure and world-views in 191–2 structure of 191 wandering in 250 wit in 209, 212 world-view of prelude 193 in Plato 81 Parthenius 114 Patroclus 33, 40, 47, 57–8, 59, 65–70, 83 Pentheus in Metamorphoses 90–1 in wall-painting 14–16, 254 Pepys 141 n. 47, 142 n. 51 performance, works exceed 154–5 Persephone in art 16–17, 108–10 in Ovid 106–10, 116, 249 Perseus in Ovid 78, 79, 92 in Pindar 3 in wall-painting 22 personification 50–1, 95, 105–6, 164, 216, 227, 235, 243, 248, 250, 254 Phaethon 78, 79, 87–90, 247, 253–4 Phidias 31 Philoctetes in art 169 n. 28 difficult motion 161–2, 164–5, 249 motion by self or assisted 249 and Oedipus 162 resolution 253, 255 slow motion 249 in Sophocles and Euripides 161 n. 15, 162, 164 philosophy and historiography 229, 244, 246–7 and intellectual history 246 and poetry 191, 213–14, 225, 244 and tragedy 153, 246 phoenix 121 Phoenix 50–1 Pierre Bezukhov 257, 259

Pindar and art 29–30 language of motion 158 and motion 29–30 in motion 118 n. 1, 158 n. 12 and performance 154–5 Plato κίνηϲιϲ in 81 Pliny the Elder language of motion 121–7, 220–1 poetry and prose didactic 215 early choice between 194, 247 in Seneca 220 n. 11, 225, 231 words of motion 220–1 political structures and motion 256 perverted 134 Polybius 136 Polydamas 33, 54 Polynices 181–2, 189, 251 Polyphemus 78, 87 polysyndeton 242–3 Porpora 130 n. 26 Poseidon 55–6, 249 Posidonius 230, 233–4, 244 prepositions 39, 101 present, historic 29 preverbs 39, 123, 131, 163, 220 Priam 63–5, 68–9, 251 Proserpina see Persephone punning, visual 90 Pyreneus 86 Pythagoras 81, 81–2, 103–6, 116, 117, 247, 251 Racine 131 Radamistus 122, 134–6 reception and comparative literature 256–7 regularity of motion 23 repetition and attention 34 n. 5 in Iliad 34 n. 5 in Metamorphoses 89, 101 in On Nature 193–4 rhetoric 248 rhythm in prose counting of 124 n. 12 in Seneca 245 n. 46 rivers 90–1, 168, 216, 217, 221–2, 254 roads 191–2, 197, 199–200, 206–7, 213–14, 218, 232–3, 256 rock 92–3 running 144, 257, 259

  Sallust, language of motion 123–7 Salmacis 100–1 Sariaster 135 Sarpedon 34, 40, 68, 83 Schopenhauer 192 n. 3, 259 n. 6 Scylla (Megarian) 86–7 Scylla (Sicilian) 79 sea in art 10, 13, 14, 23 in literature 57–8 in NQ 215, 219, 239 Sejanus 133–4, 136, 150, 151, 251 senate 120, 127, 132, 133–4, 143, 144 Seneca the Younger and Britain 239 n. 38 De forma mundi 216 De motu terrarum 216 humans and non-humans 216 NQ addressee in 219 aether in 216, 226, 236 argument in 226–7, 244, 256 allusion to recent event in 140, 239 and Aristotle 232 author in 219, 229, 250, 251, 254–5 books probably not missing 221 date of 239 n. 38 and Democritus 232–3, 252 the depraved in 219 distinction between preverbs 220, 223 distinction between verbs 219, 226, 226, 234, 236 and Empedocles 247 hierarchy in 216, 224, 246–7, 249 and Homer 227, 239–40 humans in 215, 218–19, 225, 238–40, 244 humour in 216 imperial imagery in 227 independence 235–6, 248 language of motion in 221 and Latin language 234 and Lucretius 227, 231, 233, 244, 247–8 negatives in 227 on non-motion 253 not full account of cosmos 221 observation in 231, 245 order of books 220–2 and other authors 232–3, 247–8, 255–6 and Ovid 231, 244 and Parmenides 215, 247–8, 251 physics and ethics in 215 and Posidonius 230, 233–4 and the posthuman 215, 231, 250 precision on motion 219–20

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preverbs in 220–1 revision incomplete? 234 rival worlds in 244–5, 255–6 rhythmical prose in 245 n. 46 and Sallust 242–3 scales of motion in 252 and Tacitus 244, 246–7, 248, 256 things that move important in 221 untrue motion in 255–6 and Virgil 223 world of 246–7 in Rome 126 Servilia, daughter of Barea Soranus 142–4 Sextus Empiricus 192 shapes in nature 223, 231 see also motion: shapes of ships 3, 12–14, 131–3, 166 Sicily 108 sight and motion 225, 250 Silius Italicus 130 Silius, C. (consul designate  47 and 48) 147–50 similes disruption of narrative in 54–5 in Iliad 33–5, 48, 54–5, 57–8, 59, 69–70, 73, 75, 91, 254 in Metamorphoses 91, 254 in NQ 232–3 in OC 180, 254 Simplicius 192, 211 sitting 40, 100–1, 162, 177, 188, 189, 252 snakes in Homer 42–3, 73, 102 in Ovid 102–3 Socrates 121 Sophocles address in 175 Ajax 154, 157 Antigone 154, 155, 156 author suggested 254 characters’ experience in 161, 189–90 chorus in 167, 179, 180, 190, 254 space of 179 complexes of motion in 154–6, 173–5 difficult motion in 161–2 Electra 153, 154, 155, 161 first-person and third-person utterance 167 language of motion 159–61 late plays 161 motion in stories 154, 155 non-motion in 161, 253 OC 154, 160–2, 176–90, 249, 250, 251, 254 relation with Philoctetes 4

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Sophocles (cont.) OC and Philoctetes and Iliad 247 small movements in 252 OT 154, 155, 156, 158 and Ovid 249 Philoctetes 154, 160–75, 189–90, 249, 255 relation with OC 4 unusual in motion on stage 169 speed in 156–8 touching in 184 Trachiniae 154, 158, 161 see also tragedy Soranus see Barea space in Lessing 25–6 and motion 1, 27, 101, 208 in Ovid 116–17 in Parmenides 208 scholarship on 1 in Tacitus 128 and time 25–6, 27, 208 in tragedy 154 speed 249–50 contrasts of 48, 132, 151, 161, 188, 233 and hierarchy 249–50 in Homer 34–7, 75–6, 249–50 implications of 157–8 in Ovid 97–8, 108–9 in Parmenides 197–8 in Seneca 225, 235 in Sophocles 156–8, 161 in Tacitus 132 in Tolstoy 259 in tragedy 156–8 sport in art 1, 18–20, 195 n. 9 in Homer 35, 75–6 in Pindar 30 n. 28 stars 90, 224, 236, 242–4, 250, 253 Stoicism on divine movement 236 metaphorical and literal in 228, 255 Stoics Seneca against 235–6, 244 Suetonius (biographer) 138 Suetonius Paulinus, (C.) (cos. suff. c. 42–5) 138–40 sun in Metamorphoses 87, 105–6 in On Nature 212, 213, 250, 256 daughters of in On Nature 198, 199, 212, 252–3, 256

swiftness in hexameter narrative 37 swimming in Homer 35 Symplegades 95 symposia 13–14 synoptic art? 20, 22, 27 Syracuse 108 Tacitus Annals: 4 death in 120, 122 generalized wisdom in 255 individual and group in 252 individuals in warfare 251 language of motion 122–7, 134 margins and centre 119, 246 motion and non-motion in 253 motion and range 121 narrator 119, 149, 151–2, 153 near comedy in 130 not just on principes 121 plain and colourful verbs 150 quasi-comedy in 146 style in 152 tableaux in 136, 143 twists on motion 118 Histories language of motion 122–7 types and scales of motion 119 n. 2 and Dio 141–2, 145 n. 55 and Homer 150, 251 and Livy 123–7 and Ovid 150 and philosophy 246 and Sallust 122–7, 139, 248 and Seneca 256 and Sophocles 161 and Suetonius 138 and Tolstoy 257–8 Tasso 256 Theban expedition in tragedy 154, 155, 181–2 Theophrastus 213 Theseus 161, 183–4 things, inanimate, and emotion 91 thought in art 24 in literature 27, 73–5, 77 throwing 110 in art 20 Thucydides 118, 130–1, 134 n. 34 thunderbolts in art 20 Tiberius in Campania 120, 133–4, 251 killing of 136 last days of 144–7, 150 mind entered 120–1

  moves events 121 and senate 132 will not move 120 time and art 27–8 see also art: synoptic? and literature 27, 70 and motion 27, 104–5 narrating 28, 197–8 and space 25–6, 27, 208 in tragedy 153 Timomachus 20–1 Tiridates I of Armenia 123, 126 Tolstoy 82 and Homer 258 n. 3 War and Peace motion in narrative 257–8 motion and history 257–9 non-motion in 257 war in 258–9 tragedy, Attic generic mixture 154 inner world kept intriguing 189 language of motion 158–61 motion in complexes of 154 counterfactual 154 extends beyond stage 154, 179 at start of play 187 unusual types of on stage 169, 263 non-responsion and interpolation? 176–7 philosophy and 153 world of 153 transitive motion see motion: transitive and intransitive trident 10

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Trojan War in tragedy 153, 154, 189 Truth 197, 198 Turnus 26 Valerius Maximus 135, 136 Varus, P. Quinctilius (cos. 13 ) 129, 131 Vettius Valens (doctor) 150, 151 viewer 28, 29 Virgil 26, 28–9, 120, 223 Aeneid, composition of 82 n. 8 language of motion 82–6 walking 84–5 wandering 36–8, 79, 114, 162, 187, 203, 212, 213, 213–14, 250–1 water 104–5, 215, 217, 220, 221–2, 223 waves 10, 57–8, 58, 78, 180–1 whirlwind 240–4, 250 wills conflict of 77, 91, 249 in elements etc. 218 winds in art 8–10, 13 definition of 215 in image 34 in NQ 215, 220, 233, 237–40 in OC 254 women, movements of 44–5, 257, 258 n. 2 Xenophanes 191, 199, 208 Zeno and motion 97, 191 Zenobia 122 Zeus 17, 31, 42, 48–50, 50–1, 77, 90, 116 Jupiter 87–90, 102–3, 116