Myth and History: Close Encounters 9783110780116, 9783110779585

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Myth and History: Close Encounters

MythosEikonPoiesis

Herausgegeben von Anton Bierl Wissenschaftlicher Beirat: Gregory Nagy, Richard Martin

Band 14

Myth and History: Close Encounters Edited by Menelaos Christopoulos, Athina Papachrysostomou, Andreas P. Antonopoulos

ISBN 978-3-11-077958-5 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-078011-6 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-078023-9 ISSN 1868-5080 Library of Congress Control Number: 2021953233 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2022 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Contents Preface

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Part I: Epos Menelaos Christopoulos Historicizing Homer’s Myth in the Homeric Epigrams

3

Jonathan S. Burgess The Aristotelian Constitution of the Ithacans and Homero-Cyclic Reception of the Odyssey 13 Giuseppe Zanetto “Let Me Tell You an Ancient Deed of the Distant Past”: The Epic Hero as a ‘Historian’ 25 Constantine Antypas Authority, Power and Governability in the Odyssey: The Mythical Birth of the Polis 37

Part II: Lyric Poetry Vasiliki Kousoulini Domestic and Political Order in the ‘Foundation Myths’ of Partheneia Ephraim Lytle Myth, Memory and a Massacre on the Road to Dodona: Reinterpreting an Elegiac Lament from Archaic Ambracia (SEG 41.540A) 77

Part III: Historiography Marion Meyer Shaping History: The Case of the Tyrannicides and the Marathonomachoi 99

57

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Contents

Nanno Marinatos The Myth of Troy Turned into History: Thucydides’ Archaeology Natasha Bershadsky The Argive Women, Beards and Democracy Olga Levaniouk Seeking Agariste

119

131

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Jordi Redondo The Herodotean Myth on the Origin of the Scythians

167

Part IV: Drama Paolo B. Cipolla (Re)writing a Sicilian Myth: The Palici and Aeschylus’ Aitnaiai

189

Efimia D. Karakantza “To Be Buried or Not to Be Buried?” Necropolitics in Athenian History and Sophocles’ Antigone 207 Andreas P. Antonopoulos Sophocles’ Trachiniae and the Peloponnesian War: A New Perspective 221 Gesthimani Seferiadi The Authority of ‘History’ in the Exodus of Sophocles’ Trachiniae

245

Athina Papachrysostomou Nectanebo II and Philip II in Mythic Disguise: Comedy’s Burlesque of History 263

Part V: Loci and Tempora Jorge J. Bravo III The Myth of Opheltes at Nemea in the Context of Rivalry in the Archaic Peloponnese 279

Contents

Chiara Di Serio Marginal Remarks on the Concept of ‘Time of Origins’ in Classical Greek Culture 291 Alexandros Velaoras Myth and History in the Court of Archelaus

303

Part VI: Roman Era and Late Antiquity Chris Trinacty “Oceans Rise, Empires Fall”: Cyclical Time and History in Seneca’s Quaestiones Naturales 3 323 Françoise Lecocq Herodotus’ Phoenix between Hesiod and Papyrus Harris 500, and Its Legacy in Tacitus 339 Joel Allen Empire, Ethnicity, Exegesis: Lucian on Interpretations of Greek Myth in the Roman Mediterranean 359 Grammatiki Karla Myth and History in Libanius’ Imperial Speeches George W. M. Harrison Myth and Levels of Language in the Octavia

Appendix The Editors

409

The Contributors

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Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

415

387

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Preface The present volume tackles the twin subject of Myth and History, and engages into rigorous discussions of the emerging manifold interactions between the two spheres and the concomitant intricate contexts of reference. Thus, the volume lands in the very midst of and contributes to the study of a subject that has a long pedigree in the field of Humanities, ever arousing profound interest among classicists, historians, anthropologists, sociologists, philosophers, and even psychologists. Despite appearing as seemingly opposite entities at first sight, the fluidity of both myth and history in antiquity and the ensuing rapidity with which these notions can (and did) infiltrate and cross-fertilize one another is striking and has repeatedly attracted the scholarly interest. There have been numerous attempts to define myth and history and fully comprehend the internal mechanisms at work, which on occasion make these notions function either in conjunction as inextricably inseparable concepts or in juxtaposition as diametrically antithetical and even mutually exclusive patterns. Simultaneously, equal attention has been paid to a number of germane parameters, such as the social and religious backdrop against which myth and history coexist and coalesce or, on occasion, collide. To mention but a few conspicuous landmarks in the advancement of the myth-history studies, one strand of research focuses on myth’s rationalistic interpretation; the origins of this trend trace back to antiquity already, and in particular to Palaephatus’ treatise Περὶ ἀπίστων (ἱστοριῶν) (On Incredible Tales). In modern times Wilhelm Nestle was the first who attempted to systematically register the evolution from myth to rationalized thought in Greek literary tradition, especially in the fields of Greek rhetoric and philosophy, in his monumental monograph Vom Mythos zum Logos.1 As far as history is concerned, Edward Carr’s groundbreaking work What Is History?2 still remains a classic and thoughtprovoking introduction to the subject. Carr engages in incisive discussions about the very essence and the study object of the science of History, its methodological tools, aspirations, and limitations, the role of the historian, while myth occasionally becomes tangentially relevant to his analysis. Another critical milestone is

1 Nestle, W. 1940. Vom Mythos zum Logos. Die Selbstentfaltung des griechischen Denkens. Selbstentfaltung von Homer bis auf die Sophistik und Sokrates. Stuttgart. See also Buxton, R. 1999. From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought. Oxford; Hawes, G. 2014. Rationalizing Myth in Antiquity. Oxford. 2 Carr, E.H. 1961. What Is History? New York (with a new introduction by R.J. Evans for the 40th anniversary reissue, Basingstoke 2001). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-203

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Jean-Pierre Vernant’s Mythe et pensée chez les Grecs,3 where the elements of myth, ritual, and society are interpreted against the bigger and convoluted canvas of history. In 1970 Geoffrey Kirk attempted an in-depth exploration and a critical venture into myth, thoroughly studying its nature, meaning, and functions in his epoch-making monograph Myth: Its Meaning and Functions in Ancient and Other Cultures.4 Kirk’s research climaxes four years later, when he publishes his work The Nature of Greek Myths,5 where he painstakingly defines, interprets, and categorizes Greek myths of gods and heroes, while he simultaneously discusses interpretation models from the disciplines of anthropology, philosophy, and psychology. Most memorable is Paul Cartledge’s monograph The Greeks, where the author effectively addresses the idiosyncratic relation between myth and history, under the dual prism of complementarity and antithesis.6 The understanding of myth as a phenomenon imbued with primarily social and historical nuances naturally allows for more than one methodological approaches. In this context the myth-and-ritual School of Cambridge (also known as “the Cambridge ritualists”) has laboriously studied the inherent relation between myth and ritual, in its various sub-versions and multiple variations. The pioneering figure among these “myth-ritualists” was the nineteenth-century biblical scholar William Robertson Smith, who considered myth to be inferior to ritual. Prominent representatives of the Cambridge School also include James Frazer, Edward Burnett Tylor, and Jane Ellen Harrison, who – despite the slight differentiations in their personal credos – largely upheld that myth was shaped to have one role: to be the verbal accompaniment and complement to ritual. On the other hand, different groups of scholars pursued individualized approaches to myth and ritual, denying and rejecting any alleged interrelation between the two as incidental and/or anomalous (e.g. Walter Burkert and Mircea Eliade). Robert Segal and Robert Ackerman have done an excellent job in condensing, critically assessing, and presenting us with more than a hundred years of scholarship (from all fronts) in their respective works of 19987 and 2002.8 Special reference is also due to the School of Paris and its outstanding contribution to the analysis of Greek myths against their social network (uses and

3 Vernant, J.-P. 1965. Mythe et pensée chez les Grecs: études de psychologie historique. Paris. 4 Kirk, G.S. 1970. Myth: Its Meaning and Functions in Ancient and Other Cultures. Berkeley. 5 Kirk, G.S. 1974. The Nature of Greek Myths. Woodstock, NY. 6 Cartledge, P.A. 1993. The Greeks: A Portrait of Self and Others. Oxford (especially chapter 2: “Inventing the Past: History v. Myth”, pp. 18–35). 7 Segal, R.A. 1998. The Myth and Ritual Theory: An Anthology. Malden, MA. 8 Ackerman, R. 2002. The Myth and Ritual School. J.G. Frazer and the Cambridge Ritualists. New York.

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needs) and within their original historical milieu. Jean-Pierre Vernant’s Mythe et société en Grèce ancienne9 inaugurated a whole new research path and laid the foundations for a markedly sociological and historical approach (shared by e.g. Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Nicole Loraux, and Marcel Detienne), which placed special emphasis on the relation developed between the shaping of myth on one hand and the social landscape and historical circumstances of each era on the other, which accommodate, promote, impede, or otherwise affect and mold myth’s nature and role.10 The individual aspects of myth and history highlighted in all above-mentioned works (and plenty of others) incessantly trigger a series of constructive discussions among those who, in their different approaches to myth, take into account the social and historical parameters.11 Additionally, most recently, the ways in which myth interacted with physical and conceptual landscapes in antiquity have also been brought to the foreground, especially due to the collected volume edited by Greta Hawes, Myths on the Map: The Storied Landscapes of Ancient Greece.12 All these discussions are carried out on the basis of eclectic methodological tendencies that have emerged in the field of Humanities, springing particularly from the areas of social anthropology, structuralism, the deconstruction theory, and gender studies. Within the wider context of this ongoing, interdisciplinary exchange of ideas, the present volume on Myth and History endeavors to trace and register the association and interaction between myth and history in various literary genres in Greek and Roman antiquity, i.e. an era when the scientific definitions

9 Vernant, J.-P. 1974. Mythe et société en Grèce ancienne. Paris. 10 For the pertinent theory of the perfusion of society by religion, see Durkheim, E. 1912. Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse. Paris. 11 See e.g. Sebeok, Th.A. (ed.) 1965. Myth: A Symposium. Bloomington Ind. (featuring, among others, a chapter on “The Structural Study of Myth” by Claude Lévi-Strauss); Littleton, C.S. 1966. The New Comparative Mythology: An Anthropological Assessment of the Theories of Georges Dumézil. Berkeley; Tosh, J. 1984. The Pursuit of History: Aims, Methods, and New Directions in the Study of Modern History. London; Benjamin, J.R. 1998. A Student’s Guide to History. Boston; Woolf, D.R. (ed.) 1998. A Global Encyclopedia of Historical Writing (Garland Reference Library of the Humanities), 2 vols. New York; Evans, J.R. 1999. In Defense of History. New York; Csapo, E. 2005. Theories of Mythology. Malden, MA; Presnell, J.L. 2007. The InformationLiterate Historian: A Guide to Research for History Students. New York. 12 Hawes, G. 2017. Myths on the Map: The Storied Landscapes of Ancient Greece. Oxford.

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of and distinctions between myth and history had not yet been perceived as such, let alone fully shaped and implemented.13 This is the fourth collected volume coordinated over the recent years by the Center for the Study of Myth and Religion in Greek and Roman Antiquity, which is affiliated with the Department of Philology, University of Patras. In 2010 the collected volume on Light and Darkness in Greek Mythology and Religion was published, edited by M. Christopoulos, E.D. Karakantza, and O. Levaniouk (Lanham: Lexington Books); in 2011 Reflecting on the Greek Epic Cycle came out, edited by E.D. Karakantza (as volume 6 of Harvard’s electronic journal Classics@); in 2017 A. Bierl, M. Christopoulos, and A. Papachrysostomou co-edited the collected volume on Time and Space in Ancient Myth, Religion and Culture (Berlin: De Gruyter); and most recently, in 2021, A.P. Antonopoulos, M.M. Christopoulos, and G.W.M. Harrison co-edited the volume on Reconstructing Satyr Drama (Berlin: De Gruyter). Recently, the Center’s stated focus on the study of Myth triggered an equally strong and constantly increasing interest in the study of History among the Center’s members and followers, since History is variously considered as simultaneously being Myth’s antipode and complementary sphere (with further, intricate ramifications ensuing thereof, as discussed in the aforementioned modern scholarship). Hence, the Center resolved on organizing a Conference that would tackle a series of myth-and-history related issues throughout Greek and Roman antiquity and beyond. Indeed, in summer 2019 the Center hosted, on the premises of the University of Patras, a four-day International Conference entitled “Mythical History and Historical Myth: Blurred Boundaries in Antiquity”, which brought together some sixty scholars (classicists, historians, and archaeologists) from Europe, the USA, Canada, and South America. Through both a diachronic and a synchronic perspective and adhering to a cross-generic approach, the speakers addressed a great number of challenging topics and incited constructive discussion pertaining to virtually every single literary genre. Following a scrupulous, double-blind peer-review process, the volume in hand constitutes the elaborate outcome of the above Conference, as it features twenty-four select chapters, which engage in myth-and-history analyses that expand from epos to lyric poetry, historiography, dramatic poetry, and, even beyond, to literary genres of Roman era and late antiquity.

13 To that respect see Calame, C. 1996. Mythe et histoire dans l’Antiquité grecque: la création symbolique d’une colonie. Lausanne, where he speaks of modern-day misconceptions and offers a novel perspective into what really ancient Greeks thought of what we call myth.

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It is the editors’ hope that this volume will stimulate further discussion and the readers will benefit from original ideas, new interpretations, and (re)evaluations of key texts as well as less well-known passages, close readings, and catholic overviews. The editors are grateful to Dr Torben Behm (Content Editor Books), Andreas Brandmair (Content Conversion Services), the entire typesetting team of the “MythosEikonPoiesis” series of De Gruyter, and especially to the series editor Professor Dr Anton Bierl, who wholeheartedly endorsed the project from the very beginning. Special thanks are also due to Yiorgos Charitatos and Panagiota Taktikou (PhD candidates, Department of Philology, University of Patras), and Fay Papadimitriou (MA graduate, Department of Philology, University of Patras) for their invaluable assistance during the editing procedure. Menelaos Christopoulos Athina Papachrysostomou Andreas P. Antonopoulos Patras, October 2021

Part I: Epos

Menelaos Christopoulos

Historicizing Homer’s Myth in the Homeric Epigrams Abstract: In this contribution I focus on some particular aspects of the Homeric Epigrams related to the poetical persona of Homer. By reading the Epigrams one can easily see the care taken by the author of the pseudo-Herodotean Life of Homer (in which the Epigrams are included) to give a persuasive association between the poems themselves and the particular circumstances of Homer’s life in which they are supposed to have been composed. As the Homeric Epigrams are falsely ascribed to Homer, what they actually do in the history of classical literature is borrow the impact of the greatest Greek poet and in exchange supply their supposed creator with the biographic historical evidence which he lacks. This contribution advances some thoughts concerning the Homeric Epigrams, a group of short epic poems which have been – falsely – attributed to Homer and are supposed to depict particular moments of his life. The whole corpus of these poems is preserved in a Life of Homer, a text dated approximately between the first and the second centuries CE, at least eight centuries later than the historical period in which Homer may have lived;1 the authorship of this Life is (also) falsely ascribed to Herodotus. As noted in the relevant scholarship, some of the poems of this corpus are separately included, sometimes slightly altered, in other sources such as two Plutarchean or pseudo-Plutarchean studies (μελέται), three anonymous Lives (Vita Romana and Vitae Scorialenses), a Life of Homer initially incorporated in Proclus’ Chrestomatheia, the Suda Lexicon (s.v. Homer) and finally the Certamen (Contest between Homer and Hesiod).2 It goes without saying that most of these Epigrams are older than the Testimonia in which they are included. Some of them are better known, such as the Epigram for Midas (no. 3), one of the best-known of the collection,3 the song for

1 On the historical and fictional depiction of Homer’s persona in the imperial period, see Kim (2010); see also Skiadas (1965). On the wider theme of history’s intricate interrelation with fiction and myth, see the Preface to the present volume. 2 See Gigante (1996); see also West’s Introduction in West (2003). 3 See Bassino (2019) 176–180; Livingston and Nisbet (2010) 42–45; Bakker (2016) 195–204. On the way funerary stones or statues address the readers of their engraved epigrams, see Svenbro (1976). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-001

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the pot-makers (no. 14),4 the longest of all, or the song of Eiresione (no. 15),5 a folk-song which, together with the other two just mentioned, are less related to the story of the pseudo-Herodotean Life.6 In this chapter I will try to focus on some particular aspects of the Epigrams which better illustrate their supposed relationship with the poetical persona of Homer, who is more often perceived as a mythical figure rather than a historical one. It should be first recalled that the pseudo-Herodotean Life of Homer narrates the birth, the growing up, the coming of age and the many wanderings of the boy who was born in Smyrna by the river Meles and who was for that reason first named Melesigenes; later, once he was definitely blinded, he was given the name Homer (Ὅμηρος), as the inhabitants of Cuma (Κύμη), where he later resided, used to call blind people. According to the Lives’ narrative, before being struck by blindness, Homer visited Etruria, Spain and mainly Ithaca, where he familiarized himself with the local tradition on Odysseus; when he definitely lost his eyesight, he left Smyrna, where he had already earned a great reputation as a poet, and visited Teichos, Cuma, Phocaea, Erythraea and Chios where he settled, got married and begot two daughters. He then decided to visit the mainland of Greece. He first moved to Samos, then to Ios, hoping to sail from there to the Greek mainland and in particular to Athens; but he never attained this target since he finally succumbed to the illness which was already keeping him in Ios; it is in this island where he was finally buried by the sea-side. By reading the Epigrams one can easily see the care taken by the author of the Lives to give a persuasive relationship between the poems themselves and the particular circumstances of Homer’s adventures in which they are supposed to be composed.7 This involves also the main questions raised already in antiquity concerning Homer’s origin, birth and descent. On these precise questions some verses of the fourth Epigram give, perhaps, an interesting response: Οἴῃ μ’ αἴσῃ δῶκε πατὴρ Ζεύς κύρμα γενέσθαι νήπιον αίδοίης ἐπὶ γούνασι μητρὸς ἀτάλλων. ἥν ποτ’ έπύργωσαν βουλῇ Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο λαοὶ Φρίκωνος, μάργων ἐπιβήτορες ἵππων, ὁπλότεροι μαλεροῖο πυρὸς κρίνοντες Ἄρηα, Αἰολίδα Σμύρνην ἁλιγείτονα ποντοτίνακτον

5

4 See Compton (2006) 72–74; Day (2019). 5 See Compton (2006) 72–73. 6 For an overall analysis of the Homeric Epigrams, see Markwaldt (1986); Christopoulos (2007). 7 Gregory Nagy discerns three periods in the ongoing reception of the Life of Homer tradition (pre-Athenocentric, Athenocentric, post-Athenocentric); see Nagy (2009).

Historicizing Homer’s Myth in the Homeric Epigrams

ἥν τε δι’ ἀγλαὸν εἶσιν ὕδωρ ἱεροῖο Μέλητος. ἔνθεν ἀπορνύμεναι κοῦραι Διός, ἀγλαὰ τέκνα, ἠθελέτην κλῇσαι δῖαν χθόνα καὶ πόλιν ἀνδρῶν οἱ δ’ ἀπανηνάσθην ἱερὴν ὄπα, φῆμιν ἀοιδῆς ἀφραδίῃ. τῶν μέν τε παθών τις φράσσεται αὖτις ὄς σφιν ὀνειδείῃσιν ἐμὸν διεμήσατο πότμον. κῆρα δ’ έγὼ τήν μοι θεὸς ὤπασε γεινομένῳ περ τλήσομαι, ἀκράαντα φέρων τετληότι θυμῷ. οὐδέ τι μοι φίλα γυῖα μένειν ἱεραῖς ἐν ἀγυιαῖς Κύμης ὁρμαίνουσι, μέγας δέ με θυμὸς ἐπείγει δῆμον ἐς ἀλλοδαπῶν ἰέναι ὀλίγον περ ἐόντα. To what a fate did Zeus the Father give me a prey even while he made me to grow, a babe at my mother’s knee! By the will of Zeus who holds the aegis the people of Phricon, riders on wanton horses, more active than raging fire in the test of war, once built the towers of Aeolian Smyrna, wave-shaken neighbour to the sea, through which glides the pleasant stream of sacred Meles; thence arose the daughters of Zeus, glorious children, and would fain have made famous that fair country and the city of its people. But in their folly those men scorned the divine voice and renown of song, and in trouble shall one of them remember this hereafter, he who with scornful words to them contrived my fate. Yet I will endure the lot which heaven gave me even at my birth, bearing my disappointment with a patient heart. My dear limbs yearn not to stay in the sacred streets of Cyme, but rather my great heart urges me to go unto another country, small though I am.8

5

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15

5

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15

According to the pseudo-Herodotean Life, this fourth Epigram was composed in Cuma, where Homer, still named Melisigenes, moved to, hoping to find in this city what he had not found in his birthplace Smyrna: a place to live, to practise his art and to earn his living. And, indeed, as soon as he arrived there, his poetry immediately earned the profound admiration of its listeners. What the poet wished and what the inhabitants asked from the authorities’ Council, was to keep Homer there for ever at the city’s expense. By offering the wandering artist a home, the city would take advantage of his increasing artistic reputation. But when the issue came to the Assembly, an influential member of the Council strongly objected by arguing that if such petitions were encouraged, the city would soon become full of useless ‘homers’ (μὴ ὁρῶντας) and the claim was refused. The bitter reception of the news by Homer is reflected in the lines 8–17 8 Transl. by Evelyn-White (1936).

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of the Epigram where it is stated that the daughters of Zeus, the Muses, born in Smyrna, wished to glorify Cuma (that is, through his poetry) but the inhabitants refused the Muses’ sacred voice, an unwise decision that would soon bring regrets to those who took it and, in particular, to the very one who first advanced it. As for me, says the poet, I’ll carry on the fate allotted to me when I was born. By the line 13, the poem runs back to the idea expressed in the two first lines, where there is again question of the fate allotted to the poet when he was yet a baby sitting on his mother’s knees. The imagery itself is familiar, almost a frequent commonplace. But, who actually is this mother? What the Life says about her9 and what the Epigram only implies is a very interesting story. According to this story, when the Aeolian Cuma was founded, a young man from Magnesia, Melanopos, moved there, got married and begot a daughter named Cretheis. After her parents’ death, Cretheis remained under the tutorship of Cleanax, a trusted friend of her father. In spite of Cleanax’ thoughtful surveillance, Cretheis got pregnant by a young man whose identity remained unknown; Cleanax sent her to Smyrna, in the house of Ismenias, a friend of his, and it is in Smyrna that Critheis gave birth to her baby, Melesigenes, named, as mentioned, after the river Meles where the birth took place. Cretheis then married Phemios, a teacher of letters and music, who took excellent care of Melesigenes’ inherent talent. After the death of Phemios and, later on of Critheis, Melesigenes, alias Homer, became himself a renowned poet and teacher. This is, briefly, the story told about Homer’s mother, Cretheis. The refusal of the inhabitants of Cuma to accept Homer as the city’s guest could indeed be associated with a wider issue concerning social attitude towards poets. According to M. Lefkowitz,10 this attitude could already be detected in perceptions of the archaic period. This theme is also inserted in various forms in Epigrams 1, 2, 6, 8, 14, some of which could be dated as early as in the fifth century BC.11 In the fourth Epigram the idea of the mother advanced in the first two verses leads to the idea of motherland, a frequent association which, however, becomes particularly significant in the case of Homer. In contrast to the usual epic – and Homeric – convention according to which a person is introduced into the narrative through the mention of his paternal descent (patronymic), the origin of Homer is traditionally defined through maternal descent (metronymic); what is more, the identity of his father in the relevant traditions is either

9 Vita Herodotea (Homeri Opera V, Allen) 5–33. 10 Lefkowitz (1983) 17. 11 For this theme in Greek Literature, see Compton (2006).

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persistently silenced or uncritically attributed to the numerous names of a long list of virtual candidates. It is perhaps interesting to mention that in the first of the Plutarchean Lives (4), Homer is represented as asking for an oracle revealing his paternal origin; the answer to his quest is quite significant “you seek your fatherland but what you have got is a motherland.”12 The antagonism among the Greek cities claiming the birth of Homer could be one of the reasons explaining why the authors of these sources restrained themselves from choosing a name for the poet’s father; as the institutional framework of the archaic cities was more or less patriarchally structured, any paternal identification would be attached to a certain city and voraciously challenged by those favouring a different origin of Homer. Most versions on the identity of Homer’s father indicate either a god like Apollo,13 or an adequate hero such as Orpheus,14 Musaeus15 or Thamyris,16 or the river Meles himself,17 or even persons issuing from his poems such as Telemachus.18 The same idea explains the long catalogues of names often cited to reveal Homer’s possible father where no conclusive verdict is finally expressed (dozens of possible fathers are listed for instance in the Certamen in such a way that any possible choice is condemned in advance). Ephorus’ version19 on the other hand is one of the most unusual ones in that it suggests that Homer is the result of his mother’s rape by her uncle who, afterwards, married her to Phemios. However strange this version may be, it is once more stressing the maternal descent in Homer’s genealogical tree. The same maternal-orientated priorities pertain to most versions concerning the poet’s offspring. The pseudo-Herodotean Life mentions20 two daughters, of which one died unmarried and the other married a man from Chios, a version which allowed the Homeridae of Chios, the local corporation of singers, to refer to Homer as to their venerated founder. A variant version narrated by Pindar21 (preserved through Aelian)22 claims that Homer gave his son-in-law, Stasinus, a whole epic poem, namely the Cypria, as an inheritance (dower), a story that ascribes also the Cypria to the authorship of Homer; as far as we know this is the 12 Πατρίδα δίζηαι, μητρίς δέ τοι οὐ πατρίς ἐστιν. 13 Suda s.v. Homer. 14 Certamen 4. 15 Gorgias 82B 25 DK. 16 Certamen 3. 17 EG 3305 / 146 CP. 18 Certamen 3, Anth. Pal. 14.102; see Bassino (2019) 118–130. 19 Jacoby 70 F 1. 20 §§ 343–345. 21 Fr. 265 Schroeder, 280 Bowra. 22 VH 9.15.

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only case of spiritual inheritance ever registered in antiquity. In the Suda we read another name for Homer’s son-in-law, Creophylus, who, in other versions, is only a friend of the poet.23 I. Tzetzes24 names Homer’s wife Eurydice and Homer’s daughter Arsiphone; he also mentions two sons: Seriphon (Σερίφων) and Theolaos (Θεόλαος). Even if tradition never granted Homer a proper father, his own fatherhood has been solicited retroactively by most archaic epics, either preserved or not. Coming back to our fourth Epigram, it is interesting to observe that in the same way that the city of Cuma was supposed to become but never became Homer’s birthplace, in the same way it was supposed to become but never became his residence and the focus of his poetic glory. Out of the seven cities that claimed to be Homer’s birthplace (Smyrna, Chios, Colophon, Pylos, Argos, Athens) the Epigrams and the pseudo-Herodotean Life finally made their choice: Smyrna. Pylos, Argos and Colophon are not mentioned at all, Athens remained a prospective destination, whereas Chios earned only the title of the poet’s place of residence. This rich topography is further enlarged by the various stop-overs in Homer’s wanderings mentioned in the pseudo-Herodotean and the other Lives. Many of these places are, of course, involved in the long story of Homer’s origins as Markwald’s (1986); Graziosi’s (2002) works have shown. The mention of the river Meles in line 7 is a straight reminder of the poet’s precise birthplace. The story of Homer’s birth by the river and the mention of the Muses in the following line are probably associated (though it is hard to say in what sense) with a Hellenistic idea that Homer is the river of poetry whence all the other streams of poetic speech spring out (Callim. H. Apoll. 105–113). As for Homer’s identification with the Muses who appear to originate from Smyrna themselves, not only does it convey the idea of the poet’s direct inspiration from the Muse but also strengthens the accusation against the Cumaeans who reject not the poet’s but the Muses’ intention to glorify the metropolis of Smyrna, since, in historical terms, Smyrna was a Cumaean colony founded by Phricon. By denying Homer, Cuma, the metropolis, denies her own ‘children’ and with them, also, the glory of the Muses; the idea of the mother in lines 1–2 is now reversely projected in the relationship between the metropolis and the colony. The Cumaeans’ decision belied Homer’s expectations to find in Cuma a safe place to live. These expectations were expressed already in the short second Epigram supposedly composed on his way to Cuma. A quick reading of the second

23 See Burkert (1972). 24 Chil. 13.636.

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Epigram25 shows its inner poetic relationship with the fourth through the precise virtues expected from the Cumaeans, aidos, thymos prophron, metis ariste. None of them has been found, and this leads not only to the poet’s deception but, also, to an idea which makes its entrance in the fourth Epigram (lines 11–12) and ascends further and beyond the others: a reciprocal justice, a somewhat strange lex talionis, which announces, through a poetic insight, a severe punishment for the bad behaviour manifested towards the poet.26 This is the case in Epigram 14, where the potters are threatened with total and vile destruction of their pottery and their furnace if they fail to award the singer for his song,27 or Epigram 12 where the priestess of Kourotrophos28 is condemned to a total eclipse of erotic pleasure for her rude and arrogant words to Homer when she met him at a cross road, to cite two examples out of many. The last picture of Homer given by the pseudo-Herodotean Life is at the seaside of Ios where the poet, already sick, is waiting for a boat to sail to Athens. It is in Ios where the author places the well-known episode with the fisher boys who, when asked by the poet what they caught, answered, “what we caught we did let go, what we did not catch we carry” (=not the fish but the lice on their heads).29 It is obvious, not only by the picture of the hero waiting for a boat at the seaside of an island to sail to Greece, but also from the whole itinerary of the poet related in the text, that the Homer of the Epigrams and of the pseudoHerodotean Life is conceived as ‘a man of many wanderings’ whose encounters, acquaintances and experiences are inspired and sometimes named after the narrative of the Homeric epics and mainly the Odyssey. But in contrast to Odysseus who achieves survival and recognition through wanderings which definitely lead him to an irreplaceable homeland, the pseudo-herodotean Homer achieves survival and recognition through many replaceable substitute homelands, which lead him to a definite wandering. The Homeric Epigrams are not the works of Homer; what they do in the history of classical literature is borrow the impact of the greatest Greek poet and in exchange try to supply their supposed creator with the historical biographic 25 Αἶψα πόδες με φέροιεν ἐς αἰδοίων πόλιν ἀνδρῶν. / τῶν γὰρ καὶ θυμὸς πρόφρων καὶ μῆτις ἀρίστη. 26 The theme of the hostile treatment towards a poet in the Greco-Roman world – but also in the Indo-European tradition – is explored by Compton (2006). 27 See Compton (2006) 72–74; Day (2019). 28 On certain ‘matron’ aspects of some female deities, including Kourotrophos, see Hadzisteliou-Price (1978); Simon (1987). 29 Ὅσσ’ ἕλομεν λιπόμεσθα, ἃ δ’ οὐχ ἕλομεν φερόμεσθα. On the general function of riddles in Greek antiquity, see Ohlert (1912); Pucci (1996); Schneider (2020). On this particular riddle, see Pucci (1996) 20–29; Levine (2002/2003).

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existence which he lacks. For classicists, the scholarly value of the Homeric Epigrams is taken for granted but their pure literary value is not. The Epigrams had to ‘lie’ about their authorship to be sheltered in a proper Life of Homer. To gain respectability, the Life itself had to lie about its own authorship and pass as a work of Herodotus. This pair of lies is what I find interesting and, in a way, moving about these texts. If the Epigrams and the Life had given their not prestigious but real author’s name, who knows if they would be today preserved? However dear genuineness may be to us, we must admit it is not the only way to preserve some texts. Sometimes, lies work better.

Bibliography Allen, T.W. 1912. Homeri Opera, V. Oxford. Bakker, E. 2016. Archaic Epigram and the Seal of Theognis. In Dialect, Diction, and Style in Greek Literary and Inscribed Epigrams, eds. Sistakou, E. and Rengakos, A., 195–214. Berlin. Bassino, P. 2019. The Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi. A Commentary. Berlin. Burkert, W. 1972. Die Leistung eines Kreophylus. MH 29: 74–85. Christopoulos (Χριστόπουλος), M. 2007. Ομηρικά Επιγράμματα. Εισαγωγή, Μετάφραση, Σχόλια. Αθήνα. Compton, T. 2006. Victim of the Muses. Poet as Scapegoat, Warrior, and Hero in the GrecoRoman World and Indo-European Myth and History. Washington, DC. Day, J. 2019. The Origins of Greek Epigram. In A Companion to Ancient Epigram, ed. Henriksén, C., 229–247. Hoboken, NJ. Evelyn-White, H.G. 1936. Hesiod. The Homeric Hymns and Homerica. London. Gigante, C.E.V. 1996. Vite di Omero. Naples. Graziosi, B. 2002. Inventing Homer: The Early Reception of Epic. Cambridge. Hadzisteliou-Price, T. 1978. Kourotrophos. Cults and Representations of the Greek Nursing Deities. Leiden. Jacoby, F. 1926. Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Teil 2. Berlin. Kim, L. 2010. Homer between History and Fiction in Imperial Greek Literature. Cambridge. Lefkowitz, M. 1983. The Lives of the Greek Poets. London. Levine, D.B. 2002–2003. Poetic Justice: Homer’s Death in the Ancient Biographic Tradition. CJ 98: 141–160. Livindston, N. and Nisbet, G.. (eds.) 2010. Epigram. Cambridge. Markwald, G. 1986. Die homerischen Epigramme. Meisenheim. Nagy, G. 2009. Homer the Preclassic. Berkeley (online version: http://nrs.harvard.edu/ urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Nagy.Homer_the_Preclassic.2009, accessed 12. 02.2021). Ohlert, K. 1912. Rätsel und Rätselspiele der Alten Griechen. Berlin. Pucci, P. 1996. Enigma, Segreto, Oracolo. Pisa. Schneider, L. 2020. Untersuchungen zu antiken griechischen Rätseln. Berlin.

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Simon, E. 1987. Griechische Muttergottheiten. In Matronen und verwandte Gottheiten, eds. Bauchens, G. and Neumann, G., 157–169. Cologne. Skiadas, A. 1965. Homer im griechischen Epigramm. Athens. Svenbro, J. 1976. La parole et le marbre. Paris. West, M.L. 2003. Homeric Hymns, Homeric Apocrypha, Lives of Homer. London.

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Jonathan S. Burgess

The Aristotelian Constitution of the Ithacans and Homero-Cyclic Reception of the Odyssey Abstract: Aristotle’s Constitution of the Ithacans is lost, but testimony of it survives. Most interesting is an account by Plutarch (Quaest. Graec. 14; fr. 507 Rose) of the exile of Odysseus after the slaughter of the suitors. In both Aristotle and Apollodorus political intrigue in the area of the Ionian Islands seems to underlie the exile. The acceptance of a story of Odysseus’ exile by the Constitution suggests that historical Ithacans claimed descent from families of the suitors. Of further interest is reference to clans descended from Eumaeus and Philoetius, which would seem to reference promises by Odysseus at Odyssey 21.213–300. The Constitution would thus seem to be a historical document that reflects Ithacan historicization of Archaic Age myth and literature, including both Homeric and Cyclic epic. An intriguing passage in Plutarch, apparently based on the lost Aristotelian Constitution of the Ithacans, tells of the exile of Odysseus after the murder of the suitors. This contradicts the establishment of peace on Ithaca at the end of the Odyssey. But the Aristotelian Constitution also speaks of clans descended from the swineherd Eumaeus and the herdsman Philoetius, which would seem to be based on a brief passage in the Odyssey. That Ithacans would make use of the Odyssey when recounting their heroic origins is not remarkable; what may seem surprising is the acceptance of the exile of Odysseus. But the ancients often mixed and matched Homeric and Cyclic material. The Aristotelian Constitution is not ‘Cyclic’, but its exile narrative suggests that historical Ithacans of the Classical period employed both Homeric and non-Homeric material when constructing their heroic past. I will argue that Ithaca’s construction of its mythological past reflects not only contemporary events but also earlier narratives about Odysseus.1 These narratives reflect long-standing issues for Ithaca and its region, as already apparent in the Odyssey. The exile narrative found in Plutarch therefore may, in some flexible, multiform manner, go back to the Archaic Age.

1 On collective construction of the past, see Gehrke (2001); Thomas (2019) 22–28. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-002

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Following is the passage by Plutarch, with my translation.2 Capital letters are inserted before sections for reference in my subsequent argument. τίνες οἱ παρ᾽ Ἰθακησίοις Κολιάδαι καὶ τίς ὁ φάγιλος; [A] τῷ Ὀδυσσεῖ μετὰ τὴν μνηστηροφονίαν οἱ ἐπιτήδειοι τῶν τεθνηκότων ἐπανέστησαν, [B] μεταπεμφθεὶς δ᾽ ὑπ᾽ ἀμφοτέρων διαιτητὴς Νεοπτόλεμος [C] ἐδικαίωσε τὸν μὲν Ὀδυσσέα μεταναστῆναι καὶ φεύγειν ἐκ τῆς Κεφαλληνίας καὶ Ζακύνθου καὶ Ἰθάκης ἐφ᾽ αἵματι, τοὺς δὲ τῶν μνηστήρων ἑταίρους καὶ οἰκείους ἀποφέρειν ποινὴν Ὀδυσσεῖ τῶν εἰς τὸν οἶκον ἀδικημάτων καθ᾽ ἕκαστον ἐνιαυτόν. [D] αὐτὸς μὲν οὖν εἰς Ἰταλίαν μετέστη: τὴν δὲ ποινὴν τῷ υἱεῖ καθιερώσας ἀποφέρειν ἐκέλευσε τοὺς Ἰθακησίους. [E] ἦν δὲ ἄλφιτα οἶνος κηρία ἔλαιον ἅλες ἱερεῖα πρεσβύτερα φαγίλων: φάγιλον δὲ φησιν Ἀριστοτέλης τὸν ἀμνὸν εἶναι. [F] τοὺς δὲ περὶ Εὔμαιον ἐλευθερώσας ὁ Τηλέμαχος κατέμιξεν εἰς τοὺς πολίτας, καὶ τὸ γένος ἐστὶ Κολιαδῶν ἀπ᾽ Εὐμαίου καὶ Βουκολιδῶν ἀπὸ Φιλοιτίου. Who are the Coliadai among Ithacans and what is the phagilos? [A] After the slaughter of the suitors the relatives of the dead rose up against Odysseus, [B] and Neoptolemus, summoned by both sides as arbiter, [C] ruled that Odysseus depart in exile from Cephallenia, Zakynthus, and Ithaca for homicide, and that the companions and the relatives of the suitors convey compensation to Odysseus for wrongs against his household each year. [D] Odysseus himself therefore went away to Italy; sanctifying the compensation for his son, he bid the Ithacans pay it. [E] The compensation consisted of barley, wine, honey, oliveoil, salt, and sacrificial animals older than phagiloi; Aristotle says a phagilos is a lamb. [F] Telemachus freed Eumaeus and his oikos and placed them among the citizens; the clan of the Coliadai stems from Eumaeus and the Boucolidai from Philoetius.

Plutarch’s testimony for the Aristotelian Constitution has appeared intermittently in Homeric studies. Hartmann discussed it when surveying non-Homeric local legends about Odysseus.3 More recently the Constitution served Malkin’s argument for connectivity between Ithaca, the region of the Ionian Islands, and beyond.4 It was also a key text for Marks’ coherent examination of the hero’s postOdyssey adventures.5 The most extensive analysis of the Plutarch passage was made by Halliday.6 I reject his thesis that the exile story was invented as etiological explanation of cult ritual for Telemachus. A cult of Telemachus is nowhere attested – not even in Plutarch’s account. Also, very debatable is the assumption that the exile is necessitated by blood pollution, a concept dubiously dated by Halliday to the Greco-Roman Hellenistic period7 or at least after Homer.8

2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Moralia, Quaest. Graec. 14; fr. 507 Rose, 511,1 Gigon. Hartmann (1917) 140–144. Malkin (1998a) 101–102, 127–133. Marks (2008) ch. 4. Halliday (1927/1928). See Halliday (1927) 11. See Halliday (1928) 81.

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It may be that Ithacan religious officials presiding over an annual rite were a source for details in the Ithacan constitution. Thomas convincingly argues that the lost Aristotelian Constitutions reflect such on-site, local information.9 The verb employed in reference to Odysseus’ transfer of payment to Telemachus (D), καθιερόω, has religious implications, though it can be used to indicate public sanctification of an agreement. The compensation paid to Telemachus (E) seems typical for ritual libation and sacrifice. Particularly noticeable is its specificity: Plutarch needs to reference Aristotle (presumably the Aristotelian Constitution) to answer his initial question, “What is a phagilos?” Such ritual aspects may reflect an annual public remembrance of the exile story; it certainly appears that the compensation in the narrative is correlated to ritual practice. But this need not question the independent and early existence of the story itself. The cult of Odysseus of Ithaca is well known, but its evidence is rather late.10 Morgan is skeptical about supposed earlier evidence, including a dozen or so tripods from the so-called cave at Polis Bay that have sometimes been linked to the gifts given to Odysseus by the Phaeacians.11 As elsewhere, it seems that archaeological work on Ithaca “has been seriously constrained by its Homeric focus.”12 Malkin points out that there is no evidence that Odysseus was believed to be buried in Ithaca.13 Some sources actually claim that Odysseus was buried on the mainland or in Italy.14 All this suggests caution should be taken in regard to Halliday’s thesis of a cult of Telemachus on Ithaca. In the Constitution a revolt arises against Odysseus after the slaughter of the suitors (A). But this does not turn violent, as in Odyssey 24. Ready has demonstrated that the aborted skirmish at the end of the Odyssey is idiosyncratic:15 it is not found in other accounts, including the Telegony (according to the summary by Proclus), or in the ‘Homecoming Husband’ tale type.16 Perhaps the

9 See Thomas (2019). 10 Coins with Odysseus date to the fourth century BCE; an inscription referencing a festival and sanctuary of Odysseus and the famous sherd inscription ‘a prayer to Odysseus’ date to the late third or early second century BCE. See Morgan (2007) 75–76; (2016) 39–40; (2018) 237–244. 11 See Morgan (2007) 75–79; (2018) 241–242. Cf. Malkin (1998b) for a trenchant linkage of the tripods to the Odyssey, unusual in its claim that a ninth-century Odyssey preceded the placement of tripods in the ‘cave’. 12 Morgan (2007) 75. 13 Malkin (1998a) 107–108. 14 Cf. Lycophron 799–800, 805–806, with scholia ad 799 = Aristotle fr. 508 Rose, 513 Gigon; ps.-Arist. Peplos 12, 13 lemmata; Hyg. Fab. 127. See in general Phillips (1953). 15 Ready (2019). 16 Hansen (2002) 201–211.

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revolt was absent even in early forms of the Odyssey. Already in antiquity some (Aristophanes and Aristarchus: schol. 23.296) apparently thought that the Odyssey most naturally ends with Odysseus and Penelope happily in bed together.17 Because the Telegony begins with the burial of the suitors, although this also occurs in the Odyssey (24.417–419), Davies18 concludes that the Telegony “was intended to follow on from a sequel to an Odyssey lacking the Continuation,” that is, everything after pillow talk between the reunited couple.19 Seaford trenchantly argues that reconciliation in the ‘continuation’ reflects polis culture of the later archaic age.20 The exile narrative in the Constitution arguably does this as well, only more so. Arbitration and exile (C, D) contrast starkly with the divine proclamation of peace and the continuing rule of Odysseus at the end of our Odyssey. An arbitrated exile for Odysseus would not necessarily be post-Homeric. There are multiple examples of exile for murder in the Homeric epics,21 and the shield of Achilles contains a famous scene of public arbitration for homicide (Iliad 18.497–508). Odysseus himself expects that he will need to go into exile after the slaughter of the suitors (Odyssey 20.42–43, 23.117–22; cf. 24.430–431, 437). In heroic epic convention the consequence for murder in a domestic, civil environment is exile. But more important than the date of different narratives about the consequences of the return of Odysseus is their perspectives. An external – that is, non-Ithacan – narrative might prefer narrative closure, as in the tale type called ‘Homecoming Husband’. But an internal or Ithacan perspective would be more attentive to the messiness of real-word conflict. Historical Ithacans probably found a narrative of political arbitration more plausible than divinely inspired forgetting of murder (24.485). Multiform narratives about the consequences of Odysseus return may stem from relatively local frames of reference. It is especially interesting that both in Plutarch (B) and in Apollodorus (Epitome 7.40) Neoptolemus acts as an arbitrator between the hero and the families of the slain suitors. In Apollodorus Neoptolemus is described, rather vaguely, as king of the islands of Epirus.22 Molossians of 17 Cf. Heubeck (1992) 342–345; Seaford (1994) 38–41, 71–73; Danek (1998) 451, 454, 457, 500–502; Marks (2008) ch. 3; Bakker (2020). 18 Davies (1989) 88. 19 Cf. Hartmann (1917) 144; Danek (1998) 500–502. West (2013) 292, citing analytical scholarship, differently states that “it is unsafe to infer . . . that Eugammon [poet of the Telegony] did not know the last portion of our Odyssey.” 20 Seaford (1994) 38–41, 71–73; See also Bonanni (1992) 173–193 on the political underpinnings of the Odyssey. 21 See Perry (2010). 22 Halliday (1927) 5 blames the ‘stupidity’ of the epitomizer. Cf. Hes. Theog. 1013, where the children of Circe and Odysseus, Agrius and Latinus, rule the Tyrsenians in the ‘recesses of the holy islands’.

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Epirus in the late Classical and Hellenistic periods claimed descendance from Neoptolemus (Epitome 6.12–13) and his prominence in the Constitution would surely have contemporary significance. Already in the Archaic Age the Nosti of the Epic Cycle has Neoptolemus travel to the Molossians, on the evidence of the very concise summary of the lost poem by Proclus (“Neoptolemus having reached the Molossians is recognized by Peleus”). It is not clear why Neoptolemus passes through northwest Greece before reaching Phthia in the Cyclic Nosti. In later accounts, notably in Pindar (Nem. 5.50–52), the return of Neoptolemus variably includes Andromache, Helenus, defense of Peleus and death at the hands of Orestes.23 A controversial fragment of the Cyclic Little Iliad (21 Bernabé) indicates that Neoptolemus chose Andromache as a captive (as well as Aeneas, for whom Epirus was often featured in accounts of his migration westwards).24 The key point for my argument is that a connection between Neoptolemus and Epirus apparently did exist in an early Greek epic.25 That means that the significance of Neoptolemus in the region precedes the expansive role of Molossians at a later date. Epirus in general may have been peripheral in the Greek world, but it was of long-standing and continuing importance. Notable was the very ancient oracle of Dodona, mentioned several times in Homer,26 and variously linked to Deucalion, the Pelasgi, the first Hellenes, the Argo and the journey of Hyperborean maidens to Delos.27 In the Constitution (C) and in Apollodorus (Epitome 7.40), Neoptolemus decides to exile Odysseus. Of interest are the variant destinations for Odysseus in the Constitution and Apollodorus, Italy and Aetolia respectively (D; Epitome 7.40). Some, like Hartmann,28 have wanted to change Italy to Aetolia in Apollodorus’ text. Other testimony for the Constitution reports an oracle of the hero in Aetolia.29 But as we saw above, there are connections between Odysseus and Italy,30 and not just in the localization of the hero’s wanderings. The variance

23 On the chronology of the Cycle poem, see Sammons (2019) 49–51; on myth featuring Neoptolemus, cf. Jones (1999) 44–48; Rutherford (2001) 152, 162, 305–306, 313–314. 24 E.g. Hellanicus fr. 84 Fowler: Aeneas went from the Molossians to Italy with Odysseus. See further Fowler (2013) 565–566. 25 Cf. Malkin (1998a) 136–138; Danek (2015) 369–370. West (2013) 264 doubts that Neoptolemus visited the Molossians in the Nostoi (“it would be the first appearance of the Molossians in Greek literature”). 26 Il. 2.749–750, 16.234–235; Od. 14.327–328 = 19.296–297. 27 On Molossia, Epirus and Dodona cf. Meyer (2015); Piccinini (2017). 28 Hartmann (1917) 142–144. 29 See schol. Lycophron 799 = fr. 508 Rose, 513 Gigon. 30 Burgess (2017).

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in destination for the exiled hero is not surprising given the flexibility of narratives of Odysseus’ post-return adventures. The inland journey mandated for Odysseus by Tiresias in the underworld could be seen as a cryptic version of the exile motif, as could Odysseus’ travel in the Telegony to Thesprotia of Epirus, where he marries the queen and has a child before returning to Ithaca.31 The ulterior motivations of Neoptolemus in Apollodorus are of great interest. With Odysseus out of the way, Neoptolemus would be able to take over Cephallenia. Does this mean the island Cephallenia, that is, modern Cephalonia?32 Hartmann thinks so, arguing that Apollodorus simply forgets to mention Ithaca and Zakynthus, from which Odysseus is banned, along with Cephallenia, in the Constitution.33 I think that the wording of Apollodorus reflects the early sense of Cephallenia as broadly regional. In Homer Cephallenia is an ethnym, not a toponym.34 The Homeric Cephallenians in the Catalogue of Ships (Iliad 2.625–637) are led by Odysseus and come from Ithaca, Zakynthus and Samus (probably modern Cephalonia), as well as from a coastal part of the mainland. The Odyssey uses Cephallenia several times as an ethnym, as when Laertes claims to have led Cephallenians on a mainland raid (24.378) and when Eupeithes complains that Odysseus has killed the best of the Cephallenians, that is, the suitors from the region of the Ionian Islands (24.429).35 Cephallenia as an ethnym persisted, no doubt under the influence of epic. For example, in Euripides’ Cyclops (line 103) Odysseus identifies himself as king of the Cephallenians. Apollodorus might preserve this archaic and broad sense of Cephallenia, perhaps employing an early source for the exile story. Whatever the motivations of Neoptolemus, his decision is balanced. Odysseus is forced to leave in punishment for the slaughter of the suitors, but the

31 Merkelbach (1969) 147 argued that exile motivated Odysseus’ travel to Thesprotia in the Telegony, though this required a textual change in Proclus to eliminate a return to Ithaca after visiting Elis before proceeding to Thesprotia. Danek (1998) 500–502 is particularly insightful about variant endings/sequels of the Odyssey. 32 ‘Cephallenia’ is first used of the island in Thuc. 1.27. See Fowler (2013) 556 for the scholiastic story, attributed to the late sixth-century mythographer Akousilaos, that Ithakos and Neritos, two of the three ancestors of Ithaca mentioned at Od. 17.207, are from ‘Cephallenia’, which I do not take to be the island Cephalonia. I do not see that Bittlestone (2005), which argues that part of Cephalonia was the pre-historic Ithaca, provides any light on this issue. 33 Hartmann (1917) 142–143. 34 Petrakis (2006). 35 Cf. Od. 20.209–210 (Philoetius recalls Odysseus having him manage his cattle in the district of the Cephallenians), 24.354–355 (Laertes worries that messages are to be sent by the suitors’ relatives to cities of the Cephallenians), 24.378 (Laertes recalls ruling ‘Cephallenians’ after capturing Nericus on the mainland).

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suitors must pay compensation. Whereas the Odyssey justifies Odysseus in a heavy-handed manner, the Constitution’s exile narrative seems sensitive to conflicting political viewpoints. Homer’s Ithaca is portrayed as having hegemonic political and economic power in its region,36 but the Constitution (and especially Apollodorus) suggests an Ithaca that is vulnerable to expansive mainland powers. That may indeed reflect the status of Ithaca in the late Classical period. But Ithaca’s vulnerability is an ongoing theme for Ithaca down through time, even as the dynamics of interconnectivity in the region changed. As Morgan well demonstrates on the basis of material culture, Ithaca was long a minor, if plucky, player in the area. Ithaca may seem dominant in the Odyssey, but even Odysseus and Telemachus have to concede that their island is small, rocky and limited in resources (4.601–608, 9.27).37 As Pomponius Mela (2.110) points out, Ithaca was “mainly famous for the name of Ulysses.” Historical Ithacans could not condone monarchal immunity as readily as Homer does. And the Constitution’s exile narrative may have found favor among those who claimed genealogical links to the suitors. After all, as Eupeithes points out, Odysseus has wiped out a whole generation of aristocrats (24.429). On the other hand, only twelve of the one hundred and eight suitors were from Ithaca.38 Ithacans would not necessarily be sympathetic to the genealogical claims of inhabitants of other islands. The Odyssey’s story of foreign suitors on Ithaca might have triggered their insecurity as much as the alleged ambitions of a mainland Neoptolemus. Hence the need for a balanced judgment in which the suitors are held accountable for their consumption of goods. The Constitution states that Telemachus will receive the compensation on Ithaca, but it is not stated whether he rules or even stays. There is no clan descended from Telemachus or Odysseus specified in the Constitution, or in any ancient sources. Children of Odysseus are reported elsewhere in Italy, Aetolia and Thesprotia, not to mention Telegonus at Aeaea.39 Even though the Odyssey ends with the maintenance of Odysseus’ rule and stresses the single-son patriarchal line of Arcesius – Laertes – Odysseus – Telemachus (16.117–120; cf. 14.181–182, 24.514–515), the poem does not quite predict a continuing dynasty. In the Telegony Telemachus and Penelope leave Ithaca to reside with Circe and Telegonus at Aeaea (perhaps localized in Italy, where Odyssean progeny like Latinus were to thrive). Eusthathius claimed that the Constitution of the Ithacans and Hellanicus

36 37 38 39

Malkin (1998a). See Morgan (2007); (2016); (2018). Od. 16.247–251; see also 1.245–248 = 16.122–125 = 19.130–133; 1.394–396; 21.346–347. E.g. Hes. Theog. 1011–1016, Apollod. Epit. 7.40, Telegony, Proclus.

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stated that Neoptolemus married Nausicaa,40 which perhaps indicates a Corcyran claim to Neoptolemus or Athenian interest in the region.41 In the Telegony Odysseus sires a child Polypoites with the Thesprotian queen; Apollodorus (Epitome 7.35) adds that Odysseus returned home to Ithaca to discover another son of his by Penelope, Poliporthes. From Eustathius we learn that in the Telegony (fr. 3 Bernabé) this extra Ithacan son was called Arcesilas. That name is clearly designed to grant Odyssean lineage to the Battiad dynasty at Cyrene, the homeland of the poet of the Cyclic epic. It seems, then, that this second son of Odysseus led to descendants in Cyrene, not Ithaca. None of this various evidence points to descendants of Odysseus on Ithaca. In fact, it suggests quite the opposite. This is all harmonious with the general tendency in nostoi traditions for the Greek heroes to travel elsewhere than home and produce children elsewhere.42 If the Odyssey is aware of local legends about Odysseus, whether Ithacan, mainland Greek, or Italian, it chooses to mystify them. Removed as it was from epichoric concerns, the Homeric epic may have been happy to leave its audiences with the misleading impression that the Laertid line would continue to thrive on Ithaca. If original audiences knew better, a temporary suspension of disbelief, in a contract between performance and reception, would always be possible.43 But historical Ithacans apparently did not, or perhaps could not, subscribe entirely to the Odyssey’s rather forced justification of Odysseus. Of course, Ithaca would very much want to associate itself with its hero, who eventually was honored by coinage and cult attention in the later classical and Hellenistic periods. One assumes that the Odyssey was celebrated at Ithaca, whether in performance, or, to a lesser degree, as a text – much depends on social class and literacy. Some might even suspect that the exile motif found in post-return narratives (like the Constitution) is based on minor details found in the Odyssey, for example, Odysseus’ musings about exile.44 But current scholarship is less inclined to assume that cyclic poems mined details in the Homeric epics. I would instead argue that the Odyssey acknowledges the exile of Odysseus as a pre-Homeric motif. But the Odyssey eventually became very influential, which led to reception of it. It is a plausible hypothesis that the Constitution’s report of Ithacan clans of Eumaeus and Philoetius (F) is based on a minor passage in the Odyssey.

40 Arist. fr. 506 Rose, 512 Gigon; Hellanic. fr. 156 Fowler. 41 Fowler (2013) 557. 42 Malkin (1998a); Hornblower and Biffis (2018). 43 Scodel (2002). 44 See above.

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In Odyssey 21 (213–216), Odysseus promises the two slaves wives, property and homes centrally located. It is specified that their homes will be near the palace of Odysseus and that the two herdsmen will be ‘companions and brothers’ of Telemachus. In Book 14 (61–71), Eumaeus claims that Odysseus would have provided him with a home, land and a wife, should he have survived.45 The short passage in Book 21, which promises spatial and familial integration of the two slaves, is likely the origin of the concept of clans descended from these two characters. It is unlikely that the passages are alluding to pre-Homeric material, or that Eumaeus and Philoetius were even traditional characters.46 Eumaeus is memorably characterized in the Odyssey, but one can imagine versions of Odysseus’ return without him. Odysseus’ promise to the two slaves is motivated by the need for help against over a hundred suitors. The story of Odysseus’ return would make more sense if there were just a dozen Ithacan suitors, as M.L. West suggested.47 Does the compensation of the Constitution also have roots in the Odyssey? Compensation by the suitors is offered spontaneously by Eurymachus when Odysseus reveals himself (22.55–59). Odysseus later (23.356–358) states his intention to seize or receive compensation. But neither scenario involves adjudication and both passages imply forcible taxation of the populace in general. The descendants of Eumaeus and Philoetius, reasonably seen as Homeric inventions, provide a stronger case for reception of the Odyssey. The Homeric epics, with their expansive detail and nuanced approach, were probably more realistic than other early epics. But the Odyssey’s unusually favorable view of Odysseus and its insistence on divine justification of his actions produced a conclusion unsuitable for the real world of Ithaca. It is no surprise, then, that the Aristotelian Constitution, as manifested in the Plutarch passage, indicates some very non-Homeric conceptions of Ithaca’s mythological past. As admirers of the Odyssey, we might find this shocking. But my argument also assumes that the Odyssey would have also been central to the Ithacan construction of the past, at least as far as was acceptable. On the whole, the Constitution seems to have a carefully balanced acceptance of both the Homeric and non-Homeric mythological past. Its spirit of political compromise, with granular detail, is very different from the heavy-handed theological justification of

45 Neither passage specifies freedom: Thalmann (1998) 90–91. 46 See Kanavou (2015) for etymological possibilities of the two names (128–130), with the observation that “Eumaios . . . may have sounded too obscure to be used in name-giving, though it is not entirely unattested” (166). Note is also made of the Coliadai and Boucolidai in the Constitution (167). 47 West (2014) 104.

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Odysseus in the Odyssey. The slaughter of the suitors with impunity leads to punishment of Odysseus, but the suitors must provide restitution. Neoptolemus of Epirus represents even-handed justice but also the threat of mainland encroachment. If the Aristotelian Constitution of the Ithacans represents the perspective of Classical Age inhabitants of the island, they accepted the exile of Odysseus, perhaps because many considered themselves descendants of the families of the suitors. They also would be bound to a civic form of political rule that would favor legal arbitration and not accept murder with impunity. On the other hand, the values of the Odyssey are respected to a degree. Compensation is exacted on the heirs of the suitors and freedom is provided to the loyal slaves Eumaeus and Philoetius, with the resulting clans Koliadai and Boukolidai surviving into historical times.48 For most Ithacans, Homeric reception may have been nothing more than a vague sense that their local hero was celebrated by the famous poet Homer. But the existence of clans descended from Eumaeus and Philoetius suggests that some Ithacans, at least, could employ details of minor episodes in the epic as part of their construction of the past. The balanced mix of Homeric and non-Homeric elements in the Constitution indicates that the Odyssey was a key part, but just one part, of Ithacan conception of its heroic past. My argument assumes that the exile motif existed in multiforms that would vary in both spatial and temporal details. In Apollodorus (Epitome 7.40) Odysseus is exiled to Aetolia, whereas in Plutarch’s account of the Constitution he travels to Italy. Tiresias does not specify exile as motivation for the ‘inland journey’, but I have described it as a reflection of the exile motif, though with the hero eventually returning to Ithaca. The Telegony featured an apparently prolonged stay on the mainland, specifically Thesprotia, but Odysseus also here returns to Ithaca. In this respect the Cyclic poem, despite its apparently nonHomeric ideology, corresponds to the Odyssey’s ‘inland journey’. It should also be noted that in the lying tales told by Odysseus featuring Thesprotia ‘Odysseus’ is hosted by king Pheidon, whereas in the Telegony the hero married Callidice, queen of Thesprotia. Other reports of Odysseus founding cities, dying and becoming an oracle apart from Ithaca49 provide further incompatible details. Such variances, large and small, cannot be harmonized into a single, unified traditional narrative. What I am calling the ‘exile motif’ is represented by various 48 The archaeological traveller Le Chevalier, with a pretense that periodically fools readers (1829), employed the pseudonym ‘Constantine Koliades’ and claimed to be an Ithacan descended from Eumaeus. 49 Notably, Lycophron 799, with scholia.

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multiforms involving Odysseus leaving Ithaca after his return to Ithaca, with different motivations, geography and duration. It is common to view these multiforms as constituting ‘Cyclic’ reception of the Odyssey, that is, inventive sequels that mine the Homeric poem, at times in a perverse fashion. This is a textualist, authorial approach, whereas I prefer to see these post-return narratives as essentially traditional. Their variance suggests local motivation in the arrangement of traditional elements in order to construct the past, which also seems to be at play in the Ithacan constitution. If myth provides a long-standing langue out of which historical narratives could be collectively constructed,50 then we can well view the Constitution as a late classical Ithacan narrative that employs aspects of traditional myth, including post-return adventures of Odysseus, to provide a mythological history that speaks to contemporary, as well as long-standing, concerns of the small Ionian island.

Bibliography Bakker, E.J. 2020. How to End the Odyssey. Trends in Classics 12: 48–68. Bittlestone, R., Diggle, J., and Underhill, J. 2005. Odysseus Unbound: The Search for Homer’s Ithaca. Cambridge. Bonanni, M. 1992. Il cerchio e la piramide: L’epica omerica e le origini del politico. Bologna. Burgess, J.S. 2017. Land and Sea in the Odyssey and the Telegony. In Time and Space in Ancient Myth, Religion and Culture, eds. Bierl, A., Christopoulos, M., and Papachrysostomou, A., 27–42. Berlin. Danek, G. 1998. Epos und Zitat. Vienna. Danek, G. 2015. Nostoi. In The Greek Epic Cycle and Its Ancient Reception, eds. Fantuzzi, M. and Tsagalis, C., 355–379. Cambridge. Davies, M. 1989. The Greek Epic Cycle. Bristol. Fowler, R. 2013. Early Greek Mythography, vol. 2. Oxford. Gehrke, H.-J. 2001. Myth, History and Collective History. In The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, ed. Luraghi, N., 286–313. Oxford. Hall, J. 2007. Politics and Greek Myth. In The Cambridge Companion to Mythology, ed. Woodard, R.D., 331–334. Cambridge. Halliday, W.R. 1927. A Local Version of a Sequel to the Odyssey and the Cult of Telemachos in Ithaka. Annals of Archaeology and Anthropology 14: 3–12. Halliday, W.R. 1928. The Greek Questions of Plutarch. Oxford. Hansen, W. 2002. Ariadne’s Thread. Ithaca, NY. Hartmann, A. 1917. Untersuchungen über die Sagen vom Tod des Odysseus. Munich.

50 Hall (2007) 333.

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Heubeck, A. 1992. Books XXIII – XXII. In A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. 3, ed. Heubeck, A. Oxford. Hornblower, S. and Biffis, G. 2018. The Returning Hero: Nostoi and Traditions of Mediterranean Settlement. Oxford. Jones, C.P. 1999. Kinship Diplomacy in the Ancient World. Cambridge, MA. Kanavou, N. 2015. The Names of Homeric Heroes: Problems and Interpretations. Berlin. Le Chevalier, J.B. 1829. Ulysses Homer: Or a Discovery of the True Author of the Iliad and Odysssey, by Constantine Koliades. London. Malkin, I. 1998a. The Returns of Odysseus. Colonization and Ethnicity. Berkeley. Malkin, I. 1998b. Ithaka, Odysseus and the Euboeans in the Eighth Century. In Euboica: L’Eubea e la presenza euboica in Calcidica e in Occidente, eds. Bats, M. and Agostino, B.D., 1–10. Naples. Marks, J. 2008. Zeus in the Odyssey. Washington, DC. Merkelbach, R. 1969. Untersuchungen zur Odyssee. Munich. Meyer, E.A. 2015. Molossia and Epeiros. In Federalism in Greek Antiquity, eds. Beck, H. and Funke, P., 297–318. Cambridge. Morgan, C. 2007. From Odysseus to Augustus. Ithaka from the Early Iron Age to Roman Times. Pallas 73: 71–86. Morgan, C. 2016. A Closed Sea? Archaeological Evidence for Mobility in the Central Ionian Islands. In Sulle sponde dello Ionia: Grecia occidentale e greci d’Occidente, eds. Sestito, G.D.S. and Intrieri, M., 29–47. Pisa. Morgan, C. 2018. Nostoi and Material Culture in the Area of the Classical-Hellenistic Adriatic Seas: Questions and Approaches. In Hornblower and Biffis 213–244. Perry, T.P.J.P. 2010. Exile in Homeric Epic. (Unpubl. Ph.D. Diss. University of Toronto). Petrakis, V.P. 2006. History versus the Homeric ‘Iliad’: A View from the Ionian Islands. CW 99: 371–396. Phillips, E.D. 1953. Odysseus in Italy. JHS 73: 53–67. Piccinini, J. 2017. The Shrine of Dodona in the Archaid and Classical Ages. A History. Macerata. Ready, J. 2019. Odysseus and the Suitors’ Relatives. In Yearbook of Ancient Greek Epic 3, ed. Burgess, J.S., 117–135. Leiden. Rutherford, I. 2001. Pindar’s Paeans: A Reading of the Fragments with a Survey of the Genre. Oxford. Sammons, B. The Space of the Epigone. In Yearbook of Ancient Greek Epic 3, ed. Burgess, J.S., 48–66. Leiden. Scodel, R. 2002. Listening to Homer. Ann Arbor. Seaford, R. 1994. Reciprocity and Ritual: Homer and Tragedy in the Developing City-State. Oxford. Thalmann, W.G. 1998. The Swineherd and the Bow: Representations of Class in the Odyssey. Ithaca, NY. Thomas, R. 2019. Polis Histories, Collective Memories and the Greek World. Cambridge. West, M.L. 2013. The Epic Cycle. A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics. Oxford. West, M.L. 2014. The Making of the Odyssey. Oxford.

Giuseppe Zanetto

“Let Me Tell You an Ancient Deed of the Distant Past”: The Epic Hero as a ‘Historian’ Abstract: This chapter discusses some passages of the Iliad where internal narrators (Agamemnon in Book 4, telling of Tydeus’ heroic deeds; Phoenix in Book 9, recounting to Achilles the story of Meleager; Nestor in Book 11, remembering the glorious deeds he accomplished in his youth) open a window on the heroes of the past generations. By inserting these narrations in his poem, the poet of the Iliad leads his audience to perceive that the heroic myth has a ‘vertical’ dimension: the warriors who fight around the walls of Troy belong to the generation of the ‘children’, but before them there were the generation of the ‘fathers’ and the generation of the ‘grandfathers’. This chronological articulation makes the mythical account sound more credible, because it makes it appear more similar to the historical narration of real deeds. What elements make a narration ‘historical’? There are many, of course, but among them there is surely a sense of continuity.1 I mean: in order to be ‘historical’, a narrative must consider the chronological sequence of facts and be aware that there are things that happen before and things that come as a consequence and happen later; moreover, it must be in chronological relation with the time of the narrator, with the hic et nunc of his life experience. In other words, the narrator must perceive his narration as something which is concretely connected with his and his audience’s environment. We can speak of an ‘internal’ continuity (history as a ‘vertical’ account of more distant and less distant facts) and of an ‘external’ continuity (history as an account of facts which are ‘horizontally’ related to the present, to ‘now’). If we look at Greek myth, we are confronted with a paradox. Myths are by definition stories of the past; it is exactly its ‘pastness’ the element which gives myth its strength. In a ‘traditional’ society such as archaic Greece, the present is thought to be the final result of a long sequence of facts which have their roots in the mythical past.2 Things are as they are because something that

1 Gentili and Cerri (1983) 5. 2 Zanetto (2019) 10. See also the Preface to the present volume for a synopsis of significant landmarks in myth-history studies. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-003

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happened in the past produced a transformation, and this ‘novelty’ has remained standing ever since, and through an infinite series of repetitions has survived until the present time. Everything in our world is explained by a myth that tells how it came into existence. Myth is therefore conceptually contiguous to the present, because it is its fundament. But – this is the paradox – there is no continuity (‘external’ continuity) with the present, because the chronological dimension of the myth is extremely vague.3 Mythical deeds happened in an undefined past and the myth-teller (i.e. the poet) is not interested in proposing a chronological connection between the ‘once upon the time’ of his narration and the ‘now’ of his performance. This is particularly true for epic poetry. Epic narrates the glorious deeds of the heroes (ta klea andron), that is to say of great men who lived before us and were the ancestors of today’s people. The foundation of heroic cults and the creation of a heroic mythology are of paramount importance to promote the Greek ‘miracle’ of the eighth century BC:4 the heroes are the models at which the Greeks look to construct a new ethnic identity and to start a process of political expansion and economic growth. The Iliad is the manifesto of a new Panhellenic consciousness (its meaning being: ‘the Greeks are ready to afford new challenges’), whereas the Odyssey symbolises the adventure of the colonisation. But Homer does not provide the heroes with a ‘historical’ dimension; he does not define the interval which separates their time from his time, nor does he integrate – so to say – their existence into his audience’s reality. The only epic passage which ‘historicises’ the heroic age is the myth of the five generations in Hesiod’s Works and Days. Taking his cue from his quarrel with his brother Perses, Hesiod tries to explain why the earth gives its fruits only to hard-working people. In the past it was not so: there was a Golden Age in which humans had an easy life and enjoyed almost divine privileges; but then everything changed, and life is now very tough. The explanation is offered by two stories, that of Pandora and that of the five ages. The latter has clearly – like the former – a mythical configuration, but it also has a ‘historical’ perspective, because it displays a clear relation between past and present.5 The heroes, who are the protagonists of the fourth generation, lived immediately before today’s people, who are the fifth generation: the myth is explicitly linked to today’s reality (Hes. Works and Days, 156–170):6

3 4 5 6

Ercolani (2006) 74. Vetta (2001) 37. Van Noorden (2015) 35–36. Ercolani (2010) 164.

“Let Me Tell You an Ancient Deed of the Distant Past”

αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ καὶ τοῦτο γένος κατὰ γαῖα κάλυψεν, αὖτις ἔτ’ ἄλλο τέταρτον ἐπὶ χθονὶ πουλυβοτείρῃ Ζεὺς Κρονίδης ποίησε, δικαιότερον καὶ ἄρειον, ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων θεῖον γένος, οἳ καλέονται ἡμίθεοι, προτέρη γενεὴ κατ’ ἀπείρονα γαῖαν. καὶ τοὺς μὲν πόλεμός τε κακὸς καὶ φύλοπις αἰνὴ τοὺς μὲν ὑφ’ ἑπταπύλῳ Θήβῃ, Καδμηίδι γαίῃ, ὤλεσε μαρναμένους μήλων ἕνεκ’ Οἰδιπόδαο, τοὺς δὲ καὶ ἐν νήεσσιν ὑπὲρ μέγα λαῖτμα θαλάσσης ἐς Τροίην ἀγαγὼν Ἑλένης ἕνεκ’ ἠυκόμοιο. ἔνθ’ ἦ τοι τοὺς μὲν θανάτου τέλος ἀμφεκάλυψε τοῖς δὲ δίχ’ ἀνθρώπων βίοτον καὶ ἤθε’ ὀπάσσας Ζεὺς Κρονίδης κατένασσε πατὴρ ἐς πείρατα γαίης, τηλοῦ ἀπ’ ἀθανάτων · τοῖσιν Κρόνος ἐμβασιλεύει. καὶ τοὶ μὲν ναίουσιν ἀκηδέα θυμὸν ἔχοντες But when this generation too was covered over by the earth, Zeus made yet another generation on earth, which nurtures many, a fourth one. This one, by contrast, was just. It was better. It was the godlike generation of men who were heroes, who are called demigods; they are the previous generation who lived throughout the boundless earth. These were overcome by evil war and the terrible din of battle. Some died at the walls of seven-gated Thebes, the land of Cadmus, as they fought over the sheep of Oedipus. Others were taken away by war over the great yawning stretches of sea to Troy, all on account of Helen with the beautiful hair. Then they were covered over by the finality of death. But they received, apart from other humans, a life and a place to live from Zeus the son of Kronos, who translated them to the edges of the earth, far away from the immortal gods. And Kronos is king over them. And they live with a carefree heart.7

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Such an ‘external’ continuity with the present, which makes the myth ‘historical’, is hard to find in Homer: a breaking of the fourth wall and an irruption of the poet’s age in the indefinite ‘yesterday’ of the myth are not in tune with the transparency of the Homeric narration. A partial exception is the passages in which the physical exploit of a hero is favourably compared with the feebleness of today’s degenerate people: for example, in Iliad 5.302–304 Diomedes seizes a large stone ‘heavier than any two men of our time might carry, lifting it easily on his own’ (similar formulations occur also in other passages):8

7 Transl. by Nagy, on the site of the Centre for Hellenic Studies (section ‘Primary Texts’; https://chs.harvard.edu/CHS/article/display/5290, accessed 11.01.2021). 8 Kirk (1990) 91–92.

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ὃ δὲ χερμάδιον λάβε χειρὶ Τυδεΐδης μέγα ἔργον ὃ οὐ δύο γ’ ἄνδρε φέροιεν, οἷοι νῦν βροτοί εἰσ’ · ὃ δέ μιν ῥέα πάλλε καὶ οἶος. But Tydeus’ son in his hand caught up a stone, a huge thing which no two men could carry such as men are now, but by himself he lightly hefted it.9

Other exceptions can be found in similes or in the long description of Achilles’ new shield in Iliad 18. On the other hand, if the heroic myth does not ‘dialogue’ with the present, because it is confined in a remote and historically undefined pastness, it has nevertheless an internal chronology.10 At the beginning of my chapter I proposed a distinction between a ‘vertical’ and a ‘horizontal’ dimension of mythical time. Verticality is a perspective that Homeric poetry knows very well. In the age of the heroes there are different generations: there are fathers, children and children of the children. An exemplary case is the clan of the Aeacids: the founder of the family is Aeacus, his sons are Peleus and Telamon (who conquered Troy for the first time together with Hercules), his grandsons are Achilles and Ajax (who followed Agamemnon in the second campaign against Troy), and his great-grandson is Neoptolemus (who destroyed the city once and for all).11 This means that within epic myth there can be a ‘today’ and a ‘yesterday’, and this temporal depth is a truth-oriented element. On the one hand, it increases the credibility of the narrative because it gives it the contours of reality; on the other, it offers the characters the opportunity to refer to ‘past deeds’ that can be seen as useful exempla. Thus, within the myth (which belongs to the past, and is therefore the foundation of the present) there is a more remote past – so to say – which is the foundation of a less remote past. In other words, the ‘mythical look’, which is typical of the epic audience and can be defined as the attitude to look at myth as an exemplary narrative, is shared by the characters of the epos themselves. We can see all this in the Iliad. The Iliad – as we all know – is a selective narration: it does not tell the Trojan War from the first to the last day; indeed, it proposes a very partial report, focused on the wrath of Achilles and built on the three major deaths of Sarpedon, Patroclus and Hector. But the major selected episode (Achilles’ wrath and its consequences) ‘contains’ – thanks to a clever play of flashbacks and flashforwards – the history of the entire war, from the beginning to the end. Not only: the poem comes with ‘windows’ open onto mythical 9 The English translations of the Iliad are taken from The Iliad of Homer, translated and with an introduction by Lattimore (1951). 10 Ercolani (2006) 73. 11 Pind. Ol. 8.45–46; Hubbard (1987) 18.

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stories that precede the Trojan War and feature heroes of previous generations. These ‘windows’ are activated by internal narrators: they are narratives of second degree which depart from the primary narrative and have the function of linking it to a more extended context (more extended in space and time). We are always in the realm of myth, of course: a myth that is able to expand itself. The character who most clearly embodies the temporal verticality of myth is Nestor. He is a living paradox, because at the time of the Trojan War no one of his generation should be alive; in fact, he belongs to the age of the grandfathers, as Homer says when he introduces Nestor for the first time at the beginning of the poem (Iliad 1.247–252):12 τοῖσι δὲ Νέστωρ ἡδυεπὴς ἀνόρουσε λιγὺς Πυλίων ἀγορητής, τοῦ καὶ ἀπὸ γλώσσης μέλιτος γλυκίων ῥέεν αὐδή · τῷ δ’ ἤδη δύο μὲν γενεαὶ μερόπων ἀνθρώπων ἐφθίαθ’, οἵ οἱ πρόσθεν ἅμα τράφεν ἠδ’ ἐγένοντο ἐν Πύλῳ ἠγαθέῃ, μετὰ δὲ τριτάτοισιν ἄνασσεν. and between them Nestor the fair-spoken rose up, the lucid speaker of Pylos, from whose lips the streams of words ran sweeter than honey. In his time two generations of mortal men had perished, those who had grown up with him and they who had been born to these in sacred Pylos, and he was king in the third age.13

250

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This fantastic longevity makes Nestor capable of mentioning episodes that belong to the entire chronological range of the heroic age. He is well aware of his uniqueness and plays this card when he tries to reconcile Agamemnon and Achilles by appealing to his extraordinary experience. Nestor tells of the mythical battle which opposed Lapiths and Centaurs, naming among others Theseus and Pirithous: an episode that is expected to sound very ‘old’ to the assembly of the Achaeans and increase Nestor’s prestige and credibility.14 At the end of his report he says that men like those ancient heroes are not to be found now: this ‘now’ refers to the time of the Iliad, the time in which the characters are supposed to act, but it is very likely that the audience of Homer perceived it as a reference to their ‘now’, connecting the past of the myth with the present of the performance (Iliad 1.259–266, 269–272):

12 Kirk (1985) 79. 13 At Od. 3.245 Telemachus says that Nestor “has reigned over three generations of men.” 14 Schein (1984) 135.

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ἀλλὰ πίθεσθ’ · ἄμφω δὲ νεωτέρω ἐστὸν ἐμεῖο · ἤδη γάρ ποτ’ ἐγὼ καὶ ἀρείοσιν ἠέ περ ὑμῖν ἀνδράσιν ὡμίλησα, καὶ οὔ ποτέ μ’ οἵ γ’ ἀθέριζον. οὐ γάρ πω τοίους ἴδον ἀνέρας οὐδὲ ἴδωμαι, οἷον Πειρίθοόν τε Δρύαντά τε ποιμένα λαῶν Καινέα τ’ Ἐξάδιόν τε καὶ ἀντίθεον Πολύφημον Θησέα τ’ Αἰγεΐδην, ἐπιείκελον ἀθανάτοισιν · κάρτιστοι δὴ κεῖνοι ἐπιχθονίων τράφεν ἀνδρῶν [. . .] καὶ μὲν τοῖσιν ἐγὼ μεθομίλεον ἐκ Πύλου ἐλθὼν τηλόθεν ἐξ ἀπίης γαίης · καλέσαντο γὰρ αὐτοί · καὶ μαχόμην κατ’ ἔμ’ αὐτὸν ἐγώ · κείνοισι δ’ ἂν οὔ τις τῶν οἳ νῦν βροτοί εἰσιν ἐπιχθόνιοι μαχέοιτο. Yet be persuaded. Both of you are younger than I am. Yes, and in my time I have dealt with better men than you are, and never once did they disregard me. Never yet have I seen nor shall see again such men as these were, men like Peirithoös, and Dryas, shepherd of the people, Kaineus and Exadios, godlike Polyphemos, or Theseus, Aigeus’ son, in the likeness of the immortals. These were the strongest generation of earth-born mortals [. . .] I was of the company of these men, coming from Pylos, a long way from a distant land, since they had summoned me. And I fought single-handed, yet against such men no one of the mortals now alive upon earth could do battle.

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Homer seems to think (but of course we should not expect rigorous control of the chronology) that the age of the heroes embraces three generations. The internal narratives allow the poet to display relationship lines between the ‘present’ of the Iliadic myth (the Trojan War, fought by the generation of the ‘sons’, i.e. the second generation) and the ‘past’ of the other heroic cycles, when the first generation was in action. The ‘fathers’ are often mentioned, in particular Peleus, Achilles’ father. A striking case is Iliad 11.765–789, where Nestor reminds Patroclus of the heroic investiture of Achilles: when the Achaean officers were recruiting people for the Trojan expedition, he and Odysseus went to Phthia to invite the young Achilles to join the enterprise; they were received by Peleus who encouraged his son to go to Troy and be always the first in battle (aristeuein).15 This episode focuses on an idea of intergenerational continuity: Peleus ‘sends’ Achilles

15 Miller (1986) 164 focuses on a fragmentary vase from Olynthos that seems to illustrate this episode.

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to glory and death; like in a relay running the father passes the baton to the son, and the young generation succeeds the old. Let’s consider now some clear examples of mythical ‘verticality’. In Book 4, after the wounding of Menelaus, Agamemnon urges all the leaders of the Achaeans to resume fighting; he tries to find the right words for each one and with Diomedes he plays the card of the comparison with his father Tydeus. He mentions two apparently secondary episodes of the Theban cycle: the preparation of the first expedition against Thebes, when Polynices and Tydeus went to Mycenae to recruit men, and the failed ambush of the Thebans against Tydeus, when the hero killed the fifty armed men sent against him. In order to ignite the warrior spirit of Diomedes, Agamemnon provokes him by claiming he is far less valiant than Tydeus, given that children are generally worse than the fathers.16 But Sthenelus, the son of Capaneus, reacts fiercely and emphasises that the assault of the fathers resulted in a defeat, while the children eventually conquered Thebes: accordingly, he proclaims that the sons are far better than the fathers (Iliad 4.370–375, 399–400, 404–410): ὤ μοι Τυδέος υἱὲ δαΐφρονος ἱπποδάμοιο τί πτώσσεις, τί δ’ ὀπιπεύεις πολέμοιο γεφύρας; οὐ μὲν Τυδέϊ γ’ ὧδε φίλον πτωσκαζέμεν ἦεν, ἀλλὰ πολὺ πρὸ φίλων ἑτάρων δηΐοισι μάχεσθαι, ὡς φάσαν οἵ μιν ἴδοντο πονεύμενον · οὐ γὰρ ἔγωγε ἤντησ’ οὐδὲ ἴδον · περὶ δ’ ἄλλων φασὶ γενέσθαι. [. . .] τοῖος ἔην Τυδεὺς Αἰτώλιος · ἀλλὰ τὸν υἱὸν γείνατο εἷο χέρεια μάχῃ, ἀγορῇ δέ τ’ ἀμείνω. [. . .] Ἀτρεΐδη μὴ ψεύδε’ ἐπιστάμενος σάφα εἰπεῖν · ἡμεῖς τοι πατέρων μέγ’ ἀμείνονες εὐχόμεθ’ εἶναι · ἡμεῖς καὶ Θήβης ἕδος εἵλομεν ἑπταπύλοιο παυρότερον λαὸν ἀγαγόνθ’ ὑπὸ τεῖχος ἄρειον, πειθόμενοι τεράεσσι θεῶν καὶ Ζηνὸς ἀρωγῇ · κεῖνοι δὲ σφετέρῃσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὄλοντο · τὼ μή μοι πατέρας ποθ’ ὁμοίῃ ἔνθεο τιμῇ. Ah me, son of Tydeus, that daring breaker of horses, why are you skulking and spying out the outworks of battle? Such was never Tydeus' way, to lurk in the background, but to fight the enemy far ahead of his own companions. So they say who had seen him at work, since I never saw nor

16 Kirk (1985) 368.

370

375

400

405

410 370

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I encountered him ever; but they say he surpassed all others. [. . .] This was Tydeus, the Aitolian; yet he was father to a son worse than himself at fighting, better in conclave. [. . .] Son of Atreus, do not lie when you know the plain truth. We two claim we are better men by far than our fathers. We did storm the seven-gated foundation of Thebe though we led fewer people beneath a wall that was stronger. We obeyed the signs of the gods and the help Zeus gave us, while those others died of their own headlong stupidity. Therefore, never liken our fathers to us in honour.

375

400

405

410

This passage is very telling for our topic because it contains an explicit reference to the two attacks against Thebes within the span of one generation; the sons keep the memory of their fathers’ behaviour and are ready to comment on it and to become ‘historians’ of what happened before them.17 The myth of the Calydonian boar hunt is evoked by Phoenix in Book 9, when the old tutor of Achilles tells the story of Meleager to try to convince Achilles to let go his wrath. Phoenix is interested in focusing on the parallelism between Meleager and Achilles, because he proposes the story as an apologue (an ainos) from which his pupil should learn to avoid the wrong behaviour of the ancient hero. Meleager retired from the fight in anger and was only persuaded by his wife to rejoin the battle in order to save his city from destruction; but it was too late for him to earn a reward. Achilles, on the contrary, is still in time to gain the compensatory gifts promised by Agamemnon. Phoenix cleverly juxtaposes the present situation (the ‘now’ of the Iliadic scene) with an identic, or very similar, situation of the past (the ‘yesterday’ of the mythical memory), because he expects Achilles to be struck by Meleager’s exemplum.18 The correspondence between Meleager and Achilles is actually imperfect; more than anything, Phoenix must conceal Meleager’s death. However, the audience knows how the myth ends; thus, the story conveys a two-level meaning: on the internal level, that of the characters, it is an ainos; on the external level, that of the audience, it is a premonition (both Patroclus and Achilles will be victims of Achilles’ wrath). What is particularly interesting is that Phoenix introduces the story by presenting it as an ‘ancient’ one (line 527, μέμνημαι τόδε ἔργον ἐγὼ πάλαι, οὔ τι νέον γε – ‘I want to remember this fact, not recent but ancient’): there is

17 Tydeus’ bravery at Thebes is referred to again by Athena herself at Il. 5.800–813. 18 Nagy (1999) 100–106.

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therefore an explicit reference to the chronology of heroic myths, which are not compressed into an undifferentiated and timeless ‘past’. Precisely because of its ‘ancientness’ the story of old hero Meleager has great value and can prove instructive for the heroes of ‘today’ (Iliad 9.524–528): οὕτω καὶ τῶν πρόσθεν ἐπευθόμεθα κλέα ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων, ὅτε κέν τιν’ ἐπιζάφελος χόλος ἵκοι · δωρητοί τε πέλοντο παράρρητοί τ’ ἐπέεσσι. μέμνημαι τόδε ἔργον ἐγὼ πάλαι οὔ τι νέον γε ὡς ἦν · ἐν δ’ ὑμῖν ἐρέω πάντεσσι φίλοισι. Thus it was in the old days also, the deeds that we hear of from the great men, when the swelling anger descended upon them. The heroes would take gifts; they would listen, and be persuaded. For I remember this action of old, it is not a new thing, and how it went; you are all my friends, I will tell it among you.

525

525

Another mention of ancient heroic generations (fathers and grandfathers) occurs in the dialogue between Glaucus and Diomedes in Book 6. As Diomedes asks his competitor to tell his name and his lineage, Glaucus narrates at length the story of his ancestor Bellerophon. Bellerophon is the hero of Corinth: his image, on the back of the winged horse Pegasus, is an unmistakable icon, which appears on Corinthian ceramics and coins already at a very early date. Moreover, Corinth is a ‘recent’ city; its Mycenaean status is very doubtful: in the Bronze Age it must have been a small village, without a palace, and politically subordinated to its most powerful neighbours. Things change radically in the tenth century, after the collapse of the Mycenaean power and the arrival of the Dorians: the Dorians relaunch Corinth, starting the new history of the city, which in the eighth century becomes the most active polis in the colonial movement.19 In the absence of any trace of Mycenaean memory, ‘geometric’ Corinth develops its own epic tradition, which is required for the city’s cultural identity: the poet who takes charge of this is Eumelus. We have only very few fragments of Eumelus’ Korinthiaka; but he can be credited with the ‘transplant’ of the stories of Sisyphus and Bellerophon: he appropriated these Thessalian stories and turned them into the mythical past of Corinth (whose name in Eumelus’ poem was Ephyra).20 This is far from unparalleled: myths transmigrate and can be ‘relocated’ wherever their presence is required. But Corinth is not the arrival point of Bellerophon’s story. The city is the great protagonist of the archaic colonisation:

19 Tagliabue (2009) 99. 20 West (2002) 125.

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Corinthian settlers move to the new foundations in Ionia, to Miletus, Priene, Samos, Colophon and Ephesus. Bellerophon is the ideal model for the Corinthian colonists, because he is a ‘contact hero’: he too crosses the sea and goes to Anatolia and there he obtains his most glorious victories, fighting the Chimaera, the Solymi and the Amazons. Bellerophon, however, cannot enter the Iliad as Agamemnon’s teammate: he belongs to a previous heroic generation; he is too ‘ancient’. But there are his descendants. Glaucus and Sarpedon, who are grandchildren of Bellerophon, fight bravely in the Trojan plain, as allies of Priam and Hector. The feeble Mycenaean legacy of Corinth is thus compensated by the strong presence of the two Lycian heroes. Their Lycia is a mythical land that has nothing to do with historical Lycia (where neither the Mycenaeans nor the Greeks of the archaic age ever set foot), but precisely for this reason it is the ideal land to provide an identity to the two heroes of Corinthian blood: thanks to Glaucus and Sarpedon, Corinth (under the name of Ephyra) features prominently in the Iliad.21 The last lines of Glaucus’ speech are particularly noteworthy: here he traces his lineage, claiming that Bellerophon was the father of his own father Hippolochus. Thus, the heroic career of the splendid champion Bellerophon, to which he has devoted an extensive narrative, becomes the model of his own heroic behaviour.22 Glaucus reconstructs the history of his family, going back in the time step by step, from his generation to the third generation. The verticality of the mythical time is a key point of the whole episode (Iliad 6.196–197, 206–211): ἣ δ’ ἔτεκε τρία τέκνα δαΐφρονι Βελλεροφόντῃ Ἴσανδρόν τε καὶ Ἱππόλοχον καὶ Λαοδάμειαν. [. . .] Ἱππόλοχος δέ μ’ ἔτικτε, καὶ ἐκ τοῦ φημι γενέσθαι · πέμπε δέ μ’ ἐς Τροίην, καί μοι μάλα πόλλ’ ἐπέτελλεν αἰὲν ἀριστεύειν καὶ ὑπείροχον ἔμμεναι ἄλλων, μηδὲ γένος πατέρων αἰσχυνέμεν, οἳ μέγ’ ἄριστοι ἔν τ’ Ἐφύρῃ ἐγένοντο καὶ ἐν Λυκίῃ εὐρείῃ. ταύτης τοι γενεῆς τε καὶ αἵματος εὔχομαι εἶναι. His bride bore three children to valiant Bellerophontes, Isandros and Hippolochos and Laodameia. [. . .] But Hippolochos begot me, and I claim that he is my father; he sent me to Troy, and urged upon me repeated injunctions, to be always among the bravest, and hold my head above others,

21 Tagliabue (2009) 106. 22 Kirk (1990) 187.

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not shaming the generation of my fathers, who were the greatest men in Ephyre and again in wide Lykia. Such is my generation and the blood I claim to be born from.

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The so-called Pylian epos, in Iliad Book 11, is the account of glorious deeds accomplished by Nestor in his youth. It is Nestor himself who tells the story; in line with his usual attitude, the hero regrets not being as strong as he used to be and recalls one of his klea, when at the head of the Pylians he defeated the Eleans in a battle on river Alphaeus after a hugely successful cattle raid. This passage has always attracted scholarly attention.23 It’s a fragment of an old Pylian epic tradition which survived and was incorporated into the Iliad thanks to the important role that Pylian people played in Athens and Ionia in Geometric times;24 as such, it helps reconstruct the composition of the poem. Yet the passage is also important because it shows very well the ‘dialogue’ between past and present in the Homeric way to narrate the heroic myths. Nestor is old, too old: he should not take part in the Trojan War, which is fought by the generation of the ‘children’; nevertheless he is present, miraculously; and his presence allows the recovery of episodes which belong to more ancient myths from Western Peloponnese, featuring very early heroes such as Hercules, Augeas and the Moliones.25 Nestor tells stories that go back in time to the dawn of the heroic age and lives long enough to come to Troy with Agamemnon: as such, he is the perfect trait d’union between the ‘yesterday’ and the ‘today’ of the myth (Iliad 11.689–695, 750–752): ὡς ἡμεῖς παῦροι κεκακωμένοι ἐν Πύλῳ ἦμεν · ἐλθὼν γάρ ῥ’ ἐκάκωσε βίη Ἡρακληείη τῶν προτέρων ἐτέων, κατὰ δ’ ἔκταθεν ὅσσοι ἄριστοι · δώδεκα γὰρ Νηλῆος ἀμύμονος υἱέες ἦμεν · τῶν οἶος λιπόμην, οἳ δ’ ἄλλοι πάντες ὄλοντο. ταῦθ’ ὑπερηφανέοντες Ἐπειοὶ χαλκοχίτωνες ἡμέας ὑβρίζοντες ἀτάσθαλα μηχανόωντο. [. . .] καί νύ κεν Ἀκτορίωνε Μολίονε παῖδ’ ἀλάπαξα, εἰ μή σφωε πατὴρ εὐρὺ κρείων ἐνοσίχθων ἐκ πολέμου ἐσάωσε καλύψας ἠέρι πολλῇ. Since we in Pylos were few and we had been having the worst of it. For Herakles had come in his strength against us and beaten us

23 Brilliant discussion in Vetta (2003). 24 Zanetto (2017) 236. 25 Nobili (2011) 23–70.

690

695 750

690

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in the years before, and all the bravest among us had been killed. For we who were sons of lordly Neleus had been twelve, and now I alone was left of these, and all the others had perished, and grown haughty over this the bronze-armoured Epeians despised and outraged us, and devised wicked actions against us. [. . .] And now I would have killed the young Moliones, scions of Aktor, had not their father who shakes the earth in his wide strength caught them out of the battle, shrouding them in a thick mist.

695 750

To sum up, mythic narration is far from ‘historical’; it is in a way anti-historical, because its perception of time is totally different from that of history: the chronological dimension of myth is remoteness, alterity, vagueness. But myth shares with history the notion of verticality: within the mythical tradition there is a ‘before’ and a ‘later’, and the epic storyteller is aware of this temporal depth: he can therefore ‘historicise’ his narration, thus becoming a ‘historian’ of myth.

Bibliography Ercolani, A. 2006. Omero. Rome. Ercolani, A. 2010. Esiodo. Opere e giorni. Rome. Gentili, B. and Cerri, G. 1983. Storia e biografia nel pensiero antico. Rome. Hainsworth, B. 1993. The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 3: Books 9–12. Cambridge. Hubbard, T.K. 1987. Two Notes on the Myth of Aeacus in Pindar. GRBS 28: 5–22. Kirk, G.S. 1985. The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 1: Books 1–4. Cambridge. Kirk, G.S. 1990. The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 2: Books 5–8. Cambridge. Lattimore, R. 1951. The Iliad of Homer. Chicago. Miller, S.G. 1986. Eros and the Arms of Achilles. AJA 90: 159–170. Nagy, G. 1999. The Best of the Achaeans. Baltimore. Nobili, C. 2011. L’«Inno omerico a Ermes» e le tradizioni locali. Milan. Schein, S.L. 1984. The Mortal Hero. An Introduction to Homer’s Iliad. Berkeley. Tagliabue, A. 2009. L’epos di Corinto e Omero. Acme 57: 87–115. Van Noorden, H. 2015. Playing Hesiod. The ‘Myth of the Races’ in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge. Vetta, M. 2001. Prima di Omero. I luoghi, I cantori, la tradizione. In La civiltà dei Greci. Forme luoghi, contesti, ed. Vetta, M., 19–58. Rome. Vetta, M. 2003. L’epos di Pilo e Omero. Breve storia di una saga regionale. In Ῥυσμός. Studi di poesia, metrica e musica greca offerti dagli allievi a Luigi Enrico Rossi per i suoi settant’anni, ed. Nicolai, R., 13–33. Rome. West, M.L. 2002. Eumelos: A Corinthian Epic Cycle? JHS 122: 109–133. Zanetto, G. 2017. Fighting on the River: The Alpheus and the ‘Pylian Epic’. In Time and Space in Ancient Myth, Religion, and Culture, eds. Bierl, A., Christopoulos, M. and Papachrysostomou, A., 229–238. Berlin. Zanetto, G. 2019. Miti greci, con gli affreschi di Pompei ed Ercolano. Milan.

Constantine Antypas

Authority, Power and Governability in the Odyssey: The Mythical Birth of the Polis Abstract: Is there a government in Ithaca before and after Odysseus’ departure for Troy? How can his lieutenant, Eurylochus, openly disobey his orders? Is Odysseus the commander of the Ithacan flotilla or does he command only his own ship? Why did Odysseus not order the crews of the other eleven ships to moor off the trap port of the Laestrygonians as he did with his own ship? Why does the execution of the suitors by Odysseus seem as a personal revenge, having nothing to do with the punitive reaction of a restored political authority? Finally, what is the kind of authority Odysseus has over the society of Ithaca? We will try to answer these questions, beginning with the two seemingly political titles attributed to Odysseus: anax and basileus.1

Anax In the Homeric epics, the term anax has the quality of an archaism, commonly used in formulae2 as an honorary title for gods, seers, respected persons, noblemen, military leaders, lords of a house, and masters of animals.3 We could understand the term anax as lord, master or owner, but any connotation concerning a high governmental authority is simply occasional. Similar uses of Semitic parallel terms prove that this semantic evolution occurred in many areas of Mesopotamia and Eastern Mediterranean;4 for example, the Assyrian term bēlu, originally meaning ‘ruler’, in literature,5 became an expression of respect.6

1 For a detailed discussion of the Homeric terms ἄναξ and βασιλεύς, see Yamagata (1997). 2 E.g.: The formula ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν Ἀγαμέμνων appears fifty-six times in the Iliad and the Odyssey. 3 Examples for these uses of the term ἄναξ: for a god, Il. 1.36; for a seer, Od. 11.151; for a respectful person, Od. 18.299; for noblemen or lords, Od. 14.59–61; for a head of a house, Od. 1. 397–398; for a master of animals, Il. 16.370–371. 4 West (1997) 546–547. 5 E.g. Gilgamesh, I. 39. 6 Oppenheim (1968) 192–198. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-004

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Basileus The history of the terms basileus, βασιλεύς (for men – plural basileis, βασιλεῖς or basilēes, βασιλῆες) and basileia, βασίλεια (for women) virtually reflects the big picture of the political evolution from the Mycenaean to the Early Archaic period. We assume that the Mycenaean basileus (qa-si-re-u) was a hereditary local official outside the palatial center, a chief magistrate of a small community, perhaps also serving as a priest.7 In the second half of the twelfth century BCE, the major Mycenaean polities disintegrated and the palatial hierarchies disappeared, but the basileis gained glamor and power; their small communities became independent and the basileis remained at the top of the local hierarchy, but now without having to report to any central sovereign (wanax). The upgrade of the status of the basileus had started shortly before the collapse of the Mycenaean palatial authorities: for example, archaeological evidence proves that small independent communities headed by a warlord had emerged in Cephalonia and in Achaea during the twelfth century BCE.8 The excavation in Lefkandi (Euboea) offered valuable information about the status of these warlords or local chiefs in the tenth and ninth centuries BCE: they lived in mansions, distinct from the houses of the commoners, they obtained valuable and, sometimes, antique prestige objects, they controlled the resources from trade and exploited the economic and political capital originating from their supposed divine ancestry.9 But, according to the archaeological findings dating to the tenth and the ninth centuries BCE, no tangible evidence of articulate state organization has been identified in the small polities on the Greek peninsula and the surrounding islands.10 Obviously, the signified of the word basileus continued to evolve, in line with the evolutionary process of social organization, but no trace of these semantic changes could be detected until the emergence of the Greek alphabetic writing: the earliest written evidence for this signified of the term basileus – after the Mycenaean era – is found in Archaic poetry. 7 Carlier (1995); Lenz (1993) 92–104; Carlier (2006); Mazarakis (2006). Examples for the status of Mycenaean βασιλεῖς: inscriptions PY Un 2 and PY Jo 438 (Ventris-Chadwick [1973] 221, 358–359). 8 Deger-Jalkotzy (2006) 173, table 1. 9 Drews (1983); van Wees (1992); Carlier (1995); Weiler (2001); Hall (2014) 71. Excavations in Lefkandi: Popham-Sackett (1968); Kalligas (1984); Popham-Lemos (1996); Coucouzeli (1999); Lemos (2002) 140–146, 161–168. 10 Zagora (Andros), an urban and rich community of the Early Iron Age, is a typical example. For the results of excavations in Zagora, see Cambitoglou et al. (1971); Cambitoglou et al. (1988). For the question of its political organization, see Hansen (2006) 44.

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But, poetry has its own perspective on the world and, in our case, the poet of the Odyssey11 applies an archaizing patina on the narrative and, probably, omits some very recent developments; on the other hand, he surely constructs his fiction on details that were part of the audience’s reality,12 in order to achieve the kēlēthmos (κηληθμός – spell, fascination) of this audience.13 In any case, the realistic elements from the eighth century BCE (if the Odyssey took its fixed written form around that time) were modified to fit into the spirit of the poem. The references to the Heroic Age are more or less the background for the action and are usually expressed by fossilized formulae; probably the Greeks of the Archaic period knew but a few things about the previous two or three centuries, the so-called Dark Age.14 So, our task is to discuss the meaning of the terms basileus – basileia within the strict context of the Odyssey. a. On Ithaca, the terms basileus and basileia have nothing to do with an acting royal or governmental title. Outside Ithaca, the basileis are actual kings: the basileus-king of Sidon,15 the basileus of the Laestrygonians,16 the basileus of the Thesprotians17 and, finally, Alcinous, the king of the Phaeacians; also, the constitutional idiosyncrasy of 13 basileis constitutes the government of the Phaeacian state.18 We must, however, recall that in the Odyssey only the societies of Ithaca and Phaeacia are sufficiently described;19 but even though Phaeacia has the features of an overseas20 Greek colony, founded by relocated refugees,21 we cannot ignore its utopian, almost superhuman political dimension.22 Another ‘society’ sufficiently described in the Odyssey is that of Olympus: Zeus rules through networks of power, successful negotiations, and compliance with obligations; in any case, he “has to negotiate his position among lesser but still influential figures.”23 Zeus acts as a typical human monarch, but in the Odyssey he is never called a

11 We use the words ‘poet of the Odyssey’ conventionally, since the questions on the poet(s) of the Odyssey and its composition are beyond the scope of this chapter. 12 Raaflaub (1997) 647; Hammer (2009) 18. 13 Od. 13.2. 14 Osborne (20092) 51. 15 Od. 4.618. 16 Od. 10.110. 17 Od. 14.316, 19.287. 18 E.g. they impose and collect taxes: Od. 13.14–15. 19 Raaflaub (1997) 629. 20 Hansen (2006) 42. 21 Morgan (2003) 164. 22 Hall (2014) 72–73. 23 Brock (2013) 85.

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basileus: obviously, such a title would not fit the prestige of the father of gods and men. b. The word basileus is often an adjective, with comparative and superlative forms (basileuteros, βασιλεύτερος – basileutatos, βασιλεύτατος).24 As an adjective, it does not designate a specific social position but rather reflects a feeling of respect or reverence towards a person. c. Every nobleman, without exception, may be addressed as basileus.25 It is obvious that the terms anax and basileus designate the high status of Odysseus and his house, but do not make him a king. Of course, Odysseus and his heir have the right to a chair in the assembly of the Ithacans;26 the office of dikaspolos (judge, or better, referee) belongs to the head of the house of Odysseus;27 and finally, the house (oikos) of Odysseus is the noblest on the island.28 However, a negative element is much more prominent: in the Odyssey we cannot find a single reference to the existence of a central government or to an actual ruler of Ithaca. The situation seems more complicated if we consider some anomalous dynastic issues: How did Odysseus succeed Laertes, since there is no hint of an abdication or of a coup d’état? Why did Laertes not play an active political role during the twenty-year absence of his son? Why did Penelope not assume the regency of minor Telemachus, since the institution of female regents was not unknown in Eastern Mediterranean and Mesopotamia?29 There is no answer to these questions, because in the Odyssean Ithaca there is no succession, no dynasty, no kingship, no government, but political vacuum and uncertainty.30 If this is true, which were the claims of the suitors when they decided to invade the house of the supposedly dead Odysseus? What would Penelope’s second spouse gain? The Odyssey leaves no doubt: the unmarried representatives of the noble houses of Ithaca and the surrounding islands had the right to ask Penelope in marriage, seven years after the end of the Trojan war and Odysseus’ disappearance; after the marriage, the household (oikos) of Odysseus would be dissolved, 24 Βασιλεύτερος: Il. 9.160, Od. 15.533; βασιλεύτατος: Il. 9.69. 25 E.g. in the Odyssey, the suitors are called βασιλῆες (Od. 1.394–395, 18.64, 20.222, 24.179). Minor heroes and persons are also called βασιλῆες: Il. 4.338, 13.643, 21.219, 23.631, 23,849. Od. 4.618 = 15.118, 14.316, 14.336, 18.85 = 18.116 = 21.308, 19.287. 26 Od. 2.14. 27 Οd. 11.185–186. 28 Od. 15.533–534. 29 The most famous of these female regents during the ninth century BCE are probably Athaliah of Judah and Sammu-rāmat of Assyria (the legendary Semiramis of Herodotus). 30 Osborne (2006) 212.

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the new husband would take Odysseus’ mansion along with Penelope’s hand and the other suitors would share Odysseus’ property among them; these and no more.31 Therefore, the suitors did not claim a throne of kingship or the leadership of a central government, for the simple reason that these authorities did not exist anymore or did not exist yet. But the political vacuum was still there: if, officially, the suitors had no claims on political authority, their leaders could hardly conceal their ambitions: in Mnesterophonia, the suitor Eurymachus, in his effort to save his life, tries to convince Odysseus with three arguments: a. Antinous, the most disrespectful among the suitors, was to blame for all, mainly for the conspiracy against the life of Telemachus and his secret plot to become king of Ithaca.32 b. Odysseus must spare Eurymachus’ life, because he is one of his subjects (σὺ δὲ φείδεο λαῶν σῶν).33 c. The suitors will recompense Odysseus; they will gather the sum of the compensation by taxing the people (ἀτὰρ ἄμμες ὄπισθεν ἀρεσσάμενοι κατὰ δῆμον).34 There is nothing unnatural in Antinous’ political ambition: the vacuum must be filled and the most prominent of the suitors reasonably wants to take advantage of it and become an autocrat. But two terms used by Eurymachus need more attention: lāos (λαός) and dēmos (δῆμος).

Lāos In the Odyssey, the word lāos (λαός)35 can be understood as ‘folk’,36 ‘crowd’37 or ‘military’.38 Its etymology is not clear, but probably lāos derives from the proto-Indo-European or pre-Greek *leh2-uo- ‘band of people’.39 The phonetic similarity between lāos and lāas (stone) reinforced or created the myth of the

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Od. 16.384–392; Gartziou-Tatti (2014). Od. 22.53–54. Od. 22.54–55. Od. 22.55. For a full discussion on the term lāos, see Haubold (2000). E.g. Od. 2.13. E.g. Od. 2.81. E.g. Od. 9.263. Beekes (2010) 832.

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birth of human beings from stones thrown by Deucalion, after a deluge wiped out humanity.40 In the Archaic epic, the “laoi are never far from the state from which they spring,”41 the inertia of the stone. In any case, inertia is not inactivity and in the Homeric texts lāos plays an important role, even if in the Odyssey this role is overshadowed by the actions of two other social groups interacting with Odysseus: the companions (hetairoi – ἑταῖροι) and the suitors (mnēstēres – μνηστῆρες).42 The word lāos is usually found in similes43 and the Odyssean lāos does not take part in the action, except in two cases: In the first, Odysseus gives an identity to himself and to his companions towards Cyclops: “we are lāoi of Agamemnon.”44 In the second, Eurymachus begs Odysseus: “do not kill me, because I am one of your lāoi.” In both cases, the word lāos designates a bipolar relation in which the most powerful pole has an interest in keeping the weaker pole alive: in the first case, Polyphemus would theoretically provoke the vengeful power of Agamemnon, if his attitude towards the strangers was not proper; in the second, Odysseus will kill a member of his folk, so he will cancel his function as ‘shepherd of the people’ (ποιμὴν λαῶν).45

Dēmos The term dēmos (δῆμος) means ‘land’,46 ‘community’47 or ‘people’.48 The word probably derives from the proto-Indo-European *deh2-mo- (‘people’).49 Dēmos “designates the largest conceivable social unit; beyond its boundaries, there is

40 For early recordings of the myth: Il. 24.611; Hes. fr. 234. 41 Haubold (2000) 43. 42 Haubold (2000) 46. 43 Ποιμὴν λαῶν and ὄρχαμος λαῶν are the most common of these similes. For a full list of the similes including the word λαός in the Homeric epic, see Haubold (2000) appendices A and B, 197–202. 44 Od. 9.263. 45 “The metaphor of the shepherd implies that the chief has the responsibility for ensuring the safety of the people, but imposes no responsibilities or obligations upon the people toward their leader. When the people perish, this is because the leader has failed in his shepherding role,” Osborne (2009b) 120. 46 E.g. Od. 1.103. 47 E.g. Od. 2.239. 48 E.g. Od. 2.366. 49 Beekes (2010) 325.

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no community.”50 Although both lāos and dēmos could be translated in many cases as ‘people’, there is a fundamental semantic difference between them: inertia is not a feature of dēmos; it reacts and provokes reactions. Penelope is afraid that dēmos of Achaean women will blame her, if she misbehaves;51 Mentor accuses dēmos of Ithacans that its attitude towards the house of Odysseus was inappropriate;52 Nausicaa knows that she cannot avoid the gossip of dēmos of Phaeacians, if someone sees her in company with Odysseus.53 More enlightening is the use of the adjective dēmios (δήμιος – ‘belonging to the public’,54 ‘relating to public interest’,55 ‘elected by the people’).56 Dēmios indicates that on Ithaca (and not only there) a dynamic public space does exist. On Ithaca, when Telemachus convenes the assembly of the people, he tries to reconstitute a “public space . . . vacant for twenty years.”57 Athena’s help is crucial for the success of his effort. We will see later how Athena intervenes in the final political actions of her protégés, Odysseus and his son; for now, it is necessary to discuss some functions of the Ithacan public space. Firstly, someone who has such an authority convenes a session of the assembly of dēmos in a specially defined open place called agorē (ἀγορή). In our case, the person who convenes the assembly is Telemachus and his authority comes from inheritance: he is the legal heir of Odysseus. It is not clear who has the right to be a member of the assembly, but it seems that any free adult male member of an oikos (‘household’) on Ithaca could participate in the session. In the assembly, only the elite has the right to speak and the first speaker, a kind of president of the session, is a respectable elder, Aegyptius, who also has the privilege of neutrality: he is a close friend of Odysseus and one of his sons, now devoured by Cyclops, was a companion of Odysseus, but another one of his sons is a member of the group of suitors.58 The question of Aegyptius is perfectly clear: did Telemachus ask the people of Ithaca to gather for a public (dēmios) issue?59 It seems that after the twenty-year political vacuum, dēmos, even indirectly, even through the voice of an old aristocrat, wants to know what is going on. 50 Raaflaub (1997) 629. 51 Od. 2.101. 52 Od. 2.239. 53 Od. 6.273–274. 54 E.g. Od. 20.264. 55 E.g. Od. 3.82. 56 Od. 8.258–259. 57 Hammer (2009) 23. 58 Od. 2.17–22. 59 Od. 2.25–34.

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In two instances, the adjective dēmios is set as an opposite to the adjective idios (ἴδιος – ‘private’).60 It is obvious that the concept of public space is distinct from private interest and well established in the Odyssey.61 In the assembly of Ithacans, dēmos listens and judges silently but nobody asks its opinion – although the members of the elite try to avoid its disapproval. In Phaeacia, this is slightly different: dēmos could elect nine minor officials, the stewards of the games.62 But in both Ithaca and Phaeacia, if the elite want to collect gifts for a special guest or to recompense an offended lord, the way is always the same: dēmos must pay for it.63 The term anax has nothing to do with institutionalized authority; basileus designates only a high social status in Ithaca; the members of laos act as soldiers, want protection by their leader, but never decide; dēmos approves or disapproves, fills the public space, maybe elects the judges of an athletic game, but never expresses its opinion openly. Yet, the society of Ithaca should be organized in some way. In order to comprehend this organization, we must examine the relations connecting persons, families and interest groups; here, the baseline terms are not words expressing a virtual authority like anax or basileus, or words with so broad significance such as lāos and dēmos, but the terms oikos and hetairos, the first signified an actual social unit while the second an actual social alliance.

Oikos The word oikos (οἶκος) derives from the proto-Indo-European root *ueiḱ- or *uoiḱ-, which originally meant a settlement of families linked to each other by consanguinity.64 The Greek Archaic oikos65 was a smaller, but more tight-knit unit. According to the evidence from the Archaic epics, mostly from the Odyssey,

60 Od. 3.82, 4.314. 61 Another political concept which also fundamentally shapes the political space is eunomiē (εὐνομίη) vs hybris (ὕβρις). For a discussion of this concept in the Odyssey, see Raaflaub (2009) 49–50. 62 If the adjective κριτοί in the phrase “αἰσυμνῆται δὲ κριτοὶ ἐννέα πάντες ἀνέσταν δήμιοι” has the meaning of ‘elected’, as we believe. 63 Ihaca: Od. 22.55; Phaeacia: Od. 13.14–15. 64 Pokorny (1959) 1131; Szemerényi (1977) 24 n. 85, 33–34, 96, 100, 151, 195, 205; Chantraine (1968) 782; Benveniste (1969) vol. 1, 293–318; Beekes (2010) 1056. 65 For a discussion about Homeric οἶκος, also see Adrados (1990); Nicolai (1990); Kakridis (1990); Birgalias (2014) 28–32, 161–167.

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the leading nucleus of a noble oikos consists of three generations; the grandparents, the parents and the offspring of the parents; the leader of the oikos is the mature and fully functional male of the second generation: the pattern Laërtes / Anticlea – Odysseus / Penelope – Telemachus is typical of this structure. Groups of servants (oikeis – οἰκεῖς),66 usually bought by the lords of the house,67 live and work around the dominant nucleus. The male oikeis normally work outside the main mansion as farmers or shepherds. Under special circumstances, they could create their own small household68 and, after many years of faithful service, may establish their own oikos, dependent, of course, on the master’s house.69 They report to the master and, under his leadership, they fight against enemy houses.70 The female servants71 work under the direction of the lady of the house, inside the mansion. They produce textiles,72 they store and distribute the aliments,73 and they look after the members of the house74 and the guests.75 Some of the trusted female servants rise to the house hierarchy, as nursemaids76 or chief stewardesses.77 Their commitment to the house also involves sexual loyalty towards the master.78 The guests (xeinoi – ξεῖνοι) enjoy a special status in the oikos. The Homeric term xeinos (ξεῖνος) does not mean simply a person who receives the hospitality; furthermore, the hospitality offered by the host, the xenia (ξενία), is not simply a moral obligation. The relations of xenia create affinity bonds between houses in geographically distinct communities.79 The arrival of a xeinos entails the offer of protection, housing and food from the oikos who offers hospitality; as a matter of fact, the xeinos becomes a member of the hosting house for as

66 Οἰκεύς – οἰκεῖς is a general term for the servants, male or female, of the Homeric οἶκος. The male servants are called also δμῶες (e.g. Il. 19.33, Od. 1.98) ὑποδμῶες – (e.g. Od. 4.386), δρηστῆρες – (e.g. Od. 16.248), ὑποδρηστῆρες (e.g. Od. 15.339). 67 E.g. Od.14.4. 68 Od. 14. 285–286 and 449–451. 69 Od. 21.209–216. 70 Od. 24.492–527. 71 Δμῳαί (e.g.: Il. 6.375, Od. 1.147), δρήστειραι (Od. 10.349, 19.345). 72 E.g. Od. 6.52–53. 73 E.g. Od. 2.343–356. 74 E.g. Od. 1.428–442. 75 E.g. Od. 1.136–140. 76 E.g. τροφὸς Ευρύκλεια (Od. 2.361). 77 E.g. Εὐρυνόμη ταμίη (Od. 16.154). 78 E.g. Od. 22.444–445. 79 E.g. Il. 6.251.

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long as he stays in the community of the latter. An additional obligation of the host is the offer of a gift to his xeinos at the time of his departure. The institution of xenia, with its complex ritual and its reciprocal obligations, extends the influence of the house in other remote communities and enables an amical and secure intercommunity exchange of goods and information, in an era when travel was definitely a dangerous enterprise.80 Inside the community, a powerful house, like this of Odysseus, can build a patronage structure comprising houses of lower rank relatives (etai – ἔται, singular etēs – ἔτης) and dependent or collaborating houses (hetairoi – ἑταῖροι, singular hetairos – ἑταῖρος). Both words derive from proto-Indo-European roots belonging to neighboring semantic fields: etēs from *sue-t- (‘own, relative’) and hetairos from the reflexive pronoun *se- (thus is cognate with the Greek pronoun he [ἕ, ἑ], the Latin se, or the modern English self).81 The management of material assets is another issue of major concern. The mansion of the lords is the vital center of the oikos. Outside the mansion, the production units consist of farmlands82 and animal pounds,83 along with rural cottages.84 Ingots of metal, valuable textiles and precious artifacts (keimēlia – κειμήλια) are kept in a warehouse inside the main mansion.85 The possession of keimēlia is necessary for the procedure of xenia: the hosting lord (xeinodokos – ξεινοδόκος) offers one or more of these valuable objects as a hospitality gift to his xeinos, expecting a gift of equal value when the roles host – xeinos will be reversed.86 The livestock (probatα – πρόβατα or probasis – πρόβασις) is the moving capital of the house.87 Finally, an essential asset consists of decay-resisting edible goods: wine, olive oil and cereals.88 The old wine is a prestige symbol, but the stored olive oil and cereals could be used for purposes of patronage strategies: a portion of them could be distributed or lent, in order to strengthen the attachment of the ally or subordinated houses to the leading one.

80 For the economic importance of the gift exchange in the Homeric and pre-monetary societies: Mauss (1970); Finley (1977) 49–66, 120–123; Cheal (1988); Hooker (1989); Donlan (1997); Kristiansen (1998) ch. 6. 81 Chantraine (1968) 381; Beekes (2010) 473. 82 E.g. Od. 1.190. 83 E.g. Od. 14.5–17. 84 E.g. Od. 24.208. 85 E.g. Od. 1.99–108. 86 E.g. Od. 1.316–18. 87 E.g. Od. 14.96–104. For the meaning of the terms κειμήλιον, πρόβατον and πρόβασις: Benveniste (1969) vol. 1, 37. 88 E.g. Od. 2.339–342 and 354–355.

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The Odyssean noble house is a highly organized and coherently hierarchized social unit; it produces its own aliments and goods (usually creating a surplus), it can defend itself with an armed force, it attempts to extend its influence inside its own community by patronage bonds (etai – hetairoi) or outside its own community by cooperation with other powerful houses (xenoi).

The Hetairoi In the Odyssey, the word hetairos (ἑταῖρος) appears 162 times: 144 times in the plural and only 18 in the singular. This overwhelming use of the plural indicates that hetairoi constitute a collectivity tied with its leader not only with bonds of personal relation of friendship or submission, but with more sophisticated social connections. The hetairoi are positively qualified (as noble, divine or brave ones) when they follow the decisions of the leader,89 but they are vilified as villain or coward90 when they disobey his orders and make their own decisions. On the other hand, the leader is responsible for the welfare and the safety of the hetairoi; for example, Odysseus must secure their return home after the end of the Trojan War: in the lands of the Ciconians and the Lotuseaters, in Cyclops’ cave, on Circe’s island, in the strait of Scylla and Charybdis, Odysseus succeeds to save them, even with some inevitable losses. The total loss of the Odysseus’ hetairoi resulted from their disdain towards the advice of their leader: they opened the bag of winds;91 they moored inside the strange harbor of Laestrygonians and did not follow the example of Odysseus who preferred to stay outside this trap port;92 and finally, they provoked their capital punishment by devouring the immortal cattle of Helios.93 How could they so openly disobey? I think the answer is obvious: they do not have to obey, because the concept of a fleet commander, even the very concept of a fleet, does not exist in the Odyssey;94 otherwise, Odysseus would order or at least advise the crews of the other eleven ships to avoid the fatal entrance into the Laestrygonian port.

89 E.g. ἀντίθεοι, Od. 4.571; ἄριστοι, Od. 9.195; ἐρίηροι, Od. 9.100; ἐυκνήμιδες, Od. 9.60; ἴφθιμοι, Od. 20.20; πιστοί, Od. 14.100; φίλοι, Od. 9.63. 90 E.g. δειλοί, Od. 9.65; κακοί, Od. 8.68; λυγροί, Οd. 9.454. 91 Od. 10.34–47. 92 Od. 10.91–96. 93 Od. 12.339–365. 94 Antypas (2019) 372–378.

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The hetairoi of Odysseus remain nameless, with only a few exceptions like Polites, Elpenor, and Eurylochus. The behavior of Eurylochus offers some very enlightening hints: he is the lieutenant of Odysseus95 not by reason of his skills or his abilities, but because of affinity from marriage: he is the husband of Ctimene, Odysseus’ sister;96 he constantly undermines the leadership of Odysseus and, in the end, in Thrinakia, despises the advice of his leader and urges the remaining hetairoi to commit a major and fatal crime: to feast with the meat of the immortal cattle.97 In the patrilocal society of Ithaca, Ctimene is no longer a member of Odysseus’ house, but of Eurylochus’ house; thus, the appointment of Eurylochus as lieutenant indicates a strategy of alliance between houses, although the undermining of Odysseus’ leadership by his brother-in-law indicates, in turn, a kind of competition for the control of this interconnected web of houses. There is another group of hetairoi, who remained on Ithaca and did not follow Odysseus to the war: Mentor, Antiphus, and Halitherses. Telemachus calls them ‘paternal hetairoi’98 and this raises another question: why did they not join Odysseus’ expedition twenty years ago? The complaint of the suitor Leocritus that these ‘paternal hetairoi’ encouraged Telemachus to sail for Peloponnese to collect information about the fate of his father99 and, on the other hand, the straightforward statement that Odysseus himself had entrusted Mentor the guardianship of his house100 lead to the hypothesis that these three persons stayed back home in order to advocate the interest of Odysseus’ house. If there is no option or any concept of a central government in Ithaca, then Odysseus is not exactly a king, but a very respectful and powerful lord, head of a very respectful and powerful house, or more precisely, of a web of houses connected by bonds of patronage. This web of houses offered almost all of its resources in ships and warriors to the expedition in Troy. The absence of Odysseus and his supporters gave other noblemen the opportunity to invade his house, plunder his goods, exploit the services of his maids and, most importantly, threaten the very existence of the house conspiring against the life of Telemachus, the only heir and successor. The three remaining hetairoi of Odysseus could not resist this bold invasion: the correlation of forces was not favorable and would remain unfavorable even after the execution of 108 suitors by Odysseus and his few men.

95 Od. 10.205. 96 Schol. Od. 10.441. 97 Od. 12.340–351. 98 Od. 17.69. 99 Od. 2.253–254. 100 Od. 2.225–227.

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The Mythical Birth of a Polis The Odyssey is a poem and must be read as poem despite the fact that its fiction gets constructed on a frame of mythicized realistic elements from many different times and many different places.101 Our purpose in the last section of this chapter is not to strip the realistic elements from their mythical attire, but to reconstruct, as far as possible, the Odyssean political myth of the society of Ithaca. So . . . Once upon a time, there was an island named Ithaca. On this island there was a town. Odysseus was the lord of the town, a real father of his people and a great leader of his soldiers. The departure of Odysseus and his faithful men for a war far away, in the land of Troy, had a fatal effect on Ithaca: nobody was in charge of the city and even the word basileus lost its meaning: it no longer meant a king, but simply a person of the elite. Seventeen years had passed since Odysseus and his army left Ithaca, and a new generation of aristocrats had developed on the island. These men, taking advantage of the power vacuum, decided to invade Odysseus’ household as suitors of his supposedly widow. Most of them had no political aspirations: they just wanted to marry Penelope and divide among them the property of Odysseus’ household. But one suitor, Antinous, had hidden thoughts: he wanted to impose his own power on Ithaca and become a king. Though there was not an articulated state authority in the acephalous society of Ithaca, a number of hierarchical and powerful entities, the oikoi, operated in it and tried to gain influence and preponderance by constructing a web of alliance with other, lesser, oikoi and a connection with oikoi in other societies. From another standpoint, something new is generated on Ithaca. An embryonic polis has already taken shape inside the womb of this society: a community, an assembly of people, an urban center and its hinterland, a meeting place did exist; but the political institutions that are the prerequisites for the transmutation of a society into polis had not been created: the community – commoners and elites – was not yet a community of citizens, the assembly was gathering and listening but could not discuss, vote and decide; also, there was no mention of official authorities.

101 For example: The first written text of the Odyssey is probably a product of the eighth century BCE, but Odysseus has the qualities of an explorer hero of the Bronze Age (KristiansenLarson [2005]); on the other hand, the connections between Homeric epics and similar Eastern Mediterranean and Mesopotamian literary genres are sufficiently proven (West [1997]; Haubold [2002]; Bachvarova [2005]).

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Suddenly, Odysseus, the vanished king, re-appeared on the island, having lost all his comrades not because of his incompetence but because of their major errors. Disguised as a beggar, he tried to assess the situation and calculate the correlation of forces before acting. He was not alone. First, a divine power, the goddess Athena, was at his side; secondly, his son and a handful of servants were willing to help him. Odysseus’ plan was not the restoration of his old authority: this was impossible, because almost all the supporters of Odysseus’ fraction on the island had embarked with him for Troy and perished in a world of Others, populated by monsters, witches and strange creatures; the few of his supporters he purposely left behind on Ithaca, in order to protect his household and his interests, were now old and, although respectable, their power was insignificant after twenty years of political uncertainty. Odysseus’ first move was to take control of his own household; after all, on Ithaca, noble households, like that of Odysseus, were the only fully hierarchical organized social entities, the only units having important military and economic power. So, Odysseus wanted to regain his household for a start. He and his men managed, with Athena’s help, to exterminate all those who plotted against his household. Of course, this was an act of revenge and after the murder of the suitors, only the moral order was restored; the political issue remained unsolved. The society of Ithaca was doomed to self-destruct. The armed forces of the house of Odysseus – that is to say, the twelve remaining males102 – had to confront several of the suitors’ houses. The majority of the noblemen decided to stay neutral but no other house was arrayed with Odysseus for the upcoming battle. Athena intervened once again – and, maybe, this was her most peculiar act in the Odyssey: in the 24th and last Book of the epic, the goddess no longer supports explicitly her beloved Odysseus. She stood in the middle and tried to reconcile the two fighting fractions. She had probably seen what the human eye could not see: the fetus of the polis. The society, without an articulated state structure, could not survive: either the houses would reconcile themselves constructing a coherent polity, or the community would self-destruct in a civil war; either the independent webs of power, hierarchy and contacts would gather together in order to build a state entity, a polis, or the houses would decline and decay by controversies. Of course, in the 24th Book there is no question regarding citizens and their society, self-governing or institutions. The poet did not know what was going to happen next. He only knew that a novel polity was about to be born and should

102 Od. 24.497.

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be born. In the last verses of the Odyssey, Athena’s peacekeeping intervention, after the first skirmish between Odysseus and his opponents, seems like a wish, like a step towards a political future still unknown; therefore, the poet decides to stay silent.

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Hansen, M.H. 2006. Polis. An Introduction to the Ancient Greek City-State. Oxford. Haubold, J. 2000. Homer’s People. Epic Poetry and Social Formation. Cambridge. Haubold, J. 2002. Greek Epic: A Near Eastern Genre? PCPhS 48: 1–19. Hooker, J.T. 1989. Gifts in Homer. BICS 36: 79–90. Kakridis (Κακριδής), I.F. 1990: Ο Ομηρικός Οίκος σε Σχέση με την Ειρήνη και τον Πόλεμο. In Ο Ομηρικός Οίκος, aπό τα Πρακτικά του Ε’ Συνεδρίου για την Οδύσσεια (11–14 Σεπτεμβρίου 1987), ed. Παΐζη-Αποστολοπούλου, Μ., 149–158. Ithaca. Kalligas, P.G. 1984. Ανασκαφές στο Λευκαντί Εύβοιας 1981–1984, 1984–1985. Αρχείον Ευβοϊκών Μελετών 26: 253–269. Kristiansen, K. 1998. Europe before History. Cambridge. Kristiansen, K. and Larsson, T.B. 2005. The Rise of Bronze Age Society. Travels, Transmissions and Transformations. Cambridge. Lemos, I.S. 2002. The Protogeometric Aegean: The Archaeology of the Late Eleventh and Tenth Centuries BC. Oxford. Lenz, J.R. 1993. Kings and the Ideology of Kingship in Early Greece (c. 1200-700 B.C.): Epic, Archaeology and History. (Ph.D. Diss. Columbia University). Lévy, E. 1983. Astu et polis dans l’Iliade. Ktema 8: 55–73. Luce, J.V. 1978. The “Polis” in Homer and Hesiod. PRIA 78: 1–15. Mauss, M. 1970. The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies. London. Mazarakis-Ainian, A. 2006. The Archaeology of Basileis. In Ancient Greece: From the Mycenaean Palaces to the Age of Homer, eds. Deger-Jalkotzy, S. and Lemos, I.S., 181–212. Edinburgh. Morgan, C. 2003. Early Greek States beyond the Polis. London. Nicolai, W. 1990. Zur Bedeutung of Oikos – Gedankens im homerischen Epos. In Ο Ομηρικός Οίκος, από τα Πρακτικά του Ε’ Συνεδρίου για την Οδύσσεια (11–14 Σεπτεμβρίου 1987), ed. Παΐζη-Αποστολοπούλου, Μ., 29–40. Ithaca. Oppenheim, A.L. (ed.) 1968. The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, vol. 2. Chicago. Osborne, R. 2006. Homer’s Society. In The Cambridge Companion to Homer, ed. Fowler, R., 206–219. Cambridge. Osborne, R. 2009. The Religious Context of Ancient Political Thought. In A Companion to Greek and Roman Political Thought, ed. Balot, R.K., 118–130. Malden, MA. Osborne, R. 20092. Greece in the Making 1200-479 BC. London. Pokorny, J. 1959. Indogermanisches etymologisches Wörterbuch. Bern. (Digital edition: http:// www.utexas.edu/cola/centers/lrc, accessed 20. 02.2021). Popham, M.R. and Lemos, I.S. 1996. Lefkandi III, The Toumba Cemetery. The Excavations of 1981, 1984, 1986 and 1992–4. Athens. Popham, M.R. and Sacket, L.H. 1968. Excavations at Lefkandi, Euboea 1964–66: A Preliminary Report. London. Raaflaub, K. 1997. Homeric Society. In A new Companion to Homer, eds. Powell, B.B. and Morris, I., 624–648. Leiden. Raaflaub, K. 2009. Early Greek Political Thought in its Mediterranean Context. In A Companion to Greek and Roman Political Thought, ed. Balot, R.K., 47–48. Malden, MA. Scully, S. 1981. The Polis in Homer: A Definition and Interpretation. Ramus 10.1: 1–34. Szemerényi, Ο. 1977. Studies in the Kinship Terminology of the Indo-European Languages. Teheran.

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van Wees, H. 1992. Status Warriors: War, Violence and Society in Homer and History. Amsterdam. Ventris, M. and Chadwick, J. 19732. Documents in Mycenaean Greek. Cambridge. West, M.L. 1997. The East Face of Helicon. Oxford. Weiler, G. 2001. Domos Theiou Basileos: Herrschaftsformen und Herrschaftsarchitektur in den Siedlungen der Dark Ages. Munich. Yamagata, N. 1997. ἄναξ and βασιλεύς in Homer. CQ 47.1: 1–14.

Part II: Lyric Poetry

Vasiliki Kousoulini

Domestic and Political Order in the ‘Foundation Myths’ of Partheneia Abstract: Foundation myths contain narratives of the recent history of their poleis and play an important role in the dynamics of identity construction and the negotiation of diplomatic relationships between communities. They often appear in ancient Greek literature in different poetic genres, including choral poetry. In this chapter, I focus on how partheneia could incorporate narratives of the origins of a city. Fragments of partheneia, a rather elusive genre, seem to contain myths dealing with violence between men and the abduction and/or rape of women. This chapter aims to demonstrate that in the existing fragmentary corpus of partheneia we can discover traces of myths that contain the history of the origins of many Greek cities. In these myths, it is implied that the domestic and political order are closely interwoven.

Introduction During antiquity, myth and history had a complex and nuanced relationship.1 It is attractive for a contemporary scholar to examine whether or not Greek lyric poetry contains traces of the political and military history of a Greek polis, or, in other words, whether Greek lyric poetry could have played any part during the early stage of the development of Greek historiography.2 In this chapter, I focus on the foundation myths encountered in the extremely fragmentary corpus of partheneia. My approach takes as a premise that the foundation myths encountered in partheneia are – to some extent – social 1 See, for example, Calame (2003) 1–8; Brillante (2014) 93–112. See also the Preface to the present volume for further discussion. 2 There have been many other attempts. See e.g. Dougherty (1994); Bowie (2001); (2010); (2012). There are also many readings of early Greek choral poetry that situate it with history (see e.g. Duchemin [1970]; Gostoli [1999]; Athanassaki [2003]; Franzen [2009]; Foster [2013]; Morgan [2015]). Note: This research is co-financed by Greece and the European Union (European Social FundESF) through the Operational Programme ‘Human Resources Development, Education and Lifelong Learning’ in the context of the project ‘Reinforcement of Postdoctoral Researchers – 2nd Cycle’ (MIS-5033021), implemented by the State Scholarships Foundation. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-005

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and literary constructs, or that they should be situated in the time in which these songs were composed and circulated.3 More specifically, I suggest that the composers of partheneia altered well-known myths in order not only to relate them to their contemporary political reality, but mostly to situate them within the foundation history of their poleis.4

The Corpus of Partheneia The detection of foundation myths in existing partheneia is a difficult endeavor and not only because of their fragmentary condition. During the time of their composition, partheneia were not a well-defined lyric genre and consequently did not have very strict compositional rules.5 For the purposes of this chapter, I consider that the corpus of partheneia consists of the majority of Alcman’s fragments and the compositions of women poets such as Telesilla.6 I also regard Corinna as having composed poems for choruses of young women, but I agree with many contemporary scholars who regard her as a Hellenistic poet.7 Even though partheneia did not seem to have

3 In this regard, my reading of Greek myth is influenced by structuralistic approaches (see e.g. Lévi-Strauss [1963]; [1978]; Vernant [1988]) and by some of the semiotic approaches (see Calame [1990a, b]; [2003]; [2009]), but does not follow them closely. 4 I read the alterations in well-known myths as politically motivated. See on this also Calame (2009) 4–5; Brillante (2014) 91–112. 5 On partheneia as a genre, see Calame (1983a), 149–176; (1997) 3, 88; Klinck (2008) 24–25; see Swift (2010) 174–175, 185; Kousoulini (2019) 5–8, 52–55. 6 Pindar was a composer of partheneia according to the ancient tradition (see Pind. Vita Ambrosiana; Schol. Ar., Ach. 720; Schol. Theoc. 2.10; Ps-Plut. De mus. 1136 f; Anecd. Ox. 3.189. 24–30 Cramer). Some of his partheneia survive, but nothing of the mythical part does, if there was any. On Pindar’s partheneia, see Sbordone (1940) 30; Webster (1970) 97–98; Lehnus (1984); Calame (1997) 60–61. I have to underline that both Telesilla and Praxilla have been regarded by modern scholars as composers of partheneia (see Smyth [1963] cxxxii; Webster [1970] 97; Calame [1983a] 174; McIntosh-Snyder [1989] 60). Anacreon and Simonides have been credited by the ancient tradition as composers of partheneia (Anacreon is considered a composer of partheneia by Athenaeus [13.600d-e] and Lucian [Ver. Hist. 2.15]). Simonides is considered to have composed partheneia according to Ps-Plutarch (De mus. 1136 f), but almost nothing survives. For Anacreon’s and Simonides’ partheneia, see Calame (1983a) 174–175 with more bibliography; Kousoulini (2019) 64–67. 7 There has been much debate regarding Corinna’s date. The dominant view is the third century BC (see Page [1953] 65; Segal [1975] 6–7; West [1990] 553; Kousoulini [2016] 107–110), although there are arguments against this date. The most serious argument in favor of an earlier date (no later than the fourth century) cites Tatian’s attribution of a statue of Corinna to

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had strict compositional rules, at least judging from Alcman’s partheneia, we can be certain that they did contain a mythical part. I suggest that the myths narrated in partheneia were primarily foundation myths.

Foundation Myths in Partheneia Foundation myths are accounts of the development of cities and nations. They describe the origins of a ritual or the founding of a city presented as a genealogy. More specifically, they have as a premise that the creation of a city is a human achievement.8 The creation of a city in foundation myths is, usually, attributed to a hero. This hero is often the mythical ancestor of a royal dynasty. The hero enters into conflict with wild, untamed forces that prevent civilization. He eventually exercises control over them and, by mixing with local women, he creates a long line of royal descendants.9 The role of women is vital in many foundation myths.10 Male competition and conflict over them lead to the foundation of the existing political order. The death of the male hero usually leads to the creation of a hero cult.11 Royal dynasties encourage his worship, and young members of a polis adopt him as the model of the future citizen they wish to become.12

Silanion. See Steward (1998) 271–282; Schachter (2005) 275–283. This attribution, however, has also been disputed (see Kalkmann [1987] 489–524; Plant [2004] 92; Fuchs [2010] 12–22). Palumbo Stracca believes that Corinna lived during the fifth century (see Palumbo Stracca [1993] 411–412). 8 Foundation myths or narratives are embedded in different genres during the archaic and classical times. See Dougherty (1994); Hall (2008) 402. Their narrative patterns, metaphors and language are informed by aspects of contemporary culture. See on this Dougherty (1993) 15. On foundation myths and narratives in the ancient world, see also the contributions in McSweeney (2015). 9 For a summary of the most common foundational activities encountered in Greek literature, see Malkin (1987); Dougherty (1993). 10 See Dougherty (1993) 60–76. For the similarities between the process of colonization and marriage, see Pl. Leg. 776a-b. For examples of marriages in foundation narratives, see Ion of Chios’ description of Poseidon’s affair with the nymph Chios (Paus. Description of Greece 7.4.8), Poseidon and Ascra (Paus. Description of Greece 9.29.1), Zeus with Thebes and Aegina in Pindar’s Isthm. 8.16–23. For the strong geopolitical aspect of genealogical accounts, see Calame (2009) 119–122. 11 See Malkin (1987) 193–194. Examples of hero-cult of an oikist can be found in ancient Greek literature (see, for example, Pindar Pyth. 5.93–97 for Battos’ cult in Cyrene and Thucydides (5.11.1) for Brasidas’ cult in Amphipolis). Hero-cult is often the cause of ‘localizing’ Panhellenic myth. See on this Currie (2005) 56; Nagy (2005) 80–81, 107, 113; Nagy (2012) 34–35, 38, 47. 12 See especially Calame (1990a).

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Foundation myths were told across the ancient world in many different ways, and they appeared in literature in different poetic genres, but choral poetry, in particular, provided an excellent civic performative context, well suited to the ongoing reenactment and public negotiation of the story of a city’s origins and the construction of civic identity.13 In the case of partheneia, the performance of a choral song by a group of maidens was part of a ritual; thus, partheneia provided an excellent opportunity for the narration of a foundation myth of local interest.14 Aristophanes seems to regard partheneia as a genre that could incorporate narratives of the origins of a city.15 Partheneia as ritual songs are connected to the ritual aspect of foundation myths; their mythical part provides an aition for the worship of a local hero by the community for which the partheneion was composed.16 These choral songs also serve educational purposes, as many scholars have suggested;17 that is, the preparation for the performance of a partheneion involved deliberate instruction and was a significant element in the education of young women in many ancient Greek communities. Their myths could also function as an example for the rest of the community, especially for the young male members of that community, as it is highly possible that partheneia were, in most cases, performed in front of the whole city.18 ‘Foundation myths’ could have formed part of the education of these young people. 13 See Dougherty (1993) 84; Gould (2001); Bowie (2012) 56–57. According to Burkert, ancient Greek rituals were bound to prominent local groups and hence to specific localities (see Burkert [1983] 83). 14 For the use of epichoric myths or myths with an epichoric twist in partheneia, see Page (1953) 82–83; West (1970) 283; West (1990) 553–557; Robbins (1994) 13; Gerber (1997) 215–216; Bowie (2011); D’Alessio (2005) 238 n. 83. See for a different view Collins (2006) 19–32; Berman (2010) 41–62; Vergados (2012) 109–110. For the Panhellenic elements of Alcman’s partheneia, see Carey (2011) 44 and for Corinna’s see Kousoulini (2016). 15 See Ar. Av. 917–919. On this issue, see also Dougherty (1993) 84. 16 As it regards the relationship between myth and ritual, I follow Calame who believes that myth and ritual become similar expressions of the one and same symbolic process in society. In his opinion, both have to be understood as texts with specific signs which function as symbols for constitutive features of society and its ideology. In linguistic terms, myth and ritual are symbolic expressions; the relation between signifier in the mythological legend and signified in the cult is not congruent but arbitrary based on partial contiguity and has to be understood as a metonymy or metaphor. See Calame (1990b) 9–15. 17 For the strong educational aspect of partheneia, see Calame (1997) 221–231; Bierl (2011) 416–417, with more bibliography; Ingalls (2000); Too (1997) 14–17. 18 See Bowman (2004) 10, 12–14. Stehle is also of the opinion that Alcman’s partheneia must have been performed in front of the whole community and not in the presence of an all-female audience (see Stehle [1997] 73–93). There are also intratextual indications that the performance of fr. 3 PMGF was public (3.8 PMGF). On the latter, see also De Martino (1996) 168; Peponi (2007); Calame (1983b) 313, 414.

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Fragments of partheneia seem to contain myths dealing with violence between men, abduction and/or rape of women, as other scholars have noted.19 More specifically, they seem to contain different versions of the well-known scenario of the abduction of a beautiful maiden by a god or hero.20 These myths have a similar structure and are focused on conflicts over women. These women are either abducted and reclaimed by male heroes who are the mythical ancestors of the ruling dynasties of ancient Greek cities, or they are taken by a god who bears great significance for this particular community and by mixing with him they create a series of descendants. In this sense, the stories of the abducted women who procreate with a god or a local hero are ‘foundation myths’ for these communities. Female beauty provokes uncontrolled male desire and creates, as a result, the violation of domestic order. Women are taken without the permission of their male relatives. The sanctioned circulation of women, which is one of the elementary means by which social groups are bound to each other in order to constitute lasting societies, is prevented.21 This is also how the political order is violated.22 In partheneia, mythical heroes bring an end to this violation usually by retrieving the abducted girls. The alternative is that the young woman becomes the mother of demigods and her male relatives are somehow compensated. In this way, political order is also reconstituted.

The Texts Alcman’s 1 PMGF, saved on papyrus Louvre E 3320, contains elements of a once more substantial mythical part of a partheneion. Unfortunately, the papyrus is heavily mutilated. In the opening lines, the chorus of maidens seems to 19 See Too (1997) 12–27. 20 This is a traditional story-pattern that is often encountered in archaic epic and lyric poetry. Abductions of beautiful maidens, sometimes when they perform a choral song, are depicted in ancient Greek literature (e.g. H. Hymn Dem. II.15–25; H. Hymn Aphr. V.117–130). In the Iliad (16.179–192). Hermes sleeps with Polymele after watching her dance. See on this issue Calame (1997) 72–73; Bathrellou (2012) 174–178; Budelmann (2015) 267, 278, 285, 289–290. See also Calame (1999) 66–68, with more bibliography and Topper (2007) 82–85 for the iconographic evidence. 21 Women within Greek culture are like commodities to be traded among male agents. See, for example, the approaches of Wohl (1998); Lyons (2012). 22 Too also notices the parallels between the erotic violence of the myths narrated in partheneia and the emphasis on transgressions. According to her, this suggests that these myths are to be viewed as representative of a society that displays order and respect for authority. See Too (1997) 16–17.

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narrate two different myths. The theme of the first myth is the conflict between Hercules and the sons of Hippocoon. The myth of Hippocoon is well known from other sources.23 Hippocoon became king of Sparta upon the death of his father and he exiled his brothers. He fathered many sons, with Enarsphorus being the best-known, because of his uncontrolled desire for young Helen (Plut. Th. 31.1). According to the ancient sources, Hercules became Hippocoon’s enemy and chose to march on Sparta gaining assistance from Cepheus and his sons. The war between the army of Hercules and the Spartans was a fierce one, but the hero managed to prevail. With the throne of Sparta now vacant after the death of Hippocoon, Hercules placed Tyndareus upon it. A version or a part of this myth is located in lines 1–21 of Alcman’s 1 PMGF:   ] Πωλυδεύκης· οὐκ ἐγὼ]ν Λύκαισον ἐν καμοῦσιν ἀλέγω    Ἐνα]ρσφόρον τε καὶ Σέβρον ποδώκη       ]ν τε τὸν βιατὰν   ]. τε τὸν κορυστὰν Εὐτείχη] τε Ϝάνακτά τ’ Ἀρήιον      ]ά τ’ ἔξοχον ἡμισίων· καὶ     ]ν τὸν ἀγρέταν      ] μέγαν Εὔρυτόν τε Ἄρεος ἂν] πώρω κλόνον  Ἀλκωνά] τε τὼς ἀρίστως οὐδ’ ἁμῶς] παρήσομες· κράτησε γ]αρ Αἶσα παντῶν καὶ Πόρος] γεραιτάτοι, λύθη δ’ ἀπ]έδιλος ἀλκὰ. μή τις ἀνθ]ρώπων ἐς ὠρανὸν ποτήσθω μηδὲ πη]ρήτω γαμῆν τὰν Ἀφροδίταν Κυπριάν Ϝ]άν[α]σσαν ἤ τιν’        ] ἢ παίδα Πόρκω εἰναλίω· Χά]ριτες δὲ Διὸς δόμον ἀμφιέπου]σιν ἐρογλεφάροι·

5

10

15

20

Pollux: I do not reckon Lycaethus among the dead but Enarsphorus and swift-footed Sebrus and . . . the violent and . . . the helmeted and Euteiches and lord Areius and . . . outstanding among demigods; and great . . ., gatherer (of the army), and Eurytus in the hurly-burly (of blind Ares?) and Alcon, finest warriors, we shall by no means pass over: Fate and Poros, those ancient ones, conquered them all, and their valour which was without foundation collapsed.

23 For example, from ps.-Apollodorus Bibl. 3.10; Diod. Sic. Bibl. Hist. 4.33.5; Hyg. Fab. 10, 14.4; Paus. Description of Greece 3.14.6, 3.15.1.

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Let no man fly to heaven or attempt to marry Aphrodite, the (Cyprian) queen, nor some . . . nor a daughter of Porcus (of the sea) . . . ; it is the Graces with love in their eyes who (frequent?) the house of Zeus.24

The text speaks of Pollux, one of the Dioscuri. It also mentions some of the names of the sons of Hippocoon and their ill fate. Their evil deeds have to do with the transgression of human limits (lines 15–21). Nonetheless, the Hippocoontids are described by the use of epic epithets, which attest to their braveness and their martial valor: Sebrus is swift-footed, someone is ferocious, another has a great helmet, Areius is a nobleman, someone else is outstanding among the demigods, another is great and a gatherer of the army; all of them are fine warriors (lines 3–11). The Hippocoontids were heroes of the Spartan pantheon. Even in this context, they are not completely villainized. Nonetheless, Alcman aims to show that their valor has limits.25 The sons of Hippocoon have taken in this version of the myth the part of the transgressors who are eventually brought to justice. The Dioscuri are, probably, depicted as fighting at the side of Hercules.26 Regrettably, the name of Hercules does not appear in the text. Nonetheless, it is possible that Hercules was mentioned in this partheneion. Alcman also refers to Lycaethus, who is identified in the scholia as a son of Derites, and who was, like Oebalus, a son of Amyclas creating a most complex state of affairs within the text.27 As Davison rightly stresses, the mention of the son (or sons) of Derites and most of all, the sons of Tyndareus with Pollux may point to a greater emphasis on internal strife between various Spartan heroes.28 Alcman also mentioned other mythical figures who were traditionally involved in this fight in other fragments, such as Cepheus (74 PMGF) and Perieres (79 PMGF). The conflict between Castor and Pollux and the sons of Hippocoon was probably over women.29 This is reinforced not only by extratextual evidence

24 I follow the text and the translation of Campbell (1988). 25 See Ferrari (2008) 22; Luginbill (2009) 33. According to Page, the standing of the Hippocoontids in Laconian history demanded their respectful treatment (see Page [1951] 31). Calame underlines that the Hippocoontids have their cult in Sparta and are important for the Spartan community. See Calame (1983a) 53–55. 26 See Calame (1983b) 313. For the Hippocoontids as erotic rivals (ἀντιμνηστῆρες) of the Dioscuri, see Sch. Clem. Alex. Protr. 2.30.5. 27 See Ferrari (2008) 22. 28 Davison argues that the mention of several different branches of the Spartan heroic pantheon is an indication that Alcman draw material from a local twist of this myth, possibly with the intention to emphasize the internal strife among Spartan royalty. See on this Davison (1968) 441–443. 29 See Davison (1968) 444; Calame (1983a) 52–59; Robbins (1994) 12–13; Too (1997) 12–13; Ingalls (2000) 7, 11; Luginbill (2009) 32–33; Lardinois (2011) 169.

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but also by intratextual clues. It is not only that the Enarsphorus mentioned in line 3, according to Plutarch (Thes. 31.1), attempted to abduct Helen when she was still a child;30 more specifically, the relevance to the gnome that follows in lines 16–21 is a powerful indication that the version that Alcman chose had to do with erotic violence. Alcman, in lines 22–35, is likely to refer to the Gigantomachy, the battle fought between the Giants and the Olympian gods for supremacy of the cosmos.31 Hercules took part in the Gigantomachy, as we know from other sources.32 Giants were a race of great strength and aggression, sometimes associated with the rape of women.33 It has already been convincingly argued that Alcman here could have referred not to the assault of Otus and Ephialtes on heaven, but to their assault on Artemis and their punishment (Alcman 1.22–35 PMGF):34 ]τάτοι      ]τ̣α δαίμων      ]ι φίλοις      ἐδ]ωκε δῶρα       ]γαρέον       ]ώλεσ’ ἥβα       ]ρονον       μα]ταίας        ]έβα· τῶν δ’ ἄλλος ἰῶι        ]μαρμάρωι μυλάκρωι        ].εν Ἀΐδας        ]αυτοι        ]πον· ἄλαστα δὲ Ϝέργα πάσον κακὰ μησαμένοι·

25

30

35

god . . . to friends . . . gave gifts . . . youth lost . . . throne . . . vain . . . went; one of them (died) by an arrow, (another) by a marble millstone . . . Hades . . . ; and unforgettably they suffered, since they plotted evil.

Alcman refers to many female figures who were the victims of rape or abduction in several other fragments. In Alcman’s fr. 8 PMGF we learn that the Leucippides (or one of them) were the cause of the death of their husband/s (1. ἀν]δροδάμα[ / 2. Φοίβη κα[ὶ Ἱλάειρα / 3.]ται Ἀπόλλ[ων / 4.]στροφε τον[ / 5. συλληπτικ 30 Tyndareus, the father of the Dioscuri, is the defender of Helen in this case. 31 See Hanfmann (1937) 475–476; Vian (1988) 192; Calame (1983b) 320–321; Ferrari (2008) 28, 109. 32 See Eur. Heracl., 177–180; ps.-Apollodorus Bibl. 1.6.1–2. Pindar also refers to Hercules’ battle with Alcyoneus, one of the Giants, in Isthm. 6.30–35 and Nem. 4.24–30. 33 Ps.-Apollodorus Bibl. 1.6.2 (Hera was assaulted by Porphyrion on the battlefield). 34 See Calame (1983b) 320; Ingalls (2000) 7.

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[ / 6. θεῶν̣[, – “. . . man taming . . . Phoebe and (Hilaeira) . . . (Apollo?) . . . comprehensive(ly) . . . of gods”).35 According to the best-known version of this myth, the Leucippides were the cause of the animosity between the Dioscuri and their cousins, the Aphareides. The Leucippides were betrothed to Lynceus and Idas, but the Dioscuri carried them off to Sparta.36 In the fight that followed, one of the Dioscuri and both of the Aphareides were killed.37 Alcman likely referred to this myth in a cultic song.38 We learn in a fragment that has come down to us by the indirect tradition (fr. 21 PMGF) that Alcman also referred to the abduction of Helen by Theseus. According to the most diffused version of this myth,39 Theseus wanted to marry a divine wife and chose Helen. Theseus took Helen and left her at Aphidnae. Helen’s abduction caused an invasion of Athens by Castor and Pollux, who returned their sister to Sparta. According to Pausanias who quotes this fragment (1.41.4), this myth is found in a song Alcman composed for the Dioscuri, that is, in a cultic song. The Scholiast of Homer (Schol. A Hom. Il. 3.242) attests that Alcman referred to the same story. It is not impossible that Alcman described both Paris and Peleus as the abductors of Helen and Thetis, respectively, although the condition of the fragments at hand (fr. 70b, 77, 5 PMGF) leaves room only for mere speculations. In fr. 70b PMGF, we read that someone became subdued to Alexander (τεὶ γὰρ Ἀλεξάνδρωι δαμάσαι). It is not impossible that Alcman referred to Helen’s abduction by Paris,40 for whom he draws a grim picture in fr. 77 PMGF. In fr. 5 PMGF fr. 2 col. iii PMGF, the abduction of Thetis41 by Peleus could have been referred to in the context of a partheneion.42 Telesilla, who was probably a composer of partheneia, refers to the same subject in fr. 717 PMG:

35 If Lobel’s addition ἀν]δροδάμα to the papyrus is correct. See Lobel (1957). 36 See, for example, ps.-Apollodorus Bibl. 3.11.2; Hyg. Fab. 80. 37 Theoc. Id. 22.137–223; Ov. Fast. 5.709–710. 38 See Calame (1983b) 384. 39 Ps.-Apollodorus Epit. 1.23; Diod. Sic. Bibl. Hist. 4.63.1–3 and Plut. Thes. 31.1–4. According to Stesichorus, Iphigenia was the daughter of Theseus and Helen (see Stesichorus fr. 191 PMG). 40 According to some ancient sources, Helen was abducted and not seduced by Paris (see e.g. Hdt. 2.118.2). 41 Peleus uses force to capture Thetis according to some sources (e.g. Pind. Nem. 3.33–36; PsApollodorus Bibl. 3.13.5; Paus. Description of Greece 5.18.5; Quint. Smyrn. Fall of Troy 5.334). 42 I agree with Calame ([1983b] 442–443) that this fragment belongs to the mythical part of a partheneion.

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ἁ δ’ ῎Αρτεμις ὦ κόραι. φεύγοισα τὸν Ἀλφεόν . . . But Artemis, o maidens, fleeing from Alpheus . . .43

The virgin goddess Artemis flees from the river Alpheus. According to some ancient sources,44 Artemis was led to Letrini in Elis and here she covered her face and those of her companions (nymphs) with mud, so that Alpheus could not discover or distinguish her, and was obliged to return. This occasioned the building of a temple of Artemis Alphaea at Letrini.45 Nonetheless, in the most well-diffused version of this myth, the nymph Arethusa and not Artemis is the love-interest of Alpheus.46 A great number of Corinna’s fragments which seem to belong to choral songs performed by maidens refer to the abduction of young girls. They all seem to contain at least an epichoric twist to well-known myths.47 All of them are in an extremely fragmentary condition. Corinna’s fr. 654 col. iii. (lines 12–26) is the most substantial of them. τᾶν δὲ πήδω[ν τρῖ[ς μ]ὲν ἔχι Δεὺς πατεὶ[ρ πάντω]ν βασιλεύς, τρῖς δὲ πόντ[ω γᾶμε] μέδων Π[οτιδάων, τ]ᾶν δὲ δουῖν Φῦβος λέκτ[ρα] κρατούνι, τὰν δ’ ἴαν Μή[ας] ἀγαθὸς πῆς Ἑρμᾶς· οὕ[τ]ω γὰρ Ἔρως κὴ Κούπρις πιθέταν, τιὼς ἐν δόμως βάντας κρουφάδαν κώρας ἐννί’ ἑλέσθη· τή ποκ’ εἱρώων γενέθλαν ἐσγεννάσονθ’ εἱμ[ιθί]ων, κἄσσονθη π[ο]λου[σπ]ερίες τ’ ἀγείρω τ’ ἐς [μ]α[ντοσ]ούνω τρίποδος ὥιτ[ . . .

15

20

25

43 I follow the translation of Snyder. See Snyder (1989). 44 Paus. Description of Greece 6.22.9. 45 Ingalls rightly suggests that this an aition, a myth which explains a ritual act performed at the shrine of Artemis Alpheionia. See Ingalls (2000) 15. 46 See, for example, Pind. Nem. 1.1; Strabo Geography 6.2.4.; Paus. Description of Greece 5.7.2. 47 For the local aspects of Corinna’s poetry, see Page (1953) 82–83; West (1990) 553–557; D’ Alessio (2005) 238 n. 83. West and Gerber attribute Corinna’s ‘parochialism’ to the fact that she composed partheneia (see West [1970] 280; Gerber [1997] 217). See for a different view Collins (2006) 19–32; Berman (2010) 41–62; Vergados (2012) 109–110; Kousoulini (2016).

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Of your daughters, three are possessed by Zeus the Father King of all; three the Lord of Ocean took to wife, Poseidon; Phoebus rules over the beds of two of them, the one is held by the brave son of Maea, Hermes. For so did Eros and the Cyprian prevail, that the Gods go in secret to your House, and take for themselves your maidens nine. They shall give birth hereafter to a breed of heroes half-divine; fruitful they shall be and ageless. Such is my teaching from the seat oracular . . .48

This fragment contains a part of a speech by a prophet of the Ptoan oracle, Acraephen, addressed to Asopus, the eponymous demigod of the Boeotian River. Acraephen describes the fates of the abducted daughters of Asopus. Nine have been abducted from Asopus’ house by the gods Zeus, Poseidon, Apollo and Hermes. Acraephen advises Asopus to rejoice and be proud to be the father of the brides of gods (lines 44–46). Asopus is promised that his daughters will be fruitful and ageless and that they will give birth to a breed of half-divine heroes. There have been some scholarly attempts to restore some of the lost part of this poem (654 col. ii.33–40, ὧν Ἤγ[ιναν γε]νέθλαν / Δεὺς [ ἀ]γαθῶν / πατρ̣ο[̣ ] ς / Κορκού[ραν δὲ κὴ Σαλαμῖ-] / ν’ εἰδ[’ Εὔβοιαν ἐράνναν] / Ποτ̣ι[δάων κλέψε πα] τείρ· / Σιν[ώπαν ]ς / Θέσ[πιαν ]σ̣τ̣ιν ἔχων) and to read the names of some of the daughters of Asopus. Page notes that only Corcyra’s name can be read, but he also restores the names of the other daughters of Asopus.49 He attributes the islands Corcyra, Salamis and Euboea to Poseidon and Thespia and her sister Sinope to Apollo. Although he does not add her name, Page supposes that Tanagra, Corinna’s hometown, might be the missing daughter that Hermes, the principal god of the town of Tanagra, abducted. In fr. 655 PMG Corinna speaks of Kephisos, a Boeotian river god, whom she calls ‘ancestor’ (fr. 655.12–13 PMG, πο]λλὰ μὲν Καφ[ισὸν ἱών- / ἀρχ]αγόν, κόσμ [εισα λόγυ]ς). In the same fragment, Corinna mentions Orion’s intercourse with nymphs and the fifty strong children they bore (fr. 655.14–16 PMG, Ὠρ[ίωνα] μέγαν / κὴ πεντεί[κοντ’] οὑψιβίας / πῆδα[ς οὕς νού]μφησι μιγ[ί]ς – “often great Orion and the fifty sons of high strength whom [he fathered] by intercourse with the nymphs”). Although the rest of the poem is lost, the reference to an ancestor and to sexual activity and procreation implies that this could have been another ‘foundation myth’ performed by a chorus of maidens.

48 For Corinna, I follow throughout the text and the translation of Page. See Page (1953). 49 See Page (1953) 26; Bowra (see Bowra [1938] 213) restored the four and thought that Tanagra and Thebe are probable. Corinna describes Thespia in fr. 674 PMG, praising her for her beautiful offspring, using a rare word (καλλιγένεθλε). According to Page (1953) 38, this epithet celebrates either the beauty of the dwellers in Thespiae or the beauty of the Muses who were honored in Thespiae (see Page [1953] 26). As he observes, Corinna is reported to have called her a daughter of Asopus (Paus. Description of Greece 9.20.2). This cannot be a coincidence.

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Corinna seems to have composed poems dedicated to groups of maidens.50 Some of these maidens were related to the mythic figures mentioned in the catalog of the seers of the Ptoan oracle found in fr. 654 PMG, and thus related to Acraephen’s ancestors. Fragment 656 PMG refers to the daughters of Orion, but we do not know in what context.51 In fr. 660 PMG, Corinna refers to the daughters of Euonymus. In a narrative in the third-person singular, a mother reacts to something (πῆδα ϝὸν θέλωσα φίλης / ἀγκάλησ’ ἑλέσθαι – ‘wishing to take her son in her loving arms’). It is impossible to know who the mother and the child are. I can only speculate that in Corinna’s telling, one of the daughters of Euonymus was either abducted by a god or that she experienced difficulties during the troubled period when her father was expelled from Boeotia and wanted to seize her child in her arms.52 I suspect that the strongest candidate is Aulis, who gave her name to the city Aulis, Boeotia, but there are no decisive clues. Corinna in fr. 665 PMG, refers to the Minyades, the daughters of Minyas, but we do not know in what context.53

50 For Corinna’s fragments that were dedicated to groups of maidens in catalog form, see also Kousoulini (2016). 51 According to Antoninus Liberalis (Met. 25), Corinna and Nicander narrated the story of Metioche and Menippe, who sacrificed themselves to save their city, Orchomenus, from pestilence. Persephone and Hades created the stars to commemorate them and the Boeotians founded a temple and performed annual rites in their honor. The daughters of Orion were worshipped by maidens and young men under the name Koronides. Their story is also found in Ovid (Met. 13.685–699). 52 Apollonius Dyscolus (Pron. 136b, p.107 Schn.), giving a short quotation of Corinna’s account of the daughters of Euonymus, offers the title of the poem, the Euonymiae. Page (1953) 33 states that the Euonymiae are “inhabitants of a place Euonymon” or, more likely, the “daughters of Euonymus”. From the catalog of seers in fr. 654 PMG we know that Euonymus was the son of Cephisus and prophet of the oracle of Apollo Ptoios. Euonymus was the father of Aulis (D-schol. Il. 2.496), who was one of the Praxidikai; these were goddesses who watched over oaths (Suda π 2212). The Praxidikai were also said to be the daughters of the Boeotian king Ogygos (e.g. Paus. Description of Greece 9.33.3). 53 According to Antoninus Liberalis (Met. 10), Corinna and Nicander narrated the story of the daughters of Minyas. The story that Antoninus reports about the Minyades is similar to that found in the Bacchae of Euripides. Leucippe, Arsippe and Alcathoe, the daughters of Minyas, the son of Orchomenus, refused to join the other bacchantes in celebrating Dionysus. Dionysus first tempted and then terrified them by assuming different forms until they lost their minds. Leucippe, with the help of her sisters, tore her son Hippasus limb from limb. When they realized what they had done, they left their home and roamed the hills until Hermes turned them into birds. This story has many variants (see e.g. Ael. VH 3.42; Plut. Quaest. Gr. 38).

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History of Greek Cities and ‘Foundation Myths’ in Partheneia I have already stressed that what I call ‘foundation myths’ encountered in partheneia, that is, epichoric version of myths of the abduction or rape of maidens by local heroes or gods that, usually, culminate in the birth of their offspring, could have had a paedeutic function. By learning and narrating these myths the maidens and their audience learned what they thought to be the early history of their communities, that is, how the descendants of these unions, their rulers, came into being. They also learned that male violence was a common response to female sexuality; therefore, female sexuality was a force that had to be put under control or else it could endanger their whole community. In other words, they learned how domestic order was tightly interwoven with political order. But did ‘foundation myths’ encountered in archaic, classical or even Hellenistic partheneia reflect contemporary historical events? Finally, did partheneia play any part in the early development of Greek historiography? The poor condition of these fragments does not allow us to draw a final conclusion. Nevertheless, I will create a hypothesis regarding their relationship with history. More specifically, I suggest that these myths allow us a glimpse into the process of creating a community, especially in Alcman’s case. At the same time, they are used to legitimize and appropriate contemporary political order in their communities. ‘Foundation myths’ of Alcman’s partheneia seem to follow a specific pattern: there are quarrels between heroes who belong to the archaic Spartan pantheon, that seem to have as a cause the violation of domestic order. The heroes who were not only the object of worship in Sparta but were also regarded as the ancestors of the two ruling dynasties, the Agiads and the Eurypontides54 – win and restore both the domestic and the political order.55 This is the case for Hercules56

54 For Alcman’s relationship with these two dynasties, see Harvey (1967); West (1992). 55 Calame, to the best of my knowledge, was the first to argue that the myth of erotic violence and strife contained in 1 PMGF was a political myth destined to legitimize and at the same time found the Laconian political order. See Calame (1983a) 53. He also calls Alcman a ‘political poet’ (see Calame [2018] 183–185). See also Malkin’s objections to this (Malkin [1994] 24). 56 According to ancient legends, the Spartans were descendants of the Dorians. Several of these Dorians were the descendants of Hercules, the Heraclidae. The Spartans trace their lineage back through the ages to the Heraclidae, making all Spartan citizens officially the offspring of Hercules. See Tyrtaeus fr. 3.12–15 W.; ps.-Apollodorus Bibl. 2.8.2–4. Many ancient writers connect Hercules with Spartan royalty (e.g. Hdt. 7.205.2, 7.228.4; Thuc. 5.16.2). On Spartan genealogies, see Calame (1987); Malkin (1994) 18–26.

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and the Dioscuri57 and perhaps for Menelaus.58 Women are retrieved, and the transgressors of domestic order are severely punished. Legitimate children are produced at some point and legitimacy upon the claim of their descendants to rule is offered. ‘Foundation myths’ of Alcman’s partheneia may reflect not only the process of the creation of the Spartan community, but also the antagonism between Sparta and its neighbors – as they depict some of the heroes of the Spartan pantheon as transgressors – or even the antagonism between the two Spartan ruling dynasties. Unfortunately, the condition of these texts and the uncertainty of their exact dating do not allow us to draw a decisive conclusion. Telesilla, who lived in classical Argos, offers a tale of appropriation of the worship of Artemis in her city. She may also offer a tale of relief from the tension created by the political chaos caused by the crushing defeat of Argos at the hands of its regional rival, Sparta, at the Battle of Sepeia (495 BC).59 Artemis was not violated by Alpheus; she had to go through the process of transformation. As Petracca observes, this defeat can be considered an opportunity for rebirth, the starting point for democratic development in Argos.60 It is also possible that the defeat of Argos at Sepeia allowed women to claim a prominent position in various religious ceremonies.61 The violation of domestic order was prevented and so was the complete violation of political order. Corinna legitimizes the power of the seers of the Ptoan oracle in fr. 654 PMG. By legitimizing Acraephen’s voice, Corinna adds credibility to the ‘foundation

57 The two Spartan kings were thought to be descended from the Dioscuri. The divine twins, Castor and Pollux, were kinsmen of the Spartan kings, at once through Zeus and in the human line of the Heraclidae. The Dioscuri were the guiding stars of the Spartan army, who disappeared before the defeat of Leuctra (Paus. Description of Greece 4.26–27.3) and appeared upon Lysander’s victory at Aegospotami (Plut. Lys. 12.1). 58 Menelaus is a member of Sparta’s mythical royal family: he is Helen’s husband. If Alcman referred to Helen’s abduction to any of his fragments, Menelaus could have been portrayed as her savior. 59 Telesilla was credited by the ancient tradition with having taken part in the battle of Sepeia. When the Spartan king Cleomenes attacked the Argives at the river Sepeia and destroyed their army, the women of Argos armed themselves. Cleomenes gallantly refrained from attacking women and left the city untouched. The Argive women set up a statue of Enyalios, a god of war normally worshipped by men. See Plut. Mor. 231e, Mulierum Virtutes 245 c-f; Paus. Description of Greece 2.20.8–10. Nonetheless, it is far from certain that Telesilla has taken part in that battle. See Jacoby in FGrH vol. Illb (text) 45–7 (ad 310 F 6); Stadter (1965) 45–52; Tomlinson (1972) 209; Hendriks (1980) 341; Graf (1984) 247–248; Franchi (2012). 60 See Petracca (2016) 16. On the role that the battle of Sepeia played in the democratization of Argos, see also Bultrighini (1990) 11–128; Tuci (2006) 218. 61 See Petracca (2016) 20–25. According to Lewis, a new ritual reality was created after the battle of Sepeia. See Lewis (2019) 66.

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myth’ narrated by him in fr. 654 PMG. Asopus’ daughters were abducted by the gods. Nonetheless, domestic order was not violated. The gods were not violent transgressors; they were persuaded by Eros and Aphrodite to act as they did (οὕ [τ]ω γὰρ Ἔρως / κὴ Κούπρις πιθέταν, lines 18–9). Asopus was compensated62 and legitimate children were produced (τή ποκ’ εἱρώων γενέθλαν / ἐσγεννάσονθ’ εἱμ[ιθί]ων, / κἄσσονθη π[ο]λου[σπ]ερίες, lines 23–26). Tanagra, her hometown, might have had a privileged relationship with the god worshiped in the area, Hermes. Furthermore, as I mentioned above, Corinna depicts Tanagra and her descendants as blood relatives of many Greek cities, if the additions to the papyrus are correct. Page believes that the transplantation of Asopus’ daughters can be a symbol of the “long-forgotten colonial or commercial expansion from Corcyra to Sinope, from Thebes to Salamis and beyond”.63 Moreover, within the poem, several Greek cities are presented as blood-relatives that are equal to each other. I would like to suggest that Corinna might have drawn a parallel to the close-knit confederacy of the sovereign states in Boeotia,64 that is, to the Boeotian league,65 but the uncertainty of Corinna’s dating prevents me from doing so. ‘Foundation myths’ of partheneia aided the young citizens who comprised their audience and their young performers, to internalize mostly epichoric tales of their community’s past that connected domestic and political order and legitimized contemporary political order. These ‘foundation myths’ demonstrate the process of the creation of their communities, especially in Alcman’s case and they may comment on their contemporary historical reality. In this sense, they might have been an attempt at recording ancient Greek history.

62 The damaged fourth column preserves in line 16 the word ἕδνα (wedding gifts) which might have been given to Asopus as a compensation. See Lardinois (2011) 188; Kousoulini (2016) 84–88. 63 See Page (1953) 25–26. 64 On the role that choral poetry, especially Pindar’s compositions, played in the formation of a common Boeotian identity, see Kowalzig (2007). On the role that regional cults and foundation myths played in the shaping of this identity, see also Kühr (2006); Larson (2007); Beck (2014) 20–21. On the relationship between the myths encountered in Corinna’s fragments and this common Boeotian identity, see Larson (2007) 19–24, 29, 82, 126–127. 65 On how the tradition of a joint heroic pedigree of the Boeotians is related to the beginnings of the Boeotian league, see Larson (2007) 165–188.

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Klinck, A.L. 2008. Woman’s Songs in Ancient Greece. Québec. Kousoulini, V. 2016. Panhellenic and Epichoric Elements in Corinna’s Catalogues. GRBS 56: 82–110. Kousoulini, V. 2019. A History of Alcman’s Early Reception: Female-Voiced Nightingales. Newcastle upon Tyne. Kowalzig, B. 2007. Singing for the Gods: Performances of Myth and Ritual in Archaic and Classical Greece. Oxford. Kühr, A. 2006. Invading Boeotia. Polis and Ethnos in the Mirror of Theban Foundation Myths. Hermes 134: 367–372. Lardinois, A.P.M.H. 2011. The Parrhesia of Young Female Choruses in Ancient Greece. In Archaic and Classical Choral Song: Performance, Politics and Dissemination, eds. Athanassaki, L. and Bowie, E., 161–172. Berlin. Larson, S.L. 2007. Tales of Epic Ancestry: Boiotian Collective Identity in the Late Archaic and Early Classical Periods. Stuttgart. Lehnus, L. 1984. Pindaro: il dafneforico per Agasicle (Fr. 94b Sn.-M.). BICS 31: 61–92. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1978. Myth and Meaning. New York. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1963. Structural Anthropology (transl. C. Jacobson). New York. Lewis, V.M. 2019. Myth, Locality, and Identity in Pindar’s Sicilian Odes. New York. Lobel, E., Barns, J., Roberts, C.H. and Turner, E.C. 1957. The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, part. XXIV. London. Lyons, D.J. 2012. Dangerous Gifts: Gender and Exchange in Ancient Greece. Austin. Luginbill, R.D. 2009. The Occasion and Purpose of Alcman’s Partheneion (1 PMGF). QUCC 92.2: 27–54. Malkin, I. 1987. Religion and Colonization in Ancient Greece. Leiden. Malkin, I. 1994. Myth and Territory in the Spartan Mediterranean. Cambridge. McIntosh-Snyder, J. 1989. The Woman and the Lyre. Women Writers in Classical Greece and Rome. Carbondale. MacSweeney, N. (ed.) 2015. Foundation Myths in Ancient Societies, Dialogues and Discourses. Philadelphia. Morgan, K. 2015. Pindar and the Construction of Syracusan Monarchy in the Fifth Century B.C. Oxford. Nagy, G. 2005. The Epic Hero. In A Companion to Ancient Epic, ed. Foley, J.M., 71–89. Oxford. Nagy, G. 2012. Signs of Hero Cult in Homeric Poetry. In Homeric Contexts: Neoanalysis and the Interpretation of Oral Poetry, eds. Montanari, F., Rengakos, A. and Tsagalis, C.C., 27–71. Leiden. Palumbo Stracca, B.M. 1993. Corinna e il suo pubbico. In Tradizione e innovazione nella cultura greca da Omero all’età ellenistica, ed. Pretagonisti, R., 403–412, Rome. Page, D.L. 1951. Alcman: The Partheneion. Oxford. Page, D.L. 1953. Corinna. London. Peponi, A.E. 2007. Sparta’s Prima Ballerina: Choreia in Alcman’s Second Partheneion (3 PMG). CQ 57.2: 351–362. Petracca, C. 2016. La battaglia di Sepeia, Telesilla e gli Hybristika: La svolta democratica argiva di inizio V secolo. Historika: Studi di Storia Greca e Romana 6: 11–32. Plant, I.M. 2004. Women Writers of Ancient Greece and Rome: An Anthology. London. Robbins, E. 1994. Alcman’s Partheneion: Legend and Choral Ceremony. CQ 44: 7–16. Sbordone, F. 1940. Partenii Pindarici e dafneforie Tebane. Athenaeum 28: 26–50.

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Schachter, A. 2005. The Singing Contest of Kithairon and Helikon: Kor. fr. 654 PMG col. I and ii, 1–11: Content and Context. In Κορυφαίῳ ἀνδρί. Mélanges offerts à André Hurst, ed. Kolde, A., 275–283. Geneva. Segal, C. 1975. Pebbles in Golden Urns: The Date and Style of Corinna. Eranos 73: 1–8. Smyth, H.W. 1963. Greek Melic Poets. New York. Stadter, P.A. 1965. Plutarch’s Historical Methods. Leiden. Stehle, E. 1997. Performance and Gender in Ancient Greece. Nondramatic Poetry in its Setting. Princeton. Steward, A. 1998. Nuggets: Mining Texts Again. AJA 102: 271–282. Swift, L.A. 2010. The Hidden Chorus: Echoes of Genre in Tragic Lyric. Oxford. Tomlinson, R.A. 1972. Argos and the Argolid: From the End of the Bronze Age to the Roman Occupation. Cambridge. Too, Y.L. 1997. Alcman’s “Partheneion”: The Maidens Dance the City. QUCC 56.2: 7–29. Topper, K. 2007. Perseus, the Maiden Medusa, and the Imagery of Abduction. Hesperia 76.1: 73–105. Tuci, P.A. Il regime politico di Argo e le sue istituzioni tra fine VI e fine V secolo a.C.: Verso un’instabile democrazia. In Argo: Una democrazia diversa, ed. Bearzot, C. and Landucci, F., 209–271, Milan. Vernant, J.P. 1988. Myth and Society in Ancient Greece. New York. Vian, F. and Moore, M.B. 1988. Gigantes. In Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (LIMC). vol. IV.1. Zürich. Vergados, A. 2012. Corinna’s Poetic Mountains: PMG 654 col. i 1–34 and Hesiodic Reception. CPhil 107: 101–118. Webster, T.B.L. 1970. The Greek Chorus. London. West, M.L. 1970. Corinna. CQ 20.2: 277–287. West, M.L. 1990. Dating Corinna. CQ 40.2: 553–557. West, M.L. 1992. Alcman and the Spartan Royalty. ZPE 91: 1–7. Wohl, V. 1998. Intimate Commerce: Exchange, Gender, and Subjectivity in Greek Tragedy. Austin.

Ephraim Lytle

Myth, Memory and a Massacre on the Road to Dodona: Reinterpreting an Elegiac Lament from Archaic Ambracia (SEG 41.540A) Abstract: This chapter interprets through the lens of mythical geography a sixth-century BC monument from Ambracia that comprises perhaps our most important evidence for the history of the Corinthian colony and its relationship to the indigenous Epirotes during the Archaic period. The monument included an epitaph consisting of five elegiac couplets lamenting the death of four Ambraciots at the hands of ‘the sons of the Pyraiboi’. Although the inscription has been much discussed by scholars interested in the poem’s literary features, its historical context has received less attention. According to one prominent interpretation, the city, beset by marauding transhumant pastoralists, was unable to guarantee the security of citizens travelling between the polis and its port. That interpretation is implausible for a range of reasons, and I argue rather that the poem’s ‘sons of the Pyraiboi’ marks a deliberate and careful deployment of a mythical geography intended to locate the massacre in the region of Dodona. Every feature of both text and monument can be better explained by positing that the Ambraciots died while escorting a Corinthian delegation to the oracle of Dodona.

Introduction Since its discovery and initial publication nearly three decades ago considerable attention has been paid to a sixth-century BC funerary monument from Ambracia. This is largely due to its monumentally inscribed epigram, SEG 41.540A, which commemorates the death of four of Ambracia’s citizens. Although comprising perhaps our most important evidence for the history of the Corinthian colony and its relationship to the indigenous Epirotes during the Archaic period, this text has been of interest primarily to scholars interested in establishing the text and discussing its poetic features. The inscription’s historical context has received far less attention, with recent discussions content to reify an interpretation whereby the monument’s reference to the murder of these Ambraciots at the hands of ‘the sons of the Pyraiboi’ while accompanying an embassy from Corinth speaks to the fundamental insecurity of the Archaic https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-006

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polis, which was unable to protect a visiting delegation from marauding bands of transhumant pastoralists. I will argue here that this interpretation, which assumes the historical reality of the inscription’s Pyraiboi and identifies them both with the Homeric Peraiboi and with the Thessalian Perrhaebi, is implausible for a host of reasons. I argue rather that the poem’s ‘sons of the Pyraiboi’ marks a deliberate and careful deployment of a mythical geography intended to locate the massacre in the region of Dodona. Indeed, every feature of both text and monument can be better explained by positing that the Ambraciots died while escorting a Corinthian delegation to the oracle at Dodona, and I conclude by suggesting that this context can explain the public significance of what was a notably monumental and decidedly political memorial.

Text, Context and Interpretation In the 1980s, rescue excavations in the city of Arta – ancient Ambracia – uncovered a funerary monument built facing the ancient road just outside the city’s southwest gate. This approximately 12-meter-wide Π-shaped enclosure included an epitaph inscribed stoichedon and boustrophedon in impressive lettering along a single course of blocks on its front face. The four surviving blocks preserve eight lines of what were five elegiac couplets. A paucity of epichoric comparanda makes precise dating impossible but the lettering cannot be earlier than about 550 or too much later than 520 BC. Andreou’s editio princeps is unusually problematic, giving rise to a good deal of discussion concerning the text and I give here what seems the most probable version, followed by Day’s precise, yet elegant, prose translation:1 ἄνδρας [τ]ούσδ’ [ἐ]σλοὺς ὀλοφύρομαι, hοῖσι Πυραιβȏν ⋮ → παῖδες ἐμετίσαντ’ ἀ[λ]κινόεντα φόνον ἀνγε̣[λ]ί̣αν με (τ) ιόντας ἀπ’ εὐρυχόροι[ο Ϙορίνθου ⋮] [— — — — — — — — — — — —— — — — — — — —] [— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —] πατρίδ’ ἀν’ ἱμερτὰν πένθος ἔθαλ̣λ̣ε τότε. ⋮ ← τοδε δ’ ἀπ’ Ἀνπρακίας, Ναυσίστρατο⟨ν⟩, αὐτὰ παθόντε, ⋮

1 SEG 41.540A incorporates various readings proposed by Matthaiou (1990–1991) [1993]; Bousquet (1992), which appeared almost simultaneously soon after the editio princeps, Andreou (1986) [1991]. Additional modifications are owed to Cassio (1994); D’Alessio (1995). The text given here is identical to Day (2019) 238, and the accompanying translation (like also Day [2007] 31) is much superior to attempts to render other versions of the text, e.g. Bowie (2010) 362; Graninger (2014) 226.

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Καλλίταν τ’ Ἀΐδα δȏμα μέλαν κατέχE κα|È μὰν Ἀραθθίονα καÈ Εὔξενον ἴστε, πολῖταE, → hος μετὰ τȏνδ’ ἀνδρȏν Κ̣ὰρ ἔκιχεν θανάτου. ⋮ vacat I lament these excellent men, for whom, as they accompanied an embassy from [Corinth] of wide dancing places, the sons of the Pyraiboi devised grievous slaughter [---] then in (their?) beloved fatherland grief blossomed. And these two from Ambrakia, Nausistratos and Kallitas, having suffered the same fate, the dark house of Hades confines. Also truly, citizens, know that the Ker of death overtook Aratthion and Euxenos together with these men.

Given its unusual length for a sixth-century epigram and its obvious literary features, including meter, vocabulary and imagery that could be interpreted as prefiguring later elegiac lament, it is no surprise that this text has been the subject of intense discussion among literary scholars, especially those interested in the origins and development of the elegiac and epigrammatic genres.2 A good deal of attention too has been paid to the ways in which the inscribed text is integral to the monument and how it is carefully crafted to elicit emotion.3 Relatively little attention has been paid to the inscription’s historical context and most scholars seem content with an interpretation proposed by Cassio and argued more forcefully by Randone.4 According to these scholars, the otherwise unattested Pyraiboi should be identified with the Peraiboi mentioned by Homer as living in the neighborhood of Dodona, even though these Pyraiboi/Peraiboi are otherwise unattested as an Epirote ethnos by any historical source. Instead, the argument holds, both the Peraboi and the Pyraboi should be identified with the Thessalian Perrhaebi, whose presences at Dodona, Ambracia and in the region of Thessalian Perrhaebia can all be explained by the fact that at least during the Archaic and early Classical periods this ethnos included a significant population of transhumant pastoralists residing seasonally both on the high peaks of the Pindus range and in lowland coastal plains to both the east and west. The city of Ambracia stood beside the Arachthus River at a distance of approximately 18 km to the north of the river’s mouth on the Gulf of Ambracia. Its territory comprised chiefly of the intervening coastal plain. According to the standard interpretation, the four Ambraciots named in the inscription were all murdered close to home while accompanying (με (τ )ιόντας) an embassy (ἀνγε̣[λ]ί̣αν) as it travelled across this plain from the city’s port on the coast. The murderers were apparently a population of transhumant pastoralists seasonally present in the

2 See e.g. Day (2007) 30–31; Passa (2008); Faraone (2008) 133–136; Bowie (2010) 361–362; Estrin (2020). 3 See, most recently, Day (2019) 241–242; Estrin (2020). 4 Cassio (1994) 104–105; Randone (2013).

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city’s territory after having brought their flocks down from the high Pindus to the coastal plain. Despite involving numerous doubtful suppositions this interpretation is now often taken for granted by scholars usually more interested in the poem’s literary features. Bowie, for example, states matter-of-factly that in the poem “we learn of the dire death met by the commemorated at the hands of Pyrhaeboi while, it seems, they were escorting envoys who had arrived at the city’s seaport from Corinth.”5 The historical implications of this interpretation demand to be appreciated. Published after Salmon’s Wealthy Corinth and Hammond’s monumental history of Epirus, the Ambracian monument has largely been overlooked in subsequent discussions of both the history of Epirus during the Archaic period and of the nature of Corinthian colonization in the region. Nevertheless, it comprises what is perhaps our most important single piece of evidence for the history of Ambracia and its relationship to the indigenous Epirotes during the Archaic period. The early history of Ambracia remains, like that of Epirus more generally, obscure. Archaic literary evidence is virtually nonexistent and fifth-century sources are not much better. Herodotus collects no Ambracian logoi and for accounts of the colony’s foundation the surviving sources are no earlier than the Late Hellenistic period.6 The fullest account, that of Antoninus Liberalis (Metamorphoses 4), cites both the second-century BC epic poet Nicander of Colophon and the author of an Ambrakika, Athanadas (FGrH 303 F 1). The latter is an otherwise unknown historian, but presumably a local Ambraciot – Jacoby plausibly dates him to the third century BC. Additional accounts of ps.-Scymnus (453–455), Nicolaus of Damascus (FGrH 90 F 57–60, relying on Ephorus) and Strabo (7.7.6; 10.2.8) generally agree in broad outline, suggesting that the colony was owed to Cypselus, who sent his son Gorgus as oikistês in the latter half of the seventh century. That narrative is compatible too with Aristotle’s claim in the Politics that the Ambraciots established a new form of government (according to Aristotle, a ‘democracy’) after they expelled Gorgus’ son Periander (5.1304a 31–33), an event that should perhaps date to approximately a century before the Persian Wars. Additional details are scarce, but they agree with these late accounts in suggesting that the new colony thrived. Herodotus records the Ambraciots as sending seven triremes to Salamis and 500 hoplites to Plataea (8.45 and 9.28), the largest contributions of any single polis in northwest Greece (only a dozen poleis contributed more hoplites at Plataea). Our earliest detailed historical narratives are owed to Thucydides, whose account clearly suggests that at the outset

5 Bowie (2010) 362. 6 For detailed discussion, see Salmon (1984) and more recently Fantasia (2017).

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of the Peloponnesian War Ambracia was the most powerful and influential polis in Epirus. For developments during the late Archaic and early Classical periods, then, we are left with tremendous gaps, but here at least archaeology offers the promise of new evidence and in recent decades archaeological work has produced an increasing abundance of architectural and other material evidence that seems to confirm that already by the Late Archaic period Corinth’s colony on the Ambracian Gulf had grown into a powerful and prosperous polis.7 Randone’s interpretation of our monument, however, would paint a far grimmer picture of Archaic Ambracia and its relations with indigenous populations: the city, beset by marauding transhumant pastoralists, was apparently unable even to guarantee the security of citizens travelling between the polis and its seaport.8 Perhaps more importantly according to this interpretation the inscription would be crucial evidence both for our reconstruction of the nature of Epirote ethnê and as seemingly unambiguous evidence for a mode of long-distance transhumant pastoralism that most economic historians consider unlikely to have been practiced in mainland Greece during the Archaic and Classical periods.

Problems: Historical, Literary and Archaeological Quite apart from the fact that it suggests a portrait of the polis that seems to be at odds with our other evidence, there are numerous problems with this interpretation and it is not surprising that some historians, including notably Fantasia, have continued to seek alternate explanations.9 Perhaps the most obvious of these is that if the ‘sons of the Pyraiboi’ were pastoralists responsible for the murder of Ambraciots while accompanying an embassy from the city’s port of Ambracus to the polis, the monument itself would make little sense as a public 7 See Andreou (1993), but a good deal of subsequent work still awaits publication or effective synthesis. For the importance of Archaic Ambracia as a center for production and trade, see now Papadopoulos (2009). For a general history of the polis, see Fantasia (2017). For a wellillustrated overview of the Ambracian monument in the context of other burial enclosures south of the city’s walls, see Angeli (2013). 8 Randone (2013). 9 Graninger (2014) offers a different interpretation, but it is based on a less convincing reconstruction of the text. Fantasia (2017) 29–43, which I became aware of only after this chapter had been written, offers a far more compelling reconstruction. I note that although a number of his arguments overlap with mine (which, however, I first presented publicly in 2016), his conclusions – that the memorial commemorates for different political reasons an embassy that was killed on an inland journey perhaps to the colony of Apollonia – remain sufficiently different from my own.

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commemoration and find no good analogies in the Archaic or Classical periods. Why preserve this particular memory of an apparently random act of violence and what political purpose could such an elaborate memorial serve?10 How can this apparent portrait of insecurity be reconciled with the materiality of the monument itself, which, with its size and prominent location along an impressively wide avenue, suggests a deliberate manifestation of the polis’ power?11 The imagined historical context too is fraught with difficulties. Not least of these is that while previous discussions confidently identify Ambracia’s seaport as Ambracus and note its distance of approximately 18 km from the polis, there is no evidence or even reason to suspect that any such port existed in the Archaic period. The site of Ambracus is first mentioned only by ps.-Scylax in the latter half of the fourth century BC. Ps.-Skylax describes it not as a commercial port but as a fort, teixos, and a closed harbor, kleistos limên (33). Additional evidence suggests its value was primarily strategic, including especially Polybius’ account of Philip V’s campaign in 219 BC, which makes clear that the harbor was well fortified by outworks and a wall and surrounded by marshes, through which it was connected to the mainland only by a narrow causeway (4.61.4–7). Surveying the site, Hammond found no ceramic evidence earlier than the fourth century BC and so far no additional data has emerged to challenge his theory that Ambracus was only constructed in response to Molossian expansion south to the Gulf of Ambracia through the coastal plain west of the Arachthus River.12 It is perhaps hard to imagine the strategic necessity of such a fort in the Archaic period, but even if we presume that Ambracus already existed there is no reason an embassy arriving from Corinth would have debarked there, since the Arachthus was navigable as far as the city itself. That remained the case throughout later antiquity, as shown for example by Livy’s account of the Roman siege of the city in 189 BC, which makes clear that the Arachthus was not only navigable but also, because it flowed close to the city’s walls, unusually convenient for

10 If the violence was not random, but targeted, the poem makes even less sense, since nothing in the text suggests these deaths occurred in any regular state of war. I can think of no similarly elaborate public commemorations for deaths occurring in any comparable circumstances. Perhaps the closest analogy is afforded by the elaborate cenotaph at Corcyra honoring Menekrates, who had been lost at sea, but the epigram (CEG 143) makes clear that although a public monument its construction was owed to Menekrates’ status as an elite and to the initiative of his brother Praximenes. 11 See on this point Day (2019) 242: “The cenotaph’s location and size ‘speak’ with the authority of the polis that commanded the resources to place such a monument in such a site. The epigram exudes comparable physical authority with its magnitude, location on the monument, decorative layout, and ethnically resonant script.” 12 Hammond (1967) 137–139.

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hauling up necessary materials (38.3.9–11). The Arachthus is no longer navigable as far as Arta, with shallows midway in its course, but we know that in antiquity the river took a more direct course to the sea and that subsequent alluviation has caused the river to jump its banks and shift its course eastwards across the coastal plain. We know, furthermore, that this must be a relatively recent development, since according to the testimony of Cyriacus of Ancona the Arachthus remained navigable as far upriver as Arta even as late as the fifteenth century (Epistle 3, Mehus 1742). There is little reason then to imagine Ambraciots escorting an embassy travelling overland from the city’s seaport across an unstable landscape, since the polis certainly would have had a port on the Arachthus immediately adjacent to the city. Recent discoveries hold out the promise that infrastructure related to shipping on the river may be discovered in the future. If the existence of a sixth-century seaport already appears improbable, the presence of pastoral Pyraiboi in Ambracian territory seems even more unlikely. These Epirote Pyraiboi are otherwise unattested. Homer’s Catalogue of Ships, however, famously situates a tribe of Peraiboi, with epsilon rather than ypsilon, in the region of Dodona (Iliad 2.748–752). Although many scholars are happy to identify the form Peraiboi as a metrically necessary variant for Perrhaiboi – with double rhos – the latter name was known only for the inhabitants of Thessalian Perrhaebia, and the apparent disjunction between Homeric geography and historical reality – the Perrhaebi lived well east of the Pindus – became during classical antiquity a famous problem of Homeric scholarship. That ancient scholars could find no historically reliable evidence that these Perrhaebi had ever lived west of the Pindus, or indeed anywhere other than in Northern Thessaly, is obvious from the sources attested primarily by Strabo and Stephanus of Byzantium. Ingenious solutions were proposed, including positing the existence of a second, Thessalian Dodona.13 In light of the well-known Homeric problem, early commentators on the epigram were reluctant to identify the Pyraiboi attested in it with the Homeric Peraiboi, even if they saw no better solution.14 Cassio subsequently dismisses their concerns, suggesting that the problem of the identity of the Pyraboi is in fact “much less complicated” than these scholars believed.15 Cassio cites the first four lines of a fragment of Sophocles that he suggests had somehow been overlooked by both ancient and modern scholars interested in the Homeric problem (fr. 271.1–4 Radt):

13 Strabo 7.7.12 with book 7 fr. 1 Radt and Steph. Byz., s.v. Δωδώνη (both cite additional Thessalian authorities). On these sources see esp. Allen (1921) 130–137. 14 See esp. Matthaiou (1990–1991) [1993]; Bousquet (1992) 600–601. 15 Cassio (1994) 104 (“molto meno complesso”).

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ῥεῖ γὰρ (scil. ὁ Ἴναχος) ἀπ’ ἄκρας Πίνδου Λάκμου τ’ ἀπὸ Περραιβῶν εἰς Ἀμφιλόχους καὶ Ἀκαρνᾶνας, μίσγει δ’ ὕδασιν τοῖς Ἀχελῴου. The Inachus flows from the heights of Pindus and from Lakmos, from the Perrhaebi to the Amphilochians and the Acharnanians, and mixes with the waters of the Acheloüs.

Sophocles, according to Cassio, knows a tribe of Epirote Perrhaebi living along the high spine of the Pindus on Mt. Lakmos, and this tribe is identical with both Homer’s Peraiboi and the Pyraiboi attested at Ambracia. Mt. Lakmos, however, is far from Ambracia (the most direct modern rout from the peak to the city of Arta is well over 100 km) and their presence in our inscription can only be explained by positing that these Perrhaebi were transhumant pastoralists seasonally moving their flocks long distances from the tall peaks of the Pindus range to the lowlands of both Thessaly and the Gulf of Ambracia. This transhumance model had long been proposed for the Epirote ethnê, usually by direct analogy to the region’s more recent Vlachs and Sarakatsani. Hammond argued most forcefully for this model of Epirote and Macedonian ethnicity,16 and although he seems to have remained unaware of our Ambracian inscription he too suggested that the Homeric problem of the Peraiboi should be explained by long-distance transhumant pastoralism. Like Cassio, Hammond focused on the evidence afforded by Strabo, arguing that when the geographer describes the Perrhaebi as a people that migrated (μετανάσται) he refers specifically to the seasonal migration of long-distance transhumant pastoralists. He further proposed linking this hypothesis to the ancient claim that the Perrhaebi resided on Mt. Lakmos: The particular interest of this passage is that it is impossible for a people and their sheep to live on Pindus during the winter, when the land is covered with snow and it is extremely cold. It follows that the people named by Strabo lived there only in the summer months . . . We can thus understand the epithet ‘migratory’ as applied to the Perrhaebi; for in the winter they went presumably from western Pindus to the Perrhaebi who were settled in north-east Thessaly near the coast.17

For Hammond, then, the Perrhaebi lived seasonally in both Epirus and Thessaly. More recently, Randone connects Hammond’s model directly to Cassio’s

16 Hammond (1967) 23–33; esp. Hammond (2000). 17 Hammond (2000) 346.

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interpretation of our Ambracian elegy.18 The Perrhaebi not only lived seasonally on the high peaks of the Pindus range in Epirus and in the lowlands of Thessaly, but also, at least at some point during the sixth century BC, in the coastal plains of Epirus along the northern shore of the Gulf of Ambracia. None of this, however, is convincing. Strabo does not use μετανάσται to refer to transhumant pastoralists seasonally living in different regions, a fact made clear in his introduction, when he discusses the Perrhaebi together with other populations traditionally believed to have migrated (again explicitly called μετανάσται), including the Dorians, Ionians, Carians, Cimmerians and Galatians (1.3.21). More importantly, Hammond’s model of Epirote and Macedonian ethnicity is contradicted by virtually all of the relevant evidence – literary, epigraphic and archaeological – and Hatzopoulos is surely correct in concluding that Hammond’s ‘tribal states’ are nonexistent, since “no more in Upper Macedonia than in Epirus is there the slightest vestige of groups united by parentage or descent.”19 These ethnê are rather geographic; they are, according to Haztopoulos, “original groupings of rural communities.”20 Indeed the geographic origin of many of the Epirote ethnê is apparent in some of their attested names, such as the Parauaioi, literally, it seems, “the people [living] along the Aous River.”21 Furthermore, while pastoralism more generally was doubtless of crucial importance for the economies and societies of both Epirus and Upper Macedonia, long-distance transhumance in these regions, like Greece more generally, remains unlikely during the Archaic and Classical periods.22 Even if environmental determinism might suggest that herders would wish to optimize productivity by moving their flocks over long distances, that logic ignores far more important real-world economic considerations – especially risk and particularly risk posed by other humans. In the absence of stable, unitary political regimes long-distance transhumance is rarely a viable economic strategy. Positive evidence for long-distance pastoralism in Early Iron Age and Archaic Greece is almost completely lacking. Epirus, specifically, is no different. In summarizing the results of the Southern Epirus survey project, Tartaron addresses directly this problem of long-distance transhumance, concluding all of the available evidence speaks against it. In his view Epirus in the Late Bronze

18 Randone (2013) 33. 19 Hatzopoulos (1996) 77–104 (quote at p. 103). According to Hatzopoulos, Hammond himself soon renounced his interpretation through personal correspondence (BE 2001.261). 20 Hatzopoulos (1996) 220. 21 The problem of the nature of the Epirote ethnê becomes much more complex in later periods and a wide range of differing views have been expressed; see e.g. Meyer (2013). 22 See e.g. Halstead (1987); Cherry (1988); Hodkinson (1988).

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Age and the Early Iron Age can be characterized by “a subsistence economy based on mixed farming and short-distance, vertical transhumant pastoralism.”23 The ethnê of Epirus no doubt relied heavily on pastoralism, but they would have found both summer and winter pasturage within the same local geographic regions that were at least originally of fundamental significance for the identity formation of particular Epirote ethnê. There likewise is no good reason to believe that any Perrhaebi (or Peraiboi/ Pyraiboi), specifically, ever engaged in long-distance transhumance. Insofar as the Thessalian Perrhaebi engaged in transhumant pastoralism it was likely short-distance and vertical since the region of Perrhaebia itself included both upland pasture on the shoulders of Mt. Olympus and lowland grazing areas in the fertile plains near their principal towns such as Oloosson and Phalanna. More pointedly, Cassio’s characterization of the fragment of Sophocles is misleading. Cassio quotes only the first four lines of the fragment, without acknowledging the existence of additional lines showing that Sophocles not only imagined the Inachus River rising on Mt. Lakmos and flowing to the sea but also then cleaving beneath the waves to somehow reemerge in Argos. This is mythical geography, a fact acknowledged by Strabo, who dismisses Sophocles’ account as mythos (τῷ περὶ τοῦ Ἰνάχου μύθῳ, 6.2.4). Interestingly, Strabo links his citation of Sophocles to a discussion of Hecataeus, whose testimony he seems to recognize as related but considers more reliable (βελτίων). Hecataeus imagines not only the Inachus but also the Aias (Aous/Aoös) flowing from Mt. Lakmos. This suggests that to Hecataeus Lakmos did not designate specifically the series of tall ridges now called by the same name but rather a less precisely defined region of high peaks to both the north and the south of the passes between Epirus and central Greece and Thessaly, including the tall peaks to the north of Metsovo that are the actual source of the Aoös. Based on additional fragments of Hecataeus, Hammond argues that he must have been Sophocles’ source for the claim that the Perrhaebi reside on Mt. Lakmos (and likewise for additional references in Strabo to their residing on Pindus).24 The logic here can only be guessed at, but Hecataeus’ conception of Mt. Lakmos as including the northern Pindus allows us to imagine him locating the Perrhaebi on the peaks immediately to the west of their ancestral homeland in northern Thessaly. It should probably strike us as curious that this geographical claim making the Perrhaebi resident on the high Pindus is similar to modern attempts to rationalize Homer by identifying the Titaressos (or Titaresios) with various rivers with headwaters

23 Tartaron (2004) 14. 24 Hammond (1967) 458–459.

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to the west in the high Pindus and draining into the Peneios, and in so doing trying to bridge the gap between Dodona and Thessaly by allowing the Thessalian Perrhaebi and the Homeric Peraiboi to somehow reside together.25 It is, I would argue, pure fiction. There is no historically reliable evidence that places the Perrhaebi on the Pindus in the Archaic or Classical periods and that solution still would not bring the Perrhaebi to Dodona or, for that matter, to Ambracia. Finally, Cassio acknowledges yet another historical problem in attempting to explain why the otherwise unattested form Pyraiboi occurs at Ambracia to describe what he posits is in reality a population of the Perrhaebi. He suggests that a form with single rho is owed to the same metrical necessity posited for Homer’s Peraiboi, which is not implausible, but he further attempts to explain the more problematic substitution at Ambracia of ypsilon for the Homeric and Thessalian epsilons as the variant transliteration of a foreign vowel sound in a non-Greek name, analogous to Latin Bruttii and Greek Brettioi.26 The Thessalian Perrhaebi, however, like also all of the ethnê of Epirus, were undoubtedly Greek, and if there were really Epirote Perrhaebi seasonally pasturing their flocks along the Gulf of Ambracia, there is no good reason to believe that the Ambracians would have called them Pyraiboi.

A Novel Hypothesis: Death on the Road to Dodona There is a better and far simpler solution to the problems of identifying the Pyraeboi and explaining the mysterious circumstances of our Ambracian monument: reference in the poem to the otherwise enigmatic ‘sons of the Pyraiboi’ does not denote real, pastoral Pyraiboi, but is, rather, a carefully chosen and highly poetic allusion. Scholars have frequently noted that the poem is unusually literary for such an early inscribed epigram – in Day’s view everything about the text “suggests professional composition” including the way the poem conveys its meanings with “authority, specificity, emotion and poetic skill.”27 The poem’s epic features too have long been noted. The formula genitive ethnic + παῖδες is not found in Archaic epic, but it is parallel to Homeric formulations like

25 See esp. Allen (1921) 130–137, or more recently Hope Simpson and Lazenby (1970) 149–150. 26 Cassio (1994) 105. 27 Day (2019) 242. Similar views about the quality and sophistication of the poem are frequently expressed; see e.g. most recently Estrin (2020) 300–301.

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υἷες Ἀχαίων or κοῦροι Ἀθηναίων.28 In the Ambracian elegy Πυραιβȏν occurs in the same position in the hexameter as Homer’s Περαιβοί and as also noted by Graninger, the verb used to describe the Pyraiboi’s devising of murder, μητίομαι, is otherwise only found in epic during the Archaic period.29 Although any claims about Homeric allusion, specifically, cannot hope to sidestep altogether debates about dates of composition and the nature of the early transmission of the epics, for my purposes these issues are not crucial, although I suspect it is not improbable that material found in the Catalogue of Ships regularly belonged to the repertoires of bards in the Late Archaic period. At the same time, there is little reason to doubt the general assumption that in the latter half of the sixth century the transmission of such material would have remained oral. I would suggest that the Homeric Peraiboi living around Dodona were not yet the Thessalian Perrhaebi as established by Homeric scholarship and as such that bit of epic existed untethered to any historical reality. The alteration of ypsilon at Ambracia for the Homeric epsilon is best understood as reflecting the kind of variation that is typical of oral poetic traditions. Even if it is also a characteristically poetic formulation, that the murderers of the embassy are described as ‘the sons of the Pyraeboi’ is nevertheless striking and commentators have attempted to explain this emphasis, which seems to be deliberate and enhanced by enjambment.30 I would suggest that it acts to signal something of the distance between real and epic geographies – the murderers are not the Homeric P(y/e)raiboi but rather their historical descendants. At the same time, we perhaps should be careful not to place too much emphasis on this distinction between real and mythical geography. The work of scholars like Malkin has highlighted the central role that myth and especially nostoi accounts played in the experience of colonists situating their experiences on the landscapes of Northwestern Greece.31 That dynamic is conveniently illustrated by a well-known dedication made at Olympia by the colony of Apollonia sometime in the middle of the fifth century BC. Pausanias describes the monument and records the accompanying epigram of which a few fragments are also attested archaeologically at Olympia (5.22.2–3). It consists of two elegiac couplets reporting that the dedication is from the spoils taken at the otherwise obscure site of Thronion after the Apollonians had “conquered with the help of the gods the

28 The epic construction seems to have been similarly echoed at Athens with παῖδες Ἀθεναίον in what appears to have been the city’s first public epigram, commemorating their victory over the Boeotians and Chalcidians in 507/506 BC (IG I3 501; CEG 179). 29 Graninger (2014) 235, n. 30, pointing out an interesting parallel at Il. 15.348–351. 30 See e.g. Randone (2013) 37–38; Graninger (2014) 234–235. 31 Malkin (1998); Malkin (2001).

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limits of the land of Abantis.”32 No reference is made in the poem to the ‘real’ political geography of the indigenous Epirotes with whom the Apollonians had waged their war. Pausanias assumes the poem’s mythical geography is sufficiently obscure as to require detailed exegesis (5.22.4). Yet it apparently would have been perfectly intelligible to the colonists of Apollonia. In the Ambracian elegy I suspect that the allusion to Dodona may have been made more concrete in the immediately subsequent lines, which could have included reference to Zeus, or to the oracle, or simply to wintry Dodona. Those lines may have also furnished some additional details about the circumstances of the murders, but unless the missing block is discovered one can really only speculate. On the other hand, presuming that the commemorated Ambraciots died while accompanying a delegation to the oracle at Dodona is sufficient to explain or can better explain virtually every puzzling feature of the monument, including, notably, the apparent absence of the dead. Although frequently described in the literature as a polyandrion the monument appears rather to be a cenotaph.33 For our understanding of the poem’s literary features, this fact is of little concern, since the poem can be read as acknowledging this absence, but for the orthodox historical interpretation the lack of actual burials is more difficult to explain. Surely, if these Ambraciots were murdered while escorting an embassy across the city’s own territory the bodies would have been recovered and buried in what otherwise appears to be a characteristic type of Ambracian funerary enclosure.34 In all probability the bodies of the dead Ambraciots could not be recovered because they remained far from the city, somewhere along the route to Dodona. This road to Dodona is far from hypothetical. In the Archaic and later periods the easiest and often the only practicable route to Dodona from the poleis of

32 I. Apollonia T303 (SEG 15.251; CEG 1.390): μνάματ’ Ἀπολλονίας ἀ̣[νακείμεθα τὰν ἐνὶ πόντοι] / [Ἰ]ονίοι Φοῖβος ϝοί[κισ’ ἀκερσεκόμας], / [οἱ γ]ᾶ̣[ς τέ]ρ̣μ̣α̣θ̣’ [ἑλόντες Ἀβαντίδος ἐνθάδε ταῦτα] / [ἔστασαν σὺν θεοῖς ἐκ Θρονίο δεκάταν]. 33 Andreou (1986) [1991]. Matthaiou (1990/1991) [1993] challenges Andreou’s claim that the monument included no Archaic burials, but here, at least, the excavators seem to have a convincing response (Andreou and Andreou (1988) [1995]). The shaft burials clearly visible in photographs from the original publication report are apparently of a much later date. 34 For the comparanda see Angeli (2013). The conundrum is well demonstrated by Estrin’s recent discussion, which argues that the poem acknowledges the absence of the corpses but without attempting to explain where exactly they died or why they could not have been recovered ([2020] 302). Graninger (2014) offers a different reading, according to which the Ambracians were not accompanying an embassy at all but were rather murdered while “bringing a message from . . . ” I do not find this reconstruction convincing but I note that it is compatible with my argument that these Ambraciots were killed while on the way to or from Dodona. The absence of the dead is a key focus too for Fantasia (2017) 29–43.

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southern and western Greece was by way of Ambracia. A series of rugged limestone ridges running north-northwest to south-southeast made overland travel in Epirus difficult, especially travelling east or west. Its rivers cut deep and frequently impassible canyons through regions of flysch. The easiest land route from the Gulf of Ambracia up to the highland plateau that begins around Ioannina and that gives access to the rest of the Balkans lay on the flanks of Mt. Xherovouni which rises just across the Arachthus river to the north of Ambracia. Likewise, the only convenient land route south from Epirus into Amphilochia and then into Aetolia and Acharnania and from there to southern Greece, passed through the territory of Ambracia along the northern and eastern shore of the Gulf. The route on the shoulder of Mt. Xerovouni ran directly north passing close to Dodona. In his monumental study of Epirus Hammond traces this route in detail and describes its importance in antiquity and it is no coincidence that in the Ottoman period the caravan road from Arta to Ioannina followed the same route.35 During the summer months, after the snow in the high passes around Metsovo melted, Dodona could also be reached from Central Greece to the east, but the only other practical route from the west began far to the north at the coast near Buthrotum (modern Butrint), a fact conveniently illustrated by the reconstruction of Aeneas’ journey to consult the oracle as given by Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Roman Antiquities 1.51.1): Ἐκ δὲ Ἀμβρακίας Ἀγχίσης μὲν τὰς ναῦς ἔχων παρὰ γῆν κομιζόμενος εἰς Βουθρωτὸν λιμένα τῆς Ἠπείρου κατάγεται, Αἰνείας δὲ καὶ οἱ ἀκμαιότατοι σὺν αὐτῷ τοῦ στρατοῦ διανύσαντες ἡμερῶν δυεῖν ὁδὸν εἰς Δωδώνην ἀφικνοῦνται χρησόμενοι τῷ θεῷ . . . ἀνελόμενοι δὲ χρησμοὺς περὶ τῆς ἀποικίας . . . ἐπὶ τὸ ναυτικὸν ἀφικνοῦνται τεττάρων μάλιστα ἡμερῶν διελθόντες ὁδόν. From Ambracia Anchises took the ships along the coast to Bouthrotum, a port in Epirus, while Aeneas with the strongest men from his army traversing the road to Dodona arrived in two days, intending to consult the oracle . . . And having received responses regarding his colony . . . they rejoined the fleet after making a journey of about four days.36

For a delegation from Corinth in the sixth century BC there is little doubt that the road to Dodona would have started at Ambracia. The more arduous and northerly route from Buthrotum required a longer and more dangerous coastal voyage, and perhaps more importantly those sea lanes and likewise a coastal peraia – including in all likelihood the fortified site of Buthrotum itself – were

35 Hammond (1967) 33–38 and esp. 154–161. A second, less convenient route from Ambracia followed the valley of the Louros River. 36 My translation.

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controlled by the Corcyraeans, with whom by the second half of the sixth century BC the Corinthians had long had notoriously fraught relations.37 The importance of Ambracia in providing access to Dodona in the Late Archaic period is not widely appreciated, but Papadopoulos has recently noted the city’s significance for the more general purposes of trade, observing that “any commodities, including pottery, produced in central or southern Greece found at sites such as Vitsa Zagoriou and Dodone in Epirus must have gone through Ambrakia.”38 It is likewise probably no coincidence that there is evidence for a marked increase in bronze dedications at Dodona following the foundation of Ambracia in the late seventh century. Recent scholarship suggests that already by the middle of the sixth century BC Ambracia had an important bronze-working industry and Papadopoulos concludes by describing the city as “a neglected center that played a much more pivotal role in the production and movement of commodities, as well as people and ideas, than is currently conceded.”39 That the Corinthians and her colonists visited Dodona already in the Archaic period can hardly be doubted, and, even if there is no likelihood of recovering the circumstances of the delegation recorded in the elegy, it is hardly a mystery as to why it might have required the accompaniment of Ambraciots who not only knew the route but also would have had opportunities to cultivate necessary relationships with the indigenous Epirotes, both those who lived along the route and also those who controlled the sanctuary itself. I would argue that it is only this essential political context – the relationship between Corinth’s increasingly powerful colony and its indigenous neighbors to the north – that can explain the existence of the Ambracian monument.

Conclusions: Myth, Meaning and Political Memory The central religious but also political significance of Dodona in the construction of Epirote identity in later periods is well appreciated by historians and noted explicitly by our ancient sources. A fragment of Theopompus owed to

37 It is often assumed that Buthrotum was controlled by Corcyra already during the Archaic period; see e.g. Hammond (1967) 499; more recently Hernandez (2017) 212–213. For the wellattested enmity between Corinth and Coryca, see e.g. Salmon (1984) 270–272. 38 Papadopoulos (2009) 237. 39 Papadopoulos (2009) 238.

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Strabo attributes the rise of Molossian power in the late fifth and first half of the fourth century directly to its having gained control of Dodona (7.7.5; FGrH 115 F 382). Previously that control seems to have belonged to the Thesprotians, or perhaps at certain points the Chaonians, whom the same passage of Theopompus describes as having controlled all of Epirus prior to the Molossians. Curiously little attention has been paid to the even less well-understood, but nevertheless important, role that Ambracia must have played in both providing extra-regional access to Dodona and in mediating relations between Epirote ethnê in the Archaic and Early Classical periods. Admittedly we are hamstrung by the lack of literary sources but I would suggest that clues about Ambracian/ Epirote relations, and the central significance of Dodona therein can be deduced from Thucydides’ highly selective account of Ambracia’s actions in the early years of the Peloponnesian War. Unfortunately, discussing in appropriate detail that evidence would require a second chapter, but in concluding I note here two few key features of this evidence.40 First, it is clear that at the outbreak of the war the Ambracians enjoy a position of leadership relative to the Epirote ethnê, with whose interests their own are clearly aligned. In 430 during the second summer of the war, Ambracia invaded their neighbors to the south, the Amphilochians, “having raised,” Thucydides tells us, “many of the barbarians” (2.68.1–2, τῶν βαρβάρων πολλοὺς ἀναστήσαντες). An additional passage makes clear that these ‘barbarians’ are in fact Epirotes, specifically “Chaonians and some other neighbouring barbarians” (καὶ Χαόνων καὶ ἄλλων τινῶν τῶν πλησιοχώρων βαρβάρων) who, after the campaign is unsuccessful, return home and disperse κατὰ ἔθνη (2.68.9). Thucydides’ account of the causes of Ambracian hostility is highly specious and obscures the evident fact that the Epirotes were willing allies of the Ambracians and motivated by a shared antipathy towards Athens and her allies, including especially the Corcyraeans.41 The role of the Chaonians and the importance of their relationship with Ambracia is made more explicit in Thucydides’ account of the campaigns the following year in 429, when the Ambracians managed to persuade Corinth, her other colonies and Sparta, to undertake a far more ambitious invasion with the goal not only of liberating Amphilochia but of subduing the whole of Aetolia and Acharnania. We need not worry about the details of that campaign which proved to be ill-conceived, but for our understanding of Ambracia’s relationship

40 On the evidence from Thucydides, see esp. Hornblower (1997), and, most recently, Pascual (2018) 55–57. 41 Thucydides notes that already in 433 at Cheimerion, before the naval battle at Sybota, the Epirotes on the mainland had voluntarily come streaming to the aid of the Corinthians and her allies (1.47.3).

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to the Epirotes Thucydides’ description of the organization of forces (2.80) is, as Hornblower phrases it, ‘very precious indeed’. Historians are probably right in interpreting this passage as suggesting that the Chaonians exercised some degree of authority over many, if not all, of the Epirote ethnê. Of interest too is Thucydides’ mention of the Molossian king Tharyps as not yet of age and the fact that the Epirotes clearly have close relations with the ethnê of western Macedonia, likewise constructed as barbarian by Thucydides. Second, Thucydides’ construction of the Epirotes as barbarians functions as a kind of narratological device that works to obscure the degree to which in the early years of the war the Athenians pursued what would turn out to be a remarkably effective foreign policy aimed at detaching the Epirotes from Ambracian and Peloponnesian influence. That policy would eventually result in the Athenians promoting the interests of the Molossians over the other Epirote ethnê. More importantly, for our purposes, it is surely no coincidence that the earliest public Athenian dedications appear at Dodona in precisely this same context. The failed Epirote and Ambracian invasion of Aetolia and Acharnania in 429 was accompanied by a series of embarrassing naval defeats for the Peloponnesians in the Corinthian Gulf. It is almost certain that the earliest public Athenian dedication at Dodona dates precisely to 429, after the battle of Naupactus, since an inscription partially preserved on three fragments of a bronze sheet records the Athenians as having made their dedication “from the spoils of the Peloponnesians” after “having conquered in a naval battle.”42 Scholarship on this dedication is curious – it has most often been explained in the context of Athens’ relationship to Delphi, to which, it was generally held, Athens had limited access in the early years of the war. That view no longer finds universal support; Hornblower, for example, is skeptical, yet the best alternate explanation he can offer is that Dodona happened to be convenient to the site of the battle.43 This cannot be true given that the Athenians would have had to sail first to the Corcyrean peraia and from there take the longer overland route to Dodona. The conclusion seems unavoidable to me that the Athenians’ dedication at Dodona was a politically pointed gesture and part of a wider policy aimed at detaching the Epirotes from Ambracian influence. This foreign policy proved markedly successful. By 426 when the Ambracians again invade Amphilochia and suffer two catastrophic defeats in a mere three days – what Thucydides describes as the worst disaster to befall any single Greek city in the war in so short a time (3.113.6) – they are accompanied by no Epirote allies and contemporary

42 IG I3 1462: Ἀθεναῖοι ⋮ ἀπὸ Πελοπον[ν]εσίον · ναυμαχίαι ⋮ νικέσαντες ⋮ ἀ[νέθεσαν . . . . 43 Hornblower (1997) 370 and 521–522.

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Athenian literary sources suggest that an even more expansive Epirote policy was hotly discussed at Athens in the immediate wake of that disaster.44 The results of that foreign policy in subsequent decades are manifest – Molossian interests were promoted at Athens over those of the other Epirote ethnê and already within the reign of King Tharyps, the Molossians, with Athenian support, gained control of Dodona. These events are all much later than our sixth-century funerary monument but I suggest that it is in fundamentally similar social and political contexts that our Ambracian monument can begin to make sense. Though ostensibly intended to inspire pity and mourn the dead, as Day notes the monument is also clearly designed to ‘elicit awe and patriotism’ and as such it clearly has a political purpose. For the Ambraciots, allusion to the sons of the Pyraboi was sufficient to locate the murderers on a mythical-historical landscape in which Dodona was of central significance, a fact that would explain too why the city would have been so keen to preserve the memory of this murdered embassy, since guaranteeing the polis’ access to that sanctuary and justifying a policy of active intervention among the Epirote ethnê for whom control of that sanctuary was of immense political importance are what mattered and would continue to matter well into the Classical period.

Bibliography Allen, T.W. (ed.) 1921. The Homeric Catalogue of Ships. Oxford. Andreou, I. 1986 [1991]. Τα επιγράμματα του πολυανδρίου της Αμβρακίας. AD 41: 1.425–446 and 2.97–100. Andreou, I. 1993. Ambracie, une ville ancienne se reconstitute peu à peu par les recherches. In L’Illyrie méridionale et l’Épire dans l’Antiquité, vol. 2, ed. Cabanes, P., 91–101. Paris. Andreou, I. and Andreou, J. 1988 [1995]. Τα επιγράμματα της Αμβρακίας και τα απαράδεκτα μίας ερμηνίας. AD 43: 109–113. Angeli, A. 2013. Οι ταφικοί περίβολοι της Αμβρακίας. In Griechische Grabbezirke klassischer Zeit: Normen und Regionalismen, ed. Sporn, K., 179–189. Munich. Bousquet, J. 1992. Deux épigrammes grecques (Delphes, Ambracie). BCH 116: 585–606. Bowie, E. 2010. Epigram as Narration. In Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram, eds. Baumbach, M., Petrovic, A. and Petrovic, I., 313–384. Cambridge. Cassio, A.C. 1994. I distici del polyandrion di Ambracio e l’ “Io anonimo” nell’epigramma Greco. SMEA 53: 101–117.

44 Hammond (1967) 505.

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Cherry, J.F. 1988. Pastoralism and the Role of Animals in the Pre‐ and Protohistoric Economies of the Aegean. In Pastoral Economies in Classical Antiquity, ed. Whittaker, C.R., 6–34. Cambridge. D’Alessio, G.B. 1995. Sull’epigramma dal polyandrion di Ambracia. ZPE 106: 22–26. Day, J.W. 2007. Poems on Stone: The Inscribed Antecedents of Hellenistic Epigram. In Brill’s Companion to Hellenistic Epigram, eds. Bing, P. and Bruss, J.S., 29–47. Leiden. Day, J.W. 2019. The Origins of Greek Epigram: The Unity of Inscription and Object. In A Companion to Ancient Epigram, ed. Henriksén, C., 231–247. Hoboken, NJ. Estrin, S. 2020. Experiencing Elegy: Materiality and Visuality in the Ambracian Polyandrion. In Genre in Archaic and Classical Greek Poetry: Theories and Models, eds. Foster, M., Kurke, L. and Weiss, N., 298–324. Leiden. Fantasia, U. 2017. Ambracia dai Cipselidi ad Augusto. Contributo alla storia della Grecia nordoccidentale fino alla prima età imperiale. Pisa. Faraone, C.A. 2008. The Stanzaic Architecture of Early Greek Elegy. Oxford. Graninger, D. 2014. Ambracian Cruces (SEG 41.540A). RhM 157: 225–238. Halstead, P. 1987. Traditional and Ancient Rural Economy in Mediterranean Europe: Plus ça change? JHS 107: 77–87. Hammond, N.G.L. 1967. Epirus: The Geography, the Ancient Remains, the History and the Topography of Epirus and Adjacent Areas. Oxford. Hammond, N.G.L. 2000. The Ethne in Epirus and Upper Macedonia. ABSA 95: 345–352. Hatzopoulos, M.B. 1996. Macedonian Institutions under the Kings, vol. 1: A Historical and Epigraphical Study. Athens. Hernandez, D.R. 2017. Bouthrotos (Butrint) in the Archaic and Classical Periods: The Acropolis and Temple of Athena Polias. Hesperia 86: 205–271. Hodkinson, S. 1988. Animal Husbandry in the Greek Polis. In Pastoral Economies in Classical Antiquity, ed. Whittaker, C.R., 35–74. Cambridge. Hope Simpson, R. and Lazenby, J.F. 1970. The Catalogue of Ships in Homer’s Iliad. Oxford. Hornblower, S. 1997. A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 1, Books 1–3. Oxford. Malkin, I. 1998. The Returns of Odysseus: Colonization and Ethnicity. Berkeley. Malkin, I. 2001. Greek Ambiguities: Between ‘Ancient Hellas’ and ‘Barbarian Epirus’. In Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity, ed. Malkin, I., 187–212. Washington, DC. Matthaiou, A.P. 1990/1991 [1993]. Αμβρακίας ἐλεγεῖον. Horos 8–9: 271–277 and 303–310. Mehus, L. (ed.) 1742. Kyriaci Anconitani Itinerarium. Florence. Meyer, E.A. 2013. The Inscriptions of Dodona and a New History of Molossia. Stuttgart. Papadopoulos, J.K. 2009. The Relocation of Potters and the Dissemination of Style: Athens, Corinth, Ambrakia, and the Agrinion Group. In Athenian Potters and Painters, vol. 2, eds. Oakley, J.H. and Palagia, O., 232–240. Oxford. Pascual, J. 2018. From the Fifth Century to 167 B.C.: Reconstructing the History of Ancient Epirus. In Politics, Territory and Identity in Ancient Epirus, ed. Domínguez, A.J., 43–99. Pisa. Passa, E. 2008. L’elegia e l’epigramma su pietra. In Storia delle lingue letterarie greche, ed. Cassio, A.C., 205–230. Florence. Randone, G.F. 2013. I distici del polyandrion di Ambracia: un dibattito interrotto. Acme 66: 33–52. Salmon, J.B. 1984. Wealthy Corinth: A History of the City to 338 BC. Oxford. Tartaron, T.F. 2004. Bronze Age Landscape and Society in Southern Epirus, Greece. Oxford.

Part III: Historiography

Marion Meyer

Shaping History: The Case of the Tyrannicides and the Marathonomachoi Abstract: The Athenians Harmodius and Aristogeiton, who killed one of Peisistratos’ sons, and the Athenians who fought at Marathon have in common that their performance suited the interests of subsequent generations so much that their history is clouded by tales constructed in favour of these interests. In fact, the very terms tyrannoktonoi and Marathonomachoi1 are part and testimony of legends that turned historical persons into local heroes, and not only in the metaphorical sense. The making of these myths was the topic of two excellent monographs, written by the historians Vincent Azoulay (on the Tyrannicides, 2014; English translation in 2017) and Michael Jung (on the battles of Marathon and Plataiai as lieux de mémoire, 2006). As an archaeologist, I concentrate on the physical and visual aspects of the mythmaking.

The Tyrannicides Harmodius and Aristogeiton murdered Hipparchus in 514 BC for personal reasons; the Athenians did not get rid of tyranny until 510 BC when Hippias left the city after a Spartan invasion.2 It took some more years until, after a stasis, the political situation in Athens stabilized and the Cleisthenic reforms of 508/ 507 BC had a future.3 Yet, Harmodius and Aristogeiton became the faces of this crucial period in Athenian history and quite literally so. Statues of both men were set up. We only know that they were made of bronze, by the well-known

1 Harmodius and Aristogeiton as tyrant-slayers: Page (1962) 474–475 nos. 893, 895–896 (see n. 23); Schweizer (2006) 304 n. 2; Azoulay (2014) 13. Ar. Ach. 181 and Nub. 986: Marathonomachai. The form -machoi is widely used by modern authors, e.g. Thomas (1989) 246; Jung (2006) passim; Petrovic (2013) 53, 56, 60–61. 2 For the events of 514 and 510 BC, see Hdt. 5.55–57, 5.62–65, 6.123; Thuc. 1.20.2, 6.53–59; Ath. Pol. 18–19; Thomas (1989) 238–282; Neer (2002) 170–173; Schweizer (2006) 291–294; Meyer (2008) 13–34; Shear (2012a) 42–52; Azoulay (2014). 3 Hdt. 5.66, 5.69–78, 6.123; Thuc. 6.59; Ath. Pol. 20–22; Ober (1993) 215–232; Rausch (1999) 373–376; Ober (2007) 83–104. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-007

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Athenian sculptor Antenor, and looted by Xerxes in 480 BC.4 We do not know when5 and where they were installed6 nor what they looked like.7 Two new statues, made by Kritios and Nesiotes as substitutes for the stolen ones, were erected in the Agora in 477/476 BC; Aristotle, Pausanias and Timaios Sophistes specify their location; the Marmor Parium their date.8 These made it into the archaeological record; they were depicted in Greek images and copied in Roman times (Fig. 1).9 With the replacement group the Athenians demonstrated that they had regained control of their city. But why had they decided to display statues of Harmodius and Aristogeiton in the first place? What did they intend to say about them and what do the statues tell about those who had them made?

4 Bronze statues: Val. Max. Mem. 2.10 ext. 1; Arr. Anab. 3.16.7, 7.19.2; DNO I 386–388. Antenor: Paus. 1.8.5; DNO I 382. Looted: DNO I 382, 386–388; Azoulay (2014) 51–54, 158–162. 5 Between 510 and 480 BC: Azoulay (2014) 13, 40–50, 236–239 with n. 17. Plin. NH 34.17 (“in the same year when also in Rome the kings were expelled”); DNO I 385. This synchronization raises suspicion (despite the facts that Hippias was expelled in 511/510, the kings in 510/ 509 BC. Fornara [1970] 157). Public appreciation of Harmodius and Aristogeiton at a time when Isagoras, backed by Cleomenes of Sparta and Cleisthenes competed for leadership, is highly unlikely. Many scholars date Antenor’s group towards the end of the sixth century BC, see Azoulay (2014) 43–44 n. 18 (bibliography) and Brunnsåker (1971) 97–98; Rausch (1999) 40–62; DNO I 296; Meyer (2017) 428 n. 3372; Stewart (2018) 301. For a date after Marathon or the introduction of ostracism: Raubitschek (1940) 58 n. 2; Gafforini (1990) 39–40; Shapiro (1994) 124 (contra: Krumeich [1997] 57–58); Berti (2004) 49–50, 165; Shapiro (2012) 161–162; Azoulay (2014) 40, 43–48 with n. 19. Skeptical: Hölscher (2016) 277. 6 As their replacements stood in the Agora, they probably did so, too. Ajootian (1998) 3–9 figs. 1.2–5; Shear (2012a) 33–36; Azoulay (2014) 41, 236–237; Keesling (2017) 24 n. 18 (was Antenor’s group supposed to “help ‘rebrand’ the Agora as democratic”?); Stewart (2018) 299–308 (the Agora actually developed around Antenor’s group). The Agora in the fifth century BC: Hölscher (2018) 42–47 map 10. 7 Castriota (1998) 206–208, 212; Bumke (2004) 144–145; Oenbrink (2004) 376 with n. 14 (bibliography); Neer (2010) 78 n. 38; Azoulay (2014) 40; DNO I 296–297. 8 Arist. Rh. 1368a (DNO I 562); Paus. 1.8.5 (DNO I 382, 558); Timaios Sophistes s.v. orchestra (Bonelli [2007] 161 lemma 318); FGrH 239, 70–71 (DNO I 560); cf. DNO I 559. Two fragments of the base with an epigram by Simonides: IG I³ 502; Brunnsåker (1971) 84–98 pl. 22; Bumke (2004) 133–134; Petrovic (2007) 113–131; Hölscher (2010) 247 with n. 3; Azoulay (2014) 58–59 fig. 2; DNO I 561; Ferrario (2014) 21–22; Di Cesare (2014) 1078 fig. 662; Keesling (2017) 25–26 with n. 25. 9 Brunnsåker (1971) passim, pl. 1–24; Fehr (1984) figs. 1–11, 17–24; Taylor (1991) 15–21; Neer (2002) 168–181 figs. 84–88; Bumke (2004) 131–145 pl. 27; Oenbrink (2004) 376–382 figs. 3–10; Schweizer (2006) 291–313; Schmidt (2009) 219–237 figs. 4–6, 9–10, 16–17; Hölscher (2010) 244–258, 629–630 (bibliography) figs. 60, 62–63; Neer (2010) 78–85 figs. 38–39; Azoulay (2014) 53–70, 75–77; 136–141, 234, 245–257 figs. 1–4, 13a-b; 21–22, 31–33; Di Cesare (2014) 1076–1080; Keesling (2017) 23–28 fig. 7; Stewart (2018) 301–305 fig. 24.3.

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Any assumption about Antenor’s group must remain speculative, but for the second group we have some clues: their date, location and looks. These figures are known as the first honorific statues, a completely new function for statues beyond their traditional votive and funerary uses.10 Recently, V. Azoulay and C. Keesling challenged this view as anachronistic. According to Azoulay, who scrutinized the literary sources directly or indirectly relevant for the group, this unique, innovative monument eludes a classification (as votive, cultic, funerary or honorific) and was not perceived as honorific until the fourth century BC.11 According to Keesling, the habit of awarding statues as an honor did not come up until the late fifth/early fourth century BC; Harmodius and Aristogeiton were represented as cultic heroes.12 The controversy points to the decisive question: Which motivations led to the erection of this statue group? The fact that both men had paid for their attack on Hipparchus with their own lives (Ath. Pol. 18.4) facilitated interpretations and appropriation of the images for various interests.13 For which purpose were the statues made, what were they supposed to achieve? Statues of mortals had been set up in sanctuaries and on graves, but there was no tradition of ‘commemorative monuments’ outside the necropoleis.14 As we know so little about the first statues we have to concentrate on the substitutes of 477/476 BC. What do these statues tell about the two men? They do not tell what happened in 514 BC – unlike two images on early Classical Athenian vases. On a stamnos produced c. 475 BC (shortly after the sculptures),15 Hipparchus, reaching out to Aristogeiton who stabs him with a dagger,16 looks back to Harmodius who brandishes his sword for a blow. All 10 Fehr (1984) 11–54; Ajootian (1998) 1–3; Krumeich (1997) 58–59; Hölscher (1998) 155–163; Oenbrink (2004) 377; Shapiro (2012) 161–162; Dietrich (2013) 38–40; Di Cesare (2014) 1078–1079; DNO I 296; Hölscher (2016) 278–279; Hölscher (2018) 132. 11 Azoulay (2014) 19–20, 24, 40–43, 120–153, 233–244. He adds that the group was meant to outrage and provoke the Peisistratids (48–54) and points to a cultic function. For a critique see Hölscher (2016) 278. 12 Keesling (2017) 19–41, 56, 125–126; cf. already Shear (2012a) 35. See, however, Krumeich (1997) 58–59 (reasons for the non-existence of further honorific statues in the fifth century BC). For the cult of the Tyrannicides, see n. 26. 13 Azoulay (2014) 35. 14 For attempts to define commemorative statues, see Azoulay (2014) 42 with n. 17. 15 Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum 515 (c. 475 BC): Neer (2002) 173–181 figs. 84–85; Ober (2003) 219–221 fig. 8.3; Oenbrink (2004) 378–379; Schmidt (2009) 222–226 figs. 4 and 6; Hölscher (2010) 252–254 fig. 63; Dietrich (2013) 38, 43 pl. 8.2; Azoulay (2014) 245–247 fig. 31; BAPD 202924. 16 Bumke (2004) 138–141. Harmodius is represented with a sword, but he and Aristogeiton cannot possibly have carried swords in the procession (Ath. Pol. 18.4: ἐγχειρίδια).

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three men wear a himation and a wreath (as they would have at the Panathenaic procession). On a fragmented skyphos painted c. 460/450 BC (with name labels), either the lost figure of Aristogeiton already struck Hipparchus as the tyrant is shown falling to the right or the victim shies away from Harmodius who approaches from the left, his arm raised for the blow.17 In the statue group (Fig. 1), the victim is missing,18 and the protagonists are naked. The sculptures owe much to the tradition of Archaic images that were meant to characterize figures instead of showing them in their incidental visual appearance. We see a youth, rushing for attack, brandishing his sword, and a striding bearded man, with his body in an upright position. He is ready to thrust his sword, but his most conspicuous gesture is the extended left arm, with a piece of cloth, as if to protect the youth.19 With their naked bodies and the pronounced distinction of age and behavior – the daring posture of the youth and the more cautious one of the bearded man – these two figures archetypically embody a couple of erastes and eromenos (as Harmodius and Aristogeiton were according to Thucydides who sees this relationship as crucial for their decision to kill Hipparchus as a reaction to personal matters of desire, jealousy and honor).20 These statues, however, leave Archaic statues behind. Exploiting the new possibilities of the Classical style they do not concentrate on potential capacities as Archaic kouroi did but demonstrate ad oculos what can be done by men with trained bodies and the decision to act.21 They visualize an attack. Numerous scholars have drawn attention to previous and subsequent representations of fighters in the pose of Harmodius.22

17 Rome, Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia 50,321: Neer (2002) 173–180 fig. 86; Oenbrink (2004) 380, 397 fig. 4; Schmidt (2009) 223–224 fig. 5; Azoulay (2014) 246–247 fig. 32; BAPD 15306. 18 Dietrich (2013) 38–41, 45–46, 52; Azoulay (2014) 67–68. 19 For a correct reconstruction see Bumke (2004) 135–140 pl. 27; Dietrich (2013) 39 and the casts in the Museo dei Gessi in Rome (fig. 1, with the original ‘Harmodius’ motif’: right arm bent over the head). Hölscher (2010) 629 n. 1; Dubbini (2013) 238–245 fig. 11. 20 Thuc. 6.54.1–3, 6.57.3; Fehr (1984) 17–33; Loraux (2000) 65–82 (with focus on Thucydides’ interest in the love story and without consideration of the visual evidence); Hölscher (2010) 244, 247; Neer (2010) 78–81; Azoulay (2014) 30–32, 60–66, 119 (as descendants of Harmodius are known, he must have been married and have passed the stage of eromenos when he was killed in 514 BC). 21 On their style most recently: Bumke (2004) 143–144; Neer (2010) 78–85; Stewart (2018) 304–305; Adornato (2019) 557–587. 22 Carpenter (1997, 171–179) thinks that the ‘Harmodios motif’ (Suter 1975) derives from the standard pose of Apollo in the gigantomachy, attested since ca. 500 BCE. See Barringer (2009, 105–120) for images of Theseus and von den Hoff (2009, 101) for those of Herakles as modeled

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The statue group does not show Tyrannicides as such but two men, attached to each other, in a coordinated act of attacking. This was how the Athenians intended to memorialize Harmodius and Aristogeiton. Both men became a legend not for what they had actually achieved but for what could be achieved if people with proper intentions acted like these two were shown acting. The proper intentions were filled in by the Athenians, successively. In songs sung at private symposia Harmodius and Aristogeiton were praised as tyrant slayers and credited with having made the Athenians isonomoi. These skolia are probably the earliest evidence for an appreciation of the Tyrannicides23 – and of isonomia. Before isonomia became an equivalent of democracy (first attested by Herodotus),24 ‘equality in law’ was the opposite of tyranny (as the tyrant was above the law) and therefore Tyrannicides were praised by aristocrats as well as (later) by democrats.25 We do not know when the cult for the Tyrannicides as the founding heroes of isonomia or demokratia was introduced. Harmodius and Aristogeiton received enagismata (sacrifices) by the polemarch who also organized the funeral games for the war dead (first attested in the Athenaion politeia 58.1, dated c. 330 BC), and they were given timai ‘equal to the heroes and the gods’ with libations (spondai) accompanying the offerings (thysiai) in all sanctuaries (first mentioned in the year 343 BC, Dem. 19.280).26 They were also praised by songs at the Panathenaia

on the Tyrannicide. And mind the warning by Ober (2003, 236) against “finding a tyrannicide lurking behind every raised right arm” and the remarks by Azoulay (2014) 16, 251–257. 23 Page (1962) 474–475 nos. 893 and 896 (two more: nos. 894 and 895). Thomas (1989) 257–261; Taylor (1991) 22–35; Neer (2002) 18–19, 170–171; Petrovic (2007) 119–120; Hölscher (2010) 248–250; Azoulay (2014) 70–74; Ferrario (2014) 18–25. For a date before c. 480 BC: Brunnsåker (1971) 23–24; Rausch (1999) 50–54; Raaflaub (2004) 94–95; Shear (2012a) 33 with n. 25 (bibliography), 36–37; Stewart (2018) 301. Skeptical: Castriota (1998) 202–205, 209. 24 Hdt. 3.80.6, 3.142.3, 5.37.2. 25 Fornara (1970) 158–159, 163, 169–180 (he connects the skolia with aristocratic interests and sees isonomia as aristocratic in origin); Thomas (1989) 257–260 (changing meaning of isonomia); Boehringer (1996) 49; Rausch (1999) 53–54, 369–370; Raaflaub (2004) 95–96; Azoulay (2014) 59; Ferrario (2014) 20–22. 26 Cf. Cic. Mil. 80. Cult as heroes: Taylor (1991) 5–35; Shapiro (1994) 123–129; Rausch (1999) 59–62; Ekroth (2002) 82–88; Oenbrink (2004) 374–375; Schweizer (2006) 291–313; Hölscher (2010) 248; Azoulay (2014) 109–116, 234–238; Hölscher (2016) 277–278 (the statues were not necessarily the focus of the cult); Keesling (2017) 24–26 (see n. 12); Krikona (2019) 101–133. For the analogy to the cult of ktistai see Boehringer (1996) 49–51; Castriota (1998) 202–204; Shear (2012a) 39; Ferrario (2014) 22–23, 56. For a discussion of diverging interests: Fornara (1970) 155–180; Anderson (2007) 119–124.

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(Philostr. VA 7.4), as J. Shear pointed out.27 Shear dated the establishment of the cult in the last decade of the sixth century BC and argued that the enagismata were not offered during the Epitaphia (at the Tyrannicides’ state memorial, a cenotaph in the Kerameikos),28 as the war dead, who were served by the same polemarch, did not receive enagismata either, but thysia,29 but that they were part of the Panathenaia. However, unlike the war dead, Harmodius and Aristogeiton had not fallen in battle, and enagismata, in Classical times, were the normal sacrifices to the ordinary dead (presumably performed at the tomb).30 Unlike the war dead (whose names were not repeated every year), both men continued to be venerated as two individuals. The difference of sacrifice might have acknowledged just that difference in cult.31 I would therefore prefer to read the sources as referring to separate ceremonies (enagismata at the cenotaph,32 songs – and possibly sacrifices, but not by the polemarch – at the Panathenaia, and spondai as additions to thysiai for other recipients). When the Athenians had established a democratic government, the Tyrannicides were taken as fighters for freedom33 and defenders of the constitution. Since the mid-fifth century BC, their descendants were granted the highest honors the city had to give to living persons, sitesis (public meals) and prohedria (theater seats in the first row).34 The repetitive presence of the descendants at 27 Shear (2012a) 27–55 (the spondai to all the sacrifices were an innovation after 411); Shear (2012b) 107–119; Teegarden (2014) 44. 28 State memorial, near the entrance to the Academy: Paus. 1.29.15; Poll. 8.91. Calabi Limentani (1976) 15; Gafforini (1990) 37–45; Taylor (1991) 5–9; Krumeich (1997) 58; Rausch (1999) 55–59; Azoulay (2014) 69, 113–114, 146–147, 234–235 fig. 17; Ferrario (2014) 22, 32–33; Arrington (2015) 70–76 fig. 2.2. 29 Pl. Menex. 244a; Dem. 60.36. With reference to these sources Ekroth (2002) 82–85, 197, 204 questions that enagismata were the normal sacrifices for the war dead in Classical times (the enagismata for the Marathon war dead attested in IG II² 1006, 26 and 69, dated 122/121 BC, might be a later institution). 30 Ekroth (2002) 86–89, 121–128. 31 The enagismata might have had the expiatory function that Azoulay (2014) 32–36, 48–50, 234–238 wants to ascribe to the statue group in the Agora. 32 Ekroth (2002) 88; Di Cesare (2014) 1078; Arrington (2015) 72; Keesling (2017) 26. 33 Hdt. 6.109: Miltiades reminds Callimachus of the Tyrannicides’ fame as liberators of Athens in order to persuade him to vote for fighting the Persians in Marathon. 34 sitesis: IG I³ 131, 5–7 (to be dated in the 430s BC); Isae. 5.47; Din. 1.101. Taylor (1991) 1–3; Raaflaub (2004) 203; Azoulay (2014) 69, 133–135. Prohedria and ateleia: Isae. 5.47; Dem. 20.18, 127–130. Taylor (1991) 4–5; Shear (2012a) 38 n. 51; Azoulay (2014) 133–134; Teegarden (2014) 45–47. Law against slander of Harmodius and Aristogeiton or singing disparaging songs: Hyp. In Philipp. 3; Taylor (1991) 9; Azoulay (2014) 73–74, 86–87, 98. Slaves were not allowed to be given the names Harmodius or Aristogeiton: Gell. NA 9.2.10; Taylor (1991) 9; Berti (2004) 59–60.

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these occasions perpetuated the honors for Harmodius and Aristogeiton and reinforced their commemoration. Their public images, the statue group in the Agora, became a symbol of democracy. The Panathenaic prize amphorae for the first Panathenaia after the overthrow of the Thirty in 403/402 BC showed the group on the shield of Athena.35 When in 394 BC the family of Dexileos emphasized that their hippeus had died at the age of 20, too young to have been involved with the oligarchs, they included a chous with the images of the Tyrannicides in his cenotaph, in an attempt to stress their (and his) support of democracy.36 We see how the Athenians successively appropriated Harmodius and Aristogeiton for their own interests. By crediting these two fellow citizens with the end of tyranny and the introduction of isonomia the Athenians created a myth that suppressed the decisive role of the Spartans in the expulsion of Hippias and the subsequent years of stasis in Athens. The initiative taken by two citizens – this was just how the Athenians would have liked tyranny to have ended. However, the statues were not primarily retrospective or commemorative. They were adhortative.37 T. Hölscher and R. Di Cesare pointed out that they were placed near the location where the Athenian citizens would decide about ostracism.38 The Agora was also the place where one could see and read stone inscriptions of decrees passed in the late fifth and fourth century BC in order to forestall the establishment

35 Brunnsåker (1971) 104–105 pl. 23, 6a-c; Oenbrink (2004) 391–393 figs. 9–10; Schmidt (2009) 228–229 fig. 10; Hölscher (2010) 252–253 fig. 62; Shear (2012b) 109–111, 117 fig. 2; Azoulay (2014) 105–108 figs. 9a-b; Teegarden (2014) 45 fig. 1.2. 36 IG II² 6217. Oenbrink (2004) 386–391 figs. 7–8; Schmidt (2009) 227–235 fig. 9, with figs, 12–15; Hölscher (2010) 252; Azoulay (2014) 109–113, 142–145 figs. 10, 15–16. Choes were used at the festival of the Anthesteria; two more contemporary choes showed the Tyrannicides (one has two choes depicted between the men’s legs): Schmidt (2009) 232–235 figs. 16–17; Azoulay (2014) 109–113 figs. 11–12. Ober (2003) 239–244 interprets the relief as intentionally ‘amphibolic’. Contra: Schweizer (2006) 302–303. 37 Taylor (1991) p. XIII and XV (the Tyrannicides ‘symbolized daring’); Bumke (2004) 141–142, Oenbrink (2004) 394–395 and Dietrich (2013) 45–49 (their attack could address any tyrant). I cannot follow Neer (2010) 82 (“Everyone is a potential victim, every citizen a potential tyrant”). Cf. Soph. El. 973–985; Raaflaub (2004) 344 n. 11. 38 In the orchestra (Timaios Sophistes, see n. 8). Hölscher (1998) 160; Di Cesare (2014) 1078–1079; Azoulay (2014) 56–57, 90–91, 170–175, 200–201 figs. 1, 18–19, 23. Terminus ante quem for the introduction of ostracism is 487/486 BC (the first attested case; FGrH 324 F 6, Androtion). It is unlikely that it was introduced by Cleisthenes and not enacted until 20 years later (as Ath. Pol. 22.1–4 claims).

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of a tyranny. These decrees explicitly stated that it was a patriotic duty to kill anybody who overturned the democracy and aimed at a tyranny, thus calling for more tyrannicides.39 In the later fourth century BC, Lycurgus emphasizes that only the Athenians have the habit to honor agathoi andres by setting up statues of good strategoi and of the tyrannicides in the Agora.40 I claim that the statue group in the Agora, with its physical presence in a prominent public space, played a decisive role in the making of the Tyrannicides’ myth.41 As a proof of recognition of Aristogeiton’s and Harmodius’ arete it was a demonstration of honor (which justifies the term ‘honorific statues’) and it was a model to follow.42

The Marathonomachoi The Athenians who fought at Marathon did save their city; they were commemorated for what they had actually achieved. So, what’s the myth? The battle of Marathon became a myth as the Marathonomachoi turned from lucky victors into models of fighters, at a time when a new kind of warfare had been successful, but at high costs. This mythmaking started after the end of the Persian wars, after four more battles had been fought in 480 and 479 BC.43

39 The decree moved by Demophantos in 410/409 BC after the demos’ successful resistance against the Four Hundred was apparently not the first one (Teegarden [2014] 42–43). All Athenians should swear to kill anyone who tried to overthrow the democracy and if a person died while killing a tyrant, he and his children should be treated as Harmodius and Aristogeiton and their descendants had been treated. Andoc. 1.95–98; Shear (2007) 148–160, esp. 158 (the oath was sworn in the Agora, in sight of the Tyrannicides); Hölscher (2010) 251; Shear (2012a) 36–42; Azoulay (2014) 34–35, 90–92, 236; Teegarden (2014) 15–17, 29–53; Keesling (2017) 24 n. 19. Cf. Ober (2003) 216–235 fig. 8.4. 40 Lycurg. Leoc. 51. 41 Cf. Castriota (1998) 200–209; Ober (2003) 215–250; Anderson (2007) 119–124. 42 The statue group continued to serve as a reminder of the values and the appreciation of the Athenians when, in the fourth century BC, honorific statues became a common phenomenon. The space near the Tyrannicides was kept clear of such monuments (Dem. 20.70), until in Hellenistic times statues for rulers were permitted to be erected in close vicinity. Azoulay (2014) 56–58, 127–132, 150–158, 162–179, 240–244 figs. 18–19; Hölscher (2016) 279; Keesling (2017) 27–28. 43 For the Marathon myth see Flashar (1996) 63–85; Hölkeskamp (2001) 329–349; Jung (2006) 13–224; Ferrario (2014) 25–41.

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After the battle in 490 BC, the dead were cremated and buried on the spot, according to common practice.44 For the 192 fallen Athenian citizens a huge tumulus was erected and stelai were put up, with all their names listed according to their phylai.45 Recently, the stele for the phyle Erechtheis was found in Herodes Atticus’ villa in Eva Loukou on the Peloponnese.46 A four-line epigram praises the men who, outnumbered, fought the Medes and died, crowning Athens. The names of the 22 fallen members of the phyle are arranged in a way to mirror the disposition of fighters in the phalanx – every line leaves enough space for the letters of the following line to fill that space, but at a short distance, thus creating a dense net of diagonal lines.47 The stele does not only convey who fell but also how they fought! In Delphi, the Athenians dedicated statues of the ten Eponymous heroes as akrothinia of the battle and displayed them next to their Treasury.48 In Athens, the annual festival for Artemis Agrotera became the official memorial day for the battle, including the sacrifice of 500 goats49 – a number recalling the 500 members of the Cleisthenic boulé. As M. Jung pointed out, right after 490 BC, the Athenians were keen to link their victory to the impact of the Cleisthenic reforms.50 After the end of the Persian wars, the Athenians honored their war dead with a monument that was at least 5 m long (Fig. 2). A base with epigrams51 supported

44 Pace Thuc. 2.34.5. Those who fell in the battle of Plataiai (in 479 BC) were still buried on the battlefield. Hdt. 9.85; Thuc. 3.58.4; Paus. 9.2.5. The Athenian state burial was not introduced until after the end of the Persian wars (see n. 56). 45 Paus. 1.32.3; Whitley (1994) 213–230; Rausch (1999) 222–224; Valavanis (2010) 73–98; Ferrario (2014) 26–28. 46 Astros 535 (fragments of further stelai: Astros 586, Astros 587): SEG 56:430; SEG 64:186 (2014 [2018]); Steinhauer (2010) 99–108; Keesling (2012) 139–148; Petrovic (2013) 53–61 (translation p. 60); Ferrario (2014) 32–33; Proietti (2015a) 66–72 (stelai erected after 490, epigram added 480–470 BC); Meyer (2016) 368–370 fig. 16; Keesling (2017) 24–26; Tentori Montalto (2017) 15, 18–20, 92–102 (480–470 BC). 47 Tentori Montalto (2017) 17, 95–96. 48 ML 19; Bommelaer (2015) 159–164 n. 225 fig. 48 (in Hellenistic times, three more statues were added). Inscription: “The Athenians to Apollo, akrothinia from the Medes, of the battle of Marathon.” Akrothinia (‘the best’: see K. Hallof in: DNO I 405) can be the actual spoils or votive offerings made from spoils: see Hdt. 8.121; DNO I 489 (a statue as akrothinion; reference by S. Prignitz). 49 Xen. Anab. 3.2.12; Plut. Mor. 672B-C; Ael. VH 2.25 (300 goats); Jung (2006) 54–58. 50 Jung (2006) 67–71, 122–125; cf. Ferrario (2014) 27. 51 IG I³ 503 + 504: ML 26; Matthaiou (1988) 118–122; Matthaiou (2003) 194–202; Petrovic (2007) 158–177; Keesling (2010) 116–118, 127–129; Petrovic (2013) 47–53; Ferrario (2014) 28–32, 40–41; Arrington (2015) 43–48; Proietti (2015a) 62–66; Proietti (2015b) 48–54; Meyer (2016) 367–372 fig. 15; Tentori Montalto (2017) 18–20, 102–108 (480–470 BC).

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slabs that must have listed the names of the fallen (as the verses refer to them with demonstrative pronouns).52 This monument was erected outside the Dipylon gate, in the area later known as the location of state monuments for the war dead.53 Of the verses written along the top of the base, only those on block A are (partly) preserved. They praise those who, fighting on foot and (on something else), saved all Hellas from slavery. More epigrams, inscribed by a different person into the center of the blocks (and partly preserved on blocks A and C), celebrate the men who defended the city outside the gates and expelled the Persian army – an obvious reference to the battle of Marathon. A. Matthaiou claims that all the verses celebrate Marathon, and that the monument is a cenotaph for the Marathonomachoi.54 I follow those who take the first epigram as a reference to the campaign of 480/479 BC that actually saved all Hellas (and, in the Athenians’ perspective, this was due to the victory at Salamis).55 At any rate, this monument attests either the exclusive or the additional commemoration of the Athenians who fell at Marathon and were buried elsewhere, on the battlefield. It might be the inaugural war memorial in the Kerameikos, to be followed by monuments erected at the actual tombs of the war dead (who were brought back home and buried outside the city gates).56 A few years later, a painting of the battle in the Stoa Poikile on the Athenian Agora57 and a statue group of Miltiades with Athena and Apollon in Delphi, placed close to the entrance of the sanctuary, featured the battle’s strategos and

52 Page (1981) 222 Simonides XX; Matthaiou (2003) 196, 199; Ferrario (2014) 31; Arrington (2015) 46; Meyer (2016) 369; Tentori Montalto (2017) 106. The reconstruction of the monument is due to Manolis Korres: Matthaiou (1988) 120–122 figs. 1–2; Matthaiou (2003) 195–196; Petrovic (2007) 163; Walter-Karydi (2015) 171 fig. 93; Meyer (2016) 368. 53 As the findspot of block C reveals. Matthaiou (2003) 198; Arrington (2015) 45, 60–62 fig. 2.2 (CL 6). For the state burial, see Arrington (2015) passim. 54 Matthaiou (2003) 194–202 (with reference to a ‘polyandrion in the city’, ritually linked to the one at Marathon: IG II³ 1313, 15–18, dated 175/174 BC); Tentori Montalto (2017) 105–106. For a presumed cult of the Marathonomachoi, see Ferrario (2014) 27–28 and above n. 29. 55 Cf. Hdt. 7.139.5; Raaflaub (2004) 62–63 (on the rhetoric of ‘freedom’ that emerged in the mid-470s BC, see pp. 58–89); Bowie (2010) 204–212; Petrovic (2013) 51–53; Proietti (2015b) 48–54 (bibliography; critique in n. 28). There is no evidence for a date earlier than c. 480–470 BC for any epigram that praises the Marathon fighters (SEG 56:430, see n. 46; Page [1981] 217–218, 225–231 Simonides XVIII and XXI). 56 Cf. Keesling (2010) 129; Walter-Karydi (2015) 171. It was certainly not the first tomb monument along the road to the Academy. The memorials for the Marathonomachoi and for the Tyrannicides will have become focal points for later burials. Ferrario (2014) 31–32 (they were, however, not close to each other, as she suggests); Arrington (2015) 70–75 fig. 2.2 (CL 6 and vicinity of POL 6). 57 Paus. 1.15.3; Di Cesare (2015) 182–184, 188–192 figs. 120–121.

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might have been commissioned by Cimon, who tried to vindicate his father Miltiades after he had lost the support of the Athenians (and his life).58 The demos erected a victory monument on the battlefield of Marathon, in the mid-fifth century BC. Tropaia were supposed to be spontaneous, ephemeral manifestations of victory. Now a huge Ionic column, more than 10 meters high, was erected, as the base for a statue group.59 In the next generation the term ‘Marathonomachoi’ is attested for the first time, in Aristophanes’ comedies (Ach. 181; Nub. 986).60 In the play The Clouds (Nub. 961–999, performed in 423 BC), the Dikaios Logos contrasts the education and the simple outfit of the generation of the Marathonomachoi with the impertinent behavior and the luxurious garments of the youth of his time. What have the fighters of 490 BC to do with proper speech or clothing? They embody the good old days; they serve the nostalgia for the good old times, reaching far beyond military virtues (‘Let’s make Athens great again’). In his play Lysistrate (626–635; performed in 411 BC) Aristophanes ridicules old men who, claiming to be the experts of war, pretend to stand in for (youthful!) Harmodius and, shoulder to shoulder with Aristogeiton, fight tyranny (by smacking one of the rebellious women right in the jaw).61 The joke would not have worked had it not been built on an established cliché. We see that in the course of the fifth century BC, at a time when the power and wealth of the Athenians depended and relied on their fleet, the hoplites of Marathon turned from historical defenders into paradigms of warriors. The battle of Marathon became the mother of all battles, it overshadowed the later victories, and it certainly dominated the visual record in Athens. In the last decades of the fifth century BC the Marathonomachoi became cliché figures of the good old times. The glory of the fighters at Marathon was magnified and amplified. And one has to ask: why? Why Marathon? Because it had been a victory of the Athenians alone, supported only by the Plataeans? What about Salamis? The sea

58 Paus. 10.10.1–2; Krumeich (1997) 93–102; Davison (2009) 303–309; Ferrario (2014) 34–36, 41; Bommelaer (2015) 135 no. 110 pl. 2 and 5. According to Pausanias this group was made by Phidias from the spoils of Marathon and comprised seven Eponymous heroes, Codros, Theseus and Neleus, and three Hellenistic kings (as additional Eponymous heroes). As I will argue elsewhere, these 13 statues originally stood on the (extended) akrothinia base next to the Athenian treasury (see n. 48) and were later transferred to the entrance in order to enlarge the Phidian group. For diverging views about these statue groups see most recently Keesling (2017) 103–104. 59 Korres (2017) 149–202 fig. 1 pls. 1–19 (a striding female figure on top); Valavanis (2019) 144–156 figs. 1, 2, 5 (Theseus fighting an amazon). 60 See n. 1; cf. Ar. Ach. 698–699; Vesp. 1075–1090. 61 Ober (2003) 217–222; Jung (2006) 128–146; Azoulay (2014) 82–86.

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battle would not have been won without the Athenian fleet that had been built so rapidly in the late 480s BC.62 The victory at Salamis was praised in literary sources,63 and it was the topic of Aischylos’ famous tragedy The Persians (performed in 472 BC), but it never made it into imagery.64 The Athenians never developed an iconography for fights at sea, not even for victories. There are no images of the fleet or of oarsmen. If we relied on images alone we would not even know that Athens possessed ships! Although in the Persian wars the Athenians who had manned the triremes outnumbered the Athenians who had fought on the battlefield,65 the Athenians wished to continue to think of themselves as hoplites in the tradition of their forefathers and in accordance with mythical prototypes. After the Persian wars, the Athenians produced and consumed a lot of images with fighting scenes in public and private spaces. The fighters, however, were figures of myth (and there were even new myths like the Amazons’ invasion of Attica) and their way of fighting remained the traditional one, with a preference for duels. On the battlefield, success depended on the individual commitment and performance of each combatant.66 Images of duel fights addressed and engaged the individual viewer because they showed persons acting individually, upon own initiative and in various ways. I suggested that the appreciation of individual arete could not be transferred from the battlefield (where individuals met the enemy face to face) to war ships (where the oarsmen as a collective entity were expected to row on command, most of them not even able to see the enemy).67 The traditional appreciation of fighting persisted because this kind of fighting was one worth discussing. It appealed to personal agency. G. Proietti recently added another argument for the focus on Marathon: She interpreted the Athenians’ concentration on this battle as one of the strategies to overcome the

62 Hdt. 8.44.1: The Athenians provided 180 ships (total: 378 ships, Hdt. 8.48.1); Corinth sent 40 ships (Hdt. 8.1.1, 8.43.1), Aegina 30 (Hdt. 8.46.1). 63 Pl. Leg. 707b (the battle saved Greece). 64 For the history of the reception of this battle, see Bélyácz (2021). For the continued absence of the fleet in imagery, see Strauss (1996) 313–325. 65 The 180 Athenian triremes in the battle of Salamis (see n. 62) took c. 30.000 oarsmen; c. 18.000 of them were Athenian citizens and xenoi (metics), according to the so-called Themistocles decree. van Wees (2004) 208, 216, 243; van Wees (2018) 123; Akrigg (2019) 64–67. The battle of Plataiai was fought by 8000 Athenian hoplites (Hdt. 9.28.6) and the same number of light-armed (Hdt. 9.29.2; cf. Hdt. 9.60.3: Athenian archers). Marathonomachoi: 9.000 Athenians (Paus. 10.20.2, including old men and slaves; Nep. Milt. 4.3–5.5: 9.000 armati; Suda s.v. Hippias); or 10.000 Athenians (Just. Epit. 2.9). 66 Cf. Thuc. 5.70. For a controversy about actual hoplite fighting see Hanson (2013) 263–265. 67 Meyer (2005) 279–314. For the position of the three levels of oarsmen, see Morrison and Coates (1996) 279–283 figs. 53–54. For the oarsmen’s experience, see Strauss (1996) 316–318.

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trauma that the sack of their city in 480 BC (repeated ten months later) had caused.68 The battle of Marathon had been a model of a battle: It had brought a victory (but so had Salamis), but – very important! – it had taken place outside the city gates, as a fight man against man.69 Myths make it possible to live with history comfortably. History does not simply happen. The consequences of decisions and events may be unpleasant, harmful or threatening. The wish to escape the responsibility for what happened or for what did not happen seems to be universal. History is not a given, innocent fact, but a construction of those who are interested in it. The past is shaped by memory. Decisions and events can be seen and presented in order to be useful for the present and the future, against better knowledge of actual facts. Historical persons can become the projection for hopes and wishes. The Tyrannicides became icons of freedom, although freedom had been neither their intention nor their achievement. In this process, their statues, conspicuously present in the heart of the city, played a vital role. These statues showed them as men willing to act, about to attack. They did not tell a story; they appealed to the Athenians to take action against a tyrant, just as later anti-tyranny decrees did. The Marathonomachoi – who had in fact saved freedom – became the prototypical Athenian fighters at a time when their way of fighting, as hoplites, was not the way the majority of Athenians had experienced the Persian wars. Praising them was not only a demonstration of bestowing honor and of appreciation of their action, but an appeal for future generations. Just like the Tyrannicides, they were role models: Stand up and resist the invader, even if you are outnumbered! There is, however, a remarkable difference between the commemoration of the Tyrannicides and that of the Marathonomachoi: Neither the tumulus in the plain of Marathon nor the monument erected in the Kerameikos contained images and neither did the state memorials for the war dead during the entire Pentekontaetia. Only the names of the fallen were displayed. The myth of the Marathonomachoi, unlike the myth of the Tyrannicides, was told, not shown (with the exception of the painting in the Stoa Poikile). The myths of the Tyrannicides and of the Marathonomachoi did not only shape history as it had happened, but they were meant to shape the future: The Tyrannicides served as a visual reminder to defend democracy, the Marathonomachoi as the paradeigm of warriors as they continued to be thought of: men who 68 Proietti (2015a) 53–80. For this trauma, see also Meyer (2020) 95–110. 69 Cf. Ar. Vesp. 1075–1090 (performed 422 BC): praise of the Athenians standing ‘man next to man’ (line 1083), facing the barbarians. In Aristophanes’ times, the rowers could not be left unmentioned (lines 1091–1098, 1119).

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meet the enemy face to face on the battlefield outside the city, men who demonstrate their arete and their commitment. Plato claimed that the battles of Marathon and Plataiai had made the Athenians better70 – in this case his compatriots seem to have agreed.

Fig. 1: Reconstruction of the Tyrannicide group of 477/476 BC, with plaster casts of several Roman copies. G.Qu. Giglioli 1949. Rome, La Sapienza, Museo dei Gessi inv. 161. D-DAI-Rom 84.3301 (photo Schwanke).

70 Pl. Leg. 707c; cf. 706a–707b; Strauss (1996) 318–319.

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Fig. 2: Reconstruction of the monument with the “Marathon epigrams” by M. Korres. after: Matthaiou (1988), 122 Fig. 2.

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Nanno Marinatos

The Myth of Troy Turned into History: Thucydides’ Archaeology Abstract: The object of this chapter is to discuss Thucydides’ presentation of the Trojan War in the so-called archaeology and argue that he analyzes it from his own distinctive perspective as an Athenian general. He explores the reasons for the failure of Agamemnon to capture Troy in his special way and decides that he did not act swiftly and efficiently and lacked provisions and money (χρήματα). By so doing and by raising issues of strategy, Thucydides indirectly compares the Trojan campaign to the Sicilian expedition. His reflections on the Trojan siege will thus hopefully shed some new light on his views about the Sicilian campaign and the military strategies used there, specifically the siege of Syracuse of 415/414 BC.

Thucydides Reads the Trojan War from the Perspective of an Army General One first observation is that Thucydides is concerned about the nature and constitution of the united Achaean army and the role of their leader, Agamemnon, whom he assumes to have been not a mere general but also the head of an empire who practically forced islanders to submit to him (1.9.3–4). This, of course, immediately brings to mind the Athenian empire. By reading the Iliad closely, Thucydides thinks that Agamemnon’s troops constituted the largest force (δύναμις) of Greece until the poet’s time because the leaders of each contingent had been recruited from various parts of the land. An analogy between the Iliad book 2 and Thucydides book 7 is evident when the historian lists the multiple states and nations which came together against Syracuse (ἒθνη γὰρ πλεῖστα δὴ ἐπὶ μίαν πόλιν . . . ξυνῆλθε; 7.56.4). Indeed, the comparison between Troy and Syracuse has not gone entirely unnoticed.1 He implicitly makes the further point that, large as it was, Agamemnon’s dynamis did not compare to the dynamis of Athens of his times which had not only greater manpower at its disposal but also plenty of money (1.2).2

1 De Romilly (1967) 257–292; Hornblower (1991–2008) vol. 3, 654. Hornblower refers also to Dover’s commentary of the school edition of Thucydides. 2 De Romilly (1967) 276–278. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-008

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A second point concerns Thucydides’ evaluation of Agamemnon’s tactical errors. His major mistake, he writes, was that he did not concentrate on the siege but dispersed his forces for many years by sending them to raid other towns for the procurement of supplies (βιοτεύσειν, 1.11). Had he intensely concentrated on Troy, Thucydides suggests, he might have captured it faster and with less trouble and the Trojans would not have withstood the siege as long as they did (ἀντεῖχον πολιορκίᾳ, 1.11.2). Agamemnon was practically forced to make further mistakes because of the aforementioned lack of money since provisions could not be purchased, mercenaries could not be procured, and the only source of income was raids and looting. Of course, this was not his fault since money was not available during his times; nevertheless, Thucydides feels, lack of it was an almost fatal disadvantage to Agamemnon’s expedition (Thuc. 1.11): αἴτιον δ᾽ ἦν οὐχ ἡ ὀλιγανθρωπία τοσοῦτον ὅσον ἡ ἀχρηματία. τῆς γὰρ τροφῆς ἀπορίᾳ τόν τε στρατὸν ἐλάσσω ἤγαγον καὶ ὅσον ἤλπιζον αὐτόθεν πολεμοῦντα βιοτεύσειν, ἐπειδὴ δὲ ἀφικόμενοι μάχῃ ἐκράτησαν δῆλον δέ: τὸ γὰρ ἔρυμα τῷ στρατοπέδῳ οὐκ ἂν ἐτειχίσαντο, φαίνονται δ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἐνταῦθα πάσῃ τῇ δυνάμει χρησάμενοι, ἀλλὰ πρὸς γεωργίαν τῆς Χερσονήσου τραπόμενοι καὶ λῃστείαν τῆς τροφῆς ἀπορίᾳ. ᾗ καὶ μᾶλλον οἱ Τρῶες αὐτῶν διεσπαρμένων τὰ δέκα ἔτη ἀντεῖχον βίᾳ, τοῖς αἰεὶ ὑπολειπομένοις ἀντίπαλοι ὄντες. περιουσίαν δὲ εἰ ἦλθον ἔχοντες τροφῆς καὶ ὄντες ἁθρόοι ἄνευ λῃστείας καὶ γεωργίας ξυνεχῶς τὸν πόλεμον διέφερον, ῥᾳδίως ἂν μάχῃ κρατοῦντες εἷλον, οἵ γε καὶ οὐχ ἁθρόοι, ἀλλὰ μέρει τῷ αἰεὶ παρόντι ἀντεῖχον, πολιορκίᾳ δ᾽ ἂν προσκαθεζόμενοι ἐν ἐλάσσονί τε χρόνῳ καὶ ἀπονώτερον τὴν Τροίαν εἷλον. (my emphasis) The cause of the inferiority was not so much the want of men as the want of money; the invading army was limited, by the difficulty of obtaining supplies, to such a number as might be expected to live on the country in which they were to fight. After their arrival at Troy, when they had won a battle (as they clearly did, for otherwise they could not have fortified their camp), even then they appear not to have used the whole of their force, but to have been driven by want of provisions to the cultivation of the Chersonese and to pillage. And in consequence of this dispersion of their forces, the Trojans were enabled to hold out against them during the whole ten years, being always a match for those who remained on the spot. Whereas if the besieging army had brought abundant supplies, and, instead of betaking themselves to agriculture or pillage, had carried on the war persistently with all their forces, they would easily have been masters of the field and have taken the city; since, even divided as they were, and with only a part of their army available at any one time, they held their ground. Or, again, they might have regularly invested Troy, and the place would have been captured in less time and with less trouble.3

In the above passage, Thucydides makes an important inference which is based solely on reason: the Achaeans must have won a victory at first. They clearly did, he writes, for otherwise they could not have fortified their camp. Once they 3 Transl. by Jowett (1930).

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won, they could have persisted instead of dispersing their forces. In short, Agamemnon’s trouble was rooted in lack of provisions and dearth of money but also in his failure to take advantage of his first and successful assault.

Analogy between Troy and Syracuse The siege of Syracuse must have been foremost in Thucydides’ mind when he was writing about Troy not only because of the geographical analogy between the two cities (Syracuse was situated in another land and across the seas) but also because of the inherent difficulties caused by the siege of a major fortified city lying across the sea. If Troy and Syracuse constitute symmetrical historical events, the historian must also have made an implicit comparison between the generals of the respective armies. The equivalent to Agamemnon in the Athenian army was the senior Athenian general Nicias, the son of Niceratus, especially after his co-generals, Lamachus and Alcibiades, were eliminated. Alcibiades was recalled to Athens to stand trial, whereas Lamachus fell in battle. The comparison between Agamemnon and Nicias will throw some new light on the merits of the latter’s siege-techniques in Syracuse and will challenge the judgment of most modern historians that Nicias was an inadequate general.4 The comparison between Agamemnon and Nicias must start with Nicias’ realization that the expedition would require substantial provisions and money on which subject he has identical ideas with the author. As we have seen, the latter writes in the archaeology that Agamemnon’s siege was lengthy and ineffective because he lacked provisions and money, and this is the issue Nicias addresses in the Athenian assembly in 415 when he tells the people that the army must have enough supplies of food, equipment and money. He also argues in detail that a number of specialists ought to be included in the expedition: hoplites, archers, peltasts, cavalry, technical experts, bread-makers and wall builders.5 He also stresses self-sufficiency (Thuc. 6.22):

4 I note with interest that Finley (1942) 245–246 almost apologizes for any good trait he finds in Nicias saying that ‘such praise of Nicias may at first sight seem surprising, in view of Nicias’ obvious deficiencies as both a statesman and a general’. Westlake (1968) 173 considers him ‘cautious and unenterprising’; see also Connor (1984) 187; Kagan (2009) 181–183; Greenwood (2017) 167. It is quite common to state that Nicias was not only an inadequate general, but also that he failed to persuade: Holladay (1973) 421; Rawlings (1981) 127–160; Ober (1999) 107–108; Kallet (2001) 133–134; Stadter (2017) 283–299, esp. 289. Rood (1998) 160–161 argues persuasively that opportunities for victory may have existed but that the author seems to have downplayed them. 5 On the subject of money, see Kallet-Marx (1993); Kallet (2001); Kallet (2006) 358–359.

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ὁπλίτας τε οὖν πολλούς μοι δοκεῖ χρῆναι ἡμᾶς ἄγειν καὶ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν καὶ τῶν ξυμμάχων, τῶν τε ὑπηκόων καὶ ἤν τινα ἐκ Πελοποννήσου δυνώμεθα ἢ πεῖσαι ἢ μισθῷ προσαγαγέσθαι, καὶ τοξότας πολλοὺς καὶ σφενδονήτας, ὅπως πρὸς τὸ ἐκείνων ἱππικὸν ἀντέχωσι, ναυσί τε καὶ πολὺ περιεῖναι, ἵνα καὶ τὰ ἐπιτήδεια ῥᾷον ἐσκομιζώμεθα, τὸν δὲ καὶ αὐτόθεν σῖτον ἐν ὁλκάσι, πυροὺς καὶ πεφρυγμένας κριθάς, ἄγειν, καὶ σιτοποιοὺς ἐκ τῶν μυλώνων πρὸς μέρος ἠναγκασμένους ἐμμίσθους, ἵνα, ἤν που ὑπὸ ἀπλοίας ἀπολαμβανώμεθα, ἔχῃ ἡ στρατιὰ τὰ ἐπιτήδεια (πολλὴ γὰρ οὖσα οὐ πάσης ἔσται πόλεως ὑποδέξασθαι), τά τε ἄλλα ὅσον δυνατὸν ἑτοιμάσασθαι, καὶ μὴ ἐπὶ ἑτέροις γίγνεσθαι, μάλιστα δὲ χρήματα αὐτόθεν ὡς πλεῖστα ἔχειν. τὰ δὲ παρ᾽ Ἐγεσταίων, ἃ λέγεται ἐκεῖ ἑτοῖμα, νομίσατε καὶ λόγῳ ἂν μάλιστα ἑτοῖμα εἶναι. we must take with us a large heavy-armed force both of Athenians and of allies, whether our own subjects or any Peloponnesians whom we can persuade or attract by pay to our service; also plenty of archers and javelin-men to act against the enemy’s cavalry. Our naval superiority must be overwhelming, that we may not only be able to fight, but may have no difficulty in bringing in supplies. And there is the food carried from home, such as wheat and parched barley, which will have to be conveyed in merchant-vessels; we must also have bakers, drafted in a certain proportion from each mill, who will receive pay, but will be forced to serve, in order that, if we should be detained by a calm, the army may not want food; for it is not every city that will be able to receive so large a force as ours. We must make our preparations as complete as possible, and not be at the mercy of others; above all, we must take out with us as much money as we can; for as to the supplies of the Egestaeans which are said to be awaiting us, we had better assume that they are imaginary.6

Despite his elaborate precautions about supplies, Nicias is not optimistic that such a huge operation can be sustained in the long run but, since he is one of the three elected generals, he goes along.

How Does One Conduct an Optimal Siege? From Thucydides’ point of view, a siege is a very complicated matter, of which the siege of Troy provides a good example. Being a general himself Thucydides had several examples from which to draw a lesson even within the short time span of the Peloponnesian War: Potidaea (which took almost three years to complete); two battles around Amphipolis; Mende; Torone; Cythera, Melos. As a rule, towns were taken swiftly only if the besieger exerted strong and steady pressure by burning the crops and thus intimidating the inhabitants to capitulate. As well, generals could secretly negotiate with a party within the town,

6 Transl. by Jowett (1930).

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which was friendly to the besieger, and then follow up by taking the city, when traitors from the inside opened the gates (Fifth Column strategy).7 If the town were close to the sea, the Athenian fleet stood by providing supplies to the besiegers whilst blockading the besieged. In Troy, Agamemnon intimidated the Trojans by raiding surrounding territories but failed to blockade the town and force capitulation. The reason was that he did not deal efficiently with the Trojan allies inhabiting the plains whom Homer names excellent (πλεῖστοι καὶ ἄριστοι, 2.817): Lycians, Dardanians, Cicones and others. Thucydides infers that the Trojans relied on their allies for provisions: consider how Lycian Sarpedon reprimands Hector for not being at the forefront of battle and for relying on him (Sarpedon) who was a mere ally. Indeed, Hector is stung by Sarpedon’s words (Il. 5.471–493). The allies of the Trojans remained loyal which put the Achaeans at a great disadvantage for provisions forcing them to rely on distant raids, as noted above. Compare now the Sicilian expedition as narrated by Thucydides. Nicias, in contrast to Agamemnon, planned his siege of Syracuse meticulously. At first, when the Athenian expedition had freshly arrived on the island, all three generals still being present, the first thing they did was to check how much money their allies, the Egestans had to offer. Once they realized that there was only a small amount and certainly not enough for conducting a war, Nicias reasonably suggested that the Athenians ought to display their huge force, sail around for show and then return home (6.47). His view was not accepted by the two other generals, however, and when a little later Alcibiades was recalled to Athens, Nicias and Lamachus remained alone. The historian focalizes on Nicias, who seems to have been the mastermind of the whole plan, a plan that entailed building up allies and then assaulting the town by a full force.8 The two generals scored their first victory against the Syracusans already during the first months of their sojourn, just like Agamemnon had scored a first victory (always according to Thucydides). However, Nicias chose not to persist and carry on the siege because winter was approaching and his army did not have enough provisions to continue such a complicated enterprise in bad weather.9 Another consideration of Nicias was the weakness of Athenian horsepower which had already failed to protect Athenian soldiers from Syracusan harassment. For this reason, he requested extra cavalry from Athens thinking that

7 For the Fifth Column strategy in Classical Greece, see Losada (1972). 8 The suggestion to build up allies was made also by Alcibiades. 9 Note here how Thucydides brings provisions to the reader’s attention because he considers them important.

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horsemen would be especially valuable to the Athenian masons during the building of the circumvallation wall because they would protect them against the Syracusan cavalry. While waiting for these supplies, Nicias and Lamachus withdrew their troops from Syracuse and spent the wintry period in the friendly town of Catana. This was not wasted time as it gave them time to build a broad coalition of Sicilian allies – what Agamemnon did not do. They also met their target of securing the desired provisions and cavalry which was sent to them from Athens and, having accomplished all these goals, they arrived back in Syracuse the spring to conduct the siege properly. In the passage below the phrases in italics explain the full reasoning behind Nicias’ plan of the siege of Syracuse as Thucydides narrates it (Thuc. 6.71): καὶ τὰ τῶν πολεμίων σκῦλα ἔχοντες ἀπέπλευσαν ἐς Κατάνην: χειμών τε γὰρ ἦν, καὶ τὸν πόλεμον αὐτόθεν ποιεῖσθαι οὔπω ἐδόκει δυνατὸν εἶναι, πρὶν ἂν ἱππέας τε μεταπέμψωσιν ἐκ τῶν Ἀθηνῶν καὶ ἐκ τῶν αὐτόθεν ξυμμάχων ἀγείρωσιν, ὅπως μὴ παντάπασιν ἱπποκρατῶνται, καὶ χρήματα δὲ ἅμα αὐτόθεν τε ξυλλέξωνται καὶ παρ᾽ Ἀθηναίων ἔλθῃ, τῶν τε πόλεών τινας προσαγάγωνται, ἃς ἤλπιζον μετὰ τὴν μάχην μᾶλλον σφῶν ὑπακούσεσθαι, τά τε ἄλλα καὶ σῖτον καὶ ὅσων δέοι παρασκευάσωνται ὡς ἐς τὸ ἔαρ ἐπιχειρήσοντες ταῖς Συρακούσαις. [The Athenians] . . . then taking with them the spoils of their enemies, sailed back to Catana. Winter had now set in, and they thought that before they could do anything more at Syracuse they must send for horsemen from Athens, and collect others from their Sicilian allies; without them they would be at the mercy of the Syracusan cavalry. They also wanted to obtain both in Sicily and from Athens a supply of money, and to gain over some of the Sicilian cities. These would be more willing to listen to them after their victory. They had likewise to provide supplies, and to make the other requisite preparations for attacking Syracuse in the spring. (my emphasis)10

It is worth repeating that winning over Sicilian allies was crucial to Nicias’ plan if the Athenians were to succeed in isolating Syracuse. The strategy of Nicias obviously contrasts with Agamemnon’s tactics of raids carried for nine whole years. The latter caused the in dispersal of forces and did not siege in building local coalitions. A further contrast with Iliad is that Nicias’ initial success was designed (among other things) to send a message to the Sicels that the Athenian conquerors were competent, experienced and well trained in battle; consequently, they were likely to be perceived as the future winners of the conflict which made the Sicels more willing to join them, or else stay neutral. In other words, the success of that first Athenian victory at Syracuse was an important aspect of Nicias’ longterm policy and part of his overall plan to conduct the siege systematically. By

10 Transl. by Jowett (1930).

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contrast, Agamemnon made no use of his first initial success – always according to Thucydides. When Nicias began the serious siege of the town in the spring, he took the Syracusans by surprise. The Athenians sailed secretly by night and landed unobserved north of the city at a location specified by Thucydides as Leon. The soldiers literally ran from the coast up to the high plateau of Epipolai which bordered the city to the west towering over it. They climbed along a pass called Euryalos. Once the plateau was taken by this sudden attack, the Athenians immediately built forts to secure their position and guard their supplies. Masons were put to work, extra horsemen were received from the Athenian allies and very soon the circumvallation of the city began before the Syracusans had time to catch their breath. Thucydides relates (6.98.1–2): καὶ οὐ πολλῷ ὕστερον αὐτοῖς ἦλθον ἔκ τε Ἐγέστης ἱππῆς τριακόσιοι καὶ Σικελῶν καὶ Ναξίων καὶ ἄλλων τινῶν ὡς ἑκατόν: καὶ Ἀθηναίων ὑπῆρχον πεντήκοντα καὶ διακόσιοι, οἷς ἵππους τοὺς μὲν παρ᾽ Ἐγεσταίων καὶ Καταναίων ἔλαβον, τοὺς δ᾽ ἐπρίαντο, καὶ ξύμπαντες πεντήκοντα καὶ ἑξακόσιοι ἱππῆς ξυνελέγησαν.καὶ καταστήσαντες ἐν τῷ Λαβδάλῳ φυλακὴν ἐχώρουν πρὸς τὴν Συκῆν οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι, ἵναπερ καθεζόμενοι ἐτείχισαν τὸν κύκλον διὰ τάχους. καὶ ἔκπληξιν τοῖς Συρακοσίοις παρέσχον τῷ τάχει τῆς οἰκοδομίας . . . ; Not long afterwards the Athenians were joined by three hundred Egestaean horsemen, and about a hundred more furnished by the Sicels, Naxians, and others. They had two hundred and fifty of their own, for some of whom they received horses from the Egestaeans and Catanaeans; other horses they bought. The whole number of their cavalry was now raised to six hundred and fifty. They placed a garrison in Labdalum and went down to Syce, where they took up a position and immediately commenced building a wall around the city. The Syracusans were amazed at the celerity of the work. (my emphasis)11

In this way, the wall around Syracuse was almost finished in record time exemplifying the great skill, speed and experience of the Athenian army. Next, Nicias ordered the huge Athenian fleet to enter the Great Harbor of Syracuse and thus solidified his blockade by sea. Simultaneously, he destroyed the water supplies. How long did the siege take? From the first battle to the almost complete circumvallation of the town it took less than a year. The effort was sustained and coordinated. The Syracusans, of course, put up resistance and tried building cross walls to interrupt the Athenian enterprise, and it was during one of these battles around the walls that the second general, Lamachus, was killed leaving Nicias on his own (6.103.3); still, he managed almost to complete the circumvallation and blockade the Syracusans by land.

11 Transl. by Jowett (1930).

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But this was not all. While he was conducting operations, Nicias kept seriously negotiating with the pro-Athenian party inside Syracuse, inducing them to open the gates. This policy of taking the city from the inside (the Fifth Column strategy) was the most effective tool of the besieger, as already noted. After all, even Agamemnon took Troy by stratagem ultimately, although this is not related in the Iliad. Nicias’ plan worked perfectly because, as Thucydides reports, the Syracusans were almost ready to capitulate as soon as they realized that the circumvallation wall was about to be completed (6.103.3). But then something unexpected happened: Gylippus, the Spartan, suddenly arrived with a Spartan fleet accompanied by a Corinthian one and broke the blockade. At this point, the initial advantage of Athens over Syracuse was annihilated and the besiegers became the besieged since they were themselves surrounded. Nicias had now two armies to fight at once: the encircled Syracusans and the Spartans/Corinthians. All of his plans had to be re-configured: in one sentence, the siege was impossible to maintain. Here, then, is a lesson which Thucydides draws from history. A general must plan well and meticulously, and this is something Nicias did whereas Agamemnon did not. But there can never be a complete guarantee of success because unexpected factors may influence the outcome of events: for this reason, Greeks generally called their military successes good fortune (εὐτυχία). In the end, Nicias’ excellent plan was subverted by the unforeseen arrival of Gylippus which could not have been predicted since Athens was in a peace treaty with Sparta at the time (the peace of Nicias had been signed only six years before).

Agamemnon, Nicias and Empire To return to Agamemnon now, Thucydides notes some of his other deficiencies as a general, flaws that have less to do with his planning and more with his style of rulership and personality. The historian writes somewhat surprisingly: “Agamemnon’s rule was based on fear rather than charis” (οὐ χάριτι τὸ πλέον ἢ φόβῳ, 1.9.3). It is worth dwelling on charis (‘grace’) at this point in order to investigate what exactly Thucydides had in mind when he attributed its lack to Agamemnon. Charis may be defined as a gift freely given by a ruler to the ruled or bestowed by a commander of a large coalition of subjects or allies. ‘We make friends, Pericles says in the Funeral Oration, ‘not by receiving charis but by bestowing it on others’’ (2.40.4). What Pericles means here is that the stronger partner bestows benefits instead of showing force to the weaker partner, and this

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act forges a strong bond between the two despite discrepancy in the hierarchy of power. Perhaps what Pericles means is that the bond of charis evokes the selfless love of a parent to his/her child. The giver is invested in maintaining the goodwill of the taker, whereas the taker is bound by gratitude to return his debt. In Thucydidean Pericles’ view, charis is not only a token of Athenian magnanimity but a sign of dedication to individual freedom (2.40.5). The English rendition of charis as grace evokes the notion of the Grace of God, which may also be defined as a gift freely given.12 In practical terms, Athenian charis towards its allies/subjects may have meant the reduction of tribute, or the guarantee of security, or protection against pirates, or perhaps financial benefits.13 The important point here is that Thucydides characterizes Agamemnon as lacking charis and using fear and force instead. By so doing, he juxtaposes two kinds of empire-ruling, one based on fear, the other on mutual benefits. Why did Thucydides think that Agamemnon ruled on the basis of fear? He must have inferred this from the first two books of the Iliad where Agamemnon mistreats Chryses and the seer Calchas, insults Achilles and mishandles the situation with his army inducing his men almost to rebel. Surely it had been demoralizing to the Achaean army to see their general quarrel with Achilles, and surely they felt ready to board the ships and return home once they heard Agamemnon say (Il. 2.110–115): Ζεύς με μέγα Κρονίδης ἄτῃ ἐνέδησε βαρείῃ, σχέτλιος, ὃς πρὶν μέν μοι ὑπέσχετο καὶ κατένευσεν Ἴλιον ἐκπέρσαντ᾽ εὐτείχεον ἀπονέεσθαι, νῦν δὲ κακὴν ἀπάτην βουλεύσατο, καί με κελεύει δυσκλέα Ἄργος ἱκέσθαι, ἐπεὶ πολὺν ὤλεσα λαόν.

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Zeus, son of Cronus has seriously deluded me, a crushing blow. That perverse god once solemnly assured me that we would sack Ilium with its fine walls and return home; but now his advice turns out to be an evil deception, and he is telling me to return home to Argos in disgrace, with half my army lost.14

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12 Herter (1968) 277, renders charis as ‘Wohltaten’; see also Scanlon (1994) 147, 153–154. 13 When the Corinthians request alliance from Athens, they assure the latter that Corinthians will owe them lasting (or secure) gratitude (charis): 1.32–33 with Scanlon (1994) 153. 14 Transl. by Rieu (2003).

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By contrast, Thucydidean Nicias exudes confidence at Athenian excellence and skill as he addresses the troops and allies of Athens. He deals with the latter with exceptional sensitivity saying (Thuc. 6.68.1–2): Πολλῇ μὲν παραινέσει, ὦ ἄνδρες, τί δεῖ χρῆσθαι, οἳ πάρεσμεν ἐπὶ τὸν αὐτὸν ἀγῶνα; αὐτὴ γὰρ ἡ παρασκευὴ ἱκανωτέρα μοι δοκεῖ εἶναι θάρσος παρασχεῖν ἢ καλῶς λεχθέντες λόγοι μετὰ ἀσθενοῦς στρατοπέδου. ὅπου γὰρ Ἀργεῖοι καὶ Μαντινῆς καὶ Ἀθηναῖοι καὶ νησιωτῶν οἱ πρῶτοί ἐσμεν, πῶς οὐ χρὴ μετὰ τοιῶνδε καὶ τοσῶνδε ξυμμάχων πάντα τινὰ μεγάλην τὴν ἐλπίδα τῆς νίκης ἔχειν . . . What need, soldiers, is there of a long exhortation when we are all here united in the same cause? The mere sight of this great army is more likely to put courage into you than an eloquent speech and an inferior force. We are Argives and Mantineans, and Athenians and the chief of the islanders; and must not the presence of so many brave allies inspire every one of us with a good hope of victory?15

It is now time to summarize the results of Thucydides’ treatment of the siege of Troy. I accept the obvious proposition made eloquently by Jacqueline de Romilly and more recently by Lisa Kallet, that Thucydides’ view of the Trojan expedition addresses the lack of provisions and money (ἀχρηματία).16 But I have gone beyond that and have discerned in Thucydides’ interpretation issues of strategy and leadership which are not dependent on historical necessity but on individual choices made by the generals. Through his criticism of Agamemnon, Thucydides displays his understanding of how a siege is planned and exemplifies it by the counter-paradigm of Nicias’ careful preparation of the assault on Syracuse. Modern historians have paid less attention to this issue. In the end, however, Thucydides’ message shows that even methodical planning did not (and could not) guarantee the capture of Syracuse because chance reversed the course of affairs and subverted the utterly rational plans of Nicias. No general can ever plan and calculate every possible eventuality: this is the tragedy of the human condition.17

15 Transl. by Jowett (1930). 16 De Romilly (1967) 266; Hunter (1982) 39–40; Kallet (2001). 17 As argued thoroughly by Stahl (2003) 173–191.

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Bibliography Allison, J.W. 1979. Thucydides and Πολυπραγμοσύνη. AJAH 4: 10–22. Connor, W.R. 1984. Thucydides. Princeton. De Romilly, J. 1967. Histoire et Raison chez Thucydide. Paris. Finley, J.H. 1942. Thucydides. Ann Arbor. Greenwood, E. 2017. Thucydides on the Sicilian Expedition. In The Oxford Handbook of Thucydides, eds. Balot, R., Forsdyke, S. and Foster, E., 161–177. Oxford. Herter, H. 1968. Freiheit und Gebundenheit des Staatsmannes bei Thukydides. In Thukydides. Wege der Forschung, ed. Herter, H., 260–281. Darmstadt. Hornblower, S. 1991–2008. A Commentary on Thucydides, 3 vols. Oxford. Hunter, V. 1982. Past and Process in Herodotus and Thucydides. Princeton. Jowett, B. 1930. Thucydides. The History of the Peloponnesian War. London. Kagan, D. 2009. Thucydides and the Reinvention of History. New York. Kallet, L. 2001. Money and the Corrosion of Power in Thucydides. The Sicilian Expedition and Its Aftermath. Berkeley. Kallet, L. 2006. Thucydides’ Workshop of History and Utility Outside the Text. In Rengakos and Tsakmakis (2006) 335–368. Kallet-Marx, L. 1993. Money, Expense, and Naval Power in Thucydides’ History 1-5.24. Berkeley. Losada, L.A. 1972. The Fifth Column in the Peloponnesian War (Mnemosyne Suppl. 21). Leiden. Ober, O. 1999. Political Dissent in Democratic Athens. Intellectual Critics in Popular Culture. Princeton. Parry, A. 1969. Thucydides’ Language in the Description of the Plague. BICS 16: 106–118. Rawlings, H.R.III. 1981. The Structure of Thucydides’ “History”. Princeton. Rengakos, A. and Tsakmakis, A. (eds.) 2006. Brill’s Companion to Thucydides. Leiden. Rieu, E.V. (transl.), Jones, P.V. and Rieu, D.C.H. (eds.) 2003. Homer. The Iliad. London (first publ. 1950). Rood, T. 1998. Thucydides. Narrative and Explanation. Oxford. Scanlon, T. 1994. Echoes of Herodotus in Thucydides: Self-Sufficiency, Admiration, and Law. Historia 43: 143–176. Stadter, P. 2017. Characterization of Individuals in Thucydides. In The Oxford Handbook of Thucydides, eds. Balot, R., Forsdyke, S. and Foster, E., 283–299. Oxford. Stahl, H.-P. 2003. Thucydides: Man’s Place in History. Swansea. Westlake, H.D. 1968. Individuals in Thucydides. Cambridge.

Natasha Bershadsky

The Argive Women, Beards and Democracy Abstract: This chapter discusses the tale of heroic defense of Argos by the Argive women, led by the poet Telesilla after the battle of Sepeia. It argues that this tale was employed by the Argive democratic regime in the 460s BCE as an aetiological myth portraying a transition of Argos from oligarchy to democracy. The key image is that of the Argive women driving out the army of Demaratus from an entity called Pamphyliacum: it evokes major tribal reforms, which took place in Argos sometime before the middle of the fifth century BCE. The tale of the Argive women married to the perioikoi of Argos after the battle of Sepeia and obliged to wear beards while sleeping with their husbands is a related contemporary article of democratic Argive mythmaking. It represents a subjugation of communities of the Argive plain by Argos in the first half of the fifth century as a domestic cohabitation between the perioikoi and the Argive women and provides an aition for the crossdressing festival of Hybristica. Herodotus, who does not mention the story of the defense of Argos by women, probably visited Argos after 450 BCE, in the period of the oligarchic reconstruction, by which point that democratic myth might have been suppressed. A variant of an oracle to the Argives that Herodotus presents preserves an image of an uncoiled snake, which can be connected to the bawdy celebration of Hybristica.

Introduction The subject of this chapter is history and myths of the city of Argos related to the battle of Sepeia. More precisely, I analyze an account of Plutarch that reports several traditions, associated with the battle. I will argue that certain elements that have not been considered mythological should be identified as myths and I will also attempt to trace the history of those myths.1

1 For an overview of myth-history studies, and of their manifold interconnection, see the Preface to the present volume. Note: I would like to express my gratitude to the participants of the conference ‘Mythical History and Historical Myth’, where it was my great pleasure to deliver this paper. My warmest thanks are for the wonderful organizers of the conference for the intellectual thrill and the cordiality of those beautiful days. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-009

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City of Women According to Herodotus, the Battle of Sepeia was won by deception. The Spartans, led by Cleomenes, made a treacherous attack on the Argives. After the assault, Cleomenes proceeded to kill sacrilegiously the Argives who took refuge in a sacred precinct, the grove of Argos; then he burned the grove. After whipping a priest in the temple of Hera he returned to Sparta, where he faced a prosecution for failing to capture Argos (Herodotus 6.77–82). Two other main accounts of the Sepeia campaign, by Plutarch (Moralia 245c-e), in his De Mulierum Virtutibus and by Pausanias (2.20.8–10), introduce a narrative element that is absent in Herodotus. These authors report that after the battle of Sepeia Cleomenes brought his army to attack Argos, which was completely stripped of males of military age. At that point an Argive poetess, Telesilla, led the resistance. Pausanias recounts that Telesilla positioned very young and old men, as well as slaves, on the walls of Argos. Pausanias and Plutarch both tell that the women then valiantly fought the Spartans, who eventually turned back, unable to capture the city. Plutarch’s version contains some especially remarkable details. On the authority of the Argive historian Socrates, Plutarch reports that the women not only repulsed Cleomenes’ army, but also drove out the army of the second Spartan king, Demaratus, that somehow managed to enter Argos. Plutarch describes the Argive commemoration of the women’s valor and adds that on the anniversary of the battle, the Argives to his day celebrated a festival called Hybristica, characterized by cross-dressing (Moralia 245e-f). The versions of Plutarch and Pausanias have found little favor with modern scholars of Greek history. Many details seem untrustworthy. The report that Cleomenes’ army attacked Argos contradicts Herodotus’ version of the events, which seems by far the more reliable.2 The materialization of Demaratus’ army in Argos looks even less credible. However, these stories have historical value of their own as reflections of Greek perceptions of the past. This value can be particularly great if we succeed in establishing when and why these stories were created. One way to approach this task is to study the ideologies of these narratives, investigating the particular versions of the past that they promote. I will start from pointing out the details of Plutarch’s account that are most redolent of myth. There is “the energy and divine daring” (ὁρμὴ καὶ τόλμα

2 Hdt. 6.82 specifically reports that Cleomenes was brought to trial in Sparta for not attacking Argos, the information that seems to be based on the Spartan sources.

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δαιμόνιος, Moralia 245d) of the Argive women; there is a striking image of the women who “enwreathed the walls in a circle” (κύκλῳ . . . περιέστεψαν, Moralia 245e). It has been argued that the women’s resistance is described in terms reminiscent of a choral performance.3 There is also a fascinating reference to the Pamphyliacum (Moralia 245e), to which I will return. Plutarch portrays the community on the brink of disappearance, with the men already dead and the women about to succumb to the unified assault of both Spartan kings. Then comes the salvation by the women. Importantly, the women’s defense constitutes not just a rescue, but also a victory over the Spartans, since Cleomenes retreats with heavy losses. The female triumph that saves the city of Argos at the same time marks the end of the old community: Argos, whose males are extinct and whose females act like males,4 is a new city.5

Liberating the Pamphyliacum Plutarch concludes his account of the defense of Argos by the women by the description of the festival of Hybristica. Then he adds a peculiar story about a marriage of the Argive women to the perioikoi of Argos (Moralia 245f). I would like to establish what period of Argive history the detail about the enfranchisement of the perioikoi fits best. The enfranchisement constitutes a synoecism, in the most literal of the senses: the best of the perioikoi are made to cohabit (συνῴκισαν) with the Argive women. While our knowledge of Argive history is imperfect, the period of 460–450 BCE appears to provide a remarkably suitable setting for the tale featuring the reference to the synoecism and perioikoi. By that time, as has been convincingly demonstrated by Jonathan Hall, Argos finally acquired control

3 Kowalzig (2004) 50; Goff (2004) 241. On the circularity of the lyric chorus, see Calame (2001) 34–35, esp. 35: “It is appropriate here to recall that Hesychius himself defined the chorus as a circle or a crown” (Hsch. s.v. χορός). 4 The defense of Argos by the women is often described in terms of a reversal of women’s gender role; see Halliday (1909/1910); Graf (1984) 252–253; Loraux (1995) 232–233. Georgoudi (2015) suggests viewing the participation of women in wars in terms of cooperation between women and men, rather than a reversal of gender; however, it appears that particularly in Plutarch’s narrative about the Argive women the situation of gender roles’ reversal is emphasized; see below the discussion of the Hybristica. 5 Cf. McInerney’s (2003, 332) observation about the abundance of ‘ktistic stories’ in Plutarch’s De mulierum virtutibus: “It is as if the crisis of founding a polis authorizes actions which are at odds with normative behavior and permit temporarily a suspension of the usual restrictions on women.”

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over the previously independent neighboring communities of the Argive Plain.6 The inscriptional evidence reflects a major restructuring of the Argive citizen body sometime before the middle of the fifth century; it has been suggested that this restructuring indicates a democratic reform, connected with Argive acquisition of the new territories and a subsequent integration of new citizens from the dependent communities.7 Thus, I conjecture that Plutarch’s account of the enfranchisement of the perioikoi, as well as the story of the women’s defense of Argos, stems from the historical milieu of 460–450 BC. These tales express the ideology of democratic Argos, retrojecting the establishment of democracy all the way back to the times of Sepeia. In Plutarch’s version, the liberation of the Pamphyliacum by the women is presented as a climactic moment of the salvation of Argos. The mention of the liberation is followed by the statement: “in this way the city survived” (οὕτω δὲ τῆς πόλεως περιγενομένης, Moralia 245e). I propose that the importance of the Pamphyliacum derives from the visualization, inherent in that designation, of the totality of the citizen body as composed of different phylai. We have strong reason to think that the concept of phylai had a particular significance in Argos in the middle of the fifth century. The restructuring of the citizen body that I have just mentioned apparently involved a (re)division of each tribe into twelve phratries.8 It is also likely that there was some redistribution of people across the tribes. At some point before the mid-fifth century the fourth Argive tribe, the Hyrnathioi, was added. We do not know exactly when this tribe was added to the three traditional Dorian phylai, but our best guess is that the addition of this tribe is also connected to the Argive territorial conquests and the resulting enfranchisement of new citizens.9 Thus, if we accept the midfifth-century dating of the story of the women’s defense, the detail about the liberation of the Pamphyliacum, previously overlooked, can be seen as meaningful, thematically connected to the subjects of enfranchisement and synoecism. The appellation Pamphyliacum also can denote, of course, an entity belonging to the tribe of the Pamphyloi. It has been regularly assumed that the word refers to a quarter, or perhaps a sanctuary, of the Pamphyloi.10 This interpretation

6 Hall (1995) 592. 7 Hall (1995) 590; Hornblower (2002) 80; Piérart (1997) 332. 8 Kritzas (1992) 236 n. 10. 9 The model that seems reasonable to me is that of a two-stage process, involving first an addition of the Hyrnathioi to the tribal system, followed by the reorganization of the four tribes into the forty-eight phratries sometime in 460–450 BCE. 10 Pamphyliacum as a city quarter: Stadter (1965) 45 n. 46; Jones (1987) 115 n. 20; as a sanctuary: Jones (1987) 115. The Pamphyliacum also could have been a sanctuary of all phylai.

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does not exclude my previous point about the word’s reference to all phylai, since the name of the tribe functions as a pars pro toto, metonymically denoting the whole community.11 Importantly, it has been argued that the Pamphyloi occupied the lowest rank in a traditional hierarchy of the Doric tribes.12 Even more interestingly, it has been even suggested on the basis of the inscriptional evidence that the Argive Pamphyloi were at some point promoted in the tribal hierarchy. Their place vis-à-vis two other Doric tribes remained the same, but they began to outrank the tribe of the Hyrnathioi that had been preceding the Pamphyloi in the earlier inscriptions. It was tentatively suggested that the context for this promotion was the democratic reforms of the 460–450 BCE,13 which fits very well with my interpretation of the reference to the liberation of the Pamphyliacum. In my reading, the story of the women’s defense of Argos singles out the tribe of the Pamphyloi – the notional ‘common people’ of Argos – as the chief beneficiaries of the female victory.

The Importance of Being Bearded A prevalent current assumption is that Plutarch’s story about the Argives establishing a law according to which a married woman should sleep with her husband while wearing a beard is a result of Plutarch’s erroneous connection between the story of Sepeia and a traditional Argive marriage rite, involving the transvestism of the bride.14 This assertion rests on a broader claim that female transvestism was a widespread custom in Greece. It is this assumption that I would like to examine now. The remarkable fact is that despite the claims that female transvestism during marriage rites was a common phenomenon, the only two cases that are cited in the literature are Plutarch’s description of a marriage ceremony of Spartan women, during which the bride’s hair was cut and she was dressed in a male cloak,15 and our Argive story.16 We should observe that the Argive story

11 Nagy (1990) 281, with a comparison to the identical phenomenon in the case of the Hindu vaiśya. 12 Jones (1980); Nagy (1990) 279–282. 13 Jones (1980) 206; Nagy (1990) 280. 14 Chiaiese (2013) 76–77; Clark (2012) 118; Ament (1993) 18. 15 Plut. Lyc. 15.3. For a discussion of that passage see Lupi (2000) 71–75. 16 For example, La Guardia (2017) 100; Clark (2012) 188; Gagné (2006) 8; Miller (1999) 243 and n. 79; Leitao (1995) 162; Serwint (1993) 421.

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does not explicitly talk about transvestism during the marriage ceremony: rather, Plutarch reports a law prescribing a certain behavior of the married women. Two cases, out of which one is not explicitly characterized as a marriage custom, cannot support an assertion that female transvestism was a regular feature of marriage ceremonies. Male transvestism during marriage rites, on the other hand, is much more robustly attested. So, what we seem to face is an instance of an asymmetry in marriage rites between the genders. Such asymmetry, of course, is not very surprising if we think of the drastic gender inequality in the Greek society. The meaning of marriage was different for men and for women; thus, male and female transvestism potentially could have operated in very different frames of reference. David Leitao, an expert in matters related to the phenomenon of transvestism in ancient Greece, observes this divergence in the functions of male and female marriage transvestism: “When the bridegroom donned the clothing of the opposite sex, it was to dramatize before the community his final transition from the world of women to the world of men. Brides, however, did not undergo a comparable transformation of gender at puberty, and therefore a different interpretation must be sought.”17 As a solution, Leitao has proposed that female transvestism had a very different function, a psychological one, aiming “to ease the anxiety of the individual bridegroom,” unaccustomed to heterosexual relationships.18 However, the effectiveness of the bride’s false beard in alleviating the anxieties of the individual Argive bridegrooms remains uncertain. Gloria Ferrari emphasizes, concerning the social status of a woman, that “the formalities of female rites of passage and the conception of marriage insistently suggest that an adult is what she must never become.”19 In this context,

17 Leitao (1995) 162–163. 18 Leitao (1995) 163. 19 Ferrari (2002) 8. Ferrari observes an underdeveloped character of female rituals of coming of age, in comparison to male ones, and emphasizes their ‘poverty’ and ‘incoherence’ (p. 176). The existing female rites of passage typically appear as paler reflections of the corresponding male rites, featuring important asymmetries (a phenomenon attested in age-class societies, Ferrari [2002] 176–177 and 299 n. 77, with a reference to Chapter 11 of Bernardi [1985]). For example, Ferrari points out concerning the Spartan wedding transvestism of a bride, seemingly analogous to the male attainment of the adult status through a pederastic relationship, that the bride’s transition from parthenos to gunê is brought about by a man, not a woman (p. 165); further, she observes, like Leitao, that female transvestism does not change the gender of the bride (p. 176). According to Ferrari (p. 177), this imperfect patterning of the female rites on the male ones expresses the “notion that scholars express with the oxymoron ‘women of citizen status’,” namely, the dependence of women on men for having a share in the polis, which the women can achieve only ‘as daughters, wives and mothers of citizens’.

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how can we make sense of a married woman in Plutarch flaunting a full beard, indicating, in the case of a male, an adult status? Given the stress on the sub-adult status of women in the framework of marriage, a bride’s wearing of a beard, that is, her temporary assumption of the identity of an adult male, would have constituted a striking conceptual oddity in a routine marriage ritual.20 Therefore, I suggest that we should abandon the conjecture that Plutarch mistakenly linked a traditional marriage ritual to the story of the battle of Sepeia. Instead, let us consider Plutarch’s text as it stands. As soon as we come back to Plutarch’s original presentation, the idiosyncratic detail about the married women wearing beards finds a correspondingly exceptional context: the extraordinary moment in the past when the Argive females had a higher status than the perioecic males. The transmission of citizenship by uterine descent, formalized by the marriage of the citizen women to the perioikoi, is an anomaly; the beards worn by the married woman give this anomaly a dramatic expression. The logic of the Argive law, as reported by Plutarch, both articulates the superiority of the women over their perioecic husbands by means of giving them beards, and at the same time presents this superiority as something temporary, unnatural, un-female. The explicit aim of the law is to cut the women down to size, so that they would not disrespect their husbands, and the false beards do it through presenting the female supremacy as grotesque. A woman with a beard is laughable, as the following dialogue from Aristophanes’ Assemblywomen shows. After the Athenian women have tied on their false beards, in order to disguise themselves as men, one woman complains to Praxagora (Ecclesiazusae 124–128): (Γυνὴ) δεῦρ᾽ ὦ γλυκυτάτη Πραξαγόρα, σκέψαι τάλαν ὡς καὶ καταγέλαστον τὸ πρᾶγμα φαίνεται. (Πραξαγόρα) πῶς καταγέλαστον; (Γυνὴ) ὥσπερ εἴ τις σηπίαις πώγωνα περιδήσειεν ἐσταθευμέναις.

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20 “[I]nversion does not make sense in rituals involving persons whose identities are changing: to represent a ritual actor who is in the process of becoming ‘X’ as ‘anti-X’ is to obscure the very process of change which such transformative rituals aim to bring abou,” Leitao (1999) 256.

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(Woman) Look, my dear, and see how really ludicrous the thing looks. (Praxagora) In what way ludicrous? (Woman) It’s as if someone tied a beard on to lightly browned cuttlefishes!21

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The story about the law obliging women to wear beards features the same motif of the Argive women behaving in a manly manner as does the story of the female defense of Argos; however, the two narratives present opposite, tragic and comic, viewpoints on such a behavior. The story of the female defense of Argos portrays the manly conduct of the women positively, as a heroic feat in an extreme situation. The law concerning the women’s beards portrays the female manliness as hybristic, and aims to defuse it, bringing it under control through ridicule. What can we say about the nature of the law regarding the women’s beards, reported by Plutarch? I consider the information that Plutarch transmits to be based on a genuine Argive tradition; however, was it a real law that was endorsed once upon a time? Since, as I have argued in the previous section, the tradition about the enfranchisement of the perioikoi after the battle of Sepeia is likely to have been coined around the time of the floruit of the Argive democracy in the 460s, the story about the contemptuous Argive women and the law ordering them to wear beards in all probability should belong to the same historical period. Thus, the law is a mythical invention. I submit that, along with the story of the female defense of Argos, the story about the wives of perioikoi sporting beards served as an aition for the cross-dressing festival of Hybristica.22 As I have noted, the two tales are complementary, expressing opposite attitudes toward the motif of the female manliness. Taken together, these two myths motivate both the celebration of the topsy-turvy situation of gender reversal and the transition back to normalcy.

21 Transl. by Sommerstein (modified). I am grateful to George Harrison for pointing out that the beards may allude to pubic hair, a reading that emphasizes ribald overtones of the Hybristica (see below). See also Ferrari (2002) 169 on the inherently laughable nature of the female public nudity (Pl. Resp. 5.451e6–452b5). 22 Similarly, McInerney (2003) 336–337.

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Coiled or Uncoiled? Herodotus and the Hybristica I have not yet discussed an element that is widely considered to exert a crucial influence on the emergence of the myth of Telesilla and the Argive women, that is, an oracle about the victory of the female over the male, quoted by Herodotus in his description of the Battle of Sepeia. What place does the oracle have in my reconstruction of the events? Herodotus reports that the oracle was a joint prediction, given in Delphi to the Milesians and the Argives (although he never cites together the parts concerning Miletus and Argos). Here is the Argive part of the pronouncement (Hdt. 6.77.2): ἀλλ᾽ ὅταν ἡ θήλεια τὸν ἄρσενα νικήσασα ἐξελάσῃ καὶ κῦδος ἐν Ἀργείοισιν ἄρηται, πολλὰς Ἀργείων ἀμφιδρυφέας τότε θήσει. ὧς ποτέ τις ἐρέει καὶ ἐπεσσομένων ἀνθρώπων δεινὸς ὄφις τριέλικτος23 ἀπώλετο δουρὶ δαμασθείς. When the female defeats the male and drives him away, winning glory in Argos, she will make many Argive women tear their cheeks. As someday one of men to come will say: the dread thrice-coiled serpent died tamed by the spear.24

A widespread current view takes this oracle to be the source from which the myth of the heroic female defense of Argos was derived.25 The development of this myth is typically considered to postdate Herodotus, since Herodotus does not mention it in his presentation of the events.26 I will try now to show that there is a more dialogical connection between the oracle, on the one hand, and the Hybristica and its myths, on the other, than has been acknowledged so far. I accept the possibility that the oracle may have influenced the formation of the myth about the female defense of Argos. However, I believe that the connection goes both ways and that we can discern traces of the Hybristica and its myths in the oracle.27

23 The variant ἀέλικτος, attested in Greek Anthology 14.90, will be discussed below. 24 Transl. by Godley (1920). 25 Piérart (2003) 281; Jacoby (1955) 46, Stadter (1965) 48; Bury (1902) 20 and n. 4 for the earlier literature. 26 Among others, Facella (2017) 109; Suárez de la Torre (2004) 253–255. 27 The influence of Telesilla’s story on the oracle has been suggested already by Macan (1895) 336.

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A recent analysis of the Sepeia oracle by Marcel Piérart argues that the oracle, which is linked by Herodotus and the Greek Anthology to a prophesy of the fall of Miletus, stems from the setting of the Ionian revolt (the oracle’s reference to the Argives, Piérart maintains, was initially construed as denoting the Greeks in general).28 Piérart suggests that the oracle was later embraced by the Argives as alluding to the events of the battle of Sepeia. For Piérart, the terminus ante quem for such an adoption is c. 450 BCE, the date which he ascribes to Herodotus’ visit to Argos in search of the information about the Spartan-Argive relationship.29 A treatment of the subject by Pierre Sauzeau discusses at length various Argive ‘readings’ of the oracle, resulting in the ‘rewriting’ of Argive history and a creation of the myth of the victorious Argive women.30 Yet, despite Piérart’s and Sauzeau’s acute appreciation of the importance of the Argive phase of the oracle, they treat the text of the oracle as a constant, which could be only reinterpreted, not changed, throughout its history. I would like to revise this perception of the oracle as a fixed entity, by taking into account Lisa Maurizio’s important work on the oral character of the Delphic oracles.31 Maurizio makes a case that “the primary means of transmission of Delphic oracles was word of mouth, and that the Delphic tradition was an oral one.”32 Thus, the oracles were not only repeatedly reperformed and reinterpreted, but also recomposed in the process of the reperformance. Given the prominent Argive phase in the transmission of the Sepeia oracle, we can expect to see in it traces of the Argive recomposition. Moreover, since, as Piérart argues, Herodotus collected the oracle in Argos,33 the Argive context should be particularly significant. That is to say, the oracle as a whole should be understandable from the Argive perspective, since the oral tradition typically maintains the details that are meaningful for the current audience.34 The part of the oracle about the victory of the female over the male, of course, does not present any problem in this respect: the myth of Telesilla and the Argive women provides the Argive referent. The crucial element to be explained is the snake, subdued by the spear. This part of the oracle, which Piérart calls “one of the most obscure passages in oracular literature”35 currently

28 Piérart (2003) 290–296. 29 Piérart (2003) 284. 30 Sauzeau (1999). 31 Maurizio (1997). 32 Maurizio (1997) 313. 33 Piérart (2003) 284. 34 Forsdyke (1999) 362; Vansina (1985) 100–114. 35 Piérart (2003) 292; similarly, Sauzeau (1999) 134.

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lacks a convincing interpretation. Earlier attempts to construe the image of the snake as the city of Argos are difficult to substantiate and none of the explanations achieves an organic connection between the triumphant female and the defeated snake. Let us consider the wording of the oracle. After the passage about the victory of the female and the grief of the Argive women, the image of the snake is introduced by the following line (Hdt. 6.77): ὧς ποτέ τις ἐρέει καὶ ἐπεσσομένων ἀνθρώπων as someday one of men to come will say . . .

This verse features a remarkable change in the temporal point of view: while the previous segment of the poem speaks about the future disaster as foreseen from the present time, the image of the snake is introduced as a past from the standpoint of the future generations. From the perspective of future people, the battle of Sepeia has happened already and is now contemplated as a past event. In other poetic texts, the future middle forms of the verb ἔπειμι are repeatedly associated with commemoration. In Theocritus’ Idyll 12, the future people (ἐπεσσομένοις, 12.11) become the audience of a song into which two lovers are transformed. In a poem inscribed on a stone herm, quoted by Aeschines, the future Athenians (ἐπεσσομένων, Aesch. 3.184) are imagined as the audience, reading the inscription. Most interestingly, the Homeric Hymn to Demeter promises that an unfading honor will always attach to the baby Demophon (τιμὴ δ’ ἄφθιτος αἰὲν ἐπέσσεται, Hymn. Hom. Cer. 264), since a goddess was his nurse. What follows is a description of ritual battles that the Eleusinians shall recurrently celebrate in Demophon’s honor (Hymn. Hom. Cer. 266–268). Thus, ἐπέσσεται introduces the future of hero-cult honors.36 So, the future middle forms of ἔπειμι signal the transition to a commemorative mode, through monuments, song, or cult. Importantly, what is represented as a future from the poems’ interior point of view, is in fact the present for the poems’ audience. On this reasoning, the oracle’s line (ὧς ποτέ τις ἐρέει καὶ ἐπεσσομένων ἀνθρώπων) should refer to the commemoration of the Battle of Sepeia. Given the Argive setting of the poem’s performance, we can expect this commemoration to be specifically Argive. At this point it is relevant to consider an alternate reading of the oracle: the Greek Anthology 14.90 and some Herodotean manuscripts attest ὄφις ἀέλικτος (‘uncoiled snake’) instead of ὄφις τριέλικτος (‘thrice-coiled snake’). The word 36 On timê as the ‘honor of cult’, see Nagy (1990) 132 n. 51. On ritual fights as Demophon’s cult honors, see Pache (2004) 75–78.

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ἀέλικτος is a hapax and a lectio difficilior and therefore should command our attention. What does an uncoiled snake remind us of? I suggest that the festival of Hybristica provides a suitable setting for the following answer: the uncoiled snake refers to a phallus and the passage describes, in a riddling manner, the loss of masculinity suffered by the male Argives as a result of the female defense of Argos,37 and seasonally re-experienced by them during the gender reversal of the Hybristica. A snake as a symbolic representation of a penis is widely attested cross-culturally; Greek literature furnishes examples of this symbolism.38 If a snake suggests a penis, the uncoiled snake evokes the same idea much more strongly. The first and second parts of the oracle correspond to the tragic view of the events during the Spartan attack of Argos, articulated by the myth of Telesilla, and the comic view, expressed by the myth of the women wearing beards and the festival of Hybristica.39 The ribald interpretation of the image of the snake that I have offered is supported by the resemblances between the Sepeia oracle and comic oracles, found in Aristophanes. The combination of the solemn Homeric diction with obscenities is part and parcel of Aristophanic oracular jokes. One Aristophanic oracle features a serpent (δράκων, Equites 198) and also includes expressions ἀλλ᾽ ὁπόταν . . . τότε, ἀπόλλυμι and κῦδος (Equites 197–200); the oracle’s interpretation, given in the play, singles out the serpent’s most phallic quality: ὁ δράκων γάρ ἐστι μακρὸν ὅ τ᾽ ἀλλᾶς αὖ μακρόν (“for the serpent is long, and the sausage is also long,” 207). Another Aristophanic prophesy, bearing a conspicuous similarity to the Sepeia oracle, comes from Lysistrata (770–773): ἀλλ᾽ ὁπόταν πτήξωσι χελιδόνες εἰς ἕνα χῶρον, τοὺς ἔποπας φεύγουσαι, ἀπόσχωνταί τε φαλήτων, παῦλα κακῶν ἔσται, τὰ δ᾽ ὑπέρτερα νέρτερα θήσει Ζεὺς ὑψιβρεμέτης –

770

Yes, when the swallows hole up in a single home, Fleeing the hoopoes and leaving the phallus alone, Then are their problems solved, and high-thundering Zeus Shall reverse what’s up and what’s down –

770

37 In Barbara Goff’s formulation: “if women start to behave like men, men will become women.” Goff (2007) 56. Similarly, Gherchanoc (2003) 781–782; Carlà-Uhink (2017) 9. 38 See McMahon (1998) 139–141; Henderson (1991) 127. In Greek Anthology 11.22, ὄφις refers to a penis; double entendres are suspected in Eccl. 906–910 and Lys. 758–759. 39 The risqué quality of the second part of the Sepeia oracle perhaps has something to do with female aischrologia. On women’s use of the obscene speech as an extreme form of gender inversion, see Versnel (1993) 244; McClure (1999) 51.

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Sauzeau speaks of “des similitudes troublantes” between this prediction and the Sepeia oracle.40 Indeed, both oracles feature a reversal motif, coupled with the appearance of θήσει in the line-final position. Moreover, my interpretation of the snake as a phallus is paralleled by Aristophanes’ reference to χελιδόνες (‘swallows’), a slang term for female genitals.41 The profusion of oracles in Aristophanes’ plays indicates that there must have been a strongly developed sub-genre of comic oracles. The similarities between the Sepeia oracle and the Aristophanic oracles that I have discussed probably stem from shared genre conventions.42 Perhaps some of the similarities also derive from Aristophanes’ direct familiarity with the Hybristica and the associated myths. A joke from the Ecclesiazusae (127–128), which I have already cited, describes the women disguised with false beards in the following manner: ὥσπερ εἴ τις σηπίαις πώγωνα περιδήσειεν ἐσταθευμέναις. It’s as if someone tied a beard on to lightly browned cuttlefishes!43

Christoph Auffarth has recently argued that the absurd image of the bearded cuttlefishes (σηπίαις) is in fact a punning reference to the tradition of the Argive women wearing beards after the battle of Sepeia.44 If Auffarth is right, the pun indicates Aristophanes’ acquaintance with the Argive myths celebrated by the Hybristica;45 it also seems to imply that the Athenian audience in the beginning of the fourth century (or at least some part of the audience) was sufficiently familiar with these myths as to catch a fleeting reference.46 The fourth-century Athenians might have been fluent in the Argive comic tradition concerning the aftermath of Sepeia, but what about Herodotus? The

40 Sauzeau (1999) 146. 41 Henderson (1987) 168 with further references; Sommerstein (1990) 197. 42 Sauzeau (1999) 146. 43 Transl. by Sommerstein (1998) slightly modified. 44 Auffarth (2004) 48. The Aristophanic scholiast thought the comparison to be ‘not to the point’ (ἀπρόσλογος, scholia for Eccl. 126); Ussher (1973) 93. If a pun is involved, the comparison acquires a point. The word order, in which the word σηπίαις comes close to the beginning of the sentence and is immediately followed by πώγωνα, seems to foreground the punning part. 45 Aristophanes’ pun constitutes the earliest attestation of the myth of the female defense of Argos. 46 Auffarth (2004) argues for a pervasive presence of the Hybristica and the associated Argive tales in the Assemblywomen as a meaningful background for the play’s action.

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‘hybristic’ interpretation that I have proposed clashes spectacularly with the solemn mood of Herodotus’ account, in which he quotes the Sepeia oracle. How do we explain this striking dissonance? It has been argued that Herodotus’ tale about the rule of the slaves in Argos expresses an aristocratic point of view on the events after the battle of Sepeia.47 Herodotus apparently gathered his information in Argos after 450 BCE, when the aristocratic party was in power,48 and the democratic tale of Telesilla and the heroic Argive women was temporarily ‘out of vogue’. I submit that we can actually see a further step in the recomposition of the oracle in Herodotus’ version. The case in point is the variant τριέλικτος, which is predominant in the Herodotean manuscripts. The image of the three-coiled snake excludes the phallic reading. It seems very appealing to view ὄφις τριέλικτος as a recomposition of the oracle that bleaches out the democratic overtones. I believe that Herodotus received this version of the oracle with an attendant reinterpretation of the rest of the imagery: the victory of the female over the male was construed as an expression of a generally topsy-turvy state of the world, rather than a reference to the specific myth of the female defense of Argos. The tale of the heroic defense of Argos by women is certainly not historical by itself; it constitutes a mythologization of history; and precisely the appreciation of the mythical quality of this narrative appears also to shed some light on the history of democratic Argos in the fifth century.

Bibliography Ament, E.J. 1993. Aspects of Androgyny in Classical Greece. In Woman’s Power, Man’s Game: Essays on Classical Antiquity in Honor of Joy K. King, ed. DeForest, M., 1–31. Wauconda, IL. Auffarth, C. 2004. Let Women Speak in the Assembly. Symbolic Reversals in Aristophanes’ Ekklesiazousai. In Myth and Symbol II: Symbolic Phenomena in Ancient Greek Culture, ed. des Bouvrie, S., 43–62. Bergen. Bernardi, B. 1985. Age Class Systems: Social Institutions and Polities Based on Age. Cambridge. Bershadsky, N. 2013. Pushing the Boundaries of Myth: Transformations of Ancient Border Wars in Archaic and Classical Greece (Ph.D. Diss. University of Chicago). Bury, J.B. 1902. The Epicene Oracle Concerning Argos and Miletus. Klio 2: 14–25. Calame, C. 20012. Choruses of Young Women in Ancient Greece: Their Morphology, Religious Role and Social Function (transl. D. Collins and J. Orion). Lanham, MD.

47 Bershadsky (2013) 316–322. 48 Piérart (2003) 284; Vannicelli (2004) 293.

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Campanile, D., Carlà-Uhink, F. and Facella, M. (eds.) 2017. TransAntiquity: Cross-Dressing and Transgender Dynamics in the Ancient World. Abingdon. Carlà-Uhink, F. 2017. ‘Between the Human and the Divine’: Cross-dressing and Transgender Dynamics in the Graeco-Roman World. In Campanile, Carlà-Uhink and Facella (2017) 3–37. Chiaiese, A. 2013. La guerra dentro e fuori: Giochi di genere tra Argo e Tegea. In Des femmes en action: L’ individu et la function en Grèce antique, eds. Boehringer, S. and Sebillotte Cuchet, V., 73–84. Paris. Clark, M. 2012. Exploring Greek Myth. Chichester. Facella, M. 2017. Beyond Ritual: Cross-dressing between Greece and the Orient. In Campanile, Carlà-Uhink and Facella (2017) 108–120. Ferrari, G. 2002. Figures of Speech: Men and Maidens in Ancient Greece. Chicago. Forsdyke, S. 1999. From Aristocratic to Democratic Ideology and Back Again: The Thrasybulus Anecdote in Herodotus’ Histories and Aristotle’s Politics. CPh 94: 361–372. Gagné, R. 2006. What is the Pride of Halicarnassus? ClAnt 25: 1–33. Georgoudi, S. 2015. To Act, Not Submit. Women’s Attitudes in Situations of War in Ancient Greece. In Women and War in Antiquity, eds. Fabre-Serris, J. and Keith, A., 200–213. Baltimore. Gherchanoc, F. 2003. Les atours féminins des hommes: Quelques représentations du masculin–feminin dans le monde grec antique. Entre initiation, ruse, séduction et grotesque, surpuissance et déchéance. RH 305: 739–791. Godley, A.D. (transl.) 1920. Herodotus. Cambridge. Goff, B.E. 2004. Citizen Bacchae: Women’s Ritual Practice in Ancient Greece. Berkeley. Goff, B.E. 2007. The Priestess of Athena Grows a Beard: Latent Citizenship in Ancient Greek Women’s Ritual Practice. In The Sacred and the Feminine: Imagination and Sexual Difference, eds. Pollock, G. and Turvey Sauron, V., 49–60. London. Graf, F. 1984. Women, War and Warlike Divinities. ZPE 55: 245–254. Hall, J.M. 1995. How Argive Was the “Argive” Heraion? AJA 99: 577–613. Halliday, W.R. 1909/1910. A Note on Herodotos VI. 83 and the Hybristika. ABSA 16: 212–219. Henderson, J. 19912. The Maculate Muse: Obscene Language in Attic Comedy. New York. Henderson, J. (ed.) 1987. Aristophanes. Lysistrata. Oxford. Hornblower, S. 2002. A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 2, Books IV-V.24. Oxford. Jacoby, F. 1955. Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. III Geschichte von Städten und Völkern (Horographie und Ethnographie), B. Kommentar zu Nr. 297–607, Noten. Leiden. Jones, N.F. 1980. The Order of the Dorian Phylai. CPh 75: 197–215. Jones, N.F. 1987. Public Organization in Ancient Greece: A Documentary Study. Philadelphia. Kowalzig, B. 2004. Changing Choral Worlds: Song-dance and Society in Athens and Beyond. In Music and the Muses: The Culture of Mousike in the Classical Athenian City, eds. Murray, P. and Wilson, P., 39–66. Oxford. Kritzas, C. 1992. Aspects de la vie politique et économique d’Argos au Ve siècle avant J.-C. In Polydipsion Argos: Argos de la fin des palais mycéniens à la constitution de l’etat classique, ed. Piérart, M., 231–240. Athens. La Guardia, F. 2017. Aspects of Transvestism in Greek Myths and Rituals. In Campanile, Carlà-Uhink and Facella (2017) 99–107. Leitao, D.D. 1995. The Perils of Leukippos: Initiatory Transvestism and Male Gender in the Ekdusia at Phaistos. ClAnt 14: 130–163.

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Leitao, D.D. 1999. Solon on the Beach: Some Pragmatic Functions of the Limen in Initiatory Myth and Ritual. In Rites of Passage in Ancient Greece: Literature, Religion, Society, ed. Padilla, M.W., 247–277. Lewisburg. Loraux, N. 1995. The Experiences of Tiresias: The Feminine and the Greek Man (transl. P. Wissing). Princeton. Lupi, M. 2000. L’ordine delle generazioni: Classi di età e costumi matrimoniali nell’antica Sparta. Bari. Macan, R.W. 1895. Herodotus, The Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Books. London. Maurizio, L. 1997. Delphic Oracles as Oral Performances: Authenticity and Historical Evidence. ClAnt 16: 308–334. McClure, L. 1999. Spoken Like a Woman: Speech and Gender in Athenian Drama. Princeton. McInerney, J. 2003. Plutarch’s Manly Women. In Andreia: Studies in Manliness and Courage in Classical Antiquity, eds. Rosen, R.M. and Sluiter, I., 319–344. Leiden. McMahon, J.M. 1998. Paralysin Cave: Impotence, Perception and Text in the Satyrica of Petronius. Leiden. Miller, M.C. 1999. Reexamining Transvestism in Archaic and Classical Athens: The Zewadski Stamnos. AJA 103: 223–253. Nagy, G. 1990. Greek Mythology and Poetics. Ithaca. Pache, C.O. 2004. Baby and Child Heroes in Ancient Greece. Urbana. Piérart, M. 1997. L’attitude d’Argos à l’égard des autres cités de l’Argolide. In The Polis as an Urban Centre and as a Political Community, ed. Hansen, M.H., 321–351. Copenhagen. Piérart, M. 2003. The Common Oracle of the Milesians and the Argives (Hdt. 6.19 and 77). In Herodotus and His World: Essays from a Conference in Memory of George Forrest, eds. Derow, P. and Parker, R., 275–296. New York. Sauzeau, P. 1999. ‘Quand la femelle victorieuse . . .’: Interprétations contextuelles d’un oracle énigmatique (Hérodote, VI, 77). RHR 216: 131–165. Serwint, N. 1993. The Female Athletic Costume at the Heraia and Prenuptial Initiation Rites. AJA 97: 403–422. Sommerstein, A.H. (ed. and transl.) 1990. Aristophanes. Lysistrata. Warminster. Sommerstein, A.H. (ed. and transl.) 1998. Aristophanes. Ecclesiazusae. Oxford. Stadter, P.A. 1965. Plutarch’s Historical Methods: An Analysis of the Mulierum Virtutes. Cambridge. Suárez de la Torre, E. 2004. Los oráculos sobre Argos. In La città di Argo: Mito, storia, tradizioni poetiche: Atti del convegno internazionale, Urbino, 13–15 Giugno 2002, ed. Bernardini, P., 245–262. Rome. Ussher, R.G. (ed.) 1973. Aristophanes. Ecclesiazusae. Oxford. Vannicelli, P. 2004. Eraclidi e Perseidi: Aspetti del conflitto tra Sparta e Argo nel V sec. a. C. In La città di Argo: Mito, storia, tradizioni poetiche: Atti del convegno internazionale, Urbino, 13–15 Giugno 2002, ed. Bernardini, P., 279–294. Rome. Vansina, J. 1985. Oral Tradition as History. Madison, WI. Versnel, H.S. 1993. Inconsistencies in Greek and Roman Religion, vol. 2: Transition and Reversal in Myth and Ritual. Leiden.

Olga Levaniouk

Seeking Agariste Abstract: This chapter revisits the story of Agariste’s betrothal in Book 6 of Herodotus’ Histories and its relation to the Buddhist Jataka tale of the ‘Dancing Peacock’. On the one hand, there is no reason to seek the origins of Herodotus’ story in diffusion from India or in animal fable and in fact the implicit presumption of similarity to the Jataka has led to some forced interpretations of Herodotus’ text. On the other hand, a more systematic comparison between Herodotus and the Indian tale helps clarify elements of Agariste’s betrothal, in particular the role of the three protagonists: her father, Cleisthenes of Sicyon, and the two main suitors, Hippocleides and Megacles. It is suggested that the relationship between history and myth in the case of Agariste’s betrothal is of a mis-enabime variety. Evidence from India suggests that there is nothing impossible in Cleisthenes staging an epic-like betrothal for his daughter; such a historical event could have been both fictionalized and modeled on myth, which, in its turn, could have reflected prior historical events. The story of Agariste’s betrothal in Book 6 of Herodotus is a long-standing puzzle. The story is reminiscent of the betrothal of Helen in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women,1 yet the protagonists are historical figures. The plot seems simple, yet the story has been remarkably difficult to analyze. Everyone agrees that Herodotus pokes fun at someone or something, but not about whom or what. And there is no consensus on the question of the story’s relation to history, or its relation to myth or folktale. Within the last five years, Simon Hornblower has argued that the story is based on an actual event, while Stephanie West has argued that it is entirely fictional.2 In the decades preceding these publications, almost every permutation of these positions has been defended.3 Rather than

1 See especially Ormand (2014) 226–235. 2 Hornblower (2014); West (2015). 3 See e.g. Macan (1895); How and Wells (1912); Aly (1921); McGregor (1941); Stein-Hölkeskamp (1989); Biebas-Richer (2016); Hornblower and Pelling (2017). Note: I am very grateful to the Conference organizers, Menelaos Christopoulos, Athina Papachrysostomou, Andreas P. Antonopoulos and to the participants in the “Mythical History and Historical Myth” Conference, for giving an earlier version of this study a chance to be heard and for their many helpful comments and suggestions. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-010

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adding to the tally on either side, in what follows I bring in some modern evidence to re-frame the question and in the process elucidate some overlooked aspects of the story. The tale of Agariste’s betrothal (Histories 6.126–130) is part of Herodotus’ defense of the Alcmaeonids, which also includes the story of how Alcmaeon acquired his fabulous wealth from Croesus. The story itself starts with Cleisthenes, the vainglorious tyrant of Sicyon, who finds an exceptional way to marry off his daughter. After winning a victory in Olympia, Cleisthenes announces that those who think themselves worthy to be his son-in-law should assemble in Sicyon and compete for his daughter’s hand. The suitors gather and stay for a year, feasting and demonstrating their prowess at the racing course and palaistra. The tyrant favors the two Athenians, Megacles the Alcmaeonid and Hippocleides the Philaid, and of these two Hippocleides is the front-runner because of his good looks, wealth and family connections – until the last day. At the final feast Hippocleides begins to dance. He progresses from more sedate to more exuberant dances, first on the ground and then on a table, until finally he leans his head on the table and somehow moves his legs in the air.4 Ὦ παῖ Τεισάνδρου, ἀπορχήσαό γε μὲν τὸν γάμον (Herodotus 6.129) – “Son of Teisander, you have danced away your marriage!” says the scandalized Cleisthenes, only to hear the reckless suitor respond: Οὐ φροντὶς Ἱπποκλείδῃ (Herodotus 6.129) – “Hippocleides does not care.” Megacles, the runner-up, does not have an active role in the story, but now Cleisthenes makes his announcement giving Agariste to him. Herodotus concludes by tracing the descendants of Megacles through Cleisthenes the Athenian reformer, Hippocrates, the second Megacles, and the second Agariste down to Pericles (Histories 6.131). It seems unreasonable to doubt that Megacles really did marry Agariste: after all, we know of their famous Athenian progeny. The rest of the story, however, is fair game for various degrees of doubt. In 1912, How and Wells were categorical in their assessment: “The fact of the wedding of the daughter and heiress of Cleisthenes is doubtless historical, the details are obviously fictitious.”5 This opinion has been recently championed by Stephanie West.6 In most recent work, however, the story is seen as a complex blend of the fabulous with the probable and historical. Hornblower and Pelling write: “(T)he precious picture of life in an archaic tyrannical court is enriched, but not falsified, by

4 Hdt. 6.129. For more on Hippocleides’ dancing see below. 5 How and Wells (1912) ad 6.130. 6 West (2015).

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elements drawn from Greek epic and even – at some unascertainable remove – from an Indian folk-tale”.7 Stein-Hölkeskamp suggests that the story is relatively realistic about the way of life of the archaic elite8 and Papakonstantinou argues that it reflects elite perceptions as they were becoming consolidated in the face of potential change in late sixth century.9 While West finds it improbable that the story has any historical validity in its details,10 Biebas-Richter argues that a wholesale invention is less probable still, since members of the Philaid and Alcmaeonid families might have been present at Herodotus’ readings in Athens.11 The family lore of these two aristocratic clans is often evoked as the source of Herodotus’ story, but there is no agreement as to which clan passed it down.12 Reading Helen’s wedding in the Hesiodic Catalogue vis-à-vis Agariste’s betrothal, Ormand remains agnostic on the historical credibility of Herodotus’ narrative.13 It is usually assumed that the Catalogue influences the betrothal, whether this means that the historical Cleisthenes models his daughter’s betrothal on that of Helen, or that a poet does, or storytellers prior to Herodotus, or Herodotus himself. By contrast, Irwin suggests that the directions of influence could be reversed, and Helen’s wedding in the Catalogue is actually modeled on Agariste’s betrothal.14 Thomas argues for seeking its origins in the popular oral traditions of Athens, stories that the other Athenians tell about their elites.15 Kurke also supposes that the story has oral origins, but of a different kind: in her view, Herodotus wittily adapts animal fable into history.16 Müller, on the contrary, is certain that Herodotus got his account from a written sixth-century novella, where it was told in longer form.17 Many think the story bears the stamp of the 7 Hornblower and Pelling (2017) 275. See further below on the Indian folktale. 8 Stein-Hölkeskamp (1989) 119. 9 Papakonstantinou (2010). 10 West (2015) 8. West seems to base her assessment on her feeling that what Herodotus describes (“a house-party bringing together for many months a group of wealthy young men thus freed from the constraints of familiar routines”) would be a terrible idea. 11 Biebas-Richter (2016) 283. 12 For the debate see Thomas (1989) 238–282; Papakonstantinou (2010) 71–93; Lavelle (2014) 331–336. 13 Ormand (2014) 235. 14 Irwin (2005) 66. 15 Thomas (1989) 271–282. 16 Kurke (2011) 398–431. Ormand (2014) 227 seems to accept Kurke’s analysis, or at any rate the notion that the episode is “based on an ancient eastern folktale.” 17 Müller (2006) 225–276. In my opinion, Müller’s analysis claims more certainty about Herodotus’ sources than is possible. He suggests, for example, that the ‘Agariste-logos’ is the only part of the Alcmaeonid excursus that derives from a prosaic literary source dating to the late

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symposium: if the symposium is not where it originates, then perhaps it is a conduit whereby it comes to Herodotus.18 Discussing almost a century of research on Herodotus’ debt to oral storytelling, Luraghi sums it up as follows: “Herodotus, to a large extent, collected not information in the rough, but stories, with fully developed narrative structures and encoded meanings.”19 The conclusion is well justified but seems to invite the type of analysis which looks in Herodotus for signs of the story’s previous incarnations in the hopes of reconstructing the pre-Herodotean layers, using techniques reminiscent of analytical or neo-analytical methodology in Homeric research. As a thought experiment it is easy enough to analyze Herodotus’ telling of the Agariste story in a stratigraphic way, looking for traces of earlier versions. The betrothal of Agariste could easily fit into the popular milieu of Athenian storytelling,20 which shows preoccupation with the wealth and connections of certain families.21 It seems reasonable to assume that a story that makes Cleisthenes look ridiculous would have appealed to democracy-loving Athenians and to imagine that anti-tyrannical elements of the story are of Athenian origin.22 A neat picture emerges: the epic-styled parts of the story stem from sixth-century Sicyon, while the comic and fabular layers are added later in Athens, perhaps by Herodotus.23 But the tenuous nature of such reasoning is obscured by the gaps in our knowledge. What if there was in Sicyon a local tradition of comedy and what if tyrants were its stock figures?24 Arguably the sixth-century Sicyonians who actually had to live with Cleisthenes had more reason to laugh at him than the Athenians a century later. Or else, perhaps

sixth century (because it is not as paratactic and associative as an oral narrative is expected to be) and that Herodotus included this ‘logos’ because it was a ‘most favorite’ story, in spite of the fact that it fits badly into the Histories and contradicts Herodotus’ purpose of defending the Alcmaeonids. The question of Herodotus’ purpose, however, is not so easily answered, while the quality of ‘fit’ is entirely subjective. 18 On the symposium connection see in particular Papakonstantinou (2010) 77–88; Irwin (2005) 65–73. 19 Luraghi (2013) 10. 20 Thomas (1989) 266–277. 21 Thomas (1989) 267–268. Cf. the story of Callias’ daughters (Hdt. 6.121.1), on which see Georgiou (2002) 98. 22 Fowler (2003) 313–314 writes: “This story would have gone down a storm in democratic Athens.” See also Thomas (1989) 269; Kurke (2011) 426; Strasburger (2013) 311; West (2015) 22–23; Biebas-Richter (2016). 23 The epic coloring is universally recognized but does not have an obvious explanation: it could be the work of the storytellers but also the result of Cleisthenes styling his daughter’s betrothal after epic models (Griffith [2006] 136; Murray [1993] 212–213). 24 See Ogden (1997) 117–118 (with reference to Ath. 621–622) and Cohn (2016) (with reference to AP 11.32) for farcical and comic performance at Sicyon.

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there was no Sicyonian story at all: a story about how one Athenian danced away a tyrant’s daughter and another one got her could have started in Athens. If the same element in the story could benefit the Alcmaeonids and the Philaids, if a poetic touch could exist in prose, then any stratigraphic reconstruction has to remain both limited and speculative. The problems here run deeper than any given scholar’s greater or lesser success. It is simply a questionable undertaking to compare different versions of a story when you only have one of them. These methodological difficulties are also in evidence when it comes to perhaps the most fascinating question regarding the Agariste-logos: its relationship with an Indian fable known as the ‘Dancing peacock’, which comes from a collection called the Jatakas, or Buddhist Birth Stories, that are assumed to be folktales taken from pre-Buddhist oral tradition. This parallel was pointed out by Macan already in 1895. Here is the story in Rhys Davids’ (1880) translation:25 Long ago, in the first age of the world, the quadrupeds chose the Lion as their king, the fishes the Leviathan and the birds the Golden Goose. Now the royal Golden Goose had a daughter, a young goose most beautiful to see; and he gave her the choice of a husband. And she chose the one she liked the best. For, having given her the right to choose, he called together all the birds in the Himalaya region. And crowds of geese and other birds of various kinds, met together on a great flat piece of rock. The king sent for his daughter, saying: “Come and choose the husband you like best!” On looking over the assembly of birds, she caught sight of the peacock, with a neck as bright as gems and a many-colored tail; and she made the choice with the words, “Let this one be my husband!” So, the assembly of birds went up to the peacock and said, “Friend Peacock! This king’s daughter having to choose her husband from amongst so many birds, has fixed her choice on you!” “Up to today you would not see my greatness,” said the peacock, so overflowing with delight that in breach of all modesty he began to spread his wings and dance in the midst of the vast assembly – and in dancing he exposed himself. Then the royal Golden Goose was shocked! And he said, “This fellow has neither modesty in his heart nor decency in his outward behavior! I shall not give my daughter to him. He has broken loose from all sense of shame!” And he uttered this verse to all the assembly – Pleasant is your cry, brilliant is your back, Almost like the opal in its color is your neck, The feathers of your tail reach about a fathom’s length, But such a dancer I can give no daughter, sir, of mine!! Then the king in the midst of the whole assembly bestowed his daughter on a young goose, his nephew. And the peacock was covered with shame at not getting the fair gosling and rose straight up from the place and flew away.26

25 Rhys Davids (1880) 291–294. 26 Rhys Davids (1880) 292–293.

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Most of those who accept the connection between Herodotus and the Jataka agree with Macan that this story traveled from India to Greece and lost its animal guise along the way.27 Macan saw the wedding of Agariste as a historic event that was “obscured, or glorified” by “adventitious influences from various quarters” including “the remoter workings of oriental fable, transmitted, and transmuted, by long and subtle processes, from Hindustan to Hellas.”28 Similarly, West argues for adaptations as the story traveled westward, “with merchants and soldiers.”29 Kurke, by contrast, argues that Herodotus knew the fable in a not-sotransmuted form, as an animal fable, and that he places clues to its animal origins in his narrative for his readers to find.30 I am persuaded by Kurke’s demonstration that Herodotus’ narrative technique is in significant ways Aesopic, but the specific signs pointing to the Dancing Peacock tale are a different matter. One of these supposed signs is the use of the verb ἐξογκόω (‘to make swell’) to describe the suitors being swollen with pride (ἐξογκώμενοι, 6.126.3), in which Kurke sees a hint at the peacock puffed-up for dance. For the most part, however, the verb ἐξογκόω does not apply to fluffy birds or animals and instead occurs in contexts connected with food, wealth and pride, all of which applies in Herodotus.31 Why would anyone think of a peacock? Kurke also suggests that by naming Smindyrides of Sybaris first and emphasizing his luxurious lifestyle Herodotus hints both at the peacock (luxury) and Sybarite fables. But there could be other reasons for starting with Smindyrides and this seems much too slight a basis to argue for Herodotus’ knowledge of the Dancing Peacock in animal form. I also find unconvincing Hornblower and Pelling’s attempts to see a hint at the

26 Rhys Davids (1880) 292–293. 27 Warren (1894) 477; Kurke (2011) 417; West (2015) 26–28; Hornblower and Pelling (2017) 275–276. 28 Macan (1895) 310. 29 West (2015) 27–28. 30 Kurke (2011) 417–420. 31 Το the best of my knowledge, ἐξογκόω is not used about birds (or other animals) puffing themselves up, at least not in Herodotus’ time and a few centuries after. It is used of full stomachs (e.g Aesop. 24.3 and 47.3), or wealth and possessions (Eur. IA 921) or things heaped up (compresses in Hp. Art 14, a tomb in E. Or. 402) or of being proud and full of oneself (Eur. And. 703 and Hipp. 938, Hdt. 6.126). Some usages, such as Eur. Supp. 864, combine several connotations: here, the verb refers to a wealthy man who is proud of his wealth, which is visualized as food (τραπέζαις ὅστις ἐξογκοῖτ’ ἄγαν). Given these connotations, nothing suggests that Herodotus’ readers or listeners would think of a peacock when they heard ἐξογκόω.

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fable in the mention of Hippocleides’ good looks, which is ‘strictly irrelevant’ but reminiscent of the peacock.32 Yet if the Indian tale did not exist I doubt anyone would be surprised to find good looks mentioned in connection with competing for a bride. What, then, are we to make of Herodotus’ Agariste tale and its historical and mythic qualities? What is a suitable methodology to apply to such a narrative chimaera? I think we ask too much of our analytic tools when we expect them to give us answers about the story’s origins or stages in its development. On the other hand, the Jataka tale does help in thinking about the Agariste episode of Herodotus by making visible interesting oddities about Herodotus’ text, such as the fact observed by West that Hippocleides dances before Cleisthenes pronounces him to be the winner.33 There is also something funny about the way the story ends. For many readers it no doubt ends with Hippocleides’ retort: οὐ φροντὶς Ἱπποκλείδῃ (6.129). This phrase is introduced with a version of a typical fable formula which signals a winning punchline or retort: ὑπολαβὼν εἶπε (‘rejoining, he said’).34 This expression is typically used at the end of a fable where it stops discussion, silences objections, and often introduces a built-in ‘moral message’.35 So, when Hippocleides says οὐ φροντὶς Ἱπποκλείδῃ we have an illusion of the end of the story.36 For a moment Hippocleides seems to have the last word. This is precisely how Hippocleides’ bon mot is taken, for example, by Kurke,37 who is in agreement with many when she writes that Hippocleides “is the hero, the character we admire and identify with, in his independence and aplomb in the face of self-important tyrannical authority (while we might say that both Cleisthenes and the hapless Megacles are the butts of this joke).”38 To what extent we admire and identify with Hippocleides is an open question, and, of course, much depends on who ‘we’ are, but this response has been at the center of most modern interpretations. For example, West agrees that the lesson the

32 Hornblower and Pelling (2017) 276. 33 West (2015) 30. 34 Karadagli (1981) 127–128 discusses ὑποτυχών / -οῦσα εἶπε / ἔφη as a fabular formula and Kurke (2011) 129–130 suggests that this post-classical phrase is a lexical replacement of an earlier formula with ὑπολαμβάνω in place of ὑποτυγχάνω. 35 Kurke (2011) 128–130. 36 It is followed by Herodotus’ mysterious ἀπὸ τούτου μὲν τοῦτο ὀνομάζεται. For the proverbial quality of οὐ φροντὶς Ἱπποκλείδῃ and a possible explanation for the puzzling use of ὀνομάζεται here, see Kazanskaya (2015). 37 Kurke (2011) 421. 38 Kurke (2011) 421.

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peacock learns in the Jataka is ‘subverted by Hippokleides’ nonchalant response’,39 and that Megacles, on the contrary, is diminished by it. Biebas-Richter sees even broader political implications in Hippocleides’ affront and interprets it as a protest against Cleisthenes’ tyrannical way of holding the contest.40 I do not want to dispute these readings: Hippocleides’ retort is a memorable part of the story and many audiences would enjoy seeing Cleisthenes taken down a notch. It is easy to imagine a telling of the story that would end with οὐ φροντίς. It would have been a story mainly about Hippocleides’ escapade, such as would have provided, as Irwin puts it, “much material around the crater.”41 It would feature a young handsome aristocrat with a devil-may-care attitude, who was never going to marry the daughter of that stuck-up pseudo-Tyndareus anyway. He easily enthralls the pompous tyrant and gets chosen as ‘the best’ only to show his contempt by dancing on the table. οὐ φροντὶς Ἱπποκλείδῃ would be a fitting line to cap such a story, and it would be in its proper place, at the end. Perhaps such a tale was told in Athens ‘around the crater’. It is not quite the story that Herodotus tells. In the Histories, as in the Jataka tale, the father of the bride has the last word. Hippocleides delivers his insult, but the story goes on: Cleisthenes gives a speech to the suitors saying that he approves of them all and, of course, gives Agariste to Megacles (Histories 6.130–131). Herodotus then concludes with a reference to the Alcmaeonids’ fame. All of this blunts the effect of Hippocleides’ jibe. Is this ending one of the supposedly tell-tale inconsistencies caused by Herodotus’ adapting a ‘timeless fable’ into an episode of archaic Greek history?42 One way of gaining some perspective on this matter is to broaden the comparison beyond Herodotus and the Jataka. To do so I now turn to some additional parallels from India, which come not from the mists of history but rather from the recent news. Although the stories that follow are from India and it is possible that some degree of complicated historical continuity is responsible for the similarities between them and the Jataka, no such continuity is necessary for my argument and indeed similar stories from another culture could have served my purpose just as well. My aim is not to establish connections but rather to find additional comparison points in an attempt to elucidate the typology of the Agariste tale, a typology that can then be used to counter-balance the subjectivity and ad hoc nature of the tale’s modern interpretations. I hope

39 West (2015) 28–29. 40 Biebas-Richter (2016) 289. 41 Irwin (2005) 64. 42 West (2015) 30.

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that this admittedly unusual move will help also with the question of mythical history, or historical myth, in Herodotus. Consider the 2016 wedding of Brahmani Reddy, daughter of Janardhan Reddy, a rich industrialist and politician. The Times of India headline reads: “The wedding of Gali Janardhan Reddy’s daughter, rumoured to cost around Rs 550 crore, could well be strategized as a launch pad to return to power to cleanse the humiliating stain of his jail conviction.”43 Three factors are of interest here: first, that this wedding is part of a political strategy; second, its lavishness (550 crore is about 77 million dollars); and third, the element of recreation of the fabulous in this wedding. Here is how the Hindustan Times describes the set-up: Reddy has rented about 36 acres of land at the sprawling Bengaluru Palace for this week’s extravaganza . . . . A massive set has been erected to resemble a cinematic rural paradise filled with quaint villages, temples, markets and homes. Set designer and art director Shashidhar Adapa, known for his work in Kannada cinema, has been working on this set with his team for several weeks. “The whole focus is on making everything look aesthetic,” he says. “There are no vulgar elements on display here . . . This is tastefully done, and of course at a scale to match the wedding.” A replica of the Vijayanagar kingdom has also been erected over many acres and Reddy has roped in an impressive lineup of top Bollywood, Tollywood and Kannada artistes, along with scores of musicians and dancers, to perform at the venue. Is all this not over the top? “Why would you think so?” asks a former media expert who was closely associated with the state BJP unit. “He is spending based on his prowess. It may look inappropriate, but it is not wrong”.

News Minute of Tuesday, November 15, 2016 adds an interesting detail regarding the replica of the Vijayanagar kingdom: Janardhana Reddy, who reportedly believes he’s the reincarnation of the 14th-century Vijayanagara King Krishnadevaraya, has recreated the Vijayanagara empire on 36 acres of land at Palace Grounds in Bengaluru. No faux-royal wedding is complete without a palace. Janardhana Reddy’s money will be spent on building King Krishnadevaraya’s palace, Lotus Mahal and Mahanavami Dibba, all painstakingly reconstructed by some of Bollywood’s biggest art directors and around 100 labourers.44

The example of Janardhan Reddy underscores the possibility that not all the fabulous details of Agariste’s betrothal need be fictional. Herodotus’ story should not be seen as implausible on the grounds that no hard-headed tyrant

43 Hindustan Times, https://www.hindustantimes.com/india-news/janardhan-reddy-sspending-on-daughter-s-wedding-is-as-strategic-as-extravagant/storyfTwwpHGEGsQ5T1MJWkalSO.html (accessed 16.11.2016). 44 https://www.thenewsminute.com/article/cash-king-janardhana-reddy-builds-model-palacedaughters-500-crore-wedding-52914 (accessed 16.11.2016).

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would go to such trouble45 or that the real-life Cleisthenes would be seeking practical advantages rather than some abstract quasi-epic glory.46 When Murray argues that Cleisthenes really did stage an epic-like event because “everything that is known of the life style of the aristocracy suggests that it is true,” he might be claiming more certainty than is justified, but he has a point.47 One thing that is distinctive about Reddy’s excesses is his decision to recreate what might be thought of as a mythological precedent from the past. If Cleisthenes did style his daughter’s betrothal after that of Helen, perhaps he had a similar idea. Even though Krishnadevaraya is a historical figure, and even if we assume that Tyndareus was a historical figure for Cleisthenes, these are figures that belong to a grander-than-now past. Yet Reddy did not baulk at it. Direct emulation or competition with such a legendary past is a treacherous undertaking: this kind of grandiosity is so excessive as to balance on the verge of being grotesque. The glorious pageant can easily tip into comedy and, indeed, much of the media coverage of the Brahmani Reddy’s wedding was somewhat derisive. The comic elements of Herodotus’ narrative, then, are not incompatible with a historical grand betrothal in Sicyon, nor do the excesses Herodotus describes necessarily conceal some sensible real-life event. If the grandeur of Agariste’s betrothal finds parallels in modern India, so does the mishap with Hippocleides. There is a variety of stories in the Indian news about weddings falling apart at the last moment. Since many marriages are arranged and bride and groom often do not know each other until the wedding, last-minute revelations do happen and disasters do strike. According to a story from The Independent (18 February 2015), a bride swapped her groom for a wedding guest mid-ceremony after he had an epileptic seizure: “Jugal Kishore, 25, reportedly fell to the ground during the traditional exchange of ‘varmala’ flower garlands in the northern town of Rampur. His illness was a shock to his wife-to-be, 23-year-old Indira, who was apparently furious that she and her family had not been told of Mr. Kishore’s epilepsy. Instead of calling the wedding off, she quickly chose wedding guest Harpal Singh, her sister’s brother-in-law, to replace him. Casually dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, he accepted.”48

45 West (2015) 8. 46 Lavelle (2014) 321. 47 Murray (1993) 213. 48 Times of India: https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/bareilly/Groom-unwell-brideweds-guest-in-fit-of-rage/articleshow/46277810.cms (accessed 16.11.2016). The Independent: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/asia/indian-bride-marrieswedding-guest-after-husband-has-epileptic-seizure-during-ceremony-10053824.html (accessed 16.11.2016).

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In this story, something disqualifying in the eyes of the bride and her family is discovered about the groom and so at the last moment it all falls through, a situation reminiscent of the Dancing Peacock and also of Agariste’s betrothal. Also reminiscent of the Dancing Peacock is the fact that the bride immediately chooses another option, and a safe one. The successful groom is a relative of hers, her sister’s brother-in-law. In the Jataka tale the golden gosling’s father also turns to a relative once the peacock is disqualified – his nephew, a young golden goose, is chosen without competition. Finally, there is one more item from the Indian news to consider. This one has to do with a dance and specifically with the so-called ‘nagin’ (that is, snake) dance, which a few years ago was popular at Indian weddings. The leader of the dance impersonates a snake, swaying and making undulating movements and sometimes slithering on the floor. It is this dance that proved to be the undoing of one unlucky groom. Here is the article from The Times of India of 30 June 2017: Priyanka Tripathi, 23, was all set to marry Anubhav Mishra. Both families belonged to the same community in Shahjahanpur city and knew each other. They had exchanged gifts and performed all the pre-wedding rituals, waiting just for the big day. And then Mishra did the dance. Just before he was to be formally welcomed by the bride’s family, the groom’s attention was drawn to a ‘nagin song’ being played by the DJ. He began to sway and dance as his friends showered currency notes on him. The bride’s family, meanwhile, watched in stunned shock. At that moment, Priyanka decided that the drunk man was not suitable for her. Neither persuasion nor threats by the groom’s family and friends moved her. Finally, the marriage was called off.49

This bride, like the one in the preceding examples, did not remain unmarried: “A day later, the girl tied the knot with a more sober mate,” reports The Times of India.50 This groom really did dance away his marriage, and in this case, as in the previous example and also in the Dancing Peacock, a guest steps into the groom’s place. These news items suggest a number of questions. First of all, I wonder what the scholarly reaction would be if instead of The Independent and The Times of India, these stories were found in Herodotus. Would we think that this last story, the one about the nagin dance, is based on the Dancing Peacock fable? Would we take the mention of the snake as a sign that the author knew the fable in its

49 https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/lucknow/bride-calls-off-wedding-after-groomsnagin-dance/articleshow/59379083.cms (accessed 30.06.2017). 50 https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/lucknow/bride-calls-off-wedding-after-groomsnagin-dance/articleshow/59379083.cms (accessed 30.06.2017).

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animal form? The similarities between the Agariste tale and the Dancing Peacock may seem more indicative than they really are, simply because we have so little evidence and so few examples. This is not to say that the fable of the Dancing Peacock could not have traveled to Greece, only that it did not have to. Herodotus’ account of Agariste’s betrothal could have come into being without the Jataka and we have no good reason to assume that it is based on the Dancing Peacock tale, in animal form or not. On the plus side, none of this precludes comparison between the two tales. Sometimes it is impossible to know what kind of comparison one is making (common inheritance? similar cultural circumstances? diffusion?) and yet be able to derive some interpretive benefit from it. In the concluding part of this article, I offer two examples. First of all, the Indian news items may help with the question of whether or not Hippocleides exposes himself when he dances leaning his head on the table. I say ‘question’ even though most modern interpretations simply make this assumption, and usually, spoken or unspoken, the influence of the Golden Peacock is evident. Hornblower and Pelling note in their commentary that “Greek males wore no underwear, and so there may be a pun on ὄρχις = testicle. That would square with the dancing peacock.”51 Attempting to render the supposed pun into English, Ogden translates Ὦ παῖ Τεισάνδρου, ἀπορχήσαό γε μὲν τὸν γάμον (Histories 6.129) as “You have ballsed up your marriage.”52 In the Jataka tale the exposure is indeed the decisive factor and it is explicit. The pithy statement that the peacock exposed himself is followed by a short sentence in which the Golden Goose annuls his daughter’s choice. In her summary of Herodotus’ narrative, Kurke makes it sound exactly like the Golden Goose: “(I)n the Greek version, Hippocleides also exposes himself when he stands on his head and waves his legs in the air – and it is this shocking breach of decorum that causes Cleisthenes finally to snap.” It is impossible to prove that Hippocleides does not expose himself in Herodotus’ story. Yet if nakedness is as important there as it is in the Dancing Peacock, if it is what causes Cleisthenes to snap, the decisive moment of the story, then it is very puzzling that Herodotus does not actually mention it. Did he somehow miss his own punchline? Of course, one can choose to see the hint in ἀπορχήσαο, but there seems to be no obvious reason for such indirectness, especially in a farcical story and especially since elsewhere Herodotus is not prissy about nakedness.

51 Hornblower and Pelling (2017) 284 ad 6.129.4. 52 Ogden (1997) 117.

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The modern stories show that you can dance away your marriage fully clothed. No doubt undressing while drunk could serve as the nail in the coffin of a marriage arrangement, but it does not have to be present. In the Histories, Hippocleides leans (ἐρείδω) his head on the table, but that is not the same as doing a headstand and exposing his genitals. The reason a headstand is usually envisaged is presumably the verb χειρονομέω. If we assume that it indicates ‘gesturing with one’s feet as if they were hands’ then a headstand seems unavoidable.53 But the verb does not actually mean ‘to gesticulate’ in fifth- and fourth-century usage: it refers to shadow boxing or similar movement, essentially a rhythmic alternation of hands, one forward, one back.54 It does not imply that Hippocleides performs some elaborate hand-gestures with his feet while in a headstand, which is not easy to do, especially προϊούσης τῆς πόσιος (‘as the drinking went on’).55 Herodotus does not tell us how long Hippocleides

53 Lavelle (2014) 329 translates the verb in Herodotus as “made his legs gesture like hands,” referring to Athenaeus 631c and 22a, where the noun χειρονομία is used to indicate pantomime. Both examples are nearly seven hundred years later than Herodotus. 54 E.g. Thrasym. 85 B 4 D–K, where Timocreon shadowboxes after a match to show how many blows he still has left in him; Pl. Leg. 830 c, where χειρονομέω describes a type of boxing training without a bag. The meaning ‘gesticulate’ does emerge, but half a millennium later, in the second and third centuries CE (D.C. 36.30, Ael. VH 14.22). See Olson (2018) for a detailed discussion. 55 Some vase illustrations used in discussions of Hippocleides’ dance do not show a headstand, but rather a handstand (e.g. Attic red-figure psykter signed by Douris (ca. 500–470 BCE) British Museum 1868,0606.7 or red-figure hydria from Campania (ca. 340–330 BCE) British Museum 1814,0704.566.) It is much easier to move one’s feet in a handstand than in a headstand. This is not to say that the latter is impossible – it is done in yoga and breakdancing – but it certainly takes training. Lavelle (2014) 330, while noting that the vases mentioned above do not depicted headstands, nevertheless claims that they offer “proof positive” regarding the posture necessary to “make hand-gestures with his feet”, namely that Hippocleides was “head-standing faced away from the audience regarding his dancing”. Lavelle (2014) 330 thus argues that Hippocleides’ buttocks rather than his genitals would have been visible to the audience, making the dance “satyric and homoerotically suggestive.” The only example of a headstand with moving feet that I could find on vases is on a Cup from Todi (Museo Civico 471), illustrated in Dasen (1993) pl. 53.2. Here, two completely naked dwarfs dance on a table, one of them on his head. Dasen discusses similar vases and points out that the dwarfs are always naked and usually in pairs (Dasen [1993] 232). It is not clear who they are. There is, however, a fragment of a stamnos with a depiction of a dwarf (right side up, probably dancing on a table) who is actually named Hippocleides (stamnos from Erlangen, University I 707, illustrated in Dasen [1993] pl. 47.1). Dasen hypothesizes that this might be a particular entertainer who could have taken ‘Hippocleides’ as a pseudonym “since his celebrity was due to an insolent celebration of the pleasure of dancing.” She notes also that the dwarf might not be a historical person at all.

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keeps his feet in the air, nor whether he lifts them off the ground just once or repeatedly. Perhaps, as Murray implies in his translation (“and finally standing his head on the table he began beating time with his legs”) Hippocleides simply kicks up with his feet, alternating them as one would alternate hands in shadow boxing: one on the ground, one in the air.56 In this case, the risk of exposure is slight. Herodotus does not describe Hippocleides in a headstand with his private parts hanging down for all to see and it is foolhardy to rely on the Dancing Peacock to impute this picture into the story. The progression of Herodotus’ narrative also does not support the modern fixation on Hippocleides’ genitals. Herodotus makes it clear that Cleisthenes is unhappy with the dancing from the beginning. When Hippocleides begins to dance on the table (right side up), Cleisthenes restrains himself from shouting but he has already soured at the prospect of marrying Agariste to this Athenian: ἀποστυγέων γαμβρὸν δή οἱ ἔτι γενέσθαι Ἱπποκλείδεα διὰ τήν τε ὄρχησιν καὶ τὴν ἀναιδείην (‘abhorring the thought that Hippocleides might still become his sonin-law because of the dance and the shamelessness’) (Histories 6.129). Herodotus uses the word ἀναιδείη (‘shamelessness’) to describe what Cleisthenes thinks of his potential son-in-law before Hippocleides does anything to expose his genitals. Cleisthenes finally snaps when he sees the Athenian kicking with his legs (σκέλεσι χειρονομήσαντα). The movement of the legs is given prominence, while the effect this movement is supposed to cause – Hippocleides’ nakedness – is passed over in silence. It seems that Hippocleides starts with relatively stately dancing, but at this point he is not really dancing at all any more, just kicking (wildly and drunkenly, it seems likely), like Charmides in Xenophon’s Symposium, who does not know how to dance, but comes as close as he can by doing the action he describes as χειρονομέω.57 For Hippocleides, as for Anubhav Mishra, drunk, undignified and embarrassing dancing turns out to be one step too far even without undressing and in this sense the modern news story may be closer to Herodotus’ account than the Jataka. Hippocleides is a complex figure. His display maybe disruptive and Aesopic but none of that fits easily with his own status. Hippocleides is himself rich and not free of grandiose pretentions. Can we be sure that his role in Agariste’s tale was universally seen as an example of ‘independence and aplomb’, as Kurke suggests,58 and not of foolishness on the part of a spoilt golden youth? It could

56 Murray (1993) 213. 57 Xen. Smp. 2.19. 58 Kurke (2011) 421.

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also be a bit of both.59 Of course, Cleisthenes is also an object of laughter and Hippocleides’ retort does puncture his pretentions. But it is possible to laugh at both of them. The notion that Hippocleides makes a mistake has not been popular. Biebas-Richter, for example, dismisses the possibility that Hippocleides overplays his hand, arguing that after a year-long stay in Sicyon he would have known how to behave there and therefore his actions are intentional.60 But a young man intoxicated by drink and zeal of victory is not a rare occurrence and being carried away is exactly what does happen to the Dancing Peacock in the Jataka tale. It is also what really did happen to the nagin-dancing groom, Anubhav Mishra, who presumably knew how to behave in his own community, yet went too far and danced away his marriage. For my second example, I focus on a curious feature in two of the Indian news items and in the Dancing Peacock fable, namely the ease with which another groom is substituted for the disqualified one. Indira of Rampur substituted her sister’s brother-in-law for her epileptic groom. Priyanka Tripathi found a substitute on the next day. At the end of the Jataka tale the Golden Goose gives his daughter to his nephew. Something similar happens in the Agariste story. On the one hand, Megacles is Cleisthenes’ second favorite and so it is no surprise that the bride ultimately goes to him. On the other hand, Megacles’ role in the narrative is so minor that his triumph at the end is unexpected. His slight narrative presence has been seen as an indication of inferiority (Kurke describes him as ‘hapless’ while West thinks he is diminished by being chosen ‘only by default’)61 or a way of undermining the Alcmaeonids,62 but should we assume that Herodotus’ audiences would have had the same reaction? The Indian press does not ridicule or pity the substitute grooms; it is those who lose their brides that are gawked at. The possibility of marrying a bystander made evident by the Indian news stories sheds light on some of the mechanics of Agariste’s tale and the Dancing Peacock. These stories underscore the fact that every one of the contenders is suitable, or assumed to be so, unless and until there are indications to the

59 Perhaps the saying was used in a positive way in Hermippus’ lost Demotai. Unfortunately, Pausanias Atticista, who mentions Hermippus’ use of the saying, does not explain how it was used, but rather summarizes Herodotus (Pausanias Atticista, Ἀττικῶν ὀνομάτων συναγωγή 42.1). 60 Biebas-Richer (2016) 295–298. 61 Kurke (2011) 421; West (2015) 32. 62 E.g. Thomas (1989) 269; Griffith (2001) 168. For a different view see Papakonstantinou (2010) 74; Lavelle (2014) 332–333; McGregor (1941) 269. See Baragwanath (2008) 27–34 for a discussion of Herodotus’ narrative strategies reflecting his sense of the elusiveness of historical truth regarding the Alcmaeonids.

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contrary. Each contestant offers his peculiar advantages, but they are all ‘the best’ because of their default belonging to an aristocratic elite. This belonging is assumed and not explicitly questioned, but in certain circumstances this can change. It is essential for every suitor to verify his belonging to this group of suitable boys and to do nothing that could cast doubt on his credentials. From this point of view, the fact that the Golden Goose selects his nephew, or a bride selects her sister’s brother-in-law seems logical. In each case, the replacement groom is already part of the family and is therefore a known quantity. We do not hear anything about the nephew of the Golden Goose earlier in the fable, but we do not need to: he is a safe bet. Arguably it is not only the peacock but also the Golden Goose himself who learns a lesson in the Jataka tale: if you search for the best it is easy to miscalculate or go too far. Impressed by the peacock’s shining feathers, the princess-goose almost causes her father to contract a marriage with an embarrassing character. Chastened by his narrow escape, the Golden Goose sees that his own nephew, a familiar figure who perhaps seemed underwhelming before, is actually the perfect choice. The same can be said about Megacles. Megacles is a suitable candidate, but Hippocleides seems to offer something extra because of his beauty, wealth, and connections – until, that is, he undermines his standing.63 Those extra qualities of Hippocleides are not essential and everything that is essential is still available in Megacles. Megacles finds few fans among modern readers but nothing disparaging is said about him in the tale and the ease with which a substitute groom is found in the Indian tales suggests that there are circumstances when being chosen ‘by default’ is not so diminishing. After all, Megacles gets the prize – he turns out to be the safe bet, the real thing, the young golden goose, and he does, through his marriage with Agariste, bring fame and wealth to his family, while Cleisthenes’ infatuation with Hippocleides is exposed as misguided. Revisiting Herodotus’ story in light of the Indian news, we cannot resolve the ambiguities of Herodotus’ narrative, but we can see them differently. Hippocleides may be both an appealingly devil-may-care aristocrat and an emptyheaded golden youth who dances away Agariste. Is he also a proud Athenian standing up to a tyrant? Perhaps. Megacles is not simply a nonentity, but an unimpeachable candidate for marriage who is also lucky. His marriage to Agariste might complicate Herodotus’ defense of the Alcmaeonids, but Megacles himself is hardly mocked.

63 I am in general agreement on this point with Lavelle (2014) 331, though I do not think that μαλακία specifically is at issue here.

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Does all of this shed any light on the question I started with, the question whether Herodotus’ story is historically based or fictional? Although it may seem that answering ‘both’ is tantamount to giving up, I think it represents a recognition of the fact that an ‘either/or’ question is not applicable to the evidence. On the one hand, there is no reason to doubt a priori that Cleisthenes staged an epic-like betrothal for Agariste. On the other hand, we have no reason to seek the origins of Herodotus’ story in a Jataka tale. That tale is a precious comparison point, but we do not have to assume that it was actually diffused into Greece, in animal form or otherwise. The relationship between history and myth in the case of Agariste’s betrothal could well be of a mise en abyme variety: it may belong to a type of event – and story – that flows in a somewhat systemic way out of the features of our species and cultural structures of particular societies, crossing freely between history and myth and belonging fully to neither. The permeable interface between mythical history and historical myth in Agariste’s betrothal remains invisible, like Agariste, who never appears in action and yet it is also essential: without it, just as without her, there would be no story.

Bibliography Alexander, J. 1959. The Marriage of Megacles. CJ 55: 129–134. Aly, W. 1921. Volksmärchen, Sage und Novelle bei Herodot und seinen Zeitgenossen. Göttingen. Appleton, N. 2010. Jataka Stories in Theravāda Buddhism. Burlington. Athanassaki, L. 2013. Rekindling the Memory of the Alleged Treason of the Alcmaeonids at Marathon: From Megacles to Alcibiades. In Marathon the Day After: Symposium Proceedings, Delphi, 2–4 July 2010, eds. Buraselis, K. and Koulakiotis, E., 95–116. Athens. Baragwanath, E. 2008. Motivation and Narrative in Herodotus. Oxford. Biebas-Richter, J. 2016. Was kümmert den Hippokleides? Überlegungen zu einem internationalen Spektakel und einer vertanzten Hochzeit. Hermes 44: 279–298. Cingano, E. 1985. Clistene di Sicione, Erodote e i poemi del ciclo tebano. QUCC 49: 31–40. Cohn, M. 2016. Sicyonian Comedy. CJ 112: 1–24. Cook, A. 1907. Hippokleides’ Dance. CR 21: 169–170. Dasen, V. 2013. Dwarfs in Ancient Egypt and Greece. Oxford. De Libero, S. 1996. Die Archaische Tyrannis. Stuttgart. Derow, P. and Parker, R. (eds.) 2003. Herodotus and His World: Essays from a Conference in Memory of George Forrest. Oxford. De Vido, S. 2011. Il matrimonio di Agariste (Hdt. VI, 123–131). Ancora sui pretendenti. In Lombardo and Marangio (2011) 67–76. Dewald, C. and Marincola, J. (eds.) 2006. The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus. Cambridge.

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Donlan, W. 1980. The Aristocratic Ideal in Ancient Greece: Attitudes of Superiority from Homer to the End of the Fifth Century B.C. Lawrence, KA. Drews, R. 1983. Basileus. The Evidence for Kingship in Geometric Greece. New Haven. Duplouy, A. 2006. Le Prestige des Élites: Recherches sur les modes de reconnaissance sociale en Grèce entre les Xe et Ve siècles avant J.-C. Paris. Farrington, A. 2013. The Pythia of Sicyon. Nikephoros 26: 109–137. Finkelberg, M. 1991. Royal Succession in Heroic Greece. CQ 41: 303–316. Forsdyke, S. 2012. Slaves Tell Tales: And Other Episodes in the Politics of Popular Culture in Ancient Greece. Princeton. Fowler, R. 2003. Herodotus and Athens. In Derow and Parker (2003) 305–318. Georgiou, I.-E. 2002. Women in Herodotus’ Histories (Ph.D. Diss. Swansea University). Gernet, L. 1981. The Anthropology of Ancient Greece. Baltimore. Griffiths, A. 2001. Kissing Cousins: Some Curious Instances of Adjacent Material in Herodotus. In Luraghi 161–178. Griffiths, A. 2006. Stories and Storytelling in the Histories. In Dewald and Marincola (2006) 130–144. Hansen, W. 2002. Ariadne’s Thread: A Guide to International Tales Found in Classical Literature. Ithaca. Hornblower, S. 2014. Agariste’s Suitors. In Moreno and Thomas (2014) 217–232. Hornblower, S. and Pelling, C. 2017. Histories. Book VI. Cambridge. How, W. and Wells, J. 1912. A Commentary on Herodotus, vol. 2. Oxford. Hunter, R. (ed.) 2005. The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women. Constructions and Reconstructions. Cambridge. Irwin, E. 2005. Gods among Men? The Social and Political Dynamics of the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women. In Hunter (2005) 35–84. Jonson, W. 1994. Oral Performance and the Composition of Herodotus’ Histories. GRBS 35: 229–254. Karadagli, T. 1981. Fabel und Ainos. Studien zur griechischen Fabel. Königstein. Kazanskaya, M. 2015. A Ghost Proverb in Herodotus (6.129.4)? Hyperboreus 21: 33–52. Kim, L. 2013. Orality, Folktales and the Cross-cultural Transmission of Narrative. In Whitmarsh and Thomson (2013) 300–321. Kurke, L. 2011. Aesopic Conversations: Popular Traditions, Cultural Dialogue, and the Invention of Greek Prose. Princeton. Lavelle, B. 2014. Hippokleides, the ‘Dance,’ and the Panathenaia. GRBS 54: 313–341. Lombardo, M. and Marangio, C. (eds.) 2011. Antiquitas. Scritti di storia antica in onore di Salvatore Alessandrì. Galatina. Luraghi, N. (ed.) 2001. The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus. Oxford. Luraghi, N. 2013. The Stories before the Histories. Folktale and Traditional Narrative in Herodotus. In Munson (2013) vol. 1, 87–113. Luria, S. 1930. Der Affe des Archilochos und die Brautwerbung des Hippokleides. Philologus 39: 1–22. Macan, W. 1895. Herodotus: The Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Books. London. McGregor, M. 1941. Cleisthenes of Sicyon and the Panhellenic Festivals. TAPA 72: 266–287. Mitchell, L. 2012. The Women of Ruling Families in Archaic and Classical Greece. CQ 62: 1–21. Moreno, A. and Thomas, R. (eds.) 2014. Patterns of the Past: Epitēdeumata in Greek Tradition. Oxford.

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Müller, C. 2006. Legende – Novelle – Roman. Dreizehn Kapitel zur erzählenden Prosaliteratur der Antike. Göttingen. Mulvaney, C. 1905. Herodotus VI 129 and a Buddhist Birth Story. CR 19: 304–305. Munson, R. (ed.) 2013. Oxford Readings in Herodotus. Oxford. Murray, O. 1993. Early Greece. Cambridge, MA. Murray, O. 2001. Herodotus and Oral History. In Luraghi (2001) 16–44. Nagy, G. 1990. Pindar’s Homer: The Lyric Possession of an Epic Past. Baltimore. Nethercut, W. 1984. Breakin’: ‘What Cares Hippocleides?’ CO 62: 6. Ogden, D. 1997. The Crooked Kings of Ancient Greece. London. Olson, D. 2018. χειρονομία and the aulos: How Hippocleides “Danced Away” His Marriage. Glotta 94: 259–263. Ormand, K. 2004. Marriage, Identity, and the Tale of Mestra in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women. AJP 125: 303–338. Ormand, K. 2014. The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and Archaic Greece. Cambridge. Papakonstantinou, Z. 2010. Agariste’s Suitors: Sport, Feasting, and Elite Politics in Sixth-Century Greece. Nikephoros 23: 71–93. Parker, V. 1994. Some Aspects of the Foreign and Domestic Policy of Cleisthenes of Sicyon. Hermes 122: 404–424. Power, T. 2004. Cleisthenes and the Politics of Kitharōidia at Delphi and in Sicyon. Aevum(ant) n.s. 4: 415–437. Rhys Davids, W. 1880. Buddhist Birth Stories: Or, Jataka Tales. London. Stein-Hölkeskamp, E. 1989. Adelskultur und Polisgesellschaft. Studien zum griechischen Adel in archaischer und klassischer Zeit. Stuttgart. Strasburger, H. 2013. Herodotus and Periclean Athens. In Munson (2013) 295–320. Thomas, R. 1989. Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens. Cambridge. Warren, S. 1894. Herodot VI 129. Hermes 29: 476–478. West, S. 2015. Agariste’s Betrothal: The Adaptability of a Cautionary Tale. Lucida Intervalla 44: 7–35. Whitmarsh, T. and Thomson, S. (eds.) 2013. The Romance between Greece and the East. Cambridge.

Jordi Redondo

The Herodotean Myth on the Origin of the Scythians Abstract: Herodotus used to insert many mythical narrations in his work, some of which are especially attractive since they are taken from non-Greek sources. Therefore, the author acts as both a Greek historian and a mythographer, but also as a comparatist interested in eclectic mythical tradition. The boundaries between history and mythography are here blurred and simultaneously encased within a second frame, established by the intrication of Greek and nonGreek culture. This chapter deals with the most extensive foundation myth of the Scythians. We will show how the author elaborates mythical motives already known to the Greek literary culture, and how he tries to present an accurate report of the theme. All the information will be checked by means of data of different kinds, including archaeological sources. The result of this comparison will provide a tenable evaluation of the historical techniques displayed by Herodotus.

Introduction The insertion of mythical narrations within the historiographic creation of Herodotus has been easily recognized from the very beginning of its reception; moreover, it has been one of the most powerful criteria invoked in order to blame him as an unreliable historian. The role of the mythical discourse in the historiographic genre has also become a factor of clear-cut opposition between a Thucydidean and a Herodotean methodological trend.1 In our opinion, however, the two historians were not diametrically opposed, since Thucydides, for example, gave some room to non-logical arguments such as religious beliefs and myths in a general sense.2 An important methodological distinction must be made regarding the function of the mythical narrations. Herodotus can first of all use them only for the sake of exemplarity and didacticism, in order to take advantage from the easy

1 Hornblower (1995). For a sharp and symmetric analysis of both methodological approaches, see also Zali (2011). 2 Jordan (1986); Crane (1996) 187–208; Furley (2006). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-011

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understanding provided by the mythical patterns.3 Yet in other instances myth plays a nuclear role and provides by itself all the clues for the hearer and/or reader. The mythical provides of the Scythians belongs to this second category. This blend of myth and history involves severe difficulties for achieving a correct interpretation.4 This chapter will deal with the mythical tale of the foundation of the Scythian nation. The case is especially attractive, for it does not come from the Greek tradition itself, but is taken from Scythian sources.5 There is no doubt about the big difficulties that Herodotus had to overcome when he turned his exposition towards the extended Scythian territory, a land where the impossibility becomes reality: as a matter of fact, the movements of any nomadic people had to be carried out through the settlements of other people, since the latter were sparingly founded across unhabited territories. Herodotus himself was perfectly aware of this in his preliminary presentation of the Scythian land (Hdt. 5.9–10). Actually the Scythian dossier became a real challenge for the Greek historians. It is not at all surprising that they had to mix the information obtained from Greek trademen and colonists, and from bilingual Scythians as well, with the always valuable contribution of the mythical discourse.6 As for the inner classification of the Scythians, the ethnonym ‘northern Pontic Scythians’, certainly used by several modern scholars,7 was never used by Herodotus, who only

3 Baragwanath and de Bakker (2012) 49: “The mythic mode was a valuable tool in the historian’s hands, structuring oral material in a way that listeners could more easily grasp it, and underscoring the universal significance of particular occurrences. Recent events and personalities could be more clearly and memorably portrayed on the model of the already-familiar patterns of thought and action that this mode evoked”. 4 Dougherty (1993) 8, endorses the opinion that it is better not to range myth on the side of fiction and history on that of truth. 5 On the Herodotean methodology, see Kourtoglou (2011) 51. 6 Bickerman (1952) 70: “As Eratosthenes had said, before the first Olympiad (776 BC), came the ‘mythical epoch’ of Greece. The Greeks had no other material for the reconstitution of their first age. This is the reason why, from Hecataeus on, Greek historians applied themselves to turning the mythological figures and fabulous happenings of their sagas into historical persons and events. Hercules chasing the oxen of Geryon was converted into a general at the head of an international army. This work transformed a fictitious past into historical reality which for the Greeks formed the more or less vague background of subsequent events. By this rationalizing interpretation, Greek scholarship created for the Greeks a scientific prehistory which no other people of the ancient world possessed. Elsewhere, no limits marked the boundary between history and fable. Speaking of the Amazons, Strabo stresses the peculiarity of this tale which mixes up history and fable. The other stories, he says, keep separated the fabulous and the historical elements. ‘History requires the truth, whether ancient or recent, and contains no marvels, or, at least, sparingly’.” This quotation was taken from Strab. XI 504. 7 Kozintsev (2000); (2007).

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singled out as particular categories those of the royal Scythians, the Hellenized Scythians and the so-called Saka-Scythians.8 Moreover, this modern ethnonym has been even put under question, since it does not cover all the Scythians living on the steppe at the North-East of the Black Sea coast.9 After his presentation of the geographical area where the Scythians live, Herodotus tackled the subject of their origin. There were two complementary myths on the matter: the first one (Hdt. 5.5–7) is a foundation myth dealing with Targitaus’ genealogy and the divine gifts received by his sons, involving the nuclear organization of the Scythian clans; the second myth (Hdt. 5.8) focuses on the origin of the Scythian royal dynasty tracing back to the meeting of Hercules and a serpent-nymph. The juxtaposition of the two foundation myths told by Herodotus requires an explanation. An interesting view supported by one of the best scholars working on the matter, Askold Ivantchik, assigns each one of them to different Scythian ethnic groups,10 even if the question remains about where their difference lays: two geographical areas? Two social classes? Next Herodotus brings a historical account on this nation (Hdt. 5.11–12); he disapproves of the first myth and supports the historical account.11 The sequence of the three tales moves from the rejection of the first one, the neutral position towards the second, and finally the acceptance of the second myth. Therefore, the Scythian dossier provides an attractive and helpful touchstone for checking the use of myth in the Herodotean Histories.12 For so doing, we will examine the myth of Hercules and

8 Royal Scythians: Hdt. 4.20.2; 22.3; 56; 57; 59.1; 71.2. Hellenized Scythians: Hdt. 4.17.1. SakaScythians: Hdt. 7.64.2. This last passage deserves further comment, as Herodotus “expressis uerbis says that the Persians indeed call Sakai all the Scythians,” so that the ethnonym would not mean a part, but the whole Scythian nation. Furthermore, there are no ‘Spartan Scythians’, as it could be inferred after the title of Braund (2004). On this matter, see also Hinge (2003). Take also into account that there is no specific differentiation between settled and nomadic Scythians, a distinction which is not fully useful, cf. Murzin (2019). 9 Tuplin (2006) 307, n. 48; Dan (2013) 46, suggests that the so-called Chalybian Scythians “should have been more a caste of craftsmen than a people.” 10 Ivantchik (2001) 212–213: “L’existence de deux variantes de la légende de l’origine des Scythes qui ont cependant des traits communs importants s’explique probablement par l’appartenance de ces deux variantes à des groupes ethniques scythes différents.” 11 Hdt. 4.5.1 τοῦ δὲ Ταργιτάου τούτου τοὺς τοκέας λέγουσι εἶναι, ἐμοὶ μὲν οὐ πιστὰ λέγοντες, λέγουσι δ᾽ ὦν, Δία τε καὶ Βορυσθένεος τοῦ ποταμοῦ θυγατέρα – ‘They say that the parents of this Targitaus were Zeus and a daughter of the Borysthenes river (I do not believe the story, but it is told)’; 4.11.1 ἔστι δὲ καὶ ἄλλος λόγος ἔχων ὧδε, τῷ μάλιστα λεγομένῳ αὐτός πρόσκειμαι. – ‘There is yet another story, to which account I myself especially incline’ (transl. by Godley 1920). 12 Cf. Groten (1963) 79: “The frequency with which double versions occur in the Herodotean narrative must be ascribed not only to his diligence for checking information but also to his particular concept of the historian’s role in handling his material”. As a conclusion, this author

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the serpent-nymph, on which Herodotus does not take either positive or negative position.

Myth at Work on the Scythian Stage The research developed on the steppe societies, especially the ancient Scythians, by historians, archaeologists and anthropologists,13 as well as paleontologists,14 should help us to understand which factors are at stake when Herodotus deals with Scythians. Prima facie the Herodotean report on their origin is just a mythical excursus maybe intended for delighting the audience of the Histories. Mythology, however, looks only at articulating an acceptable account in order to explain the contradictions and difficulties built over extended periods of time due to economic and social circumstances. Of course there are other possible strategies: Ivantchik defines a clear-cut divisory line between myth and history.15 Certainly, it will be probably wrong indeed if, as a result of our preceding observations, we were prone to think that the interpretative key used by Herodotus to present the Scythian culture was mainly the mythical discourse. On the contrary, the set of news told by Herodotus about the Scythian geographic situation, material culture, customs, social organization, etc. have earned the approval of the modern scholars for the accuracy of the information provided, despite the unfavorable

supports the view that Herodotus was ever rigorous and trustful; see also Groten (1963) 87: “When Herodotus conducted his researches, his intent was to gather the most reliable information available on his subject at the actual source. As for the other conflicting accounts which occur in the Histories, many of them are narrated with no preference indicated (5.4–45; 6.137). The rest substantiate the foregoing conclusions, that Herodotus always tries to make an intelligent and thoughtful choice based upon his researches.” 13 Khazanov (1989); Golden (1987–1991); (1992) 3, 42, 233–282; on the Srubnaia culture, see Debets (1948) and (1971); Zinevits (1967); Konduktorova (1972); Kruts (1976); (1984); Martinov and Alekseev (1986). 14 Kozintsev (2000) 150–151 on the two different genetically Scythian ethnic groups; See also Unterländer, Palstra, Lazaridis et al. (2017) on their common culture. 15 Ivantchik (2001) 207: “Les deux premières versions de l’origine des Scythes sont fort différentes de la troisième. Dans les deux premiers cas, il s’agit de versions purement mythologiques qui font remonter les Scythes à des ancêtres divins. Dans le troisième, Hérodote rapporte une version à caractère historique. Il ne parle pas des ancêtres mythiques des Scythes, mais de leur migrations et de leurs exploits militaires qui sont historiques, au moins partiellement” (my emphasis).

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circumstances in which our historian had to compile the data at his disposal.16 Moreover, the information gathered from Scythian sources goes back to the beginning of the contact between the two cultures, already in the seventh century BC.17 That is to say, there was some well-established tradition on the matter long before the Herodotean search. He starts, however, with a first mythological narration that can easily be defined as a foundation myth. The text is the following (Hdt. 4.5–7): ὣς δὲ Σκύθαι λέγουσι, νεώτατον πάντων ἐθνέων εἶναι τὸ σφέτερον, τοῦτο δὲ γενέσθαι ὧδε. ἄνδρα γενέσθαι πρῶτον ἐν τῇ γῆ ταύτῃ ἐούσῃ ἐρήμῳ τῳ οὔνομα εἶναι Ταργιτάον· τοῦ δὲ Ταργιτάου τούτου τοὺς τοκέας λέγουσι εἶναι, ἐμοὶ μὲν οὐ πιστὰ λέγοντες, λέγουσι δ᾽ ὦν, Δία τε καὶ Βορυσθένεος τοῦ ποταμοῦ θυγατέρα. γένεος μὲν τοιούτου δὴ τινος γενέσθαι τὸν Ταργιτάον, τούτου δὲ γενέσθαι παῖδας τρεῖς, Λιπόξαϊν καὶ Ἀρπόξαϊν καὶ νεώτατον Κολάξαιν. ἐπὶ τούτων ἀρχόντων ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ φερομένα χρύσεα ποιήματα, ἄροτρόν τε καὶ ζυγόν καὶ σάγαριν καὶ φιάλην, πεσεῖν ἐς τὴν Σκυθικήν· καὶ τῶν ἰδόντα πρῶτον τὸν πρεσβύτατον ἆσσον ἰέναι βουλόμενον αὐτὰ λαβεῖν, τὸν δὲ χρυσόν ἐπιόντος καίεσθαι. ἀπαλλαχθέντος δὲ τούτου προσιέναι τὸν δεύτερον, καὶ τὸν αὖτις ταὐτὰ ποιέειν. τοὺς μὲν δὴ καιόμενον τὸν χρυσὸν ἀπώσασθαι, τρίτῳ δὲ τῷ νεωτάτῳ ἐπελθόντι κατασβῆναι, καὶ μιν ἐκεῖνον κομίσαι ἐς ἑωυτοῦ· καὶ τοὺς πρεσβυτέρους ἀδελφεοὺς πρὸς ταῦτα συγγνόντας τὴν βασιληίην πᾶσαν παραδοῦναι τῷ νεωτάτῳ. ἀπὸ μὲν δὴ Λιποξάιος γεγονέναι τούτους τῶν Σκυθέων οἳ Αὐχάται γένος καλέονται, ἀπὸ δὲ τοῦ μέσου Ἀρποξάιος οἳ Κατίαροί τε καὶ Τράσπιες καλέονται, ἀπὸ δὲ τοῦ νεωτάτου αὐτῶν τοῦ βασιλέος οἳ καλέονται Παραλάται· σύμπασι δὲ εἶναι οὔνομα Σκολότους, τοῦ βασιλέος ἐπωνυμίην. Σκύθας δὲ Ἕλληνες ὠνόμασαν. γεγονέναι μέν νυν σφέας ὧδε λέγουσι οἱ Σκύθαι, ἔτεα δὲ σφίσι ἐπείτε γεγόνασι τὰ σύμπαντα λέγουσι εἶναι ἀπὸ τοῦ πρώτου βασιλέος Ταργιτάου ἐς τὴν Δαρείου διάβασιν τὴν ἐπὶ σφέας χιλίων οὐ πλέω ἀλλὰ τοσαῦτα. τὸν δὲ χρυσόν τοῦτον τὸν ἱρὸν φυλάσσουσι οἱ βασιλέες ἐς τὰ μάλιστα, καὶ θυσίῃσι μεγάλῃσι ἱλασκόμενοι μετέρχονται ἀνὰ πᾶν ἔτος. ὃς δ᾽ ἂν ἔχων τὸν χρυσὸν τὸν ἱρὸν ἐν τῇ ὁρτῇ ὑπαίθριος κατακοιμηθῇ, οὗτος λέγεται ὑπὸ Σκυθέων οὐ διενιαυτίζειν. δίδοσθαι δέ οἱ διὰ τοῦτο ὅσα ἂν ἵππῳ ἐν ἡμέρῃ μιῇ περιελάσῃ αὐτὸς. τῆς δὲ χώρης ἐούσης μεγάλης τριφασίας τὰς βασιληίας τοῖσι παισὶ τοῖσι ἑωυτοῦ καταστήσασθαι Κολάξαιν, καὶ τουτέων μίαν ποιῆσαι μεγίστην, ἐν τῇ τὸν χρυσὸν φυλάσσεσθαι. τὰ δὲ κατύπερθε πρὸς βορέην λέγουσι ἄνεμον τῶν ὑπεροίκων τῆς χώρης οὐκ οἷὰ τε εἶναι ἔτι προσωτέρω οὔτε ὁρᾶν οὔτε διεξιέναι ὑπὸ πτερῶν κεχυμένων· πτερῶν γὰρ καὶ τὴν γῆν καὶ τὸν ἠέρα εἶναι πλέον, καὶ ταῦτα εἶναι τὰ ἀποκληίοντα τὴν ὄψιν. The Scythians say that their nation is the youngest in the world, and that it came into being in this way. A man whose name was Targitaüs appeared in this country, which was then desolate. They say that his parents were Zeus and a daughter of the Borysthenes River; I do not believe the story, but it is told. Such was Targitaüs’ lineage; and he had

16 Asheri (2007) 553: “in fact, most of the claims made by Herodotus about the ethnography of the Scythians turn out to be, by and large, correct: there are some unqualified generalizations, simplifications, misunderstandings, but archaeology often confirms even the tiniest details.” 17 Atasoy (2003) 1338–1339; Tsetskhladze (2011); Scythian centers of power were the cities of Belskyi and Nemirov, at the low Dnieper basin, cf. Petropoulos (2015).

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three sons: Lipoxaïs, Arpoxaïs, and Colaxaïs, youngest of the three. In the time of their rule, the story goes, certain implements – namely, a plough, a yoke, a sword, and a flask, all of gold – fell down from the sky into Scythia. The eldest of them, seeing these, approached them meaning to take them; but the gold began to burn as he neared, and he stopped. Then the second approached, and the gold did as before. When these two had been driven back by the burning gold, the youngest brother approached and the burning stopped, and he took the gold to his own house. In view of this, the elder brothers agreed to give all the royal power to the youngest. Lipoxaïs, it is said, was the father of the Scythian clan called Auchatae; Arpoxaïs, the second brother, of those called Katiari and Traspians; the youngest, who was king, of those called Paralatae. All these together bear the name of Skoloti, after their king; ‘Scythians’ is the name given them by Greeks. This, then, is the Scythians’ account of their origin, and they say that neither more nor less than a thousand years in all passed from the time of their first king Targitaüs to the entry of Darius into their country. The kings guard this sacred gold very closely, and every year offer solemn sacrifices of propitiation to it. Whoever falls asleep at this festival in the open air, having the sacred gold with him, is said by the Scythians not to live out the year; for which reason, they say, as much land as he can ride round in one day is given to him. Because of the great size of the country, the lordships that Colaxaïs established for his sons were three, one of which, where they keep the gold, was the greatest. Above and north of the neighbors of their country no one (they say) can see or travel further, because of showers of feathers; for earth and sky are full of feathers, and these hinder sight.18

A first comment focuses on the exact information furnished by Herodotus: to begin with, all the Scythian anthroponyms point to precise and tenable etymologies.19 More important, the ideological background of the myth fits with the Scythian religious and social tradition, as stated by Dumézil and Benveniste.20 The first lines of our myth give a specific indication on the character of the tale: it deals with the origin of the Scythians, that is to say, with the foundation of their nation, their culture and their state. The trend of the tale is clearly established by the key-words ‘γενέσθαι’ . . . ‘γενέσθαι’ . . . ‘τοὺς τοκέας’ . . . ‘γένεος’ . . . ‘γενέσθαι’. This implicit way of explanation seems at home in such a formalized style – although not subjected to rhetorical and artistic elaboration – as that found in old religious texts and featured by tautology, repetition and symbolism. After this introduction to the myth we are told the names of the protagonists, three brothers characterized by their common royal status, as proved long time ago by Christensen.21 This means that from now on the foundation myth is mixed with a succession myth. According to the tale, the brothers were till that moment sharing the kingship (ἐπὶ τούτων ἀρχόντων), a point unfortunately

18 Transl. by Godley (1920). 19 Ivantchik (1999) 141. 20 Dumézil (1930) 119–224; (1941) 51–55; Benveniste (1938) 532–534. 21 Christensen (1917) 3.

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neglected by some scholars. When the plot begins after the arrival of the sacred objects, the central subject of the tale turns into an ordeal, miraculously solved in favor of the youngest king, so that his elder brothers give him all the sovereignty (τοὺς πρεσβυτέρους ἀδελφεοὺς πρὸς ταῦτα συγγνόντας τὴν βασιληίην πᾶσαν παραδοῦναι τῷ νεωτάτῳ). The solution of the royal succession is followed by a lot of very exact information on what happened afterwards: the origin of the Scythian clans, the chronological placement of the events within the history of the nation, some particulars on the cult, the ritual and the customs, and a final note which seems to convey a logographical flavor. Actually, the plain mythical discourse progressively gives place to a different kind of speech. Thereafter, without any transitional section, our author displays a second myth in which Hercules is the main character, as in other foundation myths all over the Mediterranean basin and beyond. Moreover, the myth is full of exotic elements like those attested in other legends about the traveling hero.22 It must be remembered that the uncle of Herodotus, the epic poet Panyasis of Halicarnassus, took upon himself the works of Hercules in the books 5–7 of his ῾Ηράκλεια. Thus the story of Hercules was well known to our historian. The text is the following (Hdt. 4.8.1–10.3): Σκύθαι μὲν ὧδε ὕπερ σφέων τε αὐτῶν καὶ τῆς χώρης τῆς κατύπερθε λέγουσι, Ἑλλήνων δὲ οἱ τὸν Πόντον οἰκέοντες ὧδε. Ἡρακλέα ἐλαύνοντα τὰς Γηρυόνεω βοῦς ἀπικέσθαι ἐς γῆν ταύτην ἐοῦσαν ἐρήμην, ἥντινα νῦν Σκύθαι νέμονται. Γηρυόνεα δὲ οἰκέειν ἔξω τοῦ Πόντου, κατοικημένον τὴν Ἕλληνές λέγουσι Ἐρύθειαν νῆσον τὴν πρὸς Γαδείροισι τοῖσι ἔξω Ἡρακλέων στηλέων ἐπὶ τῷ Ὠκεανῷ. τὸν δὲ Ὠκεανὸν λόγῳ μὲν λέγουσι ἀπὸ ἡλίου ἀνατολέων ἀρξάμενον γῆν περὶ πᾶσαν ῥέειν, ἔργῳ δὲ οὐκ ἀποδεικνῦσι. ἐνθεῦτεν τόν Ἡρακλέα ἀπικέσθαι ἐς τὴν νῦν Σκυθίην χώρην καλεομένην, καὶ καταλαβεῖν γὰρ αὐτὸν χειμῶνα τε καὶ κρυμὸν, ἐπειρυσάμενον τὴν λεοντέην κατυπνῶσαι, τὰς δὲ οἱ ἵππους τὰς ὑπὸ τοῦ ἅρματος νεμομένας ἐν τούτῳ τῳ χρόνῳ ἀφανισθῆναι θείη τύχῃ. ὥς δ᾽ ἐγερθῆναι τὸν Ἡρακλέα, δίζησθαι, πάντα δὲ τῆς χώρης ἐπεξελθόντα τέλος ἀπικέσθαι ἐς τὴν Ὑλαίην καλεομένην γῆν· ἐνθαῦτα δὲ αὐτὸν εὑρεῖν ἐν ἄντρῳ μιξοπάρθενον τινά, ἔχιδναν διφυέα, τῆς τὰ μὲν ἄνω ἀπὸ τῶν γλουτῶν εἶναι γυναικός, τὰ δὲ ἔνερθε ὄφιος. ἰδόντα δὲ καὶ θωμάσαντα ἐπειρέσθαι μιν εἴ κου ἴδοι ἵππους πλανωμένας· τὴν δὲ φάναι ἑωυτήν ἔχειν καὶ οὐκ ἀποδώσειν ἐκείνῳ πρὶν ἢ οἱ μιχθῇ· τό δὲ Ἡρακλέα μιχθῆναι ἐπὶ τῷ μισθῷ τούτῳ. κείνην τε δὴ ὑπερβάλλεσθαι τὴν ἀπόδοσιν τῶν ἵππων, βουλομένην ὡς πλεῖστον χρόνον συνεῖναι τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ, καὶ τὸν κομισάμενον ἐθέλειν ἀπαλλάσσεσθαι· τέλος δὲ ἀποδιδοῦσαν αὐτὴν εἰπεῖν· ἵππους μὲν δὴ ταύτας ἀπικομένας ἐνθάδε ἔσωσα τοὶ ἐγώ, σῶστρά τε σὺ παρέσχες· ἐγὼ γὰρ ἐκ σεῦ τρεῖς παῖδας ἔχω. τούτους, ἐπεὰν γένωνται τρόφιες, ὃ τι χρὴ ποιέειν, ἐξηγέο σύ, εἴτε αὐτοῦ κατοικίζω, χώρης γὰρ τῆσδε ἔχω τὸ κράτος αὕτη, εἴτε ἀποπέμπω παρὰ σέ. τὴν μὲν δὴ ταῦτα ἐπειρωτᾶν, τὸν δὲ λέγουσι πρὸς ταῦτα εἰπεῖν ‘ἐπεὰν ἀνδρωθέντας ἴδῃ

22 López Eire (1975).

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τοὺς παῖδας, τάδε ποιεῦσα οὐκ ἂν ἁμαρτάνοις· τὸν μὲν ἂν ὁρᾷς αὐτῶν τόδε τὸ τόξον ὧδε διατεινόμενον καὶ τῷ ζωστῆρι τῷδε κατὰ τάδε ζωννύμενον, τοῦτον μὲν τῆσδε τῆς χώρης οἰκήτορα ποιεῦ· ὃς δ᾽ ἂν τούτων τῶν ἔργων τῶν ἐντέλλομαι λείπηται, ἔκπεμπε ἐκ τῆς χώρης. καὶ ταῦτα ποιεῦσα αὐτή τε εὐφρανέαι καὶ τὰ ἐντεταλμένα ποιήσεις.’ τὸν μὲν δὴ εἰρύσαντα τῶν τόξων τὸ ἕτερον, δύο γὰρ δὴ φορέειν τέως Ἡρακλέα, καὶ τὸν ζωστῆρα προδέξαντα, παραδοῦναι τὸ τόξον τε καὶ τὸν ζωστῆρα ἔχοντα ἐπ᾽ ἄκρης τῆς συμβολῆς φιάλην χρυσέην, δόντα δὲ ἀπαλλάσσεσθαι. τὴν δ᾽, ἐπεὶ οἱ γενομένους τοὺς παῖδας ἀνδρωθῆναι, τοῦτο μὲν σφι οὐνόματα θέσθαι, τῷ μὲν Ἀγάθυρσον αὐτῶν, τῷ δ᾽ ἑπομένῳ Γελωνόν, Σκύθην δὲ τῷ νεωτάτῳ, τοῦτο δὲ τῆς ἐπιστολῆς μεμνημένην αὐτὴν ποιῆσαι τά ἐντεταλμένα. καὶ δὴ δύο μὲν οἱ τῶν παίδων, τόν τε Ἀγάθυρσον καὶ τὸν Γελωνόν, οὐκ οἵους τε γενομένους ἐξικέσθαι πρὸς τὸν προκείμενον ἄεθλον, οἴχεσθαι ἐκ τῆς χώρης ἐκβληθέντας ὑπὸ τῆς γειναμένης, τὸν δὲ νεώτατον αὐτῶν Σκύθην ἐπιτελέσαντα καταμεῖναι ἐν τῇ χωρῇ. καὶ ἀπὸ μὲν Σκύθεω τοῦ Ἡρακλέος γενέσθαι τοὺς αἰεὶ βασιλέας γινομένους Σκυθέων, ἀπὸ δὲ τῆς φιάλης ἔτι καὶ ἐς τόδε φιάλας ἐκ τῶν ζωστήρων φορέειν Σκύθας· τὸ δὴ μοῦνον μηχανήσασθαι τὴν μητέρα Σκύθῃ. ταῦτα δὲ Ἑλλήνων οἱ τὸν Πόντον οἰκέοντες λέγουσι. This is what the Scythians say about themselves and the country north of them. But the story told by the Greeks who live in Pontus is as follows. Hercules, driving the cattle of Geryones, came to this land, which was then desolate, but is now inhabited by the Scythians. Geryones lived west of the Pontus, settled in the island called by the Greeks Erythea, on the shore of Ocean near Gadira, outside the pillars of Hercules. As for Ocean, the Greeks say that it flows around the whole world from where the sun rises, but they cannot prove that this is so. Hercules came from there to the country now called Scythia, where, encountering wintry and frosty weather, he drew his lion’s skin over him and fell asleep, and while he slept his mares, which were grazing yoked to the chariot, were spirited away by divine fortune. When Hercules awoke, he searched for them, visiting every part of the country, until at last he came to the land called the Woodland, and there he found in a cave a creature of double form that was half maiden and half serpent; above the buttocks she was a woman, below them a snake. When he saw her he was astonished, and asked her if she had seen his mares straying; she said that she had them, and would not return them to him before he had intercourse with her; Hercules did, in hope of this reward. But though he was anxious to take the horses and go, she delayed returning them, so that she might have Hercules with her for as long as possible; at last she gave them back, telling him, ‘These mares came, and I kept them safe here for you, and you have paid me for keeping them, for I have three sons by you. Now tell me what I am to do when they are grown up: shall I keep them here (since I am queen of this country), or shall I send them away to you?’ Thus she inquired, and then (it is said) Hercules answered: ‘When you see the boys are grown up, do as follows and you will do rightly: whichever of them you see bending this bow and wearing this belt so, make him an inhabitant of this land; but whoever falls short of these accomplishments that I require, send him away out of the country. Do so and you shall yourself have comfort, and my will shall be done’. So he drew one of his bows (for until then Hercules always carried two), and showed her the belt, and gave her the bow and the belt, that had a golden vessel on the end of its clasp; and, having given them, he departed. But when the sons born to her were grown men, she gave them names, calling one of them Agathyrsus and the next Gelonus and the youngest Scythes; furthermore, remembering the instructions, she

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did as she was told. Two of her sons, Agathyrsus and Gelonus, were cast out by their mother and left the country, unable to fulfill the requirements set; but Scythes, the youngest, fulfilled them and so stayed in the land. From Scythes son of Hercules comes the whole line of the kings of Scythia; and it is because of the vessel that the Scythians carry vessels on their belts to this day. This alone his mother did for Scythes. This is what the Greek dwellers in Pontus say.23

We must emphasize, first of all, how extended and deep the presence of Hercules was all along the colonization process, so that we need to pay attention to the indication that this is arguably a story created within the Scythian culture itself.24 Beyond any doubt the myth was known by the contemporary Greek culture. Corcella, for example, suggests that the presence of the story from epic onwards, at least from Hesiod,25 proves that Herodotus plays discreetly with a strategy of assimilation of the Scythian tradition within the Greek culture. But the explanation seems quite different, and once again the role of Herodotus as an exhaustive and faithful informant should be stressed: there is a Scythian Hercules, although Herodotus does not give us his name.26 The motif also of the disappearance, usually robbery, of cattle is found in Indo-Iranian mythology, which, as a result, demonstrates the Indo-European origin of the myth that among the Greeks has as protagonists Geryon and Hercules.27 Moreover, there are several very interesting data: the first one, the connection of the myth with the notion of finis terrae, and, therefore, with the mythical concept of the empty land able to be conquered by a brave invader; the second, that the Scythian country knows an exceptional cold winter, comparable to that of the far north; the third, that it is by the divine will that Hercules is separated of his mares; the fourth is the encounter with a woman who lives alone in an inhabited land; the fifth, the hybrid nature of the woman; the sixth, the anagnorisis test. The last four motives constitute the plot. The first conceptual element at work is perfectly represented by the myth of Geryon and his fight with Hercules,28 placed at the Western finis terrae.29 Moreover, attention must be also paid to the role of Hercules as a god of transgression of the limits between life and death, as shown by Euripides’ Alcestis and Aristophanes’ Frogs.

23 Transl. by Godley (1920). 24 Corcella (2007) 577–578. 25 Hes. fr. 150, lines 15–16. See on this fragment the observations made by Fehling (1989) 45–46. 26 Grakov (1950). 27 Widengren (1966). 28 González García (1997/1998) 15–41. 29 García Quintela (2002).

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The second characteristic of the myth has to do with the reality of geography, and even more so than the topic about cold of far northern Europe. Yet the recent identification of the kingdom of Gelonos with that of the city of Bilsk, on the banks of the Vorskla River, in the Poltava demarcation, provides a reference point of great interest for our search.30 The discovery of numerous archaeological remains of Greek import provides evidence that supports the testimony of Herodotus.31 Contemporary historiography does not doubt that Gelonos – if it can be identified with the Bilsk site – hosted a Greek population, and dates the foundation of the city in the late seventh century BC.32 It seems also relevant to point out that in addition to farming activities – products of leather and textile products derived from the treatment of wool and leather – which, to a great extent, would be used for wholesale trade at a great distance, in Bilsk there was a very remarkable development of the metallurgical industry, principally based on copper treatment;33 moreover, it was its strategic position, midway between the unknown north and the area of civilizations, that turned the city into an important station within the slave route linking Eurasia and the Greek ports at the Pontos Euxeinos, especially Olbia.34 The third element is that of cattle raiding, wherein a god is the main victim. The object of robbery was in the Odyssey the cows of Helios, in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes the cows of Apollo, as here are the mares of Hercules, though they just disappear ‘by divine fortune’. A combination of mythical and folkloric motives is not ruled out, as an example of that mythological story that includes components of humor and even satire – as well as deception in its multiple forms – working as tools of entertainment and training.35 Our fourth motif is that of the serpent-nymph. Of course, the traits of the character correspond to those of the sirens and other similar non-human beings,

30 Shramko (1975). 31 Shramko (1987) 121–126, 174–179. 32 Raaflaub and van Wees (2009) 345: “There is some discussion of whether Herodotus’ Gelonus is Belsk, but if it is, it had Greek-type sanctuaries and a Greek population from the archaic period.” 33 Minns (1913) 147–148; Shramko and Grubnyk-Buynova (2016) 416; Beckwith (2009) 67–68. This author, however, interprets Gelonos as the Scythian capital, a surprising statement that makes room for other considerations. 34 Taylor (2001) 34. 35 Thompson (1955–1958) offers a single example related to the theme of the gods deceived by a mortal, A 189.3, “man cheats a god in throwing dice,” registered in India by Thompson and Balys (1958). Yet this research must be considered incomplete and of course unsatisfactory; among many other examples, it is adequate to quote the false sacrifice offered to Zeus at Mecona by Prometheus.

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for they depict a transgressive woman, who does not live in society, does not submit herself to the yoke of marriage, but instead she chooses her partners and forces them to join her.36 There are, however, some differences: the serpent-nymph in this foundation myth of the Scythian people does not kill Hercules after satisfying her sexual desire; further on, just like in the case of Circe and Odysseus, Hercules tries to obtain the freedom of the mares taken as hostages by the nymph, as were Odysseus’ companions. The aforementioned combination of mythological and folkloric motifs includes those of the bow test – the most famous example of which is the Homeric Odyssey 37 – and of the magical objects fallen from the skies. The pot of the buckle of course recalls the plough and the yoke, the ax and the pot. This is where we need to go into the mythical tradition in order to analyze piece by piece the elements with which Herodotus built his story. First of all, it is worth remembering that the character of the serpent-nymph was already dealt with at the Hesiodic Theogony (Hes. Th. 295–332): ἣ δ᾽ ἔτεκ᾽ ἄλλο πέλωρον ἀμήχανον, οὐδὲν ἐοικὸς θνητοῖς ἀνθρώποις οὐδ᾽ ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσιν, σπῆι ἔνι γλαφυρῷ θείην κρατερόφρον᾽ Ἔχιδναν, ἥμισυ μὲν νύμφην ἑλικώπιδα καλλιπάρῃον, ἥμισυ δ᾽ αὖτε πέλωρον ὄφιν δεινόν τε μέγαν τε αἰόλον ὠμηστὴν ζαθέης ὑπὸ κεύθεσι γαίης. ἔνθα δέ οἱ σπέος ἐστὶ κάτω κοίλῃ ὑπὸ πέτρῃ τηλοῦ ἀπ᾽ ἀθανάτων τε θεῶν θνητῶν τ᾽ ἀνθρώπων· ἔνθ᾽ ἄρα οἱ δάσσαντο θεοὶ κλυτὰ δώματα ναίειν. ἣ δ᾽ ἔρυτ᾽ εἰν Ἀρίμοισιν ὑπὸ χθονὶ λυγρὴ Ἔχιδνα, ἀθάνατος νύμφη καὶ ἀγήραος ἤματα πάντα. τῇ δὲ Τυφάονά φασι μιγήμεναι ἐν φιλότητι δεινόν θ᾽ ὑβριστήν τ᾽ ἄνομόν θ᾽ ἑλικώπιδι κούρῃ· ἣ δ᾽ ὑποκυσαμένη τέκετο κρατερόφρονα τέκνα. Ὄρθον μὲν πρῶτον κύνα γείνατο Γηρυονῆι· δεύτερον αὖτις ἔτικτεν ἀμήχανον, οὔ τι φατειὸν Κέρβερον ὠμηστήν, Ἀίδεω κύνα χαλκεόφωνον, πεντηκοντακέφαλον, ἀναιδέα τε κρατερόν τε· τὸ τρίτον Ὕδρην αὖτις ἐγείνατο λυγρὰ ἰδυῖαν Λερναίην, ἣν θρέψε θεὰ λευκώλενος Ἥρη ἄπλητον κοτέουσα βίῃ Ἡρακληείῃ. καὶ τὴν μὲν Διὸς υἱὸς ἐνήρατο νηλέι χαλκῷ Ἀμφιτρυωνιάδης σὺν ἀρηιφίλῳ Ἰολάῳ Ηρακλέης βουλῇσιν Ἀθηναίης ἀγελείης.

36 Iriarte Goñi (2002) 78–85. 37 Hom. Od. 21.359–432; see Allen (2020).

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ἣ δὲ Χίμαιραν ἔτικτε πνέουσαν ἀμαιμάκετον πῦρ, δεινήν τε μεγάλην τε ποδώκεά τε κρατερήν τε· τῆς δ᾽ ἦν τρεῖς κεφαλαί· μία μὲν χαροποῖο λέοντος, ἣ δὲ χιμαίρης, ἣ δ᾽ ὄφιος, κρατεροῖο δράκοντος, πρόσθε λέων, ὄπιθεν δὲ δράκων, μέσση δὲ χίμαιρα, δεινὸν ἀποπνείουσα πυρὸς μένος αἰθομένοιο. τὴν μὲν Πήγασος εἷλε καὶ ἐσθλὸς Βελλεροφόντης. ἣ δ᾽ ἄρα Φῖκ᾽ ὀλοὴν τέκε Καδμείοισιν ὄλεθρον Ὅρθῳ ὑποδμηθεῖσα Νεμειαῖόν τε λέοντα, τόν ῥ᾽ Ἥρη θρέψασα Διὸς κυδρὴ παράκοιτις γουνοῖσιν κατένασσε Νεμείης, πῆμ᾽ ἀνθρώποις. ἔνθ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ὃ οἰκείων ἐλεφαίρετο φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων, κοιρανέων Τρητοῖο Νεμείης ἠδ᾽ Ἀπέσαντος· ἀλλά ἑ ἲς ἐδάμασσε βίης Ἡρακληείης.

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And in a hollow cave she bore another monster, irresistible, in no wise like either to mortal men or to the undying gods, even the goddess fierce Echidna who is half a nymph with glancing eyes and fair cheeks, and half again a huge snake, great and awful, with speckled skin, eating raw flesh beneath the secret parts of the holy earth. And there she has a cave deep down under a hollow rock far from the deathless gods and mortal men. There, then, did the gods appoint her a glorious house to dwell in: and she keeps guard in Arima beneath the earth, grim Echidna, a nymph who dies not nor grows old all her days. Men say that Typhaon the terrible, outrageous and lawless, was joined in love to her, the maid with glancing eyes. So she conceived and brought forth fierce offspring; first she bore Orthus the hound of Geryones, and then again she bore a second, a monster not to be overcome and that may not be described, Cerberus who eats raw flesh, the brazen-voiced hound of Hades, fifty-headed, relentless and strong. And again she bore a third, the evil-minded Hydra of Lerna, whom the goddess, white-armed Hera nourished, being angry beyond measure with the mighty Hercules. And her Hercules, the son of Zeus, of the house of Amphitryon, together with warlike Iolaus, destroyed with the unpitying sword through the plans of Athena the spoil driver. She was the mother of Chimaera who breathed raging fire, a creature fearful, great, swift footed and strong, who had three heads, one of a grim-eyed lion, another of a goat, and another of a snake, a fierce dragon; in her forepart she was a lion; in her hinderpart, a dragon; and in her middle, a goat, breathing forth a fearful blast of blazing fire. Her did Pegasus and noble Bellerophon slay; but Echidna was subject in love to Orthus and brought forth the deadly Sphinx which destroyed the Cadmeans, and the Nemean lion, which Hera, the good wife of Zeus, brought up and made to haunt the hills of Nemea, a plague to men. There he preyed upon the tribes of her own people and had power over Tretus of Nemea and Apesas: yet the strength of stout Hercules overcame him.38

As in Herodotus, Hesiod presents the serpent-nymph in a cave, in a territory that is far from any inhabited land. Again Hercules plays an important role,

38 Transl. by Evelyn-White (1914).

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now killing two of the children of the serpent-nymph, the hydra of Lerna and the lion of Nemea. If Hercules personifies the civilizing power of the Greeks, his behavior regarding Echidna presents him as a dislodger of evils and benefactor of the human dwelling in places previously dominated by destruction. In 1977, Raievskij tried to connect the myth of the founding chief of the Scythian dynasty with some archaeological artifacts, namely with such symbolic and rich discoveries as the vessels of Kul-Oba, in Crimea, and Voronezh, in Southern Russia.39 This theory, however, has been rebuked by Dumézil.40 Other scholars point to very different solutions: on the one hand, Fehling and Hartog do not accept the authenticity of either myth; Fehling, always fascinated by a controversial concept, the Urkundengeschichte as basis of every historiographic report, takes for granted that both myths belong to literature, not at all to history;41 in her research, Hartog also concludes that it is impossible to use the story of Herodotus as a tool for the interpretation of the Scythian culture; according to her, the representation of the Scythians would have been modeled on the functions, characteristics and conduct of the Athenian ephebes.42 In the opposite way, Dumézil interprets the three elements – the plough and the yoke, the ax, and the pot – as respective symbols of the three functions.43 In so doing, he also underlines the differences established between the Scythian myth and the Turkish myth of Oghuz Kagan and his sons.44 Also Ivantchik accepts that the religious and literary traditions of Caucasian peoples confirm the veracity of the Herodotean account.45 An interesting and deep comment of the myth has been carried out by Ustinova.46 There are still further aspects worthy of discussion. First, the term ἔχιδνα appears in Greek already in Hesiod (Hes. Th. 297), and its suffix can hardly be

39 Raievskij (1977) 19–86. The splendid vase of Kul’-Oba can be seen at the Hermitage Museum of Saint Petersburg, KO 11. The Voronezh vase instead is hosted by the Kiev Museum, AZS-2358. See on these artifacts Zograf (1982) 5–14. A third vase has been found at Gaimanova Magila, in the Lower Dnieper region, but the mythical narration depicted there does not seem to be related to the foundation myth displayed at Kul-Oba and Voronezh, cf. Ivantchik (2001) 211–212. 40 Dumézil (1983) 78–89. 41 Fehling (1971); (1989). 42 Hartog (1988) 20–28 analyzes the Scythian foundation myth and concludes that there is so much lack of coherence as in the character of Hercules, an animal-hero in her opinion. See also pp. 234–235, as she underlines the absence of a rationalized discussion in Hdt. 4.82, while the emergence of the god as founder of the Scythian royal dynasty would be a simple topic. 43 Dumézil (1977) 178–192. 44 Dumézil (1977) 202–203. 45 Ivantchik (1999). 46 Ustinova (1999) 87–93.

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defined as Pre-Greek.47 Secondly, Herodotus is very precise in telling us that Hercules ἀπικέσθαι ἐς τὴν Ὑλαίην καλεομένην γῆν, came to the land called ῞Υλαια, i.e. the forest, which gives us the Greek translation of a major place name.48 It is in any case a geographic space different from that of the steppe. According to Corcella, the location of a cave inside a deep wood lacks coherence,49 but this location could be explained within a mythical frame. The union of the serpent-nymph and Hercules resembles a tale contained in the Persian epic Shahnameh, when the Princess Tahminah becomes the wife of Rostam.50 This hero arrives at the palace of the king of Samangan – whose name is simply Samanganshah – in search of his prized horse, which had been stolen while the hero was asleep. Guest of the king, that night Rostam receives the visit of Tahminah, who asks him in marriage, and the hero accepts. Rostam must leave after the marriage ceremony, but he gives Tahminah a jewel taken from his bow, as a symbol for the daughter or son who will be born.51 This Iranian tradition would have come to Herodotus through Scythian oral culture, according to his own indications, but a more ancient account already known in Hesiod’s age should not be discarded. Another Hesiodic passage goes like this (Hes. fr. 150, ll. 15–16): Αἰθίοπάς] τε Λίβυς τε ἰδὲ Σκύ[θ]ας ἱππημο[λγού]ς Σκύθης μέν γ]ένεθ᾿ υἱὸς ὑπερ[μ]ενέος Κρονίωνος. (. . .) the Ethiopians, the Libyans and the Scythians, that milk mares, and Scythes became the son of the mighty Cronion.52

The so-called Tabula Albana, an epigraphical text which should be ascribed to the mythographical entertainment prose of the post-Classical age and was rather oddly included by Jacoby in his edition of the historical fragments,53 has

47 Beekes (2016) 489: “-δνα is a typical Pre-Greek sufix; ἔχιδνα must have been a loan from Pre-Greek.” Yet the suffix was certainly quite productive in Ancient Greek, cf. Chantraine (1933) 194–195. 48 The toponym is indeed attested in our sources, since a poetic Olbian inscription gives it, cf. Rusiaeva and Vinogradov (1991) 91 (= 1992, 196); Iailenko (2015). See also Ephor. FGrH 70 F 158: πρὸς ἀνατολὰς δὲ ἐκβάντι τὸν Βορυσθένην τοὺς τὴν λεγομένην Ὕλαιαν οἰκοῦντας Σκύθας. 49 Corcella (2007) 578. 50 Firdawsi’s Shahnameh VI ll. 238–903. 51 Tolstov (1948) 294–295. 52 My translation. 53 Jacoby (1923) fr. 40 F 1 c.

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been usually described and entitled as a ‘Heraclean Story’. This is the passage related to our subject (Tabula Albana, IG XIV 1293 A 93–97): τουτῶ δὲ ἐπὶ Σκυθίαν διαβὰς Ἀ[ρ]ά[ξ]η[ν] μάχαι ἐνίκασε· τᾶι δὲ θυγατρὶ αὐτοῦ συνγενόμενος Ἐχίδναι υἱοὺς Ἀγάθυρσον ἔθετο καὶ Σκύθαν. Later, after crossing the river Araxes when going towards Scythia, he won him in battle; joining his daughter Echidna he begot his sons Agathyrsos and Scythes.54

The text has been diversely interpreted,55 but we take for granted that the verb διαβαίνω requires an hydronym, so that the name Araxes should be first of all analyzed this way. A different tradition is found among the Ossetians, who explain the birth of the hero Batraz by the union of the hero Khamyth with an anonymous nymph, daughter of the river Don-Bettyr; it was under the daylight that he hid under a turtle shell,56 as it is told in the Argonautics of Gaius Valerius Flaccus (6.48–59): proxima Bisaltae legio ductorque Colaxes, sanguis et ipse deum, Scythicis quem Iuppiter oris progenuit viridem Myracen Tibisenaque iuxta ostia, semifero (dignum si credere) captus corpore, nec nymphae geminos exhorruit angues. cuncta phalanx insigne Iovis caelataque gestat tegmina disperses trifidis ardoribus ignes; nec primus radios, miles Romane, corusci fulminis et rutilas scutis diffuderis alas. insuper auratos collegerat ipse dracones, matris Horae specimen, linguisque adversus utrimque congruit et tereti serpens dat vulnera gemmae.

50

55

Next came Bisalta’s legion and Colaxes its chief, himself too of the seed of gods, begotten by Jupiter in Scythian land by green Myrace and the mouths of Tibisis, enchanted, if the tale is worthy of belief, by a nymph’s half-human body nor afraid of her twin snakes. The whole troop bears Jove’s emblem, their targes are embossed with the darting fire of the triple thunderbolt; nor, soldiers of Rome, are ye the first with your shields to spread abroad the flash and glare and flaming pinions of the brand. Thereon had he himself joined serpents of gold, in likeness of Hora his mother; from either hand did the snakes’ tongues meet, darting wounds upon a shapely gem.57

54 My translation. 55 Ustinova (1999) 89; Braund (2010) 18–19, take Araxes as an anthroponym. Braund, for example, translates “then, having crossed against Scythia he defeated Artaxes in battle”. 56 Kuzmina (1976) 55; Miller (1887) 200. 57 Transl. by Mozley (1934).

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Lastly, Diodorus of Sicily in his Historical Library shows how the legend of the origin of the Scythian people moves away from its mythical background: this historian preserves only a mythical motif, that of the union of the god, in this case Zeus, with the serpent-nymph (Diod. Sic. 43.3–4): ὕστερον δὲ μυθολογοῦσι Σκύθαι παρ᾽ αὑτοῖς γενέσθαι γηγενῆ παρθένον· ταύτην δ᾽ ἔχειν τὰ μὲν ἄνω μέρη τοῦ σώματος μέχρι τῆς ζώνης γυναικεῖα, τὰ δὲ κατώτερα ἐχίδνης. ταύτῃ δὲ Δία μιγέντα γεννῆσαι παῖδα Σκύθην ὄνομα. τοῦτον δὲ γενόμενον ἐπιφανέστατον τῶν πρὸ αὐτοῦ τοὺς λαοὺς ἀφ᾽ ἑαυτοῦ Σκύθας προσαγορεῦσαι. τῶν δὲ ἀπογόνων τούτου τοῦ βασιλέως ἀδελφοὺς δύο γενέσθαι διαφόρους ἀρετῇ, καὶ τὸν μὲν Πάλον, τὸν δὲ Νάπην ὠνομάσθαι. τούτων δ᾽ ἐπιφανεῖς πράξεις κατεργασαμένων καὶ διελομένων τὴν βασιλείαν, ἀφ᾽ ἑκατέρου τοὺς λαοὺς τοὺς μὲν Πάλους, τοὺς δὲ Νάπας προσαγορευθῆναι. Finally, the Scythians tell that among them there was a maid, born from the earth; she had womanlike upper body parts till her waist, but snakelike body parts from the waist down; they also tell that after joining her Zeus begot a child named Scythian; and that because this man became more glorious than his ancestors, the nations born from his blood took the name of Scythians; and that from the descendants of this king two brothers were born, distinguished for their skill, and that they had the names of Palos and Napes; and that the nations derived from those, who had performed actions of great brilliance and shared the royal dignity, took respectively the names of Pali and Napi.58

Ivantchik himself suggests that the later versions provided by Diodorus and Flaccus were probably closer to the Scythian tradition, but he does not strengthen his position by means of any argument.59 As clearly shown by the literary sources, there was an old Indo-European tradition rooted in the far-extended Indo-Iranian lands and of course related to the steppe culture. This tradition presents the origin of a royal dynasty – and, thereby, of the nation itself – after the meeting of a serpent-nymph and a traveling hero searching for his horses, which had been previously stolen. The presence of old motifs in the Iranian versions of the myth, as well as its widespread diffusion in the Caucasic area, show that the tale was not originated in the Greekspeaking territories. It is noteworthy, first, that Herodotus gives us the most complete account of the myth; secondly, that the central role of myth in the Histories is not invalidated by any historical or archaeological sources; and thirdly, that Herodotus criticized Targitaus’ genealogical myth, but not the Heraclean foundation of the Scythian dynasty. Herodotus’ Hellenic perspective was probably decisive in order to accept, even from an apparent neutral position, a myth reported to him by both Scythians and Greeks, whose protagonist hero and plot he could easily recognize as full of authenticity and grandeur.

58 My translation. 59 Ivantchik (2001) 215.

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Part IV: Drama

Paolo B. Cipolla

(Re)writing a Sicilian Myth: The Palici and Aeschylus’ Aitnaiai Abstract: Aeschylus’ Aitnaiai was produced to celebrate the new foundation of Aitna by Hieron of Syracuse, who in 476 BC replaced the Chalcidian inhabitants of Katane with Dorian soldiers. The plot was based on the myth of the Palici, local Sikel deities, which was reshaped by Aeschylus into a Greek cultural framework. Scholars have interpreted this either as a legitimation of Syracusan dominion over Eastern Sicily or as a message of peaceful coexistence and fruitful integration of different cultural and ethnic components (Sikels, Ionians, Dorians). This chapter attempts to show that the former interpretation is probably the correct one and that the play was perceived by its original audience, especially by the Sikels, as an expression of Greek cultural and political imperialism. In 476 BC the inhabitants of the two major Chalcidian towns of Eastern Sicily, Naxos and Katane, were forced by Hieron of Syracuse to leave their land and move to Leontini. Naxos remained abandoned,1 Katane received 10,000 new settlers from Syracuse and Peloponnese and was renamed Aitna after the nearby volcano: to its new inhabitants Hieron distributed the land which belonged formerly to Katane and to the neighbouring country. According to Diodorus Siculus, our chief source for these events,2 Hieron’s purpose was to have at his disposal a considerable military force ready for every eventuality and to obtain for himself a heroic cult as oikistes after his death. The new foundation was celebrated by Pindar in his First Pythian and by Aeschylus3 in Aitnaiai4 (The women of Aitna). The 1 See Vinci (2010) 207. 2 Diod. Sic. 11.49.1–2. 3 In this chapter, all Aeschylean fragments and testimonia are quoted from Radt (1985). 4 The Medicean Catalogue (Aesch. Test. 78d.1-a.2 Radt) records both Αἰτναῖαι γνήσιοι (the ‘genuine’ Aitnaiai) and Αἰτναῖαι νόθοι (the ‘spurious’ Aitnaiai); of the second drama we know practically nothing, and it is generally assumed among scholars that all quotations and references belong to the first. The title Αἰτναῖαι occurs also in Hsch. α 1955 and κ 4041 Latte and is adopted by almost all modern scholars and editors (see Radt [1985] 126, with further bibliography); other attested variants are Αἶτναι (Schol. Hom. Il. 16.183b [IV 209.52 Erbse]; Steph. Byz. π 1 [IV 6.3 Billerbeck; but Meineke conjectured Αἰτναίαις, printed by Billerbeck]), Αἴτνη (Laur. Lyd. De mens. Note: I wish to thank Menelaos Christopoulos, Athina Papachrysostomou and Andreas P. Antonopoulos for kindly inviting me to the International Conference, and David Flynn for revising the English text of my chapter. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-012

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drama has not survived, but the plot can be reconstructed from a passage of Macrobius’ Saturnalia:5 it was based on a local Sicilian myth, about which, according to Macrobius, Aeschylus was the first Greek author to write. Zeus abducted the Sicilian nymph Thalia and left her pregnant near the river Symaethus; the nymph then feared revenge from Hera, so she prayed to be swallowed by the earth, which was what happened. When the time of the pregnancy was up, she gave birth to twins: they emerged from the soil and were named ‘Palici’ from πάλιν (‘again’) and ἵκω/ἱκνέομαι (‘to come’), because they had sunk into the earth when they were still in their mother’s womb, and then, after their birth, they ‘came again’ into the light.6 Then, Macrobius goes on illustrating their cult: there are two small volcanic lakes in Sicily, not very far from the place where the Palici were born,7 which are called ‘craters’ and ‘Delli’ by the local inhabitants, and regarded as ‘brothers of the Palici’:8 they are very deep and always seething with a continuous water jet, which appears to be the manifestation of the divine power of the twin deities.9 Therefore, they are worshipped with great honour and their power serves as a trial by ordeal for testing the truth of oaths. When the responsibility for a

4.154), Aetna (Macrob. Sat. 5.19.24). In the Vita Aeschyli (ch. 9 = Test. 1.34 R.) some manuscripts have Αἰτναίας, others Αἴτνας. 5 5.19.15–24. Macrobius’ trustworthiness has been questioned by Sampson (2018); but see my objections in Cipolla (2022, forthcoming). 6 Macrob. Sat. 5.19.18 appellatique sunt Palici ἀπὸ τοῦ πάλιν ἱκέσθαι, quoniam prius in terram mersi denuo inde reversi sunt. A roughly similar account of the myth is also found in Servius ad Aen. 9.581 (p. 359.9–19 Thilo), where the nymph is named Aetna (but the ‘Danieline’ Servius has also Thalia as an alternative). The alleged etymology of Palici is of course impossible (the name is surely pre-Greek), but no convincing alternative has been found yet; for a brief survey on attempts made by modern scholars see Meurant (1998) 21 n. 39. 7 The site has been identified with Rocchicella di Mineo (not very far from Leontini), where until the 30s of the twentieth century two small circular lakes, named ‘Naftia’, could be seen near some ancient ruins; unfortunately, they were dried to allow extraction of carbon dioxide from the soil. Archaeological evidence offers a strong confirmation: the site was inhabited since the Palaeolithic era, but from the seventh century BC onwards there are remains of important buildings, perhaps linked to the cult, and in the mid fifth century the whole area was rearranged with the building of a hestiaterion (see Maniscalco and McConnell [2003]; Maniscalco [2015]). 8 Macrob. Sat. 5.19.19 quos incolae crateras vocant et nomine Dellos appellant fratresque eos Palicorum aestimant. The name Delli has been connected with italic *duelli, the ‘twins’, since the Palici are the Sikel equivalent of the Indo-European ‘divine twins’ (Witczac and Zawiasa [2004/2005]); see Presle (1845) 571 (but already Preller [1838] 128); Ziegler (1949) 110.7–10; Croon (1952) 118. For alternative explanations see Bello (1960) 93–94; Meulder (2017) (who proposes “eaux jaillissants”, “water jets”, from a root gwelH- related to βάλλω). 9 On the lakes, see also Lycus of Rhegium BNJ 570 F 11a; Diod. Sic. 11.89.1–8; Strab. 6.2.9; ps.Arist. Mir. 834b7–17; and the other sources quoted by Macrobius in the following chapters (Sat. 5.19.25–29 = Callias BNJ 564 F 1; Polemon fr. 83 Müller).

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theft or something similar is disputed, the man whose account needs to be proved approaches the craters and performs an oath by invoking the Palici: if he is telling the truth, he remains unharmed; otherwise, he dies immediately in the lake.10 Then Macrobius quotes the Greek sources of his account, starting with four verses from Aeschylus’ drama (fr. 6 Radt, a stichomythia between two unknown speakers) where the etymology of the name ‘Palici’ is explained: – – – –

Τί δῆτ᾽ ἐπ᾽ αὐτοῖς ὄνομα θήσονται βροτοί; Σεμνοὺς Παλικοὺς Ζεὺς ἐφίεται καλεῖν. Ἦ καὶ Παλικῶν εὐλόγως μένει φάτις; Πάλιν γὰρ ἵκουσ᾽ ἐκ σκότους τόδ᾽ εἰς φάος.

– – – –

And which name will the mortals give to them? Zeus wants them to be called ‘the venerable Palici’. Therefore, the name of the Palici endures reasonably? Yes, because they come again [palin hikousi] here to light from darkness.

The second piece of relevant evidence is a fragmentary hypothesis preserved by P.Oxy. 2257, fr. 1.11 According to it, the drama had multiple scene changes (a circumstance quite exceptional in classical Greek tragedy):12 Aitna, Xuthia,13 and again Aitna, Leontini and Syracuse.14 The title of the play has not survived,

10 On the Palici and their cult, see Ciaceri (1911) 10–15, 23–32; Ziegler (1949); Crohn (1952); Bello (1960); Cusumano (1991); (2006) esp. 129–137; Meurant (1998); Witczac and Zawiasa (2004/2005). 11 First published by Lobel (1952) 66–68; I follow the text of Arata, Bastianini and Montanari (2004) 22. The term ‘hypothesis’ is used here in a wide sense: perhaps it was, rather, a commentary (Arata, Bastianini and Montanari [2004] 27). 12 In Aeschylus’ Eumenides we have only one relevant change, from Delphi to Athens (a minor one occurs at l. 566, when the scene moves from Athena’s temple, mentioned at l. 242, to Areopagus); however, the exceptional circumstances under which Aitnaiai was staged (a celebratory drama written for a non-Athenian audience) may account for such anomalies, Taplin (1977) 418; but see already Lobel (1952) 68, who thinks of a postclassical play falsely assigned to Aeschylus (the ‘spurious’ Aitnaiai of the Catalogue?), where such changes would be at home and suit perfectly a division in five acts. 13 According to Diod. Sic. 5.8.2, this was the name of the land of Leontini; it was there that the shrine of the Palici stood and the inhabitants of Naxos and Katane were settled by Hieron. On the meaning of the toponym I shall return later. 14 κ(ατὰ) μ(ὲν) γ(ὰρ) τὸ πρῶτον μέ̣ρ[ος] | αὐ̣τοῦ ἡ σκην̣ὴ ὑ(πό)κει̣τ(̣ αι) Αἴτνη̣, κ(ατὰ) δ(ὲ) τὸ δεύτ(ερον) | Ξουθία, κ(α)τ(ὰ) δ(ὲ) τ̣ὸ̣ τρίτο̣ν πάλιν̣ Αἴτνη, εἶτ’ ἀ|πὸ ταύτης εἰ[ς Λε]ο̣ντ̣ ίνους μ(ε)τ(α)βάλλει καὶ γί(νεται) ἡ | σκηνὴ Λεον[τ(ίνων) χῶ(ρος)], μ(ε)τ(ὰ) δ’ αὐτὸν Συρακοῦσσαι | καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ .[ ± 8].ηι δ(ια)περαίνετ(αι) – “In its (scil. of Aeschylus’ play) first part the scene is Aitna, in the second Xuthia, in the third again Aitna, then it changes to Leontini and the scene becomes (the land of) Leon(tini), after it Syracuse, and the remaining part is brought to a conclusion in . . ., which is a place . . . .”

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but the scene was clearly in Eastern Sicily. Aitna is named twice15 and the other places are all related both with the myth of the Palici and with the refoundation of Katane-Aitna by Hieron: this strongly supports the suggestion of the first editor, E. Lobel, that this is the hypothesis of Aeschylus’ Aitnaiai.16 The other fragments safely belonging to the drama17 are limited to single words or indirect references and provide little or no help towards reconstructing the plot. Two more pieces, preserved by P. Oxy. 2256, have been attributed by Fraenkel and others to Aitnaiai:18 fr. 9 (= 281a Radt) is a dialogue between Dike and another speaker, probably the chorus-leader, where Dike explains her role and power. Fr. 8 of the same papyrus (= 451 n Radt) describes the positive effects of peace on the life of a town. Several parallels have been found between these texts and the praise of the new order established by Hieron with his military campaigns in Pindar’s First Pythian; but there is good reason to believe that at least fr. 9 comes from a satyr drama,19 and if so its attribution to Aitnaiai should be regarded, if not with suspicion, at least with circumspection.20

In the lacuna of last line Pfeiffer (in Lobel [1952] 68) restores [ἐν Τεμενίτ]ηι (‘on the Temenite’), the hill above Syracuse, with the well-known theatre. 15 It is not clear whether the mountain or the town is meant; Grassi (1956) 209; Garzya (1977) 405–406 and others assume that the first time the name refers to the mountain, the second to the town (Garzya [1977] 411 consequently adopts the title Aitnai, ‘the [two] Aetnas’). Poli Palladini (2001) 292, however, rightly observes that πάλιν in the hypothesis can mean nothing but ‘again’ (not ‘in turn’), so if the first is the mountain, the second must be the same. 16 Lobel (1952) 67. 17 Frr. 7–11 Radt. 18 Fraenkel (1954) 75; Pohlenz (1954) 198–200; Cataudella (1964/1965) 378–395; Lesky (1972) 153; Corbato (1996) 69–70; Stewart (2017) 106–107, and others (see Poli-Palladini [2001]; Cipolla [2010] for further bibliography). Totaro (2011), though cautious, appears open to this hypothesis; so also Sommerstein (2008) 277–279, but with more hesitation. 19 So the first editor, Lobel (1952) 39; Sutton (1983); Wessels (1999); Poli Palladini (2001); Cipolla (2010); O’Sullivan and Collard (2013) 299; and now Juan Lopez (2017). 20 It is generally assumed that Aitnaiai was a tragedy, and Macrobius labels the play as tragoedia. However, if it was staged in Katane-Aitna, a propagandistic satyr play would be not wholly unsuitable for an audience chiefly consisting of soldiers: one might recall Python’s Agen, staged in Alexander the Great’s camp on Hydaspes in 326 BC (Ath. 13.586 D, 595 E–596 B), a context which was not very different from a military colony of 10,000 mercenaries. Macrobius’ statement may be slightly inaccurate, for surely he did not draw directly on Aeschylus’ full text: he knew that Aeschylus was a Greek tragedian, and that was enough (that he was aware of the fact that tragedians also wrote satyr plays is at least doubtful). But if Aitnaiai was a satyr play, it had a chorus of satyrs: who were then the ‘women of Aetna’? Perhaps Thalia and her fellow-nymphs? Or should we adopt one of the attested variants for the title (Αἴτνη/Aetna or Αἶτναι)? If we consider this problem (and others that would inevitably arise), it is safer to maintain the traditional view that it was a tragedy.

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Consequently, I will avoid drawing any inference from them on the content of the play. Given this scanty evidence, an exact interpretation of the play and its meaning is very difficult and problematic. The chief question has to do with Aeschylus’ attitude towards Hieron and his behaviour. Aeschylus had fought at Marathon and Salamis to defend the freedom of his town against the Persians and was then the most representative playwright of democratic Athens:21 nevertheless, he went to Sicily in the years “when Hieron was founding Aitna”22 and produced Aitnaiai “to wish a happy life to those who joined in the settlement of the city.”23 How did he judge Hieron’s tyranny and aggressive colonial policy against the Chalcidian inhabitants of Naxos and Katane, whose forced displacement was expected to cause to an Athenian no lesser pity than the fate of Miletus in 494, due to their common Ionian origin?24 Three possible answers may be given. a. Hieron’s policy was not as cruel and despotic as depicted by Diodorus, whose account is influenced by the anti-tyrannical and anti-Syracusan bias of his source, Timaeus.25 The tyrant was rather attempting to build a great pan-Hellenic coalition that would include all ethnic components of Eastern Sicily, pre-Greek inhabitants, Ionian-Chalcidian and Dorian settlers, under the unifying power of Syracuse.26

21 “Prophet of democracy”, according to Sommerstein (1996) 413 and 421. 22 Vita Aeschyli 9 = Test. 1.33 Radt Ἱέρωνος τότε τὴν Αἴτναν κτίζοντος. The interpretation of this passage is controversial: since we know from another passage of the Vita that Aeschylus, prompted by Hieron, restaged his Persians at his court and met with great success (ch. 18 = Test. 1.68 Radt φασὶν ὑπὸ Ἱέρωνος ἀξιωθέντα ἀναδιδάξαι τοὺς Πέρσας ἐν Σικελίᾳ καὶ λίαν εὐδοκιμεῖν), most scholars put his Sicilian journey after 472 BC, and Aitnaiai around 470 BC. This would be consistent with the (probable) date of Pindar’s First Pythian (474 or, better, 470 BC), while the delay between the foundation of the city and its celebration could be explained as the time needed to (re)build houses and public buildings and to assign lots of land among new settlers (see e.g. Cataudella [1964/1965] 375–376; Boehringer [1968] 72; Garzya [1977] 402). Others opt for an earlier date (476/475 BC), assuming that Aeschylus originally wrote Persians for a Sicilian audience before 472 BC (the scholiast on Ar. Ran. 1028, when speaking of this Sicilian staging, uses the simple διδάξαι; see Bosher [2012b] esp. 103); but, as Cataudella rightly observes, it is more logical to link Aeschylus’ great success with Persians to his first performance in Sicily and consider Aitnaiai slightly later. Moreover, if Persians was first written on Hiero’s request, why did Aeschylus celebrate the battle of Salamina instead of the Deinomenid victories at Himera or Cuma? On the problem, see Smith (2017) 12–14. 23 Vita Aeschyli 9 = Test. 1.34 Radt οἰωνιζόμενος βίον ἀγαθὸν τοῖς συνοικίζουσι τὴν πόλιν. 24 Cf. Basta Donzelli (2008) 43‒44; Rehm (1989) 32. 25 Boehringer (1968) 71. 26 Cf. Cataudella (1964/1965) 396; Garzya (1977) 409; Culasso Gastaldi (1979) 66; Anello (1984) 28; Debiasi (2008) 104 n. 156.

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Sikels and Chalcidians would play a relevant role in this project: its inclusive and moderate character would be welcomed by the ‘democratic’ Aeschylus and echoed in the scene changes of Αitnaiai, each introducing the ethnos to which the place was relevant for historical and/or religious reasons. So, according to Garzya:27 (1) Aitna (the volcano) and the myth of the Palici > Sikel indigenous; (2) Xuthia > Aeolians;28 (3) Aitna (= Katane, the town)29 > Dorian soldiers newly settled by Hieron; (4) Leontini > Ionian-Chalcidian settlers; (5) Syracuse would resume, as a common mother town, all these different identities and represent the culminating point where the action of the former parts converged and Hieron’s policy found its glorification. The final part of Eumenides is often recalled as a parallel:30 as in the drama, the chthonic deities changed their attitude towards the city of Athens and became its protectors, granting a future of prosperity and happiness, so in the Sicilian play the local deities were dignified as children of the Greek king of gods and integrated, together with Chalcidian traditions, into the religious system of the new Hieronian realm. b. Hieron was exactly as brutal and tyrannical as shown by Diodorus: Sikels and Chalcidians were oppressed on racist grounds and deprived of their properties and historical-cultural identity. According to this view, Aeschylus’ Greek genealogy and etymology of the Palici should be rather explained as a form of cultural and linguistic colonialism,31 which destroys local ethnic identity to replace it with a Greek one. The play would be then just a legitimation of Syracusan imperialism, without room for pacific coexistence of different people and cultures. Aeschylus acted here no differently from Pindar: a professional poet writing in accordance with his patron’s guidelines, regardless of his Athenian origin.32 c. Different attempts have been made by scholars to conciliate the two previous hypotheses. While praising Hieron for the new foundation and wishing it a

27 Garzya (1977) 409. 28 Garzya (1977) 408 derives the name from Xuthus, son of Aeolus Hippotades (Diod. Sic. 5. 7–8), king of winds and the Aeolian Islands (Hom. Od. 10.1–12); see Anello (1984) 30–31. 29 This is rather improbable (see above, n. 15). 30 Cf. already Schneidewin (1845) 74 (who noticed the similarity a century before the papyrus hypothesis was published); Grassi (1956) 209; Thatcher (2019) 76. 31 Dougherty (1991); (1993) 89–90; see also Cusumano (1990) 126; Cusumano (2006) 129; Luraghi (1994) 343; Braccesi and Millino (2000) 85–87; Poli-Palladini (2001) 319–321; Bonanno (2010) 142–147. 32 Poli Palladini (2001) 324–325.

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prosperous destiny, Aeschylus would also reserve in the play a decent role for the Ionian component, in order to suggest to Hieron a moderate and inclusive behaviour towards the Chalcidians transferred to Leontini, in accordance with the poet’s religious and ethnic credos;33 or he would have expressed pity and regret (if not complaint) over their fate.34 The Hellenization of the local cult, instead, shall be read as an act of cultural imperialism towards the Sikels, who would play no significant or active role within the new political structure. A different form of mediation has been recently attempted by Thatcher: he acknowledges the brutal and imperialistic nature of Deinomenid territorial policy and maintains that Aeschylus’ interpretatio Graeca of the name and genealogy of the Palici “is still a form of cultural imperialism,”35 but at the same time it could have represented, at least for a part of the audience, a model of cultural integration between Greeks and Sikels.36 In order to evaluate these options, first a methodological aspect should be pointed out, that is, to distinguish between the facts and the narrative of proHieronian propaganda. The facts are unquestionable: Hieron cancelled two Ionian settlements with a historical background of two centuries and a half, moved their inhabitants to another town, distributed the land of the Katanians to the Dorian settlers of new founded Aitna and added part of the neighbouring land, that is to say, of the Sikel’s land.37 Some scholars believe that the occasion for the new foundation of Katane-Aitna was the eruption of mount Aetna, which is reported to

33 Basta Donzelli (1996) 93–97. See also Manganaro (1996) 32–3 (Aeschylus wishing for fraternity between Ionians and Dorians, but not for the Sikels); Coppola (1995) 64 (according to her, in the 470s Hieron attempted to establish amiable relationships with Ionian-Chalcidian towns such as Cuma, because he needed their support against the Etruscans); Bonanno (2010) 147. 34 Rehm (1989). 35 Thatcher (2019) esp. 71, 77–78. 36 This would be possible thanks to the ‘multivocality’ of Greek tragedy, i.e. the possible coexistence in the text of different senses and points of view suitable to different audiences (Thatcher [2019] 68; on the concept see Pelling [1997] 13–17). In his interpretation, Thatcher focuses mainly on the relationship Greeks-Sikels, leaving aside the one between Ionians and Dorians. 37 At 11.49.1 Diodorus says ἀλλὰ καὶ πολλὴν τῆς ὁμόρου προσθεὶς κατεκληρούχησε (‘but he also added a large portion of the neighbouring land and distributed it’); that this ‘neighbouring land’ belonged to the Sikels is confirmed by what he says later (11.76.3) about Ducetius, the leader of Sikel rescue, who was angry with the new inhabitants of Katane because they had occupied the lands of the Sikels. See Manganaro (1996) 32; Bonanno (2010) 134–135.

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have happened around those years38 and might have encouraged Naxians and/ or Katanians to leave their towns without being forced by Hieron.39 But, besides the fact that a close relationship with the eruption is far from certain,40 Hieron was not the Italian Protezione Civile; he was not acting with the euergetic and humanitarian purpose of supplying a new dwelling to the victims of a cataclysm: it would be enough to consider that, if Katane and its surrounding territory had been so badly damaged, Hieron would not have settled the new town in the same place, nor would he have been able to assign it to the Dorian colonists.41 Regarding the Sikels, in recent times the ideas of a strong ethnic opposition between Greek and Sikel identity and of a one-way cultural ‘colonialism’ (from Greeks to ‘barbarians’ playing only a passive role) have been abandoned in favour of a ‘middle ground’ approach.42 Interaction with the Greek world and culture is attested already during the archaic age: Sikels adopted the Greek alphabet for the epichoric inscriptions, many of them spoke Greek and had marriage links with Greek families.43 Above all, the myth and the cult of the Palici, perhaps the most important symbol of Sikel identity, are clearly arranged within the framework of Greek cultural influence and categories, at least in the form that we know from Greek sources (that is, from fifth century BC onwards) and archaeological data.44 But this does not mean that Sikels would welcome Hieron’s forced movements and expropriations:45 they would be willing to learn

38 479/478 BC according to the Parian Marble (IG 12.5.444, 52.69a), 476/475 BC according to Thucydides (3.116: he records an eruption in 425 by saying that there had been another one fifty years earlier). 39 Boehringer (1968) 71–72; Forsyth (1982) 53–56. 40 See Basta Donzelli (1996) 77 n. 16; Vinci (2010) 209. 41 Deinomenids, and Western Greek tyrants in general, were not new to such enterprises: Gelon had destroyed Kamarina, Megara and Euboea and transferred their populations to Syracuse together with part of that of Gela; wealthy and rich Megarians and Euboeans received Syracusan citizenship, while the demos was enslaved and sold outside Sicily (Hdt. 7.156). Anaxilas of Rhegium occupied Zancle and settled colonists there, mainly from doric Messene, whence the city changed its name (Thuc. 6.4.5). 42 See McConnell (2009) esp. 102; Cusumano (2015) 31–37; Thatcher (2019) 68. The expression was coined by White (2011) with regard to relationships between Europeans and Native Americans; cf. also Gruen (2011) (and the right criticism by Broder [2011]). 43 Manganaro (1996) 26–28. 44 The hestiaterion of fifth century implies a Greek model and the adoption of Greek practice of ritual meals by the Sikels (Thatcher [2019] 69), and archaic remains of seventh century already show similarities with Geloan architecture (Maniscalco [2015] 170–171). 45 As White himself declares (2011) XII, “force and violence are hardly foreign to the process of creating and maintaining a Middle Ground.” It is to be noticed that the rearranging of the sanctuary dates around the mid-fifth century, i.e. in the time of Ducetius, after Aeschylus’

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Greek, to establish marriage links with Greek families, to arrange their cults following Greek models, but not to leave their fields to Hieron’s settlers. Their reaction which followed the end of the Deinomenid power in Syracuse in 466 leaves no doubt:46 they got their lands back under Ducetius’ guide, and old Chalcidian inhabitants too came back to Katane from Leontini, drove Dorian settlers away and destroyed the tomb of Hieron.47 The question, then, is not whether Hieron’s policy was aiming to a peaceful mingling and integration of different cultures (for, as we have seen, clearly it was not), but whether it was presented in these terms by the pro-Hieronian propaganda or not. Pindar’s praise emphasizes the legitimacy of the basileia in Aitna, deriving both from Zeus Aitnaios’ authority and from loyalty to Doric laws based on “freedom built by the gods.”48 Here is not the place to recall the debate on the exact meaning of this ‘freedom’ and on the ‘constitutional’ nature (according to some scholars)49 of the royal power that Hieron exercised in Katane-Aitna through his son Dinomenes under the regency of Chromius; I may just mention that ‘freedom’ and ‘peace’ in Pindar are nothing but slogans, just like the pax Romana in Calgacus’ speech reported by Tacitus.50 Apart from this, what matters for our discussion is the fact that the Pindarian ode gives no room to the Ionian element, let alone to the Sikels: it is a ‘pomp and circumstance’ march of Doric pride, and the only pan-Hellenic element is the parallel between the Deinomenid victories over Carthaginians and Etruscans (Himera and Cuma) and Eastern Greek ones over Persians (Salamina and Plataea).51 What of Aeschylus? Concerning the fragment preserved by Macrobius, one may admit that the interpretatio Graeca contains nothing ‘imperialistic’ in itself; it is the customary form of Greek (or better, Hellenocentric) representation of the world. Aeschylus displays other examples of this practice when he derives the name of Rhegium from ῥήγνυμι (because the mountain chain between Sicily and Italy

drama and the fall of the Deinomenid tyranny. In this context, it should perhaps be read as a competitive emulation of a (superior) foreign cultural model rather than as a simple assimilation of it. Such an ambivalence underlies the attitude of Christian Church Fathers towards pagan Greeks: they adopted Greek cultural categories and literary genres in order to make Christian faith culturally stronger. 46 See Basta Donzelli (1996) 96. 47 Strab. 6.2.3. 48 Pyth. 1.61 θεοδμάτῳ σὺν ἐλευθερίᾳ. 49 So for example Kirsten (1941); Boehringer (1968) 73–75; but see the objections of Basta Donzelli (1996) 79–83. 50 Tac. Agr. 30.7 ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant. 51 Pind. Pyth. 1.71–80.

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was broken by an earthquake which formed the Strait of Messina)52 or makes the ancestors of African mankind (Libya, Belus and his children Aegyptus and Danaus) descendants of Zeus through his son Epaphus, whose name is derived from ἐφάπτομαι (‘touch’).53 But before him, Hesiod (or whoever wrote the last verses of Theogony) made Circe and Odysseus parents of Agrius and Latinus, who ruled over the Tyrrhenians:54 this foreign ethnos was so given a Greek pedigree. Even ogres like Polyphemus or Antaeus, living in remote lands and symbolising perhaps the hostility of their non-Greek inhabitants towards Greek settlers, bear Greek names and are born from the Greek god Poseidon. It would probably be harsh to explain all these instances as examples of ‘linguistic colonialism’ or ‘legitimations of imperialism’, especially if we consider that the notion and the term of ‘colonialism’ as a systematic and organized conquest of a foreign land by an overseas state is widely inappropriate for early Greek migrations in the Western Mediterranean.55 So Gruen and Thatcher are probably right in dismissing such an interpretation about mythical figures like the Scythian Targitaus,56 and many instances of interpretatio Graeca may be explained as attempts to reduce the unknown to the familiar and to interpret the real world within a Greek cultural framework.57 But when strong political and territorial interests are involved, things are obviously different. Herodotus tells that, before invading Greece, Xerxes sent a messenger to the inhabitants of Argos claiming their common descent from Perseus (who, according to certain traditions, was the ancestor of the Persians),58 to ensure their neutrality during the war. Whether this is true or not,59 either Xerxes or the inventor of the tale clearly made an instrumental use of myth. One of the ancient etymologies of the toponym Gela links it with

52 Aesch. fr. 402 Radt. 53 Aesch. Suppl. 313–324. 54 Hes. Theog. 1011–1016. 55 See Hall (2012) esp. 22–25. 56 According to Herodotus 4.5.1, Targitaus was born by Zeus and a daughter of the river Borysthenes; the tale is presented as a local Scythian story, so it was not invented by the Greeks for ideological purposes (Thatcher [2019] 75, relying on Gruen [2011]). 57 A similar process can be seen in the Old Testament: in Genesis the first woman receives a Hebrew name etymologized as ‘the mother of all the living’ (3.20), with the implicit assumption that the ancestors of humankind spoke Hebrew, and the Greeks are called the descendants of Javan, son of Iaphet son of Noah (10.2). 58 Hdt. 7.150; cf. 7.61–62, where also the Medians are said to have derived their name from Medea. 59 Herodotus, 7.150.1 reports it as a vox populi: Ἔστι δὲ ἄλλος λόγος λεγόμενος ἀνὰ τὴν Ἑλλάδα.

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an eponymous hero, Gelon, son of Aetna,60 and is likely to be an invention of Deinomenid propaganda.61 As a general principle, it should be born in mind that naming (or renaming) things is also a form of exerting power over them, as the case of Katane renamed Aitna by Hieron clearly shows.62 When this is not possible, reinterpreting the existing name is the second best choice. Aeschylus could not (or did not want to) change the name of the Palici, so deeply rooted in local tradition. But this interpretatio Graeca, unlike other ones, is not simply offered, but rather imposed with the authoritative force of a divine command issued by Zeus himself: for it is he, not the humans, who wants them to be called so, and the explanation that follows has obviously the same divine (and thus unquestionable) origin.63 The Sikel deities are subordinated to the Greek father of gods, to whom they owe not only their existence, but also their name and its meaning. What else should one need to speak of ‘linguistic colonialism’? We could say the same regarding the genealogy. Between the Palici and Targitaus there are two differences: first, not only was the latter’s birth from Zeus invented by the Scythian themselves, but Herodotus labels it as unconvincing.64 One would say that in this case an attempt of spontaneous cultural assimilation by the Scythians was rejected by the Greeks, because they were not interested in it. The reason lies in the second difference: Sicily was not Scythia. The Piana di Catania, with its mild climate and fertile soil, was for the Greeks much more attractive and strategically relevant than cold and remote Scythia: in this case a genealogical forgery (by Greeks, not Sikels!) can hardly be disjunct from political purposes. It would be useful, in evaluating the extent of this forgery, to know more of the pre-Aeschylean version of the myth; unfortunately, this is made difficult by the meagreness of the remains of the play and the lack of textual evidence before the fifth century. Moreover, as shown by Cusumano,65 although the Palici are explicitly labelled as epichoric deities, the only elements surely indigenous are their name and their relationship with the

60 Hellanicus BNJ 4 F 199 and Proxenus BNJ 703 F 4 (quoted by Steph. Byz. γ 45, I 412 Billerbeck). 61 Rightly so Poli Palladini (2001) 301–302. 62 In Genesis (2.19–20) God brings all animals before Adam, to see how he will name them, because he wants to give him support and aid: in fact, animals are intended to be used by man. Then God creates woman, and, after original sin, Adam chooses her name. In ancient societies, slaves were usually renamed by their masters; the Greeks often used generic ethnic names such as Σύρος, Φρυγία and Μανῆς. 63 Fr. 6.2, above. This detail has generally passed unnoticed. 64 Hdt. 4.5.1 ἐμοὶ δὲ πιστὰ οὐ λέγοντες (scil. Σκύθαι). 65 Cusumano (1990) 128–138.

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craters. All that remains, from their divine birth through the abduction of a nymph, from their emergence from the underworld,66 their oracular power, the organization of the cult, is widely paralleled in Greek religion and thus is likely to be the product of Greek cultural influence. We don’t know with certainty who was their father in ancient Sikel tradition, nor if they had one at all:67 their birth from Adranos, attested in Hesychius,68 may be either a later development69 or a trace of the original version of the myth.70 In the first case, it is likely to have been invented to match Dionysius the Elder’s propagandistic interests (he founded the town of Adrano near the temple of the god and was exercising, unlike his predecessor, a pro-Sikel policy):71 if so, this cannot be regarded as anything other than a reassessment of the epichoric character of the cult correcting the previous (i.e. Aeschylean) version of the myth, which was felt as (and really was) a form of cultural appropriation (or rather, expropriation)72 by most indigenous ears. If, on the contrary, Adranos’ paternity represents genuine local tradition and Aeschylus deliberately altered it, then this cultural expropriation would

66 Thatcher (2019) 72 considers the birth of the Palici from the ground as an indigenous feature, because it “fits uneasily with Greek narrative patterns”; but compare for example Erichthonius’ birth from the earth (see Loraux [2000] 30–31), the cyclical to and fro of the Dioscuri between Olympus and Hades (see Cusumano [1990] 135), and the anodos of Kore from the underworld (though this is not strictly speaking a ‘birth’, it can be considered as a re-birth). An overlap with Eleusinian myth and cult seems far from improbable: Demeter, like the Palici, is sometimes connected to (hot) water (she is labelled Θερμασία, ‘warm-bringing’, at Paus. 2.34.7 and 12, and according to Hesychius ε 4898 in Laconia there was a Demetriac festival named Ἐπικρήναια, ‘water-spring festival’; for archaeological evidence in Sicily see Caputo [1937]). Kowalzig (2008) 144–145 suggests the possibility that the goddess appeared in Aeschylus’ drama. This cannot be proved, but is at least very attractive: it would mean that Hieron was trying to attract the indigenous chthonic cult of the Palici into the sphere of the Hellenic Eleusinian Mysteries, whose hierophantic priesthood was a hereditary task of the Deinomenids since their ancestor Telines (Hdt. 7.153; Schol. Pind. Ol. 6.158a, 191.14–16 Drachmann). Had he succeeded, it would have easily resulted in a further legitimation of his dominion over the Sikels and their land. 67 La Rosa (1974) 157 does not exclude the existence of divine genealogies in the culture of the Sikels before the arrival of the Greeks. 68 Hsch. π 176 Hansen. On the god Adranos and his cult see Ciaceri (1911) 8–14; he was regarded as indigenous, cf. Aelian. NA 11.20 Ἀδρανοῦ νεώς, ἐπιχωρίου δαίμονος and Plut. Timol. 12. 69 Ziegler (1949) 120.1–15, who supposes that Aeschylus invented ex novo the myth on the basis of the etymology (ibid. 118.32–34); see also Basta Donzelli (1996) 88. 70 Ciaceri (1911) 30–31; see also Thatcher (2019) 74. 71 Cusumano (2000) 134–135. 72 Otherwise Thatcher (2019) 74.

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have appeared even more heavy and invasive.73 If he wished to give the myth a respectful and conservative treatment (that is: to pay the greatest acknowledgement to local traditions), he would have integrated into Greek pantheon not only the Palici, but also their Sikel father (and possibly the eponym nymph of mount Aetna, who in some sources74 is their mother; another relic of pre-Greek tradition?);75 he could give him a kinship with Zeus, or Hephaestus, or some other Olympian god. At least, he could even present him as Thalia’s father in place of Hephaestus.76 Instead, he simply suppressed him in favour of Zeus. Why? The most obvious answer is: because Zeus was the lord of Mount Aetna, worshipped in the new cult introduced by Hieron,77 and the patron of διοτρεφέες βασιλῆες, ‘kings nourished by Zeus’,78 like Hieron’s son Dinomenes, basileus79 of Katane-Aitna. The poet may also have noticed a similarity between the Sikel twins and the Greek pair of the Dios-kouroi.80 In general, Aeschylus’ treatment of the myth appears not to be a mere ‘translation’ of Sikel tradition into Greek: it is a radical reshaping of it according to Greek culture and Hieronian political ideology. The succession of scenes in the drama, too, is difficult to interpret without the text. The mention of Xuthia has produced hypotheses pointing not only to Aeolian

73 Witczac and Zawiasa (2004/2005) 103–104 assume, based on comparison with other mythical ‘divine twins’ in indoeuropean area, that the Palici had a double paternity like the Dioscuri: the Sky-god (the Zeus of the Greeks) was their divine father, the hero Adranos the mortal one. But Adranos was not a mortal hero like Tyndareos, he was a god; it is easier, then, to assume that the two paternities were not originally concurrent and that one superseded the other. And even if they were both ancient, Aeschylus’ choice of suppressing Adranos and leaving only the divine father, naming it Zeus, would be equally significant. 74 Silen. BNJ 175 F 3; Serv. ad Aen. 9.581. Conversely, Aeschylus’ Thalia bears a wholly Greek name clearly alluding to the fertility (< θάλλω, ‘flourish’) of volcanic soil. 75 Galvagno (2004) 52. 76 Adranos is usually considered the Sikel equivalent of Hephaestus (see e.g. Cusumano [1990] 132; Meurant [1998] 19; Thatcher [2019] 74); but the two deities were not wholly identical, because Adranos was represented as a warrior (Ciaceri [1911] 13; his statue had a spear according to Plut. Timol. 12.5). At any rate, if Aeschylus in the genealogy of the Danaids retained the Semitic Belus (= Baal) without replacing him with a Greek equivalent, why could he not have done the same with Adranos? 77 See Pindar Pyth. 1.30. 78 Hom. Il. 2.196, etc. 79 Pindar Pyth. 1.60. 80 Varro (quoted by Serv. ad Aen. 9.581) called the Palici nauticos deos: since they have no known relationship with the sea and navigation and their sanctuary was not near the sea, this clearly reflects the attempt to find a (forced) parallel with the Dioscuri (Ciaceri [2011] 26; Cusumano [1990] 134–137, esp. 136), and may ultimately derive from Aeschylus himself.

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mythical tradition, as we have seen, but also to Ionian (where Xuthus is the husband of the Athenian princess Creousa)81 and Dorian ones (Xuthus’ grandfather Hippotas identified with a Heraclid).82 The Aeolian tradition seems to be supported by archaeological evidence, which displays similarities between pre-Greek culture in the area of Palagonia/Leontini (Molino della Badia, Metapiccola) and Italic culture, to which Aeolus is linked for having married Cyane, daughter of Liparos, son of the Italic Auson;83 but the reasonable objection is that the Aeolians did not play any role in Sicily in historic ages.84 The Ionian tradition is what we would expect to be followed by an Athenian poet seeking mythical precedents of Ionian settlements in Eastern Sicily. The Dorian tradition is the most attractive, as it would point to a legitimation of Syracusan control over the plain of Lentini. Unfortunately, we do not know what Aeschylus had in mind; it seems safe then to avoid speculation and to settle for the fact noted above, that the places mentioned in the hypothesis are all linked to the myth of the Palici and/or belong to Hieron’s dominion. Finally, a relevant point to consider is the following: which kind of audience was the drama addressing? Were there any Ionian-Chalcidians or Hellenized Sikels sitting in the theatre (or any other place) together with those Dorians who had deprived them of their land? We do not know. It could be that some of them were cooperating with the regime, and thus obtained a privileged status; they would be suitable recipients for reading the integration of the Palici into Greek mythology as an invitation to accept the new status of things and to encourage ‘peaceful’ mingling. But we can only speculate on this: what is certain is that, whether the drama was staged in Katane-Aitna or Syracuse (or both),85 the main addressees were Hieron, his court, the Dorian settlers of Katane and/or the Dorian inhabitants of Syracuse. To this audience Aeschylus’ interpretatio Graeca would sound like nothing but a legitimation of imperialism

81 Mazzarino (1966) 555 n. 110; Coppola (1995) 64 (Xuthia was an homage to Ionians and an sanction of the new settlement of Katanians in Leontini); Manganaro (2012) 4. 82 Apollod. 2.8.3; see Poli Palladini (2001) 299–301; Smith (2012) esp. 132–133. La Rosa (1974) 157–159 regards Xuthia as the indigenous name of the region where the sanctuary of the Palici stood; see also Thatcher (2019) 78. This may be true or not, but it is beyond doubt that a Greek poet would have derived it from an eponymous Xuthus (Poli-Palladini [2001] 292). 83 Diod. Sic. 5.7–8. On the identification of Xuthia see Rizza (1962) esp. 6 (Colle di Metapiccola; see now Frasca [2012]); La Rosa (1974) 162–163 (Molino della Badia). 84 Basta Donzelli (1996) 90. 85 On the problem, see Poli-Palladini (2001) 316–317 (she leaves it open); Lamari (2017) 29 (Syracuse or Katane, but perhaps rewritten and reperformed in Athens when Aeschylus came back; this would explain the presence of the double title in the Medicean catalogue, see above, n. 4). The question of a reperformance after the fall of the Deinomenid power is now thoroughly discussed in Caroli (2020) 37–52.

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and a model of integration where the weaker has no other chance than assimilating and subordinating himself to the stronger: the Sikels have the right to exist within Hieron’s dominion not as Sikels but as Hellenized Sikels, just like their gods, the Ionians can live only where Hieron allows them to live. If we may judge from their reaction after 466 BC, we can assume that most (if not all) Sikels and Ionians, if they ever knew anything of the drama, understood it exactly in this sense. The ‘middle ground’ is surely a useful hermeneutic paradigm for the interactions between Greeks and Sikels as a whole; but it may result in misinterpretation when mechanically applied to single events with the aim of finding a form of ‘mediation’ in every case.

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Efimia D. Karakantza

“To Be Buried or Not to Be Buried?” Necropolitics in Athenian History and Sophocles’ Antigone Abstract: ‘Necropolitics’ is a fairly recent term denoting the maltreatment and violence exerted upon the bodies of the slain enemy, while aiming at disciplining and dishonouring the living. I place my reading of Sophocles’ Antigone against the background of two historical cases of necropolitical violence in fifth-century Greece drawn from Thucydides and Douris of Samos: the oligarchic coup of 411 BCE with the condemnation of three of the leaders of the 400 BCE; and the execution of the Samian trierarches and marines following the failed revolt in Samos in 438 BCE. In both events we have dishonouring of the dead and/or prohibition of burial – it is highly probably that Sophocles played a certain role in both. Moving now to Sophocles’ Antigone, we should note Sophocles’ exceptional treatment of the myth of the Labdacids and especially the introduction of the prohibition of the burial of Polyneices, not attested in any earlier version of the myth. The end of Euripides’ Phoenician Women and the Aeschylean Seven are now thought to be later interpolations attributed to the influence of the Sophoclean play. Thus, what was the intention of Sophocles revisiting the ‘hot’ issue of the prohibition of burial, which he had opened up a few years earlier with Ajax, and favouring burial contrary to the widespread political practice? Was he suggesting that the body politic change or modify the practice? To these, among other, questions, I will attempt to answer in the present chapter.

Note: My heartfelt thanks go to Menelaos Christopoulos, Athina Papachrysostomou and Andreas P. Antonopoulos, who meticulously organized yet another International Conference at the University of Patras; this time on the intersection of Myth and History. For ‘necropolitics’, the theoretical background for the treatment of the burial in Antigone, which I now adopt, I am indebted to Osman Balkan of the Department of Political Science at Swarthmore College PA, who kindly sent me his contribution to Bargu (2019) (ed.) titled: “The Cemetery of Traitors”, after we had discussed the issue of the burial of Polyneices as part of the Lauder Europe Regional Program of the University of Pennsylvania, which he directs, in Summer of 2019. I am also indebted to PhD candidate of our Department, Alexandros Velaoras, with whom we have organized (as well as with Marion Meyer, University of Vienna) a panel on ‘Ancient Necropolitics’ at the International Conference in Classics and Ancient History at Coimbra, Faculty of Arts and Humanities, 22–25 of June 2021. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-013

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For all of us, who are immersed in the works of the imaginary of the ancient Greeks, namely epic and dramatic poetry, the question of the burial of the war dead seems to have a simple answer in the end: the dead must be buried, regardless of their actions, their origin and ideology; burial is sanctioned by the gods, so any deviation from this practice might infringe divine or natural laws (causing pollution to befall the community). Of course, we all know that things are much more complicated in the context of each narrative that conveys one of these iconic cases: Achilles defiling and not burying the body of Hector in the Iliad; Ajax’ body becoming a matter of hot debate between the Atreidae, Odysseus and Teucer in Sophocles’ Ajax; the women of Argos supplicating for the retrieval of their husbands’/sons’ bodies, which were lying unburied after the end of the War of the Seven against Thebes in Euripides’ Suppliant Women; and finally, the case of Polyneices, whose body has become the celebrated locus of abiding debate about the division between human and divine laws and the right of the family over that of the state. To complicate things ever further, any study of the contemporary political reality of the fifth century BCE bears witness to a common practice according to which traitors of the city-state were not allowed burial after their execution, while their bodies were subjected to further dishonouring. In some cases, the bodies of the fallen enemies were used as a means of pressure to negotiate a more favourable treaty. Violence exerted against the bodies of the slain following a political upheaval or juridical decision was a common practice of the polis of Athens. In our contemporary political and social sciences this violence is termed ‘necropolitical’ following the term ‘necropolitics’ coined by the postcolonial theorist Achille Mbembe in 2003.1 Mbembe’s focus of interest was vast populations who were reduced to the status of ‘living dead’ as in the historical examples of colonies and plantations, and more recently, concentration and extermination camps of WWII, contemporary forms of land occupation (Palestine) and the apartheid regime in South Africa. Elaborating on this necropolitical principle, scholars have come to describe as ‘necropolitical violence’ the dishonourable treatment of the dead as a result of a political crisis (ethnic wars,

1 The term and Mbembe’s theory on the ultimate expression of sovereignty as “the power and capacity to dictate who may live and who must die” (2003) 11, are informed by the notion of ‘biopolitics’ of Michel Foucault, found in his lectures at the Collège de France in 1975–1976 (published in 1997) and in the first volume of his History of Sexuality (1976), as well as the notion of ‘thanatopolitics’ elaborated by the philosopher Giorgio Agamben in his Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, who notes that when in a modern state “the decision on life becomes a decision on death” then ‘biopolitics’ turn into ‘thanatopolitics’ (1998) 122.

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civil war, resistance against oppressive regimes), as well as all the practices accompanying it comprising the following: mutilation, dismemberment, denuding, desecration, dragging, and public display, the destruction of local cemeteries and other sacred spaces that are designated for communication with and commemoration of the dead, the delay, interruption, or suspension of the conduct of funerary rituals, the imposition of mass or anonymous internment, the pressure for clandestine internment, and the repression and dispersion of funeral processions for the newly dead.2

Thus, a transposition has been made from the reduction of vast populations to the status of ‘living dead’, to the “dishonoring, disciplining, and punishment of the living through the utilization of the dead as postmortem objects and sites of violence”.3 The narrative of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides, as well as the works of the dramatic poets of classical Athens, bears ample witness to this political ‘utilization’ of the dead to discipline the living, resulting in what one can term ‘politicizing death and the dead bodies’ of the slain enemy. The Athenians were very familiar with this necropolitical situation: they had discussed similar cases in the Assembly (such is the case, for instance, of the debates about the punishment of dissident city-states of the hegemony of Athens); they had also tried cases of high treason as members of the courts of Heliaia; and of course, they were aware of the fortunes of the condemned to death as traitors by reading the decrees erected in the agora and other public places. So, if the citizens of Athens were so familiar with the prohibition of burial and the dishonouring after death, why were they so impressed when Antigone was staged, probably in 442 BCE,4 that the play became an instant success, the poet was granted the first prize, and was possibly elected general the following year? In the present chapter I shall examine the case of Polyneices and the complicated issues raised by its treatment by Sophocles, while using as a backdrop the necropolitical reality of the time regarding similar historical cases. The result of the parallel examination will bring into stark relief the subtlety and sophistication of the Sophoclean interpretation, making clear that the poet prioritizes the appeasement of the traumatized body politic in the aftermath of a civil war. I will begin with the harsh necropolitical reality of the time by referring to two cases in which Sophocles was also (or possibly) involved: the Samian dead

2 Bargu (2016) 3 of the electronic source. 3 Bargu (2016) ibid. 4 I will not discuss here the question of the date of the production of Antigone. I will refer, however, further down this article to an alternative suggestion as to its date, which coincides with one of the historical events I am examining, namely the Samian revolt of 438 BCE.

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of the revolt in 438 BCE, and the trial and consequent execution of two of the leaders of the Four Hundred in the aftermath of the collapse of their regime (in 410 BCE). I shall begin with the latter. In 411 BCE there was the oligarchic coup following the distress of the failure of the Sicilian expedition. The Athenians experienced acute political and financial problems, among which the capture of the outpost of Deceleia by the Spartans, the revolt of a great number of slaves from the silver mines of Lavrion and the widespread destruction of the land of Attica. The wealthy Athenians were left without income, while they were called to pay for an expensive war and the average small land owners were left without means to support themselves, while living as refugees within the walls of their city.5 In the Athenian fleet at Samos, an oligarchic conspiracy was taking shape, the leading figure of which was Peisander. Peisander travelled to Athens to further organize the oligarchic coup by convincing the demos to entrust the ten Probouloi and twenty more selected citizens of oligarchic beliefs with the task to present to the Assembly political reforms to save the day. The meeting of the Assembly on that particular day was held not in Pnyx, but in Colonus, at the precinct of Hippios Poseidon, and the heavy presence of armed supporters of the conspirators prevented the democrats from gathering in large numbers. In this Assembly a decision was taken to reduce the body politic to 5000 citizens chosen from the wealthier classes; thetes were totally excluded. A body of 400 formed the ‘temporary’ government of the city-state. Α few days after their election, these 400 – with the help of armed young supporters who had already assassinated democrats the previous days – dissolved the Boule (end of May 411 BCE). The four months that followed were marked by acts of pure terrorism: executions, assassinations, banishment, confiscations of property of democrats who were thought to be dangerous for the regime.6 Although not actively involved in the later stage of the atrocious government of the 400, Sophocles was (most likely) one of the ten Probouloi who designed and implemented the annulment of laws that would protect basic democratic procedures in that infamous Assembly in May 411 BCE.7 As a

5 Σακελλαρίου (1999) 111–112; see also Buckley (20102) 399–400; Osborne (2010) 273; Sebastiani (2018) 493–494. 6 Σακελλαρίου (1999) 112–114; Buckley (20102) 401–402; Pomeroy, Donlan, Roberts and Burstein (20082) 342–345. 7 There were laws that needed to be annulled in order that the new proposals, suggested by the ten Probouloi and the twenty members of the oligarchic body (called collectively συγγραφεῖς), could be passed, and the setting up of the government of the 400 with the reduction of the body politic to 5000 could be implemented, despite the blatant violation of democratic

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member of the Committee of the Ten, the poet had a part in the setting up of the 400. In a much-cited passage from Aristotle’s Rhetoric the leader of the 400, Peisander, asks Sophocles why he assisted the establishment of the 400 since it was an evil thing to, to which Sophocles allegedly replied: “there was nothing better to be done”.8 In the same place where the oligarchic coup started, that is the fleet at Samos, the democratic counter-revolt began to materialize and soon spread in Athens under the leadership of Alcibiades. Under the moderate intermediate regime (before the restoration of democracy) the trials of three of the 400 took place: Antiphon (the leader of the extreme fraction of the 400), Archeptolemus and Onomacles. We are fortunate to have the text of the condemnation of Antiphon and Archeptolemus; Onomacles escaped death and reappeared as one of the Thirty tyrants. However, the official charge was not the establishment of the

procedures. The συγγραφεῖς could have been indicted later on charges of abolishing democracy and establishing tyranny leading to the annulment of the proposals and the severe punishment of the initiators; including that of high treason. Thus, it needed first to annul the laws regarding the γραφὴ παρανόμων and then to pass the new legislation. This is why the meeting of the Assembly was held in Hippios Colonus and not in Pnyx under the heavy terrorism of armed guards. It goes without saying that “the new empowered body [sc. the Probouloi] falsified democracy and the citizens who were elected Probouloi seriously undermined it” (Σακελλαρίου [1999] 111; see also Farrar [2007] 176–177). 8 The celebrated passage (Arist. Rh. 1419a26–31) runs as follows: οἷον Σοφοκλῆς, ἐρωτώμενος ὑπὸ Πεισάνδρου εἰ ἔδοξεν αὐτῷ, ὥσπερ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις προβούλοις, καταστῆσαι τοὺς τετρακοσίους, ἔφη “τί δέ; οὐ πονηρά σοι ταῦτα ἐδόκει εἶναι;” ἔφη. “οὐκοῦν σὺ ταῦτα ἔπραξας τὰ πονηρά;” “ναὶ”, ἔφη, “οὐ γὰρ ἦν ἄλλα βελτίω” (“for instance, Sophocles being asked by Pisander whether he, like the rest of the Committee of Ten, had approved the setting up of the Four Hundred, he admitted it. ‘What then?’ asked Pisander, ‘did not this appear to you to be a wicked thing?’ Sophocles admitted it. ‘So then you did what was wicked?’ ‘Yes, for there was nothing better to be done’” (transl. by Freese). On the debate whether Sophocles the poet was indeed the Proboulos to whom Aristotle refers, Jameson’s position is that “he is the most likely candidate.” Jameson claims that it is “our modern reluctance to trust the artist in politics that makes us hesitate to admit to this possibility” (1971) 546. I personally incline to believe that it is indeed Sophocles whom Aristotle means; for one, Aristotle refers to the poet by name several times without feeling the need to specify his identity further. Especially here, the reference to that Sophocles follows one a few lines earlier (1418b32), where it is absolutely clear that it is the poet whom he refers. Of course, there is not unanimity of opinions on this matter; see for example Avery (1973); Karavites (1976); Wilson (2009); Sommerstein (2017). In the two last papers the tendency is to admit that Sophocles was indeed one of the ten Probouloi with the negative implications incurred by his participation. Five interesting works see Electra and Philoctetes as ‘apologetic’ plays for the poet’s involvement in this political critical situation: Post (1953) and Konstan (2008) for Electra; Jameson (1956), Calder III (1971) and King (2019) for Philoctetes.

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400, but treason (προδοσία) on the Embassy sent by the 400 to Sparta;9 of course, that was a political tactical move, for they were tried under the moderate oligarchic regime whose members were equally involved in the 400.10 The text of the condemnation is illustrative of the expected penalty for high treason:11 both Antiphon and Archeptolemus were condemned to death; their bodies were not allowed to be buried in Attica, nor in any Athenian territory; their houses were demolished, their property confiscated; their money would be given to the city; and finally, the condemned, as well as their children – legitimate or bastard – were deprived of their political rights. The above would be inscribed on a bronze stele and erected in public place; an interesting clause of the condemnation text specified that marks would be erected in the plot of the demolished houses to remind forever that ‘these belonged to the traitors’. The other interesting case is that of Phrynichus, one of the 400 and a member of the Embassy to Sparta, who was assassinated on his return.12 He was brought to trial posthumously and his body was charged also with high treason. He was found guilty and consequently his bones were exhumated and cast beyond the borders of Attica. No traitors were ever allowed to be buried in Attica, even after their death.13 I shall move now to the case of the Samian trierarches and marines who were executed in the Samian War of 438 BCE. Our single source for the event is Douris of Samos, recorded by Plutarch in the Life of Pericles (28.2 = FGrH 76 F 67). After an eight-month siege of the island, which followed an obstinate revolt of the Samians against the Athenians, the city surrendered. Pericles tore down the walls of

9 Jameson (1971) 551. For the Embassy to Sparta, see Thuc. 8.90.2–91.1. 10 Jameson (1971) 551. For a holistic assessment of the regime of the Four Hundred, see Heftner (2001) and Shear (2011). 11 [Plut.] X orat., 834.a.2-b.5: Τούτῳ ὑπογέγραπται τῷ δόγματι ἡ καταδίκη. ‘προδοσίας ὦφλον Ἀρχεπτόλεμος Ἱπποδάμου Ἀγρύληθεν παρών, Ἀντιφῶν Σοφίλου Ῥαμνούσιος παρών· τούτοιν ἐτιμήθη τοῖς ἕνδεκα παραδοθῆναι καὶ τὰ χρήματα δημόσια εἶναι καὶ τῆς θεοῦ τὸ ἐπιδέκατον, καὶ τὼ οἰκία κατασκάψαι αὐτῶν καὶ ὅρους θεῖναι < ἐπὶ > τοῖν οἰκοπέδοιν, ἐπιγράψαντας ΑΡΧΕΠΤΟΛΕΜΟΥ ΚΑΙ ΑΝΤΙΦΩΝΤΟΣ ΤΟΙΝ ΠΡΟΔΟΤΑΙΝ. τὼ δὲ δημάρχω ἀποφῆναι τὴν οὐσίαν αὐτοῖν καὶ μὴ ἐξεῖναι θάψαι Ἀρχεπτόλεμον καὶ Ἀντιφῶντα Ἀθήνησι, μηδ’ ὅσης Ἀθηναῖοι κρατοῦσι· καὶ ἄτιμον εἶναι Ἀρχεπτόλεμον καὶ Ἀντιφῶντα καὶ γένος τὸ ἐκ τούτοιν, καὶ νόθους καὶ γνησίους· καὶ ἐάν < τις > ποιήσηταί τινα τῶν ἐξ Ἀρχεπτολέμου καὶ Ἀντιφῶντος, ἄτιμος ἔστω ὁ ποιησάμενος. ταῦτα δὲ γράψαι ἐν στήλῃ χαλκῇ· < καὶ > ᾗπερ ἀν < ά > κ < ειτ > αι τὰ ψηφίσματα τὰ περὶ Φρυνίχου, καὶ τοῦτο θέσθαι’. 12 Thuc. 8.92; Lys. 13.71. 13 Laws and customs about the burial or non-burial in Greek antiquity, which I have consulted: Cerri (1979); Rosivach (1983); Sourvinou-Inwood (1989); Sourvinou-Inwood (1990); Parker (1996); Harris (2004); Patterson (2006a); Patterson (2006b); Shapiro (2006); Gagarin (2008); Osborne (2008); Harris (2015).

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the city, destroyed the fleet, laid a heavy fine upon them and took some hostages. Douris of Samos reported that Pericles had them crucified in the market of Miletus and, finally, clubbed them to death; their bodies were left unburied for ten days.14 In this case, as Robin Osborne observes: “the actions of revolting allies could be equated to treachery”.15 It has been suggested by Lewis16 that the production of Antigone is related to this Samian War, when Sophocles as a general alongside Pericles, witnessed the atrocious condemnation of the leaders of the revolt. If Antigone, following this argument, was a direct comment on this action, we shall never know; nor can we be certain about the accuracy of the information on the execution reported by Douris (contested already by Plutarch himself who recorded it). My argument is not based on whether Sophocles witnessed or not the execution, but rather that Sophocles, as well as his Athenian contemporaries, were very much aware of similar practices. A traitor, or somebody who is equated to a traitor, is executed and not allowed burial; if he is already dead at the time of the trial for treason, his body is not allowed burial either. So (to go back to my original questions), why does Sophocles build up such a strong case on the prohibition of burial for Polyneices, when such a prohibition was a regular Athenian practice? Why – leaving aside its artistic merit as a work – did the play (a play that places as its central subject the non-burial of Polyneices, which was probably Sophocles’ own invention)17 become an instant success with the audience? The denouement of the play favours the burial; to paraphrase Teiresias own words: “you, Creon, leave a dead body in the world of the living, while burying a living body in the world of the dead, causing divine anger.” If this is the case, then, we have to believe that indeed the burial is

14 Parker claims that one anomaly of Creon’s treatment of the body of Polyneices is the “prolonged public exposure of the corpse”, which “was not the practice of any Greek state, and when mentioned is treated as shocking” (1996) 47. However, the case of the executed Samian trierarches and marines is a counter example, their bodies having being exposed for at least 20 days (10 days of crucifixion, plus 10 days of exposure). Parker also refers to two other historical cases (Plut. Nic. 28.5 and Phylarchus FGrH 81 F 45 ap. Ath. 12.521d) thus making the prolonged exposure of the bodies rather typical in historical reality (contra his argument). 15 Osborne (2015) 274. 16 Lewis (1988). 17 A survey of the available sources and evidence in the Theban cycle shows that it was Sophocles who invented the prohibition (Griffith [1999] 6–12). In Pindar (Ol. 6.15; Nem. 9.24) there are seven pyres for the seven Argive chieftains in front of the seven gates of the city of Thebes. Pausanias (9.18.3) reports a single pyre for the two brothers where the flames refused to mingle (reflecting perhaps an earlier tradition). Even in the two plays (Aesch. Sept. and Eur. Phoen.) referring to the prohibition, the relevant passages are now thought to be later interpolations under the influence of the Sophoclean version that became canonical.

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ordained by the gods, while the man-made decree of Creon can be disobeyed if it violates the divine laws. Now, with this last sentence, we have touched upon a thorny issue of the interpretation and the reception of the play, the famous division between human and divine laws. Are they indeed separated and in conflict with each other? If this is true, then in all the cases that the Athenians have decided differently, that is prohibiting the burial, they broke divine laws. We should bear in mind, however, that our certainty that Creon breaks divine laws comes mainly from the reception of the play in modernity, namely from its Hegelian reading which consolidates the division between the laws, between the family and the state, and of course, between the political male authority and the pre-political female subject. A strong evidence towards the desirable unity of the laws (or against the ‘division’ of the laws) comes from Sophocles himself in this very tragedy. In the second choral song (the famous first stasimon, Ant. 332–375), just before the third scene, where the issue of the non-burial will be raised and debated for, the chorus sings about the resourcefulness and intelligence of men. Human beings have invented nearly everything: navigation and agriculture, hunting and fishing, and by taming wild beasts they have become the lords of nature. Also, they have invented language, rational thought, urban-planning and house-building, and law-abiding cities. Such an awe-inspiring creature (deinotaton, 333) tends to be either good or evil: he is supreme in his polis when he respects the laws of the land and the justice of gods; whoever disobeys them, because of reckless and arrogant disposition, becomes an outcast of his polis, an apolis (370).18 This basic conception of the unity of the laws runs through the entire work of Sophocles. To sustain the polis, the ultimate human creation, men need both: human and divine laws in a harmonious entity. And since nothing stands in men’s way – only death – death becomes the token upon which Sophocles builds his argument. By manipulating death and the treatment of the dead, the playwright raises succinctly his point: who is to remain in a well governed, law abiding city and who is not, who is hypsipolis and who is apolis.19 Thus, our first thought is that the playwright would not have discredited the human provenance

18 The passage runs as follows (Ant. 268–371): νόμους παρείρων χθονὸς / θεῶν τ’ ἔνορκον δίκαν / ὑψίπολις· ἄπολις ὅτῳ τὸ μὴ καλὸν / ξύνεστι τόλμας χάριν· (“when he applies the laws of the earth and the justice the gods have sworn to upohold he is high in his city; outcast from the city is he with whom the ignoble consorts because of his recklessness”, transl. by Lloyd-Jones). 19 The antithesis as a module of the Sophoclean thought about the polis, and his protagonists’ position in it, are discussed at length in Karakantza (2011) and Karakantza (2020) esp. ch. 3 ‘The Self in the Polis’, 25–38.

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of the laws after praising men as awe-inspiring, formidable and wonderful creatures. Their inventiveness, resourcefulness and wide range of abilities ensure culture while erasing savagery, transforming wilderness into law-abiding poleis. Laws are man’s own inventions. Moreover, one of my favourite contemporary Greek philosophers, Cornelius Castoriadis, has extensively argued about the mechanisms of the Athenian society as a self-instituting society, where laws are uniquely man-made products which are debated and voted for in the Assembly of the citizens. “Nothing” in this radically democratic system “is enforced as inviolable law by a higher authority, a god, an emperor, or a religious or political elite”;20 Athens is an autonomous, rather than a heteronomous, society. In such a society, dramatic performances function as a correcting mechanism to question and readjust civic ideology, where issues of identity, kinship, political loyalty, religious sanctions, ethics, etc. are fiercely debated among the protagonists faced with extreme situations and dilemmas within a society of peers; the same body politic will later debate issues in ‘real’ political life in the Assembly. Of course, laws need to be sanctioned by gods who represent a higher notion of justice. But they are not in conflict; divine laws could not have been disregarded when the Athenians debated and voted for the punishment of the traitors. As for the stance which Creon and Antigone take in relation to the burial of Polyneices, both are apolides, that is they do not belong to the polis, for they rationalize their pathos: the former for her brother, the latter for political power.21 In order to better understand the interplay between the world of the imaginary and the historical reality of any time I suggest to turn to the concept of a human institution argued lucidly by Castoriadis in his classic book The Imaginary Institution of Society.22 An institution, according to the philosopher, is a socially sanctioned symbolic network comprising two components: the functional and the imaginary.23 The latter is responsible for creating the collective social significations that permeate all activities in the public sphere of ‘real’ life: laws, institutions, established ‘canonical’ behaviour, tangible political decisions and actions – all are made possible because they were imagined first on the imaginary level (to which literature and poetry belong). The action of imagining must not only happen prior to but is also an essential prerequisite to the change; any reform/modification of

20 Karakantza (2020) 2, 7. 21 Castoriadis (1995) 204–206. 22 Original publication in French: L’institution imaginaire de la société in 1975 in Paris. The English translation appeared in 1987; the paperback edition I am using is published in 1997. 23 Castoriadis (1997) 132.

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an institution on the functional level presupposes the action of imagining it.24 In the social imaginary, human beings pose and answer questions that in time become seminal questions of philosophy. Castoriadis says: Man is an unconsciously philosophical animal posing the questions of philosophy concerning things long before philosophy existed as an explicit reflection; and he is a poetic animal that gave in imaginary the answers to those questions.25

In poetry philosophical reflection had been firmly formulated; and answers were given to those questions. This was – I argue – what happened in the case of the non-burial of Polyneices as opposed to the laws governing the non-burial of the traitors of Athens. The complex interplay between the imaginary and reality of the non-burial is further reinforced by what has been widely accepted in scholarship: that in the treatment of the war dead, the decision to honour them by a public burial and a prestigious funeral oration, as well as its mirror image, that is the dishonouring of the dead, lies with the polis and not the family.26 In this spirit, Creon correctly decides to honour Eteocles, and dishonour Polyneices, for the first is the defender of Athens, the second a traitor. The famous lines of the political credo of Creon at the beginning of the first epeisodion are so ‘politically correct’ that Demosthenes, a century later, still quotes them as a truly patriotic statement (Ant. 175–190 ≈ Dem. 19.247).27 I quote the Greek text in Lloyd-Jones’ and Wilson’s edition (1990) and H.D.F. Kitto’s translation: ἀμήχανον δὲ παντὸς ἀνδρὸς ἐκμαθεῖν ψυχήν τε καὶ φρόνημα καὶ γνώμην, πρὶν ἂν ἀρχαῖς τε καὶ νόμοισιν ἐντριβὴς φανῇ. ἐμοὶ γὰρ ὅστις πᾶσαν εὐθύνων πόλιν μὴ τῶν ἀρίστων ἅπτεται βουλευμάτων, ἀλλ’ ἐκ φόβου του γλῶσσαν ἐγκλῄσας ἔχει, κάκιστος εἶναι νῦν τε καὶ πάλαι δοκεῖ· καὶ μείζον᾽ ὅστις ἀντὶ τῆς αὑτοῦ πάτρας

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24 Karakantza (2020) 10–12. 25 Castoriadis (1997) 147, my emphasis. 26 A seminal formulation of this idea is found in the classic book by Nicole Loraux The Invention of Athens. The Funeral Oration in the Classical City, originally published in French in 1981 in Paris. Ever since, of course, various scholars have elaborated the issue from various perspectives: religion/ritual, social anthropology, feminist criticism/gender studies, etc. C. SourvinouInwood’s application of the idea on Antigone to show how we project our modern assumptions to the interpretation of the play is exemplary (see the telling titles: “Assumptions and the Creation of Meaning. Reading Sophocles’ Antigone” (1989) and “Antigone as a Bad Woman” (1990)). 27 Griffith (1999) ad 162–210.

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φίλον νομίζει, τοῦτον οὐδαμοῦ λέγω. ἐγὼ γάρ, ἴστω Ζεὺς ὁ πάνθ᾽ ὁρῶν ἀεί, οὔτ᾽ ἂν σιωπήσαιμι τὴν ἄτην ὁρῶν στείχουσαν ἀστοῖς ἀντὶ τῆς σωτηρίας, οὔτ᾽ ἂν φίλον ποτ᾽ ἄνδρα δυσμενῆ χθονὸς θείμην ἐμαυτῷ . . . There is no art that teaches us to know The temper, mind or spirit of any man Until he has been proved by government And lawgiving. A man who rules a state And will not ever steer the wisest course, But is afraid, and says not what he thinks, That man is worthless, and if any holds A member of his family [φίλον]28 of more account than his own city, I scorn him; for if I should see destruction Threatening the safety of my citizens, I would not hold my peace, nor would I count That man my friend [φίλον] who was my country’s foe, Zeus be my witness.

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I shall not refer here to the tyrannical characteristics that Creon develops gradually and steadily in the course of the action of the play, which spoil the ‘righteousness’ of his cause and justify his downfall, for my focus lies elsewhere. What I would like to stress here is that Creon, as a political leader, had the right to decide on the burial in the aftermath of the attack of the Seven. Moreover, as the only male surviving member related to the family of Oedipus he was again in charge of the anairesis of the dead.29 Of course, as we all know, the favourable light of the playwright falls upon Antigone and not Creon, making her cause the ‘right’ one; yet, in a highly debatable manner, as it has been argued elsewhere.30 To conclude: In real-life harsh necropolitical policies await a traitor of the city as is attested in our historical sources. The treatment of the dead body becomes highly politicized targeting the living with the aim to dishonour and discipline

28 I retain here the original meaning of the word philos in Greek (= a member of the family), for it shows better the political integrity of Creon in not treating favourably Polyneices, despite being his nephew. 29 On the burial customs and the role of women, limited to washing and laying the body, once the body is at home, as well as lamenting the dead, see Sourvinou-Inwood (1989); Sourvinou-Inwood (1990); Patterson (2006b); Hame (2008); Goff (2004) 31–34, 261–264; and, of course, the classic book by Alexiou (1974). 30 Karakantza (2011) 40–44.

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them. It is not surprising that the debate about the burial of a dead traitor (Polyneices) is explored in one of the most political plays of Sophocles, Antigone, in which a seemingly familial matter becomes an issue of prime political importance. Even in modernity and postmodernity Antigone has been received as the political work of Antiquity par excellence fuelling the debate about the righteousness of political practices for well over two centuries. The Athenians were very much aware of the necropolitical practices of their time. So, what is the intention of Sophocles revisiting the issue of the prohibition of burial, which he opened up few years earlier with Ajax, and favouring burial contrary to the widespread political practice? Does he suggest that the body politic change or modify the practice? I am not suggesting such a straightforward attitude. What I am suggesting, however, is that the playwright calls for deliberation on an institutionalized political action that touches upon issues capable of profoundly traumatizing the Athenians, for they normally follow civil strife and political upheaval. In this treatment, the playwright introduces into the story of Antigone complex matters related to family ethics and divine justice, together with notions of personal honour and pride. He thus makes the complexities of these issues part of the public discourse considering the large audiences attending the theatre at Great Dionysia. I will conclude this chapter by borrowing an argument from my recent work on Sophocles: “The denouement of the [play], in characteristic Sophoclean manner, refrains from offering any unequivocal solution. Of course, the disrupted social order should be re-established, but the intense tragic feeling of the end eats into the very essence of this order; the restoration always comes at a high price.”31

Bibliography Agamben, G. 1998. Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life (transl. Heller-Roazen, D.). Stanford, CA. Alexiou, M. 1974. The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition. Cambridge. Avery, H.C. 1973. Sophocles’ Political Career. Historia 22.4: 509–514. Balkan, O. 2019. The Cemetery of Traitors. In Turkey’s Necropolitical Laboratory: Democracy, Violence, and Resistance, ed. Bargu, B., 232–252. Edinburgh. Bargu, B. 2016. Another Necropolitics. Theory and Event: 19.1: N_A (electronic version on ProQuest: https://www.proquest.com/docview/1767537194/FD495DDEE3824056PQ/1? fbclid=IwAR3ZonkVh2dN1mcb3Gqcv3v0WJ6Al3ndHdMWgKn1BLP7mDcVAqqi9xDRAuM) Buckley, T. 20102. Aspects of Greek History 750–322 BC: A Source-Based Approach. New York. Calder III, W.M. 1971. Sophoclean Apologia: Philoctetes. GRBS 12.2: 153–174.

31 Karakantza (2020) 20.

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Castoriadis, C. 1995. Χώροι του ανθρώπου. Αθήνα. (transl. Ζ. Σαρίκας. Οrig. pub. as Domaines de l’ homme. Paris, 1986). Castoriadis, C. 1997. The Imaginary Institution of Society (transl. Blamey, K.). Cambridge. (Orig. pub. as L’ Institution Imaginaire de la Société. Paris, 1975). Cerri, G. 1979. Legislazione orale e tragedia greca: Studi sull’ Antigone di Sofocle e sulle Supplici di Euripide. Naples. Farrar, C. 2007. Power to the People. In Origins of Democracy in Ancient Greece, eds. Raaflaub, K.A., Ober, J., and Wallace, R.W., 170–195. Berkeley. Foucault, M. 1976. The History of Sexuality: The Will to Knowledge (transl. R. Hurley). London. Foucault, M. 1997. Society Must Be Defended: Lectures at Collège de France 1975–1976 (transl. D. Macey), ed. Bentani, M. and Fontana, A. New York. Freese, J.H. 1926. Aristotle. The “Art” of Rhetoric. Cambridge, MA. Gagarin, M. 2008. Writing Greek Law. Cambridge. Goff, B. 2004. Citizen Bacchae: Women’s Ritual Practice in Ancient Greece. Berkeley. Griffith, M. 1999. Sophocles’ Antigone (Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics). Cambridge. Hame, K. 2008. Female Control of Funeral Rites in Greek Tragedy: Klytaimestra, Medea, and Antigone. CPhil. 103.1: 1–15. Harris, E.M. 2004. Antigone the Lawyer or the Ambiguities of Nomos. In Law and the Courts in Ancient Greece, eds. Harris, E.M. and Rubinstein, L., 19–56. London. Harris, E.M. 2015. Sophocles and Athenian Law. In A Companion to Sophocles, ed. Ormand, K., 287–300. Oxford. Heftner, H. 2001. Der oligarchische Umsturz des Jahres 411 v. Chr. und die Herrschaft der Vierhundert in Athen. Quellenkritische und historische Untersuchungen. Frankfurt am Main. Jameson, M.H. 1956. Politics and the Philoctetes. CPh 51: 217–227. Jameson, M.H. 1971. Sophocles and the Four Hundred. Historia 20.5/6: 541–568. Jebb, R.C. 19003. Sophocles. Part III. The Antigone. Cambridge. Karakantza, E.D. 2011. Polis Anatomy: Reflecting on Polis Structures in Sophoclean Tragedy. Classics Ireland 18: 21–55. Karakantza, E.D. 2020. “Who Am I?” (Mis)identity and the Polis in Oedipus Tyrannus. Cambridge, MA. Karavites, P. 1976. Tradition, Skepticism, and Sophocles’ Political Career. Klio 58.1: 359–366. King, B.M. 2019. Contrafactual Education in Sophokles’ Philoktetes and Plato’s Lysis. In Thinking the Greeks. A Volume in Honour of James M. Redfield, eds. King, B.M. and Doherty, L., 128–142. London. Kitto, H.D.F. 1994. Sophocles. Antigone. Oedipus the King. Electra, ed. with an Introduction and notes by Hall, E., Oxford. Konstan, D. 2008. Sophocles’ Electra as Political Allegory: A Suggestion. CPh 103.1: 77–80. Lewis, R.G. 1988. An Alternative Date for Sophocles’ Antigone. GRBS 29: 35–50. Lloyd-Jones, H. 1998. Sophocles II. Antigone, The Women of Trachis, Philoctetes, Oedipus at Colonus. Cambridge, MA. Lloyd-Jones, H. and Wilson, N.G. 1990. Sophoclis Fabulae. Oxford. Loraux, N. 2006. The Invention of Athens. The Funeral Oration in the Classical City (transl. A. Sheridan). New York. Mbembe, A. 2003. Necropolitics. Public Culture 15.1: 11–40.

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Osborne, R. 2008. Law and Religion in Classical Athens: The Case of the Dead. In Recht und Religion in Europa. Zeitgenössische Konflikte und historische Perspektiven, eds. Langenfeld, C. and Schneider, I., 46–58. Göttingen. Osborne, R. 2010. Athens and Athenian Democracy. Cambridge. Osborne, R. 2015. Sophocles and Contemporary Politics. In A Companion to Sophocles, ed. Ormand, K., 270–286. Oxford. Parker, R. 1996. Miasma. Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion. Oxford and New York. Patterson, C. (ed.) 2006a. Antigone’s Answer: Essays on Death and Burial, Family and State in Classical Athens. Helios 33S. Patterson, C. 2006b. The Place and Practice of Burial in Sophocles’ Athens. Helios 33S: 9–48. Pomeroy, S.B., Donlan, W., Roberts, J.T., and Burstein, S.M. 20082. Ancient Greece: A Political, Social and Cultural History. Oxford. Post, L.A. 1953. Sophocles, Strategy, and the Electra. Classical Weekly 46.10: 150–153. Rosivach, V.J. 1983. On Creon, Antigone and Not Burying the Dead. RhM 126.3–4: 193–211. Sakellariou (Σακελλαρίου), Μ.Β. 1999. Η αθηναϊκή δημοκρατία. Ηράκλειο. Sebastiani, B.B. 2018. The Coups of 411 and 404 in Athens: Thucydides and Xenophon on Conservative Turns. GRBS 58: 490–515. Shapiro, H.A. 2006. The Wrath of Creon: Withholding Burial in Homer and Sophocles. Helios 33S: 119–134. Shear, J.L. 2011. Polis and Revolution: Responding to Oligarchy in Classical Athens. Cambridge. Sommerstein, A.H. 2017. Sophocles and Democracy. Polis 34: 273–287. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. 1989. Assumptions and the Creation of Meaning: Reading Sophocles’ Antigone. JHS 109: 134–148. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. 1990. Sophocles’ Antigone as a Bad Woman. In Writing Women into History, eds. Dietere, F. and Kloek, E., 11–40. Amsterdam. Wilson, P. 2009. Tragic Honours and Democracy: Neglected Evidence for the Politics of the Athenian Dionysia. CQ 59.1: 8–29.

Andreas P. Antonopoulos

Sophocles’ Trachiniae and the Peloponnesian War: A New Perspective Abstract: In the human past myth has often functioned as a means of historical allegory. This is true of so many ancient cultures and peoples, and especially of the Greeks. Greek theatre was no exception to this process. In addition to immediate references to contemporary politics in comedies, it is very likely that also the mythological stock of tragedies was aptly adjusted to include, in disguise, allusions to historical events. The present chapter investigates potential historical allegories in Sophocles’ Trachiniae, attempting at the same time to shed light to the problem of this play’s dating. The author reinforces Vicker’s hypothesis for a link of the play with military events of 426 BC in the area of Trachis. He also adduces contemporary developments at the opposite end of Central Greece, in Aetolia and Acarnania, which likewise seem of great relevance to the Trachiniae. The combined allusions point to a production of the play shortly after 426 BC.

Introduction The allegorical reference of Athenian drama to the affairs of the polis and its relation to the reception of political developments and historical events by the audience is a subject well attested for Old comedy. But it is also relevant to tragedy. The dialectical relation of Athenian tragedy to the ideological, notional, as well as sociopolitical synchronicity of the Athenian democratic polis, particularly so regarding specific events and tragic allusions or even standpoints to them, has been a recurrent subject in scholarship on tragedy and an omnipresent chapter in every modern Companion on Athenian drama and tragedy.1 Nevertheless, similar readings on the allusive or allegorical references and contemplation of tragic myth

1 From a long bibliographical list, one could start such a reading with Meier (1988); Seaford (1994), (2012) and (2018), and the edited volumes by Winkler and Zeitlin (1990) and Pelling (1997). Note: The topic of this chapter resulted from a stimulating discussion on the play that I had with Christos Zafiropoulos. I would like to thank him, as well as Jim Andrews for their comments on my earlier draft. I am also grateful to Menelaos Christopoulos and Athina Papachrysostomou for inviting me to co-edit the present volume. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-014

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upon specific (recent) historical events, political, military and so on have always been seen by scholars as an intriguing, yet precarious research field.2 And to some extent rightly so, given the poetics and the didactic objective of tragic logos, which is thought to have aimed for timelessness and superintendency towards human experience. On the other hand, however, scholars express no such concerns with respect to the reception of Greek tragedy and its use as a vehicle to allude or even make a point on contemporary historical events.3 At the same time, it is now generally agreed that (putting the case of historical tragedies aside and tragic depictions of oikeia kaka) the mythological stock of certain plays was aptly adjusted to include, in disguise, allusions – more or less perspicuous – to historical events; for instance, Aeschylus’ Oresteia has been connected to Ephialtes’ reforms and murder (461 BC), and Euripides’ Troades to the massacre at Melus (416 BC). With these points in mind, it seems justified to attempt such readings of tragic plays in general. It is hard to accept that the collective body of citizens-spectators would expect and welcome such allusions in comedy, but not in tragedy; or that such a body of citizens, fully engaged in political debate and decision making all over the year – in a way, even during the comic performances in the festivals – would expunge from the tragic logos allusive references to historical synchronicity. It is from such a perspective of allusive references by the tragedian to historical events that this study will attempt a reading of Sophocles’ Trachiniae. In particular, Michael Vickers, in his substantial article on the ‘political dimensions’ of the play,4 has proposed to date it to 424 BC, linking it with the (then) recent foundation of a Spartan colony in Trachis in 426 BC. In the present chapter, I will attempt to add to his hypothesis by focusing on contemporary events, not only in Trachis, but also at the opposite end of Central Greece, in Aetolia, and Acarnania.

The Issue of Dating The dating of the play has been labelled by Easterling as “one of the most notorious problems in Sophoclean scholarship”,5 and rightly so. The production of the play is not recorded in the didascalic inscriptions, nor is there any other 2 See the points raised by Vickers (1995) 41–45. On myth’s convoluted relation to history in general, see the Preface to the present volume. 3 One easily thinks of post–World War II Antigones as a dramatic call for resistance, and antiauthority in general. 4 Vickers (1995). 5 Easterling (1982) 19. Another (more detailed) survey of the various dating attempts is by Hoey (1979).

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external information about it. This has led scholars to various speculations based on internal evidence from the play. First of all, there are those who have attempted to date the Trachiniae on the basis of Sophoclean dramaturgic and stylistic criteria, that is, comparing it with his other surviving plays.6 But all these attempts seem to be condemned to failure ab initio. From the reported 123 plays written by Sophocles,7 apart from the Trachiniae only six other tragedies survive in full. Thus, we have at our disposal only c. 8% of the poet’s total output, and what is more, the dates of these plays are unknown with the exception of the Philoctetes (409 BC)8 and the Oedipus Coloneus (written in the poet’s last years and staged posthumously, in 401 BC).9 Thus, any assumption involving other Sophoclean plays is unwarrantable. Others have opted to compare the Trachiniae to plays by Aeschylus and Euripides. Again here lies the issue of a very small sample to yield satisfactory results for similarities in the dramatic technique. As for comparative readings with regard to subjects and motifs, although these rival poets constantly influenced one another, it is difficult to detect who has been the source for a certain element and who the imitator. More promising in this respect has been the linguistic analysis. Webster10 has confidently spotted allusions of the Trachiniae to the Oresteia, which was produced in 458 BC. The metaphorical description of the fatal robe sent to Heracles by Deianeira as a ‘net’ at lines 1051–1052 (Ἐρινύων ὑφαντὸν ἀμφίβληστρον), calls to mind Aeschylus’ Agamemnon 1382 ἄπειρον ἀμφίβληστρον and 1580 ὑφαντοῖς ἐν πέπλοις Ἐρινύων. Likewise, the reference to it as a ‘fetter’ at 1057 (ἀφράστῳ τῇδε χειρωθεὶς πέδῃ), resembles Choephoroe 493 πέδαις γ’ ἀχαλκεύτοισι θηρευθείς and 982 πέδας τε χειροῖν καὶ ποδοῖν ξυνωρίδος. But even so, such similarities to the Oresteia, present us with a terminus post quem that stands very early in Sophocles’ career, leaving almost half a century (!) as a potential timeframe for the Trachiniae. Finally, there are those scholars who have attempted to spot historical allusions in the Trachiniae. For instance, Ronnet11 linked the play with the Athenian 6 Among them, Easterling distinguishes the contribution of Reinhard (1979) esp. 239–240 (he argued for an early date in Sophocles’ career, on the basis of the poet’s treatment of communication between characters), which nevertheless she finds unconvincing for reasons applying to all similar approaches and which are laid out below. 7 According to Suda Σ 815. 8 As inferred from Hypothesis II, according to which it was staged during the archonship of Glaucippus. 9 According to Hypothesis II, during the archonship of Micon by the poet’s homonymous grandson. 10 Webster (1936). 11 Ronnet (1969) 323–324.

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campaign against Thasus in the late 460’s BC;12 Hommel13 with Pericles’ crash of the revolt in Euboea in 446–445;14 Campbell15 with the Peace of Nicias in 42116 and others with other events, but most of these attempts have failed to provide convincing arguments and therefore have remained highly speculative as regards their grounding on the content of the play. An exception to this is Vickers,17 who has made an appealing connection of the play to events of 426 BC.

The Trachiniae and Heraclea in Trachis Vickers points out that the setting of a play about Heracles in Trachis, a settlement on the eastern coast of central Greece, overlooking the Malian Gulf and Thermopylae, must have been related to the foundation of the Spartan colony of Heraclea in Trachis (Ἡράκλεια ἡ ἐν Τραχῖνι) in the summer of 426 BC. Detailed information on these events is provided by Thucydides 3.92–93. The Trachinians had suffered a lot in their war with their neighbours, the Oeteans. As they distrusted the Athenians, they sent an embassy for help to Sparta; they were joined by the neighbouring Dorians, who were likewise having problems with the Oeteans. The Spartans seized the opportunity to establish a colony in the area, thinking that the strategic location of the new city (four miles from Thermopylae and a little more than two from the Malian Gulf; see Fig. 1) would help them in their war against the Athenians. They could easily build a fleet there and attack nearby Euboea (the Athenians had sent their livestock animals there in 431 BC at the eve of the war),18 and the spot was likewise convenient as a transit for Spartan troops heading to Chalcidice. The colony, which was given

12 He identified Heracles in the play with the Thasians, on the basis of his being the patron god of their city. 13 Hommel (1940) 289. 14 On the basis of the play’s mention of Euboea and of Heracles’ sack of the city of Oechalia on this island. 15 Campbell (1907) 156. 16 Some people from Pylus regarded themselves descendants of Heracles through Hyllus, his son from Deianeira. According to Campbell, when Deianeira prayed to Zeus that she may never see any of her offspring made captive (Trach. 303–305), the audience would have been reminded of the Spartan captives from Pylus, who were restored to their city as part of the peace deal of Nicias. 17 Vickers (1995). 18 Thuc. 2.14.1: πρόβατα δὲ καὶ ὑποζύγια ἐς τὴν Εὔβοιαν διεπέμψαντο καὶ ἐς τὰς νήσους τὰς ἐπικειμένας (“but sheep and draught-animals they sent over to Euboea and the adjacent islands”; all translations of Thucydides are from Smith [1919–1923]).

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the name ‘Heraclea’, was led by three Spartans, Leon, Alcidas and Damagon. They built walls for the new city and also constructed docks at the nearby seafront. Encouraged by the presence of the Spartans, many people both from the neighbouring cities and from all over the Greek world rushed into Heraclea. Naturally, the setting up of this colony caused great alarm to the Athenians, who realised that the project was a great threat to Euboea. Nevertheless, the Spartan endeavour proved short-lived and failed for two reasons: the settlers were constantly raided and eventually worn out by the Thessalians, and in addition, they suffered internally from the severe and unjust administration of the Spartan governors. Before Sophocles, an explicit mention of Trachis in the myth of Heracles is briefly made in the pseudo-Hesiodic Aspis (see esp. lines 353–354 and 469–470). There, Heracles, accompanied by his charioteer Iolaus, is travelling to Trachis to visit the local king Ceyx. On the way Heracles accepts a battle challenge by Cycnus and eventually kills him. The poem concludes with the hero reaching Trachis. No information is given as to the purpose of his stay and there is no mention of Deianeira in the poem. Although one cannot exclude the existence of some other, more detailed account of the story which did not survive, it seems that Sophocles took a secondary and less-known episode from Heracles’ legend and made Trachis the centre of action of his play. This choice could be due to Sophocles’ particular mythological taste; he is generally credited as the tragedian who put together and organised the various myths referring to the final years and the death of Heracles – actually, the Trachiniae is our main source for these events.19 However, the matter calls for further examination. The play opens with Deianeira, who explains that after Heracles’ murder of Iphitus, their family had to leave home and came to live in Trachis as guests of ‘a foreign friend’ (i.e. Ceyx) (Trach. 38–40): ἐξ οὗ γὰρ ἔκτα κεῖνος Ἰφίτου βίαν, ἡμεῖς μὲν ἐν Τραχῖνι τῇδ’ ἀνάστατοι ξένῳ παρ’ ἀνδρὶ ναίομεν . . .

40

For since he killed the mighty Iphitus we have been uprooted and have lived here in Trachis with a foreign friend . . .20

40

The important difference with the Aspis is that here Heracles has established his household in Trachis, as had done the colonists of Heraclea in Trachis, the

19 So, for instance, Grimal (19582) s.v. ‘Héraclès’. 20 Translation of the Trachiniae passages from Lloyd-Jones (1994).

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Spartans and their allies, who had voluntarily become ἀνάστατοι21 so as to colonise the new city. Further references to Trachis in the play are found in lines 371–372 (πρὸς μέσῃ Τραχινίων / ἀγορᾷ), 423–424 (ἐν μέσῃ Τραχινίων / ἀγορᾷ)22 and 1140 (καὶ τίς τοσοῦτος φαρμακεὺς Τραχινίων;). Most importantly, the city’s name has been emphatically put in the play’s title (Τραχίνιαι), referring to the chorus of the ‘Women of Trachis’, who nevertheless do not play an active role in the plot. It is also important that already at the beginning of the play, Heracles is waging war against Euboea, as Hyllus informs in lines 74–75: Εὐβοῖδα χώραν φασίν, Εὐρύτου πόλιν, ἐπιστρατεύειν αὐτόν, ἢ μέλλειν ἔτι.

75

They say he is marching against a place in Euboea, the city of Eurytus, or is about to do so.

75

The story of the Heracles’ Euboean campaign was already known from the (lost) epic Sack of Oechalia. But its combination with Trachis in Sophocles’ play (whether invented by him, or pre-existing) must not have been incidental. Heracles has established a base at the city and from there he has gone to invade the island, exactly as the Spartans would have been expected to do from their colony of Heraclea in Trachis and from the docks they built at the Malian Gulf. The proximity to Euboea was one of the reasons they founded the colony in the first place and a potential invasion of the island by them had frightened the Athenians “because (from there) the passage to Cenaeum of Euboea is short” (ὅτι βραχύς ἐστιν ὁ διάπλους πρὸς τὸ Κήναιον τῆς Εὐβοίας, Thuc. 3.93.1). Interestingly, in the Trachiniae Lichas23 tells Deianeira that Heracles is sacrificing to Zeus at Cape Cenaeum upon his successful conquest of the city of king Eurytus (Trach. 237–241): ΛΙ.

ἀκτή τις ἔστ’ Εὐβοιίς, ἔνθ’ ὁρίζεται βωμοὺς τέλη τ’ ἔγκαρπα Κηναίῳ Διί. ΔΗ. εὐκταῖα φαίνων, ἢ ’πὸ μαντείας τινός;

21 From ἀνίσταμαι, literally ‘made to rise up and depart’ (hence ‘driven from one’s house and home’); see LSJ9 s.v. 22 The interesting thing here is the repeated reference to an established polis (having an agora), and not just to an area. 23 The choice of this Doric name for Heracles’ herald should not be considered a coincidence. Vickers (1995) 48–49 points out that it was the name of a prominent Spartan envoy (see Thuc. 5.22.2, 8.39.2 and 8.87.1), most hated by the inhabitants of Miletus for his abrasive manner (Thuc. 8.84.5). The same person had caused controversy in winning the chariot race in the Olympic Games of 420 BC (Thuc. 5.50.4).

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ΛΙ.

εὐχαῖς, ὅθ’ ᾕρει τῶνδ’ ἀνάστατον δορὶ χώραν γυναικῶν ὧν ὁρᾷς ἐν ὄμμασιν.

There is a cape in Euboea where he is marking off altars and offering due first fruits to Zeus of Mount Cenaeum. DEI. Revealing his fulfillment of a vow, or because of some prophet’s words? LI. Because of a vow, since he had conquered and devastated the land of these women whom you see with your own eyes.

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240

LI.

240

It seems as if Sophocles is projecting in his play all the fears inspired in the Athenians by the Spartan activity in eastern mainland Greece and, moreover, in an area not far from Attica. Especially telling is Lichas’ vivid description of the destruction brought by Heracles upon Oechalia and its inhabitants – death for the men, enslavement for the city, captivity for the women (Trach. 281–285): κεῖνοι δ’ ὑπερχλίοντες ἐκ γλώσσης κακῆς αὐτοὶ μὲν Ἅιδου πάντες εἰσ’ οἰκήτορες, πόλις δὲ δούλη· τάσδε δ’ ἅσπερ εἰσορᾷς ἐξ ὀλβίων ἄζηλον εὑροῦσαι βίον χωροῦσι πρὸς σε . . . They in the arrogance fed by their evil speech now all inhabit Hades, and their city is enslaved; and these women whom you see come to you, having exchanged their good fortune for an unenviable life . . .

This information and the sight of the captive women fills Deianeira with sentiments of pity, which she shares with the Chorus (Trach. 298–306): ἐμοὶ γὰρ οἶκτος δεινὸς εἰσέβη, φίλαι, ταύτας ὁρώσῃ δυσπότμους ἐπὶ ξένης χώρας ἀοίκους ἀπάτοράς τ’ ἀλωμένας, αἳ πρὶν μὲν ἦσαν ἐξ ἐλευθέρων ἴσως ἀνδρῶν, τανῦν δὲ δοῦλον ἴσχουσιν βίον . . . οὕτως ἐγὼ δέδοικα τάσδ’ ὁρωμένη. Yes, a strange pity comes upon me, dear women, when I see these unhappy ones homeless and fatherless, astray in a foreign land; perhaps they were formerly the children of free men, but now their life is one of slavery . . . Such is my fear as I look upon these women.

300

300

The above fearsome and pitiful descriptions could well have functioned as a warning by Sophocles on the fate awaiting the Euboean allies and, perhaps,

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later even the Athenians themselves, if the Spartans won the (Peloponnesian) war. This way the poet would also have made a subtle call to his fellow citizens for immediate action against the Spartans. Probably relevant with this is the very negative portrayal in the play of Heracles, the mythical ancestor of the Spartans.24 He is unsympathetic, treacherous, ferocious and dangerous for anyone that comes near him. The opposite of a cultural champion and a paradigm of virtue, he is overcome with erotic passion and has devastated an entire city, when Iole’s father, Eurytus, refused to hand her over to him as a mistress. And then he deceived his own wife, sending to their oikos a pallakis disguised as a slave-servant. The Messenger’s words in lines 352–368 are enlightening, not only Deianeira, but also the spectators, on the true motives and character of Heracles: . . . τῆς κόρης ταύτης ἕκατι κεῖνος Εὔρυτόν θ’ ἕλοι τήν θ’ ὑψίπυργον Οἰχαλίαν, Ἔρως δέ νιν μόνος θεῶν θέλξειεν αἰχμάσαι τάδε οὐ τἀπὶ Λυδοῖς οὐδ’ ὑπ’ Ὀμφάλῃ πόνων λατρεύματ’, οὐδ’ ὁ ῥιπτὸς Ἰφίτου μόρος· ὃν νῦν παρώσας οὗτος ἔμπαλιν λέγει. ἀλλ’ ἡνίκ’ οὐκ ἔπειθε τὸν φυτοσπόρον τὴν παῖδα δοῦναι, κρύφιον ὡς ἔχοι λέχος, ἔγκλημα μικρὸν αἰτίαν θ’ ἑτοιμάσας ἐπιστρατεύει πατρίδα . . . . . . τῆσδε καὶ πόλιν ἔπερσε. καὶ νῦν, ὡς ὁρᾷς, ἥκει δόμους ἐς τούσδε πέμπων οὐκ ἀφροντίστως, γύναι, οὐδ’ ὥστε δούλην· μηδὲ προσδόκα τόδε· οὐδ’ εἰκός, εἴπερ ἐντεθέρμανται πόθῳ. . . . it was on account of this girl that Heracles brought down Eurytus and the high towers of Oechalia, and that it was Eros alone among the gods that bewitched him into this deed of arms, not the doings among the Lydians or his servitude under Omphale or Iphitus, hurled to his death. And now he pushes this story aside and tells a different one! No, when he failed to persuade her father to give him his daughter, to have as his secret love, he trumped up a petty accusation and a pretext,

355

360

365

355

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24 See e.g. Hdt. 7.204, who characteristically traces the descent of king Leonidas (leader of the Spartans in Thermopylae) up to twenty generations back, with an impressive list of names ending with Hyllus and Heracles.

Sophocles’ Trachiniae and the Peloponnesian War: A New Perspective

and marched against her country . . . . . . and sacked the city. And now, as you see, he has come back, sending her not without forethought, lady, or as a slave; do not expect that, nor is it likely, if indeed he is inflamed with desire.

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The denouncement of the favourite Dorian hero and, what is more, the eponymous hero of the new colony (Heraclea) as a person entirely governed by his own passions, at the same time as reinforcing negative stereotypes for Heracles in the midst of the Peloponnesian War, might have also served as a mockery to the Spartans and their own conservative and moderate stance to life. In addition, the stress on Heracles’ lies to Deianeira may have called to mind the deceptive character of the Spartans.25 Εven Lichas, who had earlier attempted to provide a quasi-noble excuse for the actions of Heracles (according to him the whole thing started from an insult by Eurytus), admitted that the enraged hero killed Iphytus, Eurytus’ son, with trickery26 (δόλῳ, 277): when Iphytus was not looking, Heracles threw him down from a cliff. This shameful deed led to his enslavement to Omphale, a barbarian queen, as a punishment from Zeus (248–278). Lastly, in his final moments, when he is in terrible pain, Heracles brutally kills his own companion, upon learning that it was Lichas that brought him the fatal chiton. The poor man was completely ignorant of the effect of Deianeira’s gift, but that did not stop Heracles from smashing his head. Hyllus gives his mother a very realistic account of this event, which would have filled the spectators with both pity and horror27 (Trach. 772–784):

25 They had a reputation for systematically lying in politics and in war (for a detailed discussion, see Powell [2008] esp. 7–13). For instance, in the famous ‘Funeral Oration’ by Pericles, Thucydides has the great Athenian statesman accuse the enemy (the Spartans) that in military matters they relied on ‘acts of deception’ (ἀπάταις, Thuc. 2.39.1). 26 This may well be a hint at the treacherous Spartans and their murderous tactics, especially in the framework of the Spartan institution called krypteia (lit. = ‘hiding’; on this custom see Brill’s New Pauly s.v. [by P. Cartledge] with further bibliography). As part of their military training, elite young Spartans (kryptoi) lived apart from society for a given period with minimum food and equipment. According to Plut. Lyc. 28 (who bases his account on the Aristotelian Lakedaimonion Politeia) this training involved hiding in obscure places during the day and coming out at night and murdering whatever helot they came upon. Plutarch characteristically describes this brutal custom as μιαρὸν . . . ἔργον (‘an abominable deed’). The way Heracles killed Iphitus could easily call to mind a kryptos killing a helot from behind. 27 According to Arist. Poet. 1449b and 1453a ἔλεος (‘pity’) and φόβος (‘fear’) (each one covering a variety of similar feelings) are the special effects of tragedy to the spectators.

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ἐνταῦθα δὴ ’βόησε τὸν δυσδαίμονα Λίχαν, τὸν οὐδὲν αἴτιον τοῦ σοῦ κακοῦ, ποίαις ἐνέγκοι τόνδε μηχαναῖς πέπλον· ὁ δ’ οὐδὲν εἰδὼς δύσμορος τὸ σὸν μόνης δώρημ’ ἔλεξεν, ὥσπερ ἦν ἐσταλμένον. κἀκεῖνος ὡς ἤκουσε καὶ διώδυνος σπαραγμὸς αὐτοῦ πλευμόνων ἀνθήψατο, μάρψας ποδός νιν, ἄρθρον ᾗ λυγίζεται, ῥίπτει πρὸς ἀμφίκλυστον ἐκ πόντου πέτραν· κόμης δὲ λευκὸν μυελὸν ἐκραίνει, μέσου κρατὸς διασπαρέντος αἵματός θ’ ὁμοῦ. ἅπας δ’ ἀνηυφήμησεν οἰμωγῇ λεώς, τοῦ μὲν νοσοῦντος, τοῦ δὲ διαπεπραγμένου. Next he shouted at the unhappy Lichas, who was in no way guilty of your crime, asking him through what scheme he had brought the robe. And Lichas, who knew nothing, poor fellow, told him that was your gift alone, as he had been instructed. When Heracles heard it, and an agonising convulsion laid hold of his lungs, he seized him by the foot, where the ankle plays in the socket, and hurled him onto the seaswept rock; and the white brains poured out from his hair, as his head was shattered. And the whole people broke the silence with a cry at the sickness of the one and the undoing of the other.

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On a first level, the Messenger and Hyllus opened the eyes of Deianeira on the true nature of Heracles. On a second, allusive level, the poet opened the eyes of his fellow Athenians on the true nature of the Spartans, who had named their colony in Trachis (Heraclea) after their favourite hero: they are unjust, cruel and treacherous, a constant threat, and not to be trusted, even by their friends. This last trait may have functioned as propaganda directed at the allies of Spartans. And it notably accords with Thucydides’ narrative of the events, namely that even the settlers of Heraclea were frightened away by the severe and unjust treatment of the Spartan administrators.28 If this was indeed their reaction, it would be reasonable for an Athenian dramatist to exploit it on the grand propagandistic platform that the tragic stage provided. The play was apparently

28 Thuc. 3.93.2: ἐκφοβήσαντες τοὺς πολλοὺς χαλεπῶς τε καὶ ἔστιν ἃ οὐ καλῶς ἐξηγούμενοι (“frightening most of the settlers away by their harsh and sometimes unjust administration”).

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staged in the Great Dionysia,29 at a time of the year (end of March to beginning of April) when Athens had many foreign visitors, several of whom would have attended the theatrical performances. Based on the above (potential) allusions Vickers has proposed that the play was performed at the Great Dionysia of 424 BC.30 He additionally associates Heracles’ service to the Lydian queen Omphale in the play (together with the accompanying phraseology) with the capture of a certain Persian named Artaphernes a few months earlier (winter of 425–424 BC), which revealed that the Spartans were secretly negotiating with the Great King.31 Such allusion might be possible, but it is not needed so as to date the play in 424 BC. Thucydides places the foundation of Heraclea in Trachis at the end of the summer (namely of the campaigning season) of 426 BC, ‘about the same time’ as Nicias’ return from Locris (3.92.1). Sophocles could not have reflected on these events in the Dionysia of 425 BC, for if he had participated in the tragic contest of that year, he would have already written his play a few months earlier than these events.32 Instead, if its production took place in the following year, Athenian alarm at the new colony would have been still fresh enough for the allusion to be effective. But probably not in the year after, namely 423 BC. Thucydides notes that the Athenians “were at first afraid” (τὸ πρῶτον ἔδεισαν), “but afterwards it fell out otherwise than they imagined” (ἔπειτα μέντοι παρὰ δόξαν αὐτοῖς ἀπέβη): the Spartan initiative soon faded away as a result of the Thessalian attacks and internal problems (3.93.1–2). All things considered, the Great Dionysia of 424 BC seems indeed the most likely venue for the Trachiniae. However, from the same interpretive viewpoint, the play may also be pointing to another geographical area and the war events that took place there during the same period.

29 There is no record of Sophocles taking part in the Lenaea; with comedy prevailing in that festival, the tragic competition there was inferior and the great tragedians refrained from staging their plays there. 30 Vickers (1995) 47. 31 See Thuc. 4.50.2. 32 The Eponymous Archon gave commission (ἐδίδου χορόν) to three tragic poets every July, eight to nine months earlier than the actual contest, and rehearsals started immediately.

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Fig. 1: Map showing Athenian and Spartan activities during the Peloponnesian War, 431–404 BC. (© Brill’s New Pauly, Volume 10 [2007] 705–706).

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The Trachiniae and the Events in Western Greece The Trachiniae open with a narrative transposition of the myth to Aetolia, on the west coast of central Greece and effectively the antipode of the Malian Gulf. Even though all the following dramatic action takes place in Trachis, the past events in Pleuron, where Heracles first met Deianeira, form its background in the Prologue. Although most of the surviving tragedies of Sophocles open with dialogue, the Trachiniae begin with a formal monologue by Deianeira explaining what has happened so far. She is an Aetolian, the daughter of the king of Pleuron, Oeneus. While she was still living in the palace of her father, she had to endure a most horrible courtship to a river-monster, Achelous. Luckily, Heracles saved her from this suitor and took her as his bride. Ever since she has lived a life full of agony, as Heracles spends most of the time away from home, caught up in various adventures. The uniqueness of this prologue, which is reminiscent of Euripidean ones (e.g. of the Phoenissae), has been noted.33 Easterling34 reckons that if its function was simply that of summarising past events, as in Euripides, Deianeira could have presented her story in much fewer words. Instead, she gives a rather long account, which incorporates three lengthy descriptions: (a) her courtship to Achelous (Trach. 6–17), (b) the battle between him and Heracles (18–27), (c) her married life with the hero (27–35). According to Easterling, “the emphasis throughout is on Deianeira’s fear and loneliness.” This feeling of fear is especially prominent in the formidable presentation of Achelous and of the ensuing fight with Heracles (Trach. 6–27): ἥτις πατρὸς μὲν ἐν δόμοισιν Οἰνέως ναίουσ’ ἔτ’ ἐν Πλευρῶνι νυμφείων ὄτλον ἄλγιστον ἔσχον, εἴ τις Αἰτωλὶς γυνή. μνηστὴρ γὰρ ἦν μοι ποταμός, Ἀχελῷον λέγω, ὅς μ’ ἐν τρισὶν μορφαῖσιν ἐξῄτει πατρός, φοιτῶν ἐναργὴς ταῦρος, ἄλλοτ’ αἰόλος δράκων ἑλικτός, ἄλλοτ’ ἀνδρείῳ κύτει βούπρῳρος· ἐκ δὲ δασκίου γενειάδος κρουνοὶ διερραίνοντο κρηναίου ποτοῦ. τοιόνδ’ ἐγὼ μνηστῆρα προσδεδεγμένη δύστηνος ἀεὶ κατθανεῖν ἐπηυχόμην, πρὶν τῆσδε κοίτης ἐμπελασθῆναί ποτε. χρόνῳ δ’ ἐν ὑστέρῳ μέν, ἀσμένῃ δέ μοι, ὁ κλεινὸς ἦλθε Ζηνὸς Ἀλκμήνης τε παῖς·

33 See, for instance, Davies (1991) 55 with further bibliography. 34 Eastering (1982) 72.

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ὃς εἰς ἀγῶνα τῷδε συμπεσὼν μάχης ἐκλύεταί με. καὶ τρόπον μὲν ἂν πόνων οὐκ ἂν διείποιμ’· οὐ γὰρ οἶδ’· ἀλλ’ ὅστις ἦν θακῶν ἀταρβὴς τῆς θέας, ὅδ’ ἂν λέγοι. ἐγὼ γὰρ ἥμην ἐκπεπληγμένη φόβῳ μή μοι τὸ κάλλος ἄλγος ἐξεύροι ποτέ. τέλος δ’ ἔθηκε Ζεὺς ἀγώνιος καλῶς, εἰ δὴ καλῶς . . . While I still lived in the house of my father Oeneus, in Pleuron, I suffered painful affliction in the matter of my wedding, if any Aetolian woman did. For I had as a wooer a river, I mean Achelous, who came in three shapes35 to ask my father for me, at some times manifest as a bull, at others as a darting, coiling serpent, and again at others with a man’s trunk and a bull’s head; and from his shaggy beard there poured streams of water from his springs. Expecting such a suitor as that I was always praying, poor creature, that I might die before ever coming near his bed. But at the last moment, and to my relief, there came the famous son of Zeus and Alcmene, who contended with him in battle and released me. I cannot tell of the manner of his struggle, for I know nothing of it; whoever was sitting there not terrified by the sight, he could tell you. For I was sitting there struck numb with fear that my beauty might end by bringing me pain. But in the end Zeus the god of contests decided well, if it was well . . .

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Deianeira was so terrified that she could not watch the cruel fight. Thus, the details of the fight are given later, in the second stasimon, by the women of the Chorus (Trach. 507–522): ὁ μὲν ἦν ποταμοῦ σθένος, ὑψίκερω τετραόρου φάσμα ταύρου, Ἀχελῷος ἀπ’ Οἰνιαδᾶν, ὁ δὲ Βακχίας ἄπο

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35 Achelous was a river-god, son of Oceanus and Tethys (see Hes. Theog. 337–340). On his ability to take multiple forms, note with Davies (1991) 59 that “water-spirits and the like (Thetis, Proteus, Nereus, etc.) often resort to metamorphosis, in keeping with the changeable nature of their element”.

Sophocles’ Trachiniae and the Peloponnesian War: A New Perspective

ἦλθε παλίντονα Θήβας τόξα καὶ λόγχας ῥόπαλόν τε τινάσσων, παῖς Διός· οἳ τότ’ ἀολλεῖς ἴσαν ἐς μέσον ἱέμενοι λεχέων· μόνα δ’ εὔλεκτρος ἐν μέσῳ Κύπρις ῥαβδονόμει ξυνοῦσα. τότ’ ἦν χερός, ἦν δὲ τόξων πάταγος, ταυρείων τ’ ἀνάμιγδα κεράτων· ἦν δ’ ἀμφίπλεκτοι κλίμακες, ἦν δὲ μετώπων ὀλόεντα πλήγματα καὶ στόνος ἀμφοῖν. One was a mighty river, appearing as a bull,36 long-horned, four-legged, Achelous from Oeniadae; and the other came from Bacchic Thebes, brandishing his springing bow, his spears, and his club, the son of Zeus. They then met together in the middle, longing for her bed; and alone in the centre the beautiful Cyprian was there to umpire in the contest. Then there was a clatter of fists and of the quiver, and of the bull’s horns, all together; and legs were wound around waists, and deadly blows struck foreheads, and groans came from both.

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The repetition of the Prologue fight scene in more detail, the emphasis on the monstrosity of Achelous and the ‘primitive violence’37 of the combat should not be a coincidence. And this time, the scenery is enriched: next to Pleuron and Aetolia, Oeniadae are added. In the following pages it will be argued that these repeated descriptions and their semantics might allude and reproduce recent memories and narratives from negative military experiences that the Athenians had accumulated in the greater area.

36 In the artistic representations of the fight, Achelous is most commonly portrayed in the bull-man form: see e.g. BAPD nr. 6911 (Paris, Louvre: G365), an Athenian krater of c. 475–425 BC found in Sicily, which also features Deianeira and an old man with a sceptre (apparently Oeneus). 37 Easterling (1982) 134.

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Achelous, the longest and most voluminous river in Greece, was the traditional boundary (often contested) between Acarnania in the west and Aetolia in the east.38 Flowing from the mountains of north Pindus and after a course of 136 miles, it empties in the Ionian Gulf. Its delta is very close to the Acarnanian city of Oeniadae, which had a harbour on the navigable river, and where the personified river was worshipped as a god. Thus, the mention in lines 510–511 of Achelous as ‘coming from Oeniadae’ is not without importance. Jebb39 notes that “as Heracles arrives from his famous home to the east [i.e. Thebes], so it is fitting that the river-god should come from the western town which was a chief seat of his worship.” But there might be more to this. At least from the 450’s and up until 424 BC,40 the city was an anti-Athenian stronghold in an area of great strategic importance (like that of Trachis), possessing a great harbour that overlooked the exit of the Corinthian Gulf to the Ionian Sea (see Fig. 1). As such, it was both a thorn and a most coveted prize for the Athenian thalassocracy. Jebb mentions the failed attempt of Pericles to subdue Oeniadae in 454 BC, which is recorded by Thucydides (1.111.2–3): Περικλέους τοῦ Ξανθίππου στρατηγοῦντος . . . παραλαβόντες Ἀχαιοὺς καὶ διαπλεύσαντες πέραν τῆς Ἀκαρνανίας ἐς Οἰνιάδας ἐστράτευσαν καὶ ἐπολιόρκουν, οὐ μέντοι εἷλόν γε, ἀλλ’ ἀπεχώρησαν ἐπ’ οἴκου. under the command of Pericles son of Xanthippus . . . taking along some Achaeans and sailing across the gulf, they made an expedition against Oeniadae in Acarnania and laid siege to it; but failing to take it they went back home.

The brevity and simplicity of Thucydides’ description of the event suggests that it was not regarded by him as very important. In any case, this failed attempt

38 See e.g. Strabo 10.2.1: Αἰτωλοὶ μὲν τοίνυν καὶ Ἀκαρνᾶνες ὁμοροῦσιν ἀλλήλοις, μέσον ἔχοντες τὸν Ἀχελῶον ποταμὸν ῥέοντα ἀπὸ τῶν ἄρκτων καὶ τῆς Πίνδου πρὸς νότον διά τε Ἀγραίων Αἰτωλικοῦ ἔθνους καὶ Ἀμφιλόχων, Ἀκαρνᾶνες μὲν τὸ πρὸς ἑσπέραν μέρος ἔχοντες τοῦ ποταμοῦ μέχρι τοῦ Ἀμβρακικοῦ κόλπου τοῦ κατὰ Ἀμφιλόχους καὶ τὸ ἱερὸν τοῦ Ἀκτίου Ἀπόλλωνος, Αἰτωλοὶ δὲ τὸ πρὸς ἕω μέχρι τῶν Ὀζολῶν Λοκρῶν καὶ τοῦ Παρνασσοῦ καὶ τῶν Οἰταίων (“now the Aetolians and the Acarnanians border on one another, having between them the Achelous River, which flows from the north and from Pindus on the south through the country of the Agraeans, an Aetolian tribe, and through that of the Amphilochians, the Acarnanians holding the western side of the river as far as that part of the Ambracian Gulf which is near Amphilochi and the temple of the Actian Apollo, but the Aetolians the eastern side as far as the Ozalian Locrians and Parnassus and the Oetaeans”; translation by Jones [1928]). 39 Jebb (1902) 79. 40 In that year it was forced by the other Acarnanians to join the Athenian League (see Thuc. 4.77.2).

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does not seem to have the bearing one would expect for a historical allusion in the fearsome battle between Achelous and Heracles. Nevertheless, it should be numbered alongside several later events which inspired negative feelings in the Athenians about this area. More promising, I think, is the comparative reading of our play with two events at the heart of the Peloponnesian War and the agonising effect they might have had on the Athenian collective memory and sentiment. The first was the Athenian campaign in Acarnania, in the winter of 429–428 BC, which was not completed. Under the leadership of Phormio the Athenians sailed from Naupactus to Astacus and marched into the inner parts of Acarnania. They expelled disloyal men from Stratus and Coronta, and returned to their ships. Most importantly, from a strategic point of view, they were about to attack the city of Oeniadae, had it not been for Achelous and the large volume of its water in winter, which made the city inaccessible. Thucydides’ report is noteworthy in its detail on the might of Achelous in that particular area (2.102.2–4): ἐς γὰρ Οἰνιάδας αἰεί ποτε πολεμίους ὄντας μόνους Ἀκαρνάνων οὐκ ἐδόκει δυνατὸν εἶναι χειμῶνος ὄντος στρατεύειν· ὁ γὰρ Ἀχελῷος ποταμὸς ῥέων ἐκ Πίνδου ὄρους διὰ Δολοπίας καὶ Ἀγραίων καὶ Ἀμφιλόχων καὶ διὰ τοῦ Ἀκαρνανικοῦ πεδίου, ἄνωθεν μὲν παρὰ Στράτον πόλιν, ἐς θάλασσαν δ’ ἐξιεὶς παρ’ Οἰνιάδας καὶ τὴν πόλιν αὐτοῖς περιλιμνάζων, ἄπορον ποιεῖ ὑπὸ τοῦ ὕδατος ἐν χειμῶνι στρατεύειν. κεῖνται δὲ καὶ τῶν νήσων τῶν Ἐχινάδων αἱ πολλαὶ καταντικρὺ Οἰνιαδῶν τοῦ Ἀχελῴου τῶν ἐκβολῶν οὐδὲν ἀπέχουσαι, ὥστε μέγας ὢν ὁ ποταμὸς προσχοῖ αἰεὶ καὶ εἰσὶ τῶν νήσων αἳ ἠπείρωνται, ἐλπὶς δὲ καὶ πάσας οὐκ ἐν πολλῷ τινὶ ἂν χρόνῳ τοῦτο παθεῖν· τό τε γὰρ ῥεῦμά ἐστι μέγα καὶ πολὺ καὶ θολερόν, αἵ τε νῆσοι πυκναί, καὶ ἀλλήλαις τῆς προσχώσεως [τῷ μὴ σκεδάννυσθαι] ξύνδεσμοι γίγνονται, παραλλὰξ καὶ οὐ κατὰ στοῖχον κείμεναι, οὐδ’ ἔχουσαι εὐθείας διόδους τοῦ ὕδατος ἐς τὸ πέλαγος. ἐρῆμοι δ’ εἰσὶ καὶ οὐ μεγάλαι . . . It seemed impracticable in winter to make a campaign against Oeniadae, whose inhabitants alone of the Acarnanians were always hostile; for the river Achelous, which rises in Mount Pindus and flows through the country of the Dolopians, Agraeans, and Amphilochians and then through the Acarnanian plain, passes by the city of Stratus high up the stream, but by Oeniadae empties into the sea, where it surrounds the city with marshes, thus rendering military operations there impossible in winter by reason of the water. Besides, most of the Echinades islands lie opposite to Oeniadae at no great distance from the mouths of the Achelous, so that the river, which is large, keeps making fresh deposits of silt, and some of the islands have already become part of the mainland, and probably this will happen to all of them in no great while. For the stream is wide and deep and turbid, and the islands are close together and serve to bind to one another the bars as they are formed, preventing them from being broken up, since the islands lie, not in line, but irregularly, and do not allow straight channels for the water into the open sea. These islands are uninhabited and not large.

It is strange for Thucydides to make such a detailed geographical report especially for a place where no action took place. Achelous’ delta must have made

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quite an impression on the Athenians. It is not hard to imagine the leaders of the expedition providing a similar report to the Assembly in Athens, accounting for their failure to attack the enemy city of Oeniadae. In the Athenian perception, Achelous – in popular belief an all-mighty river-god – would have been the formidable defender of the area scaring away any potential invader. Such perception might also explain the emphasis put by Sophocles on the fearsome strength of Achelous in the play and its grotesque wetness. In real life Achelous prevailed. Its defeat in the play by Heracles (a fact already known from myth) may have served so as to alleviate the citizens’ fears for this area and boost their moral: the monster is not unbeatable. As for Heracles, his fight against it bears the semantics of a charter cultural myth; he establishes cultural norms (e.g. from the male’s protective sovereignty over the female to wrestling tactics) by means of prevailing over deviation (from monstrous passions to uncontrolled forces of nature). That the audience would find Heracles in this section of the play a sympathetic figure and even identify themselves with him, while later they would see him as a representative of the Spartans, is not hard to explain. First of all, in a symbolic, allusive level there can be different dimensions in the same character or event, even contradicting one another: in Euripides Medea, for example, the heroine may represent the suppressed Greek free woman and at the same time she embodies all negative stereotypes that the Greeks had for the barbarians. Moreover, there seems to be an evolution in the portrayal of Heracles: initially the saviour of Deianeira, he ends up behaving like a monster himself. It is as if, from the combat with Achelous, and later with Nessus, he himself has been infected with their monstrosity. In addition, Vickers makes an interesting correlation of the words of Deianeira in the prologue, on one hand with Heracles as the protector of the Athenians in Marathon, and on the other with Heracles as the representative of Sparta, their big enemy in the Peloponnesian War: On the eve of the battle, the Athenians had encamped in one shrine of Heracles, probably at Oenoe, and on their return from Marathon to Athens had encamped in another at Cynosarges. With hindsight it might with justice be thought that the Athenians owed their salvation to the protection of the hero. It is a Heracles in this tradition who is referred to in Deianeira’s opening speech in Trachiniae (19ff.): Heracles who wards of evil. But this virtuous Heracles had wandered off (31ff.) and the reference to Trachis (39)41 will have alerted the Athenian audience to the likely nature of the very different Heracles who reappears later in the play.42

41 According to Deianeira, after Heracles had killed Iphytus, the family moved to Trachis, as guests of the local king. 42 Vickers (1995) 46–47.

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Even more important for the Athenian collective memory and sentiment must have been the painful experience from nearby Aetolia during the failed Athenian campaign in the summer of 426 BC – about the same time as the events of Heraclea in Trachis. Thucydides devotes four chapters to this campaign (3.94–98), which apparently gave a very strong blow to the Athenian pride. A large force of Athenians and allies (Messenians, Caphallenians and Zacynthians) under Demosthenes invaded the area. Initially they succeeded in capturing some small towns, including Potidania, Crocyleum and Teichium. This alarmed the Aetolian tribes, who joined forces so as to strike back. Demosthenes, advancing to Aegitium, falls in a trap with disastrous consequences: overwhelmed by the Aetolians, his soldiers flee to the sea, with many being slaughtered in a most hostile territory. Aetolia becomes the invader’s grave and Demosthenes avoids returning to Athens for fear of punishment by his fellow citizens. Thucydides describes with vivid colours the violence unleashed upon the Athenians and their allies, and their heavy losses (3.98): Μέχρι μὲν οὖν οἱ τοξόται εἶχόν τε τὰ βέλη αὐτοῖς καὶ οἷοί τε ἦσαν χρῆσθαι, οἱ δὲ ἀντεῖχον (τοξευόμενοι γὰρ οἱ Αἰτωλοί, ἄνθρωποι ψιλοί, ἀνεστέλλοντο)· ἐπειδὴ δὲ τοῦ τε τοξάρχου ἀποθανόντος οὗτοι διεσκεδάσθησαν καὶ αὐτοὶ ἐκεκμήκεσαν καὶ ἐπὶ πολὺ τῷ αὐτῷ πόνῳ ξυνεχόμενοι, οἵ τε Αἰτωλοὶ ἐνέκειντο καὶ ἐσηκόντιζον, οὕτω δὴ τραπόμενοι ἔφευγον, καὶ ἐσπίπτοντες ἔς τε χαράδρας ἀνεκβάτους καὶ χωρία ὧν οὐκ ἦσαν ἔμπειροι διεφθείροντο· καὶ γὰρ ὁ ἡγεμὼν αὐτοῖς τῶν ὁδῶν Χρόμων ὁ Μεσσήνιος ἐτύγχανε τεθνηκώς. οἱ δὲ Αἰτωλοὶ ἐσακοντίζοντες πολλοὺς μὲν αὐτοῦ ἐν τῇ τροπῇ κατὰ πόδας αἱροῦντες, ἄνθρωποι ποδώκεις καὶ ψιλοί, διέφθειρον, τοὺς δὲ πλείους τῶν ὁδῶν ἁμαρτάνοντας καὶ ἐς τὴν ὕλην ἐσφερομένους, ὅθεν διέξοδοι οὐκ ἦσαν, πῦρ κομισάμενοι περιεπίμπρασαν· πᾶσά τε ἰδέα κατέστη τῆς φυγῆς καὶ τοῦ ὀλέθρου τῷ στρατοπέδῳ τῶν Ἀθηναίων, μόλις τε ἐπὶ τὴν θάλασσαν καὶ τὸν Οἰνεῶνα τῆς Λοκρίδος, ὅθενπερ καὶ ὡρμήθησαν, οἱ περιγενόμενοι κατέφυγον. ἀπέθανον δὲ τῶν τε ξυμμάχων πολλοὶ καὶ αὐτῶν Ἀθηναίων ὁπλῖται περὶ εἴκοσι μάλιστα καὶ ἑκατόν. τοσοῦτοι μὲν τὸ πλῆθος καὶ ἡλικία ἡ αὐτὴ οὗτοι βέλτιστοι δὴ ἄνδρες ἐν τῷ πολέμῳ τῷδε ἐκ τῆς Ἀθηναίων πόλεως διεφθάρησαν· ἀπέθανε δὲ καὶ ὁ ἕτερος στρατηγὸς Προκλῆς. Now so long as their bowmen had arrows and were able to use them the Athenians held out, for the Aetolian troops were light-armed and so, while they were exposed to the arrows, they were constantly driven back. But when the captain of the archers had been killed and his men scattered, and the hoplites were worn out, since they had been engaged for a long time in the unremitting struggle and the Aetolians were pressing them hard and hurling javelins upon them, they at last turned and fled, and falling into ravines from which there was no way out and into places with which they were unacquainted, they perished; for Chromon, the Messenian, who had been their guide on the way, had unfortunately been killed. The Aetolians kept plying their javelins, and being swift of foot and lightly equipped, following at their heels they caught many there in the rout and slew them; but the greater number missed the roads and got into the forest, from which there were no paths out, and the Aetolians brought fire and set the woods ablaze around

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them. Then every manner of flight was essayed and every manner of destruction befell the army of the Athenians, and it was only with difficulty that the survivors escaped to the sea at Oeneon in Locris, whence they had set out. Many of the allies were slain, and of the Athenians themselves about one hundred and twenty hoplites. So great a number of men, and all of the same age, perished here, the best men in truth whom the city of Athens lost in this war; and Procles, one of the two generals, perished also.

The description is impressive in its dramatic details, and so is the outcome of the event as regards the magnitude of the disaster.43 The historian’s detailed description perhaps hints at the Athenians’ collective trauma and the horrifying connotations that the area would since bear for them. And the violent combat in the Aetolian city of Pleuron between Achelous and Heracles in the Trachiniae could well reflect the dreadful clashes between the Aetolians and the Athenians in the hostile land of Aetolia. Those who were lucky to survive would have many fearsome stories to tell, which must have spread terror in Athens about this wild and largely unknown area of Western Greece. Likewise, the portrayal of Achelous as a primitive monster may itself be reproducing the perception of the Aetolians as primitives and warlike by the Athenians and other Greeks. In fact, the Aetolians were a collection of tribes, the strongest and most warlike in Western Central Greece. These included the Eurytanes, the Apodoti, the Ophiones, the Aperanti and the Argaii, who had as a common religious, cultural and political centre the town of Thermus.44 Certain towns, among them Pleuron, were already mentioned in the Iliad (esp. in 2.639–640), where the Aetolians are presented as μενεχάρμαι (< χάρμη, ‘steadfast in battle’, 9.529) and μεγάθυμοι (‘great-hearted’, 9.549). Thucydides presents them as Greeks, though of an earlier level of civilisation (τῷ παλαιῷ τρόπῳ), namely living off plunder and bearing arms in daily life (1.5.3), whereas the Eurytanes in particular are described as ἀγνωστότατoι γλῶσσαν (‘most unintelligible’) and ὠμοφάγοι (‘raw-eaters’, 3.94.5). At the time of the Athenian expedition in the area the majority of the Aetolians were living in dispersed and unfortified tribal settlements, and that is why the Messenians (mistakenly) advised Demosthenes that their force could easily subdue them. Once defeated, the rest of the region would fall too (3.94.5): τὸ γὰρ ἔθνος μέγα μὲν εἶναι τὸ τῶν Αἰτωλῶν καὶ μάχιμον, οἰκοῦν δὲ κατὰ κώμας ἀτειχίστους, καὶ ταύτας διὰ πολλοῦ, καὶ σκευῇ ψιλῇ χρώμενον οὐ χαλεπὸν ἀπέφαινον, πρὶν ξυμβοηθῆσαι, καταστραφῆναι.

43 Actually, it reads like a tragic prequel and a synopsis of Thucydides’ narrative on the Athenians’ slaughter in Sicily (see esp. 7.84). 44 See Brill’s New Pauly s.v. ‘Aetolians / Aetolia’ (by D. Strauch). Generally on the Aetolians, see the monograph by Antonetti (1990).

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The Aetolians [they explained], were, it was true, a great and warlike people, but as they lived in unwalled villages, which, moreover, were widely separated, and as they used only light armour, they could be subdued without difficulty before they could unite for mutual defence.

The perception of the Aetolians in non-historical sources is along the same lines and perhaps even more negative – most characteristically in tragedy, in line with the monstrosity of Achelous in our play. A most indicative passage is Euripides’ Phoenissae 133–140, correlating Tydeus (the son of Oeneus) to the Aetolians in general: ANΤΙΓΟΝΗ: τίς δ’ οὗτός ἐστι; ΘΕΡΑΠΩΝ: παῖς μὲν Οἰνέως ἔφυ Τυδεύς, Ἄρη δ’ Αἰτωλὸν ἐν στέρνοις ἔχει. ΑΝ. οὗτος ὁ τᾶς Πολυνείκεος, ὦ γέρον, αὐτοκασιγνήται νύμφας ὁμόγαμος κυρεῖ; ὡς ἀλλόχρως ὅπλοισι, μειξοβάρβαρος. ΘΕ. σακεσφόροι γὰρ πάντες Αἰτωλοί, τέκνον, λόγχαις τ’ ἀκοντιστῆρες εὐστοχώτατοι. AΝΤΙGONE: Who is he? SERVANT: He is Tydeus, son of Oeneus, and Aetolian is the war spirit he bears within his breast.45 AN. Is this the man who married the sister of Polynices’ wife? How strange his weapons are, half-barbarian! SE. Yes: all the Aetolians, my child, carry light shields and hurl javelins with great accuracy.46

135

140

135

140

Apart from being warlike, Tydeus and – by extension – the Aetolians are characterised as μειξοβάρβαροι, literally ‘interbred with barbarians’. With the above in mind, a passage like Euripides’ Meleager fr. 537, referring to Tydeus’ horrendous act of eating the brains of Melanippus, could allusively ascribe the charge of cannibalism to the Aetolians in general – at least it would contribute to a very negative portrayal of a famous hero of theirs: εἰς ἀνδροβρῶτας ἡδονὰς ἀφίξεται κάρηνα πυρσαῖς γένυσι Μελανίππου σπάσας. He will come to cannibal pleasures and tear the head of Melanippus with gore-red jaws.47

45 Cf. Callim. fr. 621 Pfeiffer εἰμὶ τέρας Καλυδῶνος, ἄγω δ’ Αἰτωλὸν Ἄρηα, again with reference to Tydeus. 46 Translation by Kovacs (2002). 47 Translation by Kovacs (2008).

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As for the aftermath of Demosthenes’ disastrous campaign in Aetolia, it increased pressure on the Athenians in Central Greece, this time from the West, and allowed for Spartan intervention in this area too. After the Athenian retreat, the Aetolians sent envoys to the Spartans and persuaded them to send an army against Naupactus, whence the Athenians had attacked them in the first place and where they were currently stationed.48 And here comes the most interesting part: of the three thousand hoplites sent by the Spartans, six hundred were dispatched from the new colony of Heraclea in Trachis (Thuc. 3.100.2): καὶ ἐξέπεμψαν Λακεδαιμόνιοι περὶ τὸ φθινόπωρον τρισχιλίους ὁπλίτας τῶν ξυμμάχων. τούτων ἦσαν πεντακόσιοι ἐξ Ἡρακλείας, τῆς ἐν Τραχῖνι πόλεως τότε νεοκτίστου οὔσης. So towards autumn the Lacedaemonians sent three thousand hoplites of their allies, among whom were six hundred from Heraclea, the city which had recently been founded in Trachis.

With reinforcements from the Locrian tribes (some of which revolted from Athens), the Spartans and their allies advanced against Naupactus. Coming to their support, the Aetolians ravaged the area, took the non-fortified outer city, and seized Molycrium, a town belonging to Athens. Eventually, the Athenians managed to maintain Naupactus with great difficulty, and only after one thousand Acarnanian hoplites came to their rescue. After that the Spartans withdrew to Pleuron and other Aetolian towns and with this information Thucydides concludes his narrative on the events of the summer of 426 BC (Thuc. 3.101–102).

Conclusion In the Trachiniae all dramatic action, staged and narrated, takes place in Central Greece, at its two ends. The myth, which combines the Aetolian and the Malian legends of Heracles (but surprisingly makes no mention of his famous Peloponnesian labours) seems to have a twofold historical background. The series of events from the life of Heracles located around Aetolia/Acarnania and Trachis apparently stirs up memory of recent negative experiences that the Athenians had from the respective areas of Central Greece and which – as we have seen – were interconnected. Especially the Athenian disastrous campaign

48 An inscription found in the Acropolis of Sparta (SEG 38.332 = Sparta Museum 6265) preserves a treaty between the Spartans and the Aetolian Erxadieis (?), considered by some as referring to the events of 426 BC; see esp. Cartledge (1976).

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against Aetolia occurred the same year (426 BC) as the foundation of the Spartan colony of Heraclea in Trachis. The Spartans were already mobilised in Aetolia and there were legitimate fears that they would do the same in Trachis attacking nearby Euboea. Through scenes of primitive violence in the play, Sophocles is allegorically reminding his audience of the recent Athenian misfortunes and warns against more misfortunes in the future, and what is more, in their own backyard. The unique monologue in a Sophoclean prologue, the monstrosity of Achelous, the negative portrayal of Heracles (evolving from a saviour to a monster), enhanced by topical references to Pleuron, Oeniadae, Trachis, etc., contribute to an increased feeling of anxiety and alarm. Admittedly, if taken separately, these elements might be dismissed as speculations. But the cumulative effect tells us that this is not mere coincidence. It is clearly a case of what has been described by Hopkins as the ‘wigwam argument’:49 Each pole would fall down by itself, but together the poles stand up, by leaning on each other; they point roughly in the same direction and ‘circumscribe’ truth.50

In our case the direction pointed at is that the Trachiniae was apparently staged shortly after 426 BC, most likely in the Great Dionysia of 424 BC.

Bibliography Antonetti, C. 1990. Les Étoliens: Image et Religion. Paris. Campbell, L. 1907. Paralipomena Sophoclea. London. Cartledge, P. 1976. A New Fifth-century Spartan Treaty. LCM 1: 87–92. Davies, M. 1991. Sophocles, Trachiniae. Oxford. Easterling, P.E. 1982. Sophocles: Trachiniae. Cambridge. Francis, E.D. 1980. Greeks and Persians: The Art of Hazard and Triumph. In Ancient Persia, the Art of an Empire, ed. D. Schmandt-Besserat, 53–86. Malibu. Grimal, P. 1958. Dictionnaire de la Mythologie Grecque et Romaine. Paris. Jebb, R.C. 1902. Sophocles: Trachiniae. Cambridge. Jones, H.L. 1928. Strabo: Geography, vol. 5: Books 10–12. Cambridge, MA. Hoey, T.F. 1979. The Date of the Trachiniae. Phoenix 33: 210–232. Hommel, H. 1940. Gedanken zur griechischen Tragödie. NJAB 3: 273–292. Hopkins, K. 1978. Conquerors and Slaves: Sociological Studies in Ancient History. Cambridge. Kovacs, D. 2002. Euripides. Helen. Phoenician Women. Orestes. Cambridge, MA. Kovacs, D. 2008. Euripides. Fragments: Aegeus-Meleager. Cambridge, MA.

49 Which Vickers has also utilised in his book (2008) with promising results on the dating of other Sophoclean plays. 50 Hopkins (1978) 19.

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Lloyd-Jones, H. 1994. Sophocles, Antigone, The Women of Trachis, Philoctetes, Oedipus at Colonus. Cambridge, MA. Meier, C. 1988. Die politische Kunst der griechischen Tragödie. Μünchen. Pelling, C.B.R. (ed.) 1997. Greek Tragedy and the Historian. Oxford. Powell, A. 2018. Sparta: Reconstructing History from Secrecy, Lies and Myth. A Companion to Sparta, vol. 1, ed. A. Powell, 3–28. Hoboken, NJ. Reinhardt, K. 1979. Sophocles. Oxford. Ronnet, G. 1969. Sophocle Poète Tragique. Paris. Seaford, R.A.S. 1994. Reciprocity and Ritual: Homer and Tragedy in the developing City-State. Oxford. Seaford, R.A.S. 2012. Cosmology and the Polis: The Social Construction of Space and Time in the Tragedies of Aeschylus. Cambridge. Seaford, R.A.S. 2018. Tragedy, Ritual, and Money in Ancient Greece: Selected Essays. Cambridge. Smith, C.F. 1919–1923. Thucydides. History of the Peloponnesian War (3 vols). Cambridge, MA. Vickers, M. 1995. Heracles Lacedaemonius: The Political Dimensions of Sophocles’ Trachiniae and Euripides’ Heracles. DHA 21.2: 41–69. Vickers, M. 2008. Sophocles and Alcibiades: Athenian Politics in Ancient Greek Literature. London. Webster, T.B.L. 1936. Sophocles’ Trachiniae. In Greek Poetry and Life: Essays Presented to Gilbert Murray, ed. D. Bailey et al., 164–180. Oxford. Winkler, J.J. and Zeitlin, F.I. (eds.) 1990. Nothing to do with Dionysos? Athenian Drama in its Social Context. Princeton.

Gesthimani Seferiadi

The Authority of ‘History’ in the Exodus of Sophocles’ Trachiniae Abstract: In this chapter I discuss the way the end of the play interacts with the authority of ‘history’ with a view to exploring the question of whether the relationship between tragic mythos and ‘history’ is imperative and restrictive, namely whether this is a kind of authority that restricts the poet’s freedom to depart from the conventional rules of the genre.1 I will also take advantage of the opportunity this discussion offers to consider further interpretative issues that are related to the end of the play and have been appealing to traditional criticism, such as the ‘apotheosis dilemma’ and concerns about dramatic unity and characterization. This analysis will allow me to suggest that in the exodus of the play Hercules is being transformed into a kind of deus ex machina or a speaker of aetiology, namely a speaker whose privileged knowledge extends beyond the bounds of the drama. Through this transformation, the exodus successfully necessitates the settlement of a dramatic order and sets up the closure of the play but nonetheless continues to invest in a scheme of irregularity in terms of ritual and gender roles, designed and directed in order to negotiate the conditions under which authority can be imposed.

1 Reception studies have made us suspicious against any claim to objective discourse. Thus, I am inclined to see the discrepancy between the discourses of ‘myth’ and ‘history’, between fact and fiction, rather mitigated. Nevertheless, the Greeks did acknowledge some kind of difference between mythos and logos or between mythos and history and although it is not possible to fully comprehend the ancient Greeks’ perception of myth from a modern logocentric perspective, we need to get along with these distinctions. It is worth noticing that criticism of the falseness of ‘myth’ began early in Antiquity (e.g. with Xenophanes and Hekataios), led later to Plato’s well-known criticism of ‘myth’ as false logos and culminated with Epicurus’ doctrine of liberation which saw ‘myth’ as a counterforce to logos. For a review on the theoretical discourse on mythos as a counterforce to logos and history, see Karakantza (2004) 37–78, 207–214 (for relevant bibliography). In any case, in the context of this presentation (and, hopefully, not in an abusive way), ‘history’ is taken as a synonym for ‘traditional or legendary narrative’, namely the history of Hercules as a hero unfolding in a time lying between the time of origins and that of recent events. Note: I am indebted to both the members of the organizing committee of the compelling Myth and History Conference and the participants for their insightful comments, which greatly improved my research. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-015

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Introduction The exodus of Trachiniae (971–1278) is agreed to be one of the most problematic parts of the play and many scholars are inclined to see it as the second part of a diptych tragedy and indeed a part that has a vague association with the events previously presented while it fails to give the impression of an irreversible ending.2 Hence, they tend to consider that this closure disrupts the criteria of connectedness and finality that a play’s closure is expected to meet.3 In brief, connectedness is interrupted because Deianeira, the main character of the play who dominated the scene for almost one thousand lines, is totally forgotten, while finality is disturbed as the play alludes to events that exceed beyond the temporal and causal boundaries of the tragic plot and which, in fact, are events suggesting a happy ending that contradicts the tragic finale. As a result, it is considered that the closure is enforced by the audience’s expectations as conditioned by their knowledge of ‘traditional narrative’ or ‘history’, thereby disproving the audience’s expectations as aroused by the events of the plot and disrupting dramatic unity. It has been noted, for instance, that after line 1114, Hercules “speaks with the authority of history,”4 or that the playwright “yields to the obligation of history.”5 However, as I will argue below, this is a subjection that is well fitted within the causal sequence of the play, and indeed a subjection that simultaneously raises an interesting aspect of authoritarian speech-act.

2 As the result of a confirmed tendency to consider the endings of the tragedies spurious, the authenticity of the endings of several Greek tragedies has at some time been questioned, most notably the final scenes of Aesch. Sept. and Eur. IA and the closing lines of Soph. OT and Eur. Phoen. Also, concerns have been expressed for the final lines of all Sophoclean dramas (by Ritter [1861] 422–436), but only the end of OT (1524–1530) has been deleted by Dawe (1974–1978) 266–273 (also see Dawe [1982] ad loc.; cf. Kovacs [2009] 53–70 and Finglass [2009] 42–62 who question Dawe’s deletion). Dawe also gives some support to Ritter’s doubts about Aj. and El. (Dawe [1974–1978] 174–175, 203–204). This problematic, however much it is impelled by textual tradition, constitutes a difficulty precisely because of the readers’ expectations. As Roberts (2005) 147 suggests, “the claim of spuriousness itself partly derives from the reader’s expectations; it points to the way in which individual tragedies were read as part of a continuing myth and in relation to previous tragic versions of that myth, since each instance involves a supposed interpolation of material from another version or a continuation of the story, sometimes one familiar from a well-known tragedy.” 3 For the kinds of authority that condition the audience’s expectations as far as tragic closures are concerned, see Seferiadi (2019) 204–205. 4 Easterling (1982) 11. 5 See Linforth (1952) 262: “After composing the essential play with a conscientious regard for dramatic propriety the poet breaks off when he is one step from the end and writes an afterpiece in which he yields to the obligation of history. He does the same thing again in Philoctetes.”

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I will first start by offering, by way of an introduction to the issues of dramatic unity raised in the exodus, an outline of its structure: 1. Lamentation and the νόσος of Hercules are the focus of the introductory part of the exodus (971–1043). The hero, who has already entered the scene carried in a litter without giving an indication of life during the fourth stasimon (964), is gradually recovering his consciousness while the νόσος is repeatedly attacking him. i. This part starts with an anapaestic exchange between Hyllos, the Old Man and Hercules that meets the arrival of the funeral procession (971–1003). ii. The exchange is followed by a lamentation song (monody) in which Hercules laments his death (1004–1043). The lyric part is interrupted by two sets of dactylic hexameters, uttered by Hercules, the Old Man and Hyllus (1018–1022; 1031–1040). 2. Then, two lines uttered by the chorus (1044–1045), signal the transition to the final episode of the exodus (1044–1258). i. These two lines together with another set of two lines also uttered by the chorus (1112–1113, possibly the last words spoken by the chorus), frame Hercules long speech (‘Hercules’ rhesis’: 1046–1111). This is an agonizing address to his son, which moves erratically between his major accomplishments, his shameful and painful downfall and his insatiable desire for revenge. ii. The second set of two lines uttered by the chorus seals the end of Hercules’ rhesis and marks the transition to a dialogue between him and Hyllus, which I like to call ‘Deianeira’s trial’ (1114–1142). This is a scene of double anagnorisis revealing both Deianeira’s ‘innocence’ and Nessus’ interference. However, it is in fact only this last module of the revelation about Nessus that signals a notable overturn within the final episode as this is the only piece of information that is taken into account by Hercules. iii. From now on, Hercules develops an insight that allows him, as has been observed, “to speak with the authority of history.” We can call this last part of the final episode ‘Hercules’ deathbed instructions’ (1143–1258). 3. The play closes with a typical anapaestic coda (1259–1278), which functions as a proclamation communicating the final instructions and setting the procession in motion.6

6 The mss. are not in agreement about the identity of the speaker of the four final lines of Trach.; they either attribute them to Hyllus or the chorus.

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As noted, a significant overturn is indicated in the lines following the anagnorisis of Nessus’ involvement (1143–1145), an overturn which is signalled by the sense of finality that the definitive fulfilment of the oracles entails. After this revelation, Deianeira is completely forgotten and is never again referred to,7 while Hercules’ first words suggest that he now sees his death as a complete reality (1143–1145): ἰοὺ ἰοὺ δύστηνος, οἴχομαι τάλας· ὄλωλ’ ὄλωλα, φέγγος οὐκέτ’ ἔστι μοι. οἴμοι, φρονῶ δὴ ξυμφορᾶς ἵν’ ἕσταμεν.

1145

Ah, ah, I am done for! I am dead, I am dead, there is no longer light for me! Ah me, I know now in what a calamity I stand!8

1145

The finality of this consummation is highlighted through a series of present perfect verbs that do not only demonstrate the way the past affects the present but also disclose the operation of Nessus as a variable connecting the past and the present and bringing Hercules and Deianeira together for a common purpose (οἴχομαι; ὄλωλ’ ὄλωλα).9 Indeed, it will turn out that the clue about Nessus’ involvement is also consistent with a second oracle predicting the origin of Hercules’ murderer. And once Hercules realizes this correlation, he understands that Zeus’ prophesy simply indicated the end of his life (1173), just like the chorus inferred earlier (828–830), and complies with his father’s plan since death appears to be the only option left. Nevertheless, in the final part of the exodus that follows this anagnorisis and introduces Hercules’ future plan to Hyllus (1174–1258), this finality seems to be interrupted, as this part involves events that extend to a future that resides beyond the play’s present and alludes to a continuation of the story. By planning future arrangements that exceed the dramatic time, however, Hercules refers to two different facts of undeniable historical value for the Athenian audience. So, everybody should have understood the procession leading Hercules on the top of

6 The mss. are not in agreement about the identity of the speaker of the four final lines of Trach.; they either attribute them to Hyllus or the chorus. 7 This is a negligence that mirrors Deianeira’s refusal to defend herself and her silent exit at the end of the third episode (813–820). For the dynamics of this silence, see Seferiadi (2019) 33–34, 200–201. 8 The text used is Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1992) (corrected revision of 1990 impression), the most widely used edition. The translation in English is always cited by Lloyd-Jones (1998) (corrected revision of 1994 impression). 9 See Easterling (1982) ad 1145; Panousis (2013) 161.

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the mountain Oeta to be cremated as aetiology for the actual and archaeologically confirmed ritual, during which a bonfire was lighted and dedications were offered.10 It is also very likely that, as Lloyd-Jones has pointed out, the detail of Hercules giving permission for someone else to light the pyre and ensuring ritual purity for Hyllus (1210–1215) referred to the version according to which Poeas, or his son Philoctetes, was the person responsible for this task.11 In any case, this pyre would relate not only to a narrative but also to a practice that was perfectly familiar to the Athenians, belonged to real contemporary life and created a link between the world of the drama and the world of the audience.12 And secondly, the audience could surely infer that Hercules’ request to Hyllus to marry Iole referred to the well-known myth which considered that the intended spouses were the ancestors of the illustrious dynasty of the Heraclidae.13 This was certainly a strong tradition and Pherecydes stretches it that as far as to claim that it was for Hyllus that Hercules asked Iole’s hand.14 I will leave aside for the moment the implications of Hyllus’ enforced marriage to dwell a little longer on the possibility of Hercules’ pyre and his apotheosis, a possibility which has sparked heated debate among scholars and has raised issues concerning dramatic unity and consistency which I am discussing in this part. It has been noted by several scholars that Hyllus’ remark about the undefined future (1270) and the mention of the story of the pyre (200, 436–437, 633–635, 1191–1216) would not only refer to the actual ritual practice on the top of Mt. Oeta but could also direct the audience’s attention towards the possibility

10 There was already a myth that Hercules met his death in Oeta and we also know of a cult celebrating Hercules’ resurrection, in which bonfires were lighted on the top of the mountain and offerings were made, that was established long before Sophocles’ time, from at least the sixth century. Excavations have yielded figurines and inscriptions which confirm the literary tradition. For the traditions regarding Hercules’ death and deification, see Stafford (2012) 172–174 and 184–185. 11 Lloyd-Jones 1971, 128. Apollod. Bibl. 2.7.7 mentions Poeas (see Frazer [1921] ad loc.) but others mention Philoctetes (see Gantz [1993] 59); cf. Soph. Phil. 801–803. 12 In general, divine and heroic cults of Hercules are extremely common throughout Attica, as he was worshipped, mostly as a god, by citizens of all categories and by non-citizens. On Hercules’ worship, see Woodford (1971); Kearns (1989) 166–167; Verbanck-Piérard (1989) 43–65; Shapiro (1983) 15; (1989) 157–163; Lévêque and Verbanck-Piérard (1992) 43–65; Stafford (2005) 391–406; Stafford (2012) 176–180. 13 See Hdt. 9.25–28; Thuc. 1.9. Pherecydes FGrH 3 F 84 mentions the arrival of Hercules’ children in Attica. Eur. in Heracl. treats the story of their protection from Eurystheus by King Demophon, son of Theseus, in Athens. Heraclidae of Aesch. possibly treated the same story but nothing is known of the plot. For a list of the cults of Hercules’ children in Attica, see Kearns (1989) 166–167. 14 FGrH 82a = Schol. Trach. 354.

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of Hercules’ post-mortal deification, despite the fact that nothing is explicitly said anywhere in the play. So, it now looks as if once again, by investing in the scheme of phenomenal and real knowledge, the play directs us (and a mythologically informed audience) to think that the knowledge gained by Hercules and the chorus after the revelation of Nessus’ liability are still partial and that their interpretation of the oracle is not necessarily correct. For in view of Hercules’ future deification,15 the oracle should not be interpreted disjunctively (as a choice between two mutually exclusive possibilities of death or happy life for the rest of time) but conjunctively (as one and the only possibility that accommodates both death and happiness). However, the debate on whether or not the story of the pyre naturally carried with it thoughts of the apotheosis (and vice versa) is a puzzling deliberation, insofar as our sources on the matter are rather ambiguous.16 Literary and artistic testimonies provide strong evidence that the two narratives were explicitly connected, but unluckily, none of these sources is certainly dated before Trachiniae.17 Therefore, although the audience should have been familiar with both the pyre narrative and the widely known, from at least 600 BC, happyending story of Hercules’ apotheosis,18 we do not know if there was a causal

15 For a review of mythological and historical examples of voluntary death by fire associated with immortality, see Currie (2005) 369–381 (cf. Currie [2012] 336–337, where the scholar parallels Hercules’ situation with Oedipus in Soph. OC). Also see Calame (2005) 181–195, who examines many examples of heroic funerary ritual and sacrificial practice and compares them with Hercules’ death in Trachiniae. 16 Of course, to a certain extent, the ambiguity concerning Hercules’ possible deification in Trachiniae can be considered as an outgrowth of a general difficulty in circumscribing the limits of allusion; namely, to indicate which part of the mythical knowledge is presupposed by the poet, which details he has suppressed or which he is asking his audience to add in order to bridge the gap between two texts that interact. These difficulties are noted, for instance, by Currie (2005) 364–365, but cf. Garner (1990). 17 Hahnemann (1999) 67–73 re-examined two fragments from Heraclidae of Aesch. (F73b and F75a Radt) and suggested that the apotheosis version was current already before 456 BC. But the sources that provide a definite link between the pyre and the deification (Eur. Heracl. 910–918 and Soph. Phil. 727–729) are possibly later than Trachiniae (only the latter is safely dated on 409 BC while the former is dated possibly around 430–427 BC). Archaic art focused on Hercules’ apotheosis but not his death, which is only alluded to on a few classical redfigure vases. Be that as it may, as Stafford notes, there is no means of telling whether this is purely accidental; see Stafford (2012) 173–174. For other possible representations of Hercules’ apotheosis in lost literature and art, see Holt (1992) 38–59. 18 The idea of Hercules’ entry to Olympus appears quite early in literary sources (Hom. Od. 11. 602–604; Hes. Theog. 950–955; Pind. N. 1.69–72; N. 10.17–18; I. 4.73–78), while it was current in fifth-century Athens, as can be demonstrated by the appearance of the hero’s wedding to

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association between the two branches at the time when the play was written. It could be equally possible that the two stories were circulating independently and had not yet merged or that they had long ago been moulded into a single narrative. The answer suggested to this dilemma is both affected by and affects the interpretation of the play.19 On the one hand, one could plausibly note that, even if the link between the two stories had not yet been confirmed, it is a fact that both the narratives about the bonfire ritual and Hercules’ status as an immortal were already established by the time of Sophocles. Therefore, it would be difficult for someone who was familiar with a famous ritual celebrating, precisely, Hercules’ resurrection and immortality, not to recall this when watching the hero on stage preparing for the funeral pyre. On these grounds, it could be really possible that Sophocles ‘plays’ with his audience’s knowledge about Hercules’ future apotheosis and expects them to recollect the traditional happy ending and the future compensation of the hero. Within this line of thinking, one is directed to discern a heroic progress in the exodus of the play that leads towards Hercules’ recompense. And conversely, this possibility of a future apotheosis mitigates the inconceivable negligence of Zeus for his own son and restores justice for this great Pan-Hellenic benefactor. On the other hand, it is also true that the prospect of a future recompense for Hercules necessitates a happy conclusion that abrogates the tragic finality of the play. Thus, a number of critics who believe that the play ends on a note of grim reality, which leaves no room for compensation, either suggest that the apotheosis allusion is only faint or deny any hint and propose that the poet deliberately

Hebe in many contemporary vase-paintings and on the comic stage and by his status as a god in Attic cult (see Stafford [2012] 176–180). However, Iliad’s citation of Hercules’ death omits this entry (18.117–119). Then, although Hercules’ promotion to Olympus was a well-known story, it was not one that did not cause any second thoughts. It is interesting that although Odyssey mentions his deification, it also presupposes his mortality since he is not totally excluded from death and his εἴδωλον still stands in the Underworld among other deceased heroes (11.602–627). This ambivalence held by his heroic and divine nature leads Aristophanes to criticize Hercules for being ‘a bastard god’. Ancient literary criticism, finally, seems to give consideration to this uncertainty about Hercules’ god status. Thus, the scholiast of Odyssey (11.602–604) mentions that the lines were believed to be an insertion by the sixth-century Orphic Onomacritus. Similarly, the scholium to Hesiod’s Theogony (950–955) mentions that the lines had been athetized (ἀθετοῦνται), while F 25 (Merkelbach and West) of the pseudoHesiodic Catalogue of Women is marked in the margins with obeli in the section where Hercules in heaven is quoted (20–33). 19 The debate about the play’s ending is usefully summarized by Liapis (2006) 56–59, who gives comprehensive lists of critics who favour or oppose Hercules’ apotheosis.

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suppressed this possibility in order to explicitly diverge from the tradition of a happy ending.20 Other critics, while agreeing that Hercules’ exaltation would be out of keeping with the tragic tone of the play, see that this ambiguity is intentionally exploited by the poet and that the play is purposely open-ended.21 Besides, the allusion to an unknown outcome underscores the tragic ignorance of the person involved and introduces a theme that was very familiar to Sophocles, the circumscribed human knowledge, which is tragic per se, regardless of whether his character is ignorant of future happiness or imminent misfortune.22 20 Sophocles’ suppression of the apotheosis story has also been interpreted on political grounds. It has been argued that Hercules’ image in archaic and classical Athens was invoked in support of the tyranny of Peisistratus and his sons and was later displaced by the image of the more ‘democratic’ hero, Theseus. Boardman (1972) 57–72 (and [1975] 1–12 for more evidence) has suggested that the exceptional popularity of Hercules in Athenian art of the Peisistratan period was due, to some degree, of deliberate identification between tyrant and hero, both appearing as special protégés of the goddess Athena. The scholar links the chariot type scenes with Peisistratus’ return to power in Athens in 546 BC, in a chariot accompanied by a mock Athena (Hdt. 1.60) and suggests that this episode was mirrored by or inspired a change in the usual iconography of Hercules’ introduction to Olympus by Athena on foot to a version in which the hero is shown with the goddess in a chariot. On these grounds, Sophocles’ silence of Hercules’ introduction to Olympus may be understood as the poet’s intention to suppress the political hints of the episode. However, Boardman’s suggestion has been criticized; on this topic see Stafford (2012) 163–170 and 256, n. 30, where relevant bibliography is also cited. For a political reading of the play, also see Vickers (1995) 45–53 who argues for a link between the foundation of Heracleia Trachinia in Thessaly by the Spartans in 426 BC (Thuc. 3.92–93) and Sophocles’ Trachiniae. 21 Hoey (1977) 273 first suggested that the play leaves the question of apotheosis open “as though [it] had weighed both options and felt itself unable to decide”. Holt (1989) 69–80 took the view that the allusion to apotheosis is only faint in order not to spoil the overall sombre effect of the play. Stinton (1990) 493–507 argued that Sophocles meant his audience to be aware that he is diverging from the apotheosis tradition and discouraged them from taking apotheosis for granted, by exploiting the Iliadic version of Hercules’ end as a subtext (“even Hercules was not exempt from death,” Il. 18.117–119). Liapis (2006) 56–59 reads the ending as a deliberate allusion to Odyssey’s double version of Hercules’ fate and suggests that the play is equally and self-consciously indecisive and ambiguous. 22 In her analysis of the allusive Sophoclean endings, Roberts (1988) 184–185 pairs Trach. with OT, and notes that although in both plays the end appears to be final, in each play there is a mysterious suggestion that something is more to come. This future stands in ironic contrast with the end of the action while the characters are ignorant of the future that the play suggests: Hyllus does not know that he and Iole will be the ancestors of the Heraclidae and that his descendants will bear and perpetuate Hercules’ name, Hercules does not know that he will become a god and the fallen Oedipus knows nothing about the future Sophocles has created for him in his late Oedipus (and how could he?; for the reasons why OC should not be considered a ‘sequel’ to OT see Karakantza [2020] 114 [with n. 233] and 122–123). On Sophoclean endings as opposed to Euripidean, see Dunn (1996) 5–7, who suggests that the tragic

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In spite of the solution to the apotheosis dilemma to which we are to give credence, it remains a fact that after the revelation about the Centaur’s involvement, the dynamics of tradition reveal a tendency to displace the dynamics of the plot. At this point, poetry subdues to the justification of the actual worship of Hercules on Mt. Oeta and the establishment of the mythological continuity of the Heraclidae while Deianeira’s and Hercules’ tragedy are left aside. The prime role is now given to the tragic chorus who is dancing in a festival of Dionysus in real-time. More importantly, after this point, Hercules’ words are given a new kind of aetiological and prophetic authority. The hero develops an insight that enhances the performance of his speech with the force of an institutional speech act; he is not only speaking but he is ‘doing things with words’, to use Austin’s phrase, while the perlocutionary effect of his speech extends beyond the time limits of this drama.23 The hero now acts in the knowledge that he is fulfilling some divine plan. Besides, Hercules’ liminal status as a moribund, and indeed a moribund who is not far from being deified, exalts the prolocutor of this speech to the level of a divine agent. Thus, it is not coincidental that the processing of Hercules directives is formalized with the sacredness of the contractual language of Hyllus’ blind oath,24 or that his instructions are validated by the authority of a νόμος (1174–1178): ταῦτ’ οὖν ἐπειδὴ λαμπρὰ συμβαίνει, τέκνον, δεῖ σ’ αὖ γενέσθαι τῷδε τἀνδρὶ σύμμαχον, καὶ μὴ ’πιμεῖναι τοὐμὸν ὀξῦναι στόμα, ἀλλ’ αὐτὸν εἰκαθόντα συμπράσσειν, νόμον κάλλιστον ἐξευρόντα, πειθαρχεῖν πατρί.

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end in Sophocles embraces the paradox of belated understanding in the manner of Croesus: “the final destruction of the protagonist brings to him and to those who witness his drama a new and authoritative understanding” (6). In Euripides, on the other hand, it seems that this tragic end “is ignored, discarded as irrelevant in a larger story that has no end” (7). 23 Several conventions exploited by drama, such as the divine utterances, the oaths, the prophesies, the aition, the deus ex machina, exemplify the type of language that speech act theory categorized as ‘illocutions’ or ‘speech acts’. The original distinction between the ‘descriptive or constative’ and the ‘performative’ utterance (what is later called ‘speech-act’) was made by Austin, in his well-known book, How to Do Things with Words (1975). Although the initial distinction has been challenged, starting from Austin himself who concludes that apparently descriptive language can also have performative force ([1975] 132–147), his and his disciple Searle’s idea that language generates actions (‘doing things with words’, Searle [1969]; [1979]) initiated speech act theory, a theory which accounts for the performative force of a variety of utterances. 24 For oaths in Greek drama, see Fletcher (2012) (esp. 81–89, for Hyllus’ oath).

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So now that this is clearly being fulfilled, my son, you must fight at my side, and not wait until my words grow sharp, but comply and work with me, finding that it is the noblest of laws that bids a man obey his father.

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This νόμος that Hercules appeals to must refer to the long-lived and common unwritten law according to which one is expected to obey and show respect to one’s parents.25 But πατρί here is ambiguous. It certainly refers to the obedience of Hyllus to his father Hercules, which is of particular importance to Hyllus’ coming of age and is also essential for the traditional story to be confirmed.26 But let me dwell a little longer on the aspect of Hercules’ respect to his father Zeus which I believe is also implied here. Zeus is prominent in Trachiniae.27 He is referred to more than thirty times, which, as estimated by Budelmann, is about twice as frequently as in any other play, while his superior plan and the paternal kinship with Hercules function as a kind of leitmotif.28 Of the various references to Zeus in Trachiniae, what is of great interest to our discussion is the aspect of Zeus as the planner that structures and shapes poetry, an aspect which evokes the poet’s persona, as in Διὸς βουλή of the Iliad. Quite early, in the parodos of the play, when rejecting the likelihood of Zeus lacking a general counsel for humans, the chorus speaks about Zeus as a general planner: “who has seen Zeus so lacking in counsel for his children?” (‘τίς ὧδε/ τέκνοισι Ζῆν’ ἄβουλον εἶδεν;’ 139–140). This Zeus, however, could possibly have a poetic plan for Trachiniae as well. And this must be a plan that would include the extra-dramatic events that are meant by this κάλλιστος νόμος, the noblest of laws validated by the authority of the father, despite the fact that these events exceed the staging time and are not directly associated with the plot. Therefore, Hercules’ voice at the moment when he spells out the orders that are dictated by the authority of a paternal νόμος has been elevated to an extra-dramatic level, lying on a

25 See, e.g., Aesch. Cho. 707–709; Soph. Ant. 639–640; Eur. fr. 853 TrGF. 26 For Hyllus’ coming of age, see Seferiadi (2019) 220–231. 27 For Zeus in Trach., see Mikalson (1986) 89–98 (discusses Zeus in Soph. Trach. and Eur. HF; for Trach. 90–93) and Budelmann (2000) 154–168. As Mikalson (1986) 90–91 notes, “Sophocles, rather than developing a single and unified conception of Zeus, introduces a wide range of Zeuses and then binds them together through the paternity of Hercules. . . . The Zeus of Sophocles is a hybrid, an amalgam of various local cultic (Kenaios and Oitaios), functional (oaths, lightning, etc.), and mythological bits which were never found together in such a combination in practised religion. As such he is the type of deity commonly found in epic and lyric poetry, not in life. Euripides’ Zeus, however, has his roots more in the cult and religion of the Athenian audience.” 28 Budelmann (2000) 154.

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scale of events that derive directly from Zeus and exceed both human contemplation and dramatic delineation. Among other qualities attributed to Zeus in Trachiniae, his designation as the ultimate paternal figure, as in the phrase πατρῴῳ Διὶ, 753, describing Zeus as Hercules’ father or as a father in a more general sense, is unmistakable. Zeus is not only the regulator of his son’s fate as the actual voice behind the oracles but also the ultimate source of divine authority and the general regulator of all human beings and actions: “[he] who ordains all things” (‘ὁ πάντα κραίνων βασιλεὺς’, 127).29 It is no accident, therefore, that the written oracle which Hercules left with Deianeira before he went away is said to have come from Dodona, a sanctuary of Zeus, rather than the more usual source of tragic oracles, Apollo’s Delphi. And certainly, neither the very last line of the play is an accident: “And nothing of this is not Zeus” (‘κοὐδὲν τούτων ὅ τι μὴ Ζεύς’, 1278). This picks up all these references to Zeus and seals the end with the idea of the inaccessible and the inevitable of the superior forces.30

The Dramatic Necessity of Hercules’ Nomos So following up on this analysis, I would suggest that after 1143 Hercules is being transformed into a kind of deus ex machina who appears at the end of the play and spells out an aetiology that explicitly connects the enacted events of the plot with the world of the audience.31 This closing aetiology (aition) denotes the connection between past and present, between myth and history by showing that the events of traditional narrative elaborated by the poet survive in some specific way into the present world of the audience.32 The speaker of aetiology, as suggested by Dunn, is “a figure whose privileged knowledge extends 29 This is commonplace in Greek thought; see, e.g., Pind. I 5.52–53; Aesch. Ag. 1485–1488. 30 However, if we accept that the end of the play alludes to Hercules’ apotheosis, this last reference to Zeus seems to pay attention to the inaccessibility rather than the inevitability of the divine will. In any case, Hyllus’ (or the chorus’) theological perspective in denouncing the god’s indifference is unparalleled in its extremity in Sophocles. See Budelmann (2000) 169–171; Goldhill (2012) 158–162 who discuss this statement. 31 In general, the deus ex machina may be read as redirecting the disoriented route of a play towards the established tradition and real ritual practice while confirming the end by inducing a stasis. For aspects of staging in the use of deus ex machina, see Mastronarde (1990) 247–294. 32 Tragic closures often suggest a retrospective interpretation of the play’s action as the foundation story for a contemporary cultural institution (aetiology or aition), a practice that continues a long tradition of poetic mythmaking that grounded religious practices in the distant past. Through this association the action of the drama is enhanced and legitimized with the

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beyond the bounds of the drama” and Hercules from that point onwards seems to qualify for this role.33 While maintaining his dramatic role, he is slightly disconnected from the action so that he can speak with two voices, foretelling for Hyllus events he does not understand and explaining an institution already familiar to the audience. However, although at this point tradition seems to displace the play’s dramatic present, it is also true that this closure meets expectations as raised by the plot and that these extra-dramatic references are integral elements of a whole.34 Repeatedly in the course of the play, the expectation of the hero’s return was prepared and encouraged and this is exactly the exodus’ content. Of course, within the tragic arrangement, this nostos is reversed and instead of the triumphal entrance of the hero, we witness his funeral. Besides, the concept of an extended and failed nostos lies at the core of Hercules’ existence; he was born in exile, he was deprived of his patrimonial inheritance in ruling over Argolid, he always remained an extensive traveller and he never succeeded in his familial life. Moreover, given that the exodus starts with diseased Hercules being carried on a stretcher and ends with Hercules being transferred to his tomb, thus dramatizing the hero’s death and funeral, it seems plausible that the scene consists of the agonies he has been suffering, the realization of the imminent and inevitable death by the moribund himself and his deathbed instructions. Therefore, these requests are included within this funeral frame and smoothly incorporated into the dramatic setting of the hero’s last moments. Then, the requests themselves have a specific dramatic function which advances our reading of the play. Hyllus’ marriage to Iole does not only verify the established genealogy of this legendary family and binds Hyllus to this role by

promise of perpetual, established and institutionalized ritual commemoration. At the same time, as Roberts notes, the aition “displaces the movement of historical narrative with the stasis of contemporaneous presence or repeated practice” (Roberts [2005] 145). For the aition (most notably in Eur.), see Dunn (1996) 45–63. 33 Dunn (1996) 49. 34 Following Yiatromanolakis and Roilos (2004) model on ‘ritual poetics’, in her recent study on narrative and ritual in Sophoclean drama, Brook has rightly suggested that in Sophocles rituals do not only have ritual but also have dramatic and poetic implications: “[R]itual functions as a poetic device, directing the audience’s experience of the plot and perception of the characters of the plays. These poetic effects depend on the close analogy between ritual and narrative” (Brook [2018] 3). Her analysis on Trach. (21–49, esp. 33–36 and 175–178), however, only focuses on sacrificial ritual and does not take the opportunity to discuss the implications of marriage ritual, which is particularly significant in the play and an eloquent example of a ritual mistake (in terms of all parameters of conflation, repetition and status) that is embedded in the plot. For marriage in Trach., see Seferiadi (2019) 83–158.

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swearing an oath but it is also essential for the continuation of Hercules’ generation and is, therefore, planned to salvage the remains of his family, especially since the play has presented the destruction of his oikos.35 Then, the hero’s immolation completes the sacrificial pattern which was repeatedly exploited in the play while it also follows the pattern of the Herculean labours, as it is presented as the ultimate, and possibly the hardest, task the hero needs to accomplish.36 And finally, the possibility of the apotheosis proposes a retrospective interpretation of the play. In particular, Hercules’ imminent self-immolation and the eternal bliss he was known to enjoy on Olympus, as possible aftermath to his cremation, is based on the idea of confusion between life and death, fundamental in Trachiniae. This is not merely an implication raised by the hero’s ambivalent status between a mortal and a god and embedded in the way the oracle is articulated but it is also an implication that is extensively elaborated in the exodus, where he is presented as a living corpse who organizes and attends his own funeral. Besides, the uncertainty about the future to which the allusion to the apotheosis gives rise is also embedded in the very deep structure of a play which repeatedly comments on the inaccessibility of superior knowledge. This possibility, finally, ends up the circular movement which started in the very first lines of the play, proposing a revised elucidation of Deianeira’s opening statement about Solon’s saying. In addition, the very nature of this conclusion advises us to see it the type of closures that Smith calls “cultural markers of closure.” As Smith suggests, death, just like other types of closures, such as departure, reunion or reconciliation, solution or fulfilment and ritual, evokes one of “natural stopping places of our lives and experiences” and has themselves terminating force.37 Especially in tragedy, as Roberts notes, it is not surprising that death and mourning are the most common of concluding markers: of twenty-three existing tragedies that end with death, nineteen end with some form of, or reference to, burial or mourning ritual.38 It is interesting, however, as Roberts continues, that in tragedy these markers may be used in such a way as to interfere with closure.39 In 35 It was also crucial for Hyllus’ coming of age. For Hyllus’ coming of age, see Seferiadi (2019) 220–231. 36 See Panousis (2013) 163: “Ψάχνει απεγνωσμένα να μετουσιώσει το θάνατό του σε ύστατο άθλο, ο οποίος να κλείνει τελετουργικά τον κύκλο ενός ηρωικού βίου. Και η μόνη λύση που βρίσκει αυτή την κρίσιμη ώρα είναι ο θάνατος πάνω στην πυρά της Οίτης.” 37 Smith (1968) 101–102, 172–182. 38 Roberts (2005) 143; (1993) 573–589. 39 Of course, this observation applies to the way ritual in general operates in tragedy, not only closures. As has been noted by several scholars (see e.g. Zeitlin [1970] 359; Seaford [1994] xv; Henrichs [2004]; 194; Rehm [2012] 427; Brook [2018] 29), in Greek tragedy and especially in

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several plays, for example, the ritual of burial is deprived of some of its effect by the exclusion of a would-be participant. In Euripides’ Medea, Medea and Jason will remain divided in the ritual expression of their grief for their children since Medea alone will carry out the burial. In Trachiniae, Hercules’ burial will be completed in the absence of his family (1147–1156), underlining his alienation from his oikos presented in the play, while lamentation will be refused (1199–1200, 1260–1263), emphasizing the extremity of strength and endurance of this superhuman hero whose suffering will be accentuated through ritual inertia. Then, the ritual confusion of this burial with both rituals of marriage and sacrifice results into a ritual crisis that hinders its completion and underlines its propensity to fail.40 Hercules’ pyre is a holocaust, a fire ritual, usually associated with the worship of the dead, in which the destructive power of fire will be fully displayed as the sacrificial victim will be wholly burned.41 And, as Calame notes: “On Oeta, no libations, no slitting of the victim’s throat, no sharing of the meat, no parts which would have been reserved for the people, no companionship with or without the gods: the victim is entirely destroyed by fire.”42 What is more, the sacrificial ritual is not the only one that fails. The play also dramatized the complete failure of a marriage through the transformation of the nuptial ceremony into a funeral but on the grounds of Hercules’ apotheosis, even this concluding funeral is at stake. In general, through the linguistic and metaphorical use of the symbolic gestures attached to ritual acts, our text indicates disarrangement of active and passive identities and gendered role models, elaborated in terms of ritual irregularity. In the course of the play, Hercules is constantly moving between the roles of the sacrificer and the sacrificial victim. As a follow up to his violent act of destroying a city, Hercules founds a sanctuary on Cape Cenaeum and performs a sacrifice, but Deianeira’s sacrificial robe will transform this foundation

Sophocles, the rituals performed and described onstage seldom proceed without problems and often fail to achieve their intended ends. The general idea of this conclusion, elaborated by Seaford, is that Greek tragedy follows a pattern, inherited from the Dionysian cult, whereby “the self-destruction of the ruling family, expressed in the perversion of ritual, ends in benefit, and in particular in the foundation of cult, for the whole polis” (Seaford [1994] xix, 274, 276; cf. Segal [1997] 349–373). 40 For the conflation of death and sacrifice ritual, see Calame (2005) 181–195 and Brook (2018) 33–36. For the conflation of marriage and sacrifice ritual see, most notably, Segal (1975) 30–53; (1981) 65–72, 98–108. It is interesting that marriage also interacts with Hercules’ immortalization in the tradition that mentions that his deification was consecrated through his marriage to the eternally young Hebe. 41 On fire rituals and the holocaust ritual, see Burkert (1985) 60–64. 42 Calame (2005) 194.

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sacrificer (θυτήρ, 656) into the sacrificial victim. Then he moves to Trachis and acts again as a sacrificer, organizing a second holocaust on Mt. Oeta (1192) but once again he will be transformed into the victim of this second sacrifice, as the fire will consume his own diseased body. Moreover, although it is clear that Deianeira acts as the sacrificer of her spouse, the text simultaneously qualifies her, like Ajax, for the role of the victim of a sacrificial throat-slitting (ἀρτίως νεοσφαγής, 1130; cf. same phrase in Aj. 898). Hercules’ feminine and passive sacrifice would, thus, correspond to Deianeira’s heroic and active sacrifice and vice versa, Deianeira’s victimization will be contrasted with Hercules’ role as sacrificer. All these roles that Deianeira and Hercules undertake move irregularly between the poles of a subject (active doer) and an object (passive receiver) of action and are in constant interaction with the corresponding active and passive roles related to the rituals of sacrifice, marriage and death. To sum up, in view of the preceding analysis, it has been suggested that through the way the audience knowledge of traditional narrative is exploited at the end of the play, we can discern a sophisticated interaction between tragic mythos and the authoritative principle of history. This is not a one-sided submission to the established tradition but rather a diplomatic relationship that simultaneously allows for the reaffirmation and exploitation of the dynamics of history. With Hercules being transformed into a kind of deus ex machina who will organize his own funeral and set up the future of his legendary family, the end of Trachiniae necessitates the settlement of a dramatic order, no matter how precarious this order may be, and sets up the closure of the play but nonetheless continues to invest in a scheme of irregularity in terms of ritual and gender roles, designed and directed in order to negotiate the conditions under which authority can be imposed.

Bibliography Austin, J.L. 19752. How to Do Things with Words. Cambridge. Boardman, J. 1972. Herakles, Peisistratos, and Sons. RA 1: 57–72. Bonnet, C. and Jourdain-Annequin, C. (eds.). 1992. Héraclès: d’une rive à l’autre de la Méditerranée: bilan et perspectives. Brussels. Brook, A.B. 2018. Tragic Rites: Narrative and Ritual in Sophoclean Drama. Madison. Budelmann, F. 2000. The Language of Sophocles: Communality, Communication and Involvement. Cambridge. Burkert, W. 1985. Greek Religion: Archaic and Classical. (transl. J. Raffan). Oxford. Calame, C. 2005. Heracles, Animal and Sacrificial Victim in Sophocles’ Trachiniae. In Hägg and Alroth (2005) 181–195. Currie, B. 2005. Pindar and the Cult of Heroes. Oxford.

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Currie, B. 2012. Sophocles and Hero Cult. In Ormand (2012) 331–348. Davies, M. 1991. Sophocles: Trachiniae. Oxford. Dawe, R.D. 1974–1978. Studies on the Text of Sophocles. 3 vols. Leiden. Dawe, R.D. 1982. Sophoclis Oedipus Rex. Cambridge. Dunn, F.M. 1996. Tragedy’s End: Closure and Innovation in Euripidean Drama. New York. Easterling, P.E. 1982. Sophocles: Trachiniae. Cambridge. Finglass, P. 2009. The Ending of Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex. Philologus 153: 42–62. Fletcher, J. 2012. Performing Oaths in Classical Greek Drama. Cambridge. Frazer, J. G. 1921. Apollodorus: The Library, 3 vols. Cambridge. Gantz, T. 1993. Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources. Baltimore. Garner, R. 1990. From Homer to Tragedy: The Art of Allusion in Greek Poetry. London. Goldhill, S. 2012. Sophocles and the Language of Tragedy. New York. Gregory, J. (ed.). 2005. A Companion to Greek Tragedy. Malden, MA. Hägg, R. and Alroth, B. (eds.). 2005. Greek Sacrificial Ritual, Olympian and Chthonian. Proceedings of the Sixth International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult, Göteborg University, 25–27 April 1997. Sävedalen. Hahnemann, C. 1999. Mount Oita Revisited: Sophokles’ Trachiniai in Light of the Evidence of Aischylos’ Herakleidai. ZPE 126: 67–73. Henrichs, A. 2004. Let the Good Prevail: Perversions of the Ritual Process in Greek Tragedy. In Yatromanolakis and Roilos (2004) 189–198. Hoey, T.F. 1977. Ambiguity in the Exodos of Sophocles’ Trachiniae. Arethusa 10: 269–295. Holt, P. 1989. The End of the Trachiniai and the Fate of Heracles. JHS 109: 69–80. Holt, P. 1992. Herakles’ Apotheosis in Lost Greek Literature and Art. AC 61: 38–59. Jebb, R.C. 1892. Sophocles: The Plays and Fragments; Part V: The Trachiniae. Cambridge. Karakantza (Καρακάντζα), E.D. 2004. Αρχαίοι Ελληνικοί Μύθοι: Ο Θεωρητικός Λόγος του 20ού Αιώνα για τη Φύση και την Ερμηνεία τους. Αθήνα. Karakantza, E.D. 2020. “Who Am I?” (Mis)identity and the Polis in Oedipus Tyrannus. Cambridge, MA. Kearns, E. 1989. The Heroes of Attica. London. Kovacs, D. 2009. Do we Have the End of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus? JHS 129: 53–70. Laurens, A.-F. (ed.). 1989. Entre hommes et dieux: le convive, le héros, le prophète. Besançon. Lévêque, P. and Verbanck- Piérard, A. 1992. Héraclès héros ou dieu? In Bonnet and JourdainAnnequin (1992) 43–65. Liapis, V. 2006. Intertextuality as Irony: Heracles in Epic and in Sophocles. G&R 53: 48–59. Linforth, I.M. 1952. The Pyra on Mount Oeta in Sophocles’ Trachiniae. In University of California Publications in Classical Philology, eds. Edelstein, L., Green, W.M., MacKay, L.A. and Smith, H.R.W., 14, 255–267. Lloyd-Jones, H. 1971. The Justice of Zeus. Berkeley. Lloyd-Jones, H. 1998. Sophocles: Antigone; The Women of Trachis; Philoctetes; Oedipus at Colonus. Cambridge, MA. Lloyd-Jones, H. and Wilson, N.G. 1990. Sophoclea: Studies on the Text of Sophocles. Oxford. Lloyd-Jones, H. and Wilson, N.G. 1992. Sophoclis Fabulae. Oxford. Markantonatos, A. (ed.). 2012. Brill’s Companion to Sophocles. Leiden. Mastronarde, D. 1990. Actors on High: The Skene Roof, the Crane and the Gods in Attic Drama. CA 9: 247–294. Merkelbach, R. and West, M.L. (eds.). 1967. Hesiod. Fragmenta Hesiodea. Oxford. Mikalson, J.D. 1986. Zeus the Father and Heracles the Son in Tragedy. TAPhA 116: 89–98.

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Ormand, K. 2012. A Companion to Sophocles. Chichester. Panousis (Πανούσης), Y. 2013. Ο Θάνατος του Ηρακλή στις Τραχίνιες του Σοφοκλή. Parabasis 11: 157–167. Rehm, R. 2012. Ritual in Sophocles. In Markantonatos (2012) 411–427. Ritter, F. 1861. Sieben unechte schlussstellen in den tragödien des Sophokles. Phil. 17: 422–436. Roberts, D.H. 2005. Beginnings and Endings. In Gregory (2005) 136–158. Roberts, D.H. 1988. Sophoclean Endings: Another Story. Arethusa 21: 177–196. Roberts, D.H. 1993. The Frustrated Mourner: Strategies of Closure in Greek Tragedy. In Rosen and Farrell (1993) 573–589. Rosen, R.M. and Farrell, J. (eds.). 1993. Nomodeiktes: Greek Studies in Honor of Martin Ostwald. Ann Arbor. Seaford, R. 1994. Reciprocity and Ritual: Homer and Tragedy in the Developing City-State. Oxford. Searle, J.R. 1969. Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language. Cambridge. Searle, J.R. 1979. Expression and Meaning: Studies in the Theory of Speech Acts. Cambridge. Seferiadi, G. 2019. An Amazon in Athens: Gendered Correlation and Political Association in Sophocles’ Trachiniai (Ph.D. Diss. University of Patras). Segal, C. 1975. The Hydra’s Nursling: Image and Action in the Trachiniae. AC 44: 612–617. Segal, C. 1981. Tragedy and Civilization. Cambridge, MA. Segal, C. 1997. Dionysiac Poetics and Euripides’ Bacchae. Princeton. Shapiro, H.A. 1983. Heros Theos: The Death and Apotheosis of Herakles. CW 77: 7–18. Shapiro, H.A. 1989. Art and Cult under the Tyrants in Athens. Mainz. Smith, B. 1968. Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End. Chicago. Stafford, E. 2005. Héraklès: Encore et toujours le problème du Héros-theos. Kernos 18: 391–406. Stafford, E. 2012. Herakles: Gods and Heroes of the Ancient World. London. Stinton, T.C.W. 1990. Collected Papers on Greek Tragedy. Oxford. Verbanck-Piérard, A. 1989. Le double culte d’Héraklès: légende ou réalité? In Laurens (1989) 43–65. Vickers, M. 1995. Heracles Lacedaemonius: The Political Dimensions of Sophocles’ Trachiniae and Euripides’ Heracles. DHA 21.2: 41–69. Woodford, S. 1971. Cults of Heracles in Attica. In D.G. Mitten, J.G. Pedley, and J.A. Scott (eds.). Studies Presented to George M.A. Hanfmann, 211–225. Mainz. Yatromanolakis, D. and Roilos, P. 2004. Greek Ritual Poetics. Washington, DC. Zeitlin, F. 1970. The Ritual World of Greek Tragedy (Ph.D. Diss. Columbia University).

Athina Papachrysostomou

Nectanebo II and Philip II in Mythic Disguise: Comedy’s Burlesque of History Abstract: The present chapter demonstrates how Greek Middle Comedy practises burlesque of contemporary history – with ensuing political ramifications – through the means of mythological parody. The argument is substantiated through the analysis of two exemplary cases from the fragmentarily surviving corpus of the fourth-century BC comic poet Ephippus, where contemporary historical figures are presented in mythical, albeit recognizable, disguise. It is argued that (i) in the play Busiris Ephippus uses the mythical persona of the title-figure as a disguise for the Egyptian pharaoh Nectanebo II, and (ii) in his Geryon the Macedonian king Philip II can be identified as the historical equivalent of the mythical title-figure. “What is myth?”, Walter Burkert asked more than forty years ago, only to admit that “a simple definition will not do.”1 Likewise, Geoffrey Kirk acknowledged that “there is no one definition of myth.”2 As a matter of fact, with regard to classical antiquity (both Greek and Roman), we rarely question the quintessence of the term ‘history’, yet we often fervently pursue and seek to accurately define and comprehend the multifarious connotations and multifaceted nuances that are concomitant to the largely fluid and malleable notion (better say, phenomenon) of ‘myth’.3 Originally, the term myth (μῦθος) signalled any authoritative utterance that sought to disseminate powerful truth claims; produced in a predominantly oral environment, the potency of myth largely relied on its capacity to respond and seemingly explain new and changing circumstances.4 Accordingly, throughout antiquity, mythical narrative discourse widely exercised a sanctioning effect upon contemporary reality, endorsing, interpreting, substantiating, and ratifying the present (political and other). In his (1999) monograph on Theorizing Myth Bruce Lincoln defined myth as “ideology in narrative form”;5 through this interpretative angle one can easily comprehend the powerful dynamics of ancient Greek myth in general and its decisive effectiveness upon Greek politics in particular. Relevant to this approach of myth is Calame’s (2003) monograph Myth and

1 2 3 4 5

Burkert (1979) 1. Kirk (1970) 7. For an overall introduction to Greek myth, see Graf (1993). Hall (2007) 332. Lincoln (1999) 146–147.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-016

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History in Ancient Greece, where he demonstrates – through an exemplary case study – the intricate interplay and the (purposely) traversable boundaries among history, myth, and politics in ancient Greece.6 Blurring the boundaries (deliberately or incidentally, and for multiple reasons) between history and myth (both terms understood in their widest possible meanings) is a frequently repeated phenomenon in antiquity, which the present volume bears witness to (cf. Preface for further analysis). Within the literary genre of Comedy, myth’s fluidity and plasticity acquire a whole new meaning and new, unthinkable (even absurd) dimensions. There is a conspicuous comic fragment (preserved by Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 6.222c-223a) by the fourth-century playwright Antiphanes7 (from his play Ποίησις – Poetry), where the speaker (probably a comic playwright himself, judging from what he says) furiously complains about how tragedy has an easy ride in dealing with myth (given that the basic mythical background is widely known), whereas Comedy needs more sophistication and elaborate, hard work, since new plot-twists need to be invented and new (comic) versions of myth to be staged (otherwise, there would be no fun and no point whatsoever, if comedy retold tragic myths in their traditional versions). This is what the comic hero says in Antiphanes fr. 189 (lines 1–8, 17–18): μακάριόν ἐστιν ἡ τραγῳδία ποίημα κατὰ πάντ᾿, εἴ γε πρῶτον οἱ λόγοι ὑπὸ τῶν θεατῶν εἰσιν ἐγνωρισμένοι, πρὶν καί τιν’ εἰπεῖν· ὥσθ’ ὑπομνῆσαι μόνον δεῖ τὸν ποητήν. Οἰδίπουν γὰρ † φῶ τὰ δ᾿ ἄλλα πάντ᾿ ἴσασιν· ὁ πατὴρ Λάιος, μήτηρ Ἰοκάστη, θυγατέρες, παῖδες τίνες, τί πείσεθ᾿ οὗτος, τί πεποίηκεν. ... ἡμῖν δὲ ταῦτ᾿ οὐκ ἔστιν, ἀλλὰ πάντα δεῖ εὑρεῖν Tragedy’s a thoroughly enviable type of poetry! The plots, first of all, are familiar to the audience, before anyone speaks a word; so, all the poet has to do is offer a reminder. Because † says † “Oedipus”, they know everything else: his father’s Laius; his mother’s Jocasta; who his daughters and his sons are;

6 In that regard, Nilsson’s monograph (1951) is considered a pioneering work. 7 On Antiphanes’ date, see Konstantakos (2000).

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what’s going to happen to him; what he’s done. ... We don’t have these advantages, so we have to invent everything.8

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Be that as it may, the comic playwrights did not seem to have been disheartened; on the contrary, Comedy assumed (quite early on) an idiosyncratic treatment of myth and engaged in a resourceful and extensive dialogue (intertextual and satirical) with the mythical tradition.9 The mythological repertoire spiked during especially Middle Comedy. Despite the entirely fragmentary nature of this era’s surviving evidence,10 modern research has revealed the details of the comic poets’ resourcefulness, with regard to mythological parody. Most telling of the unimaginable extent of mythological parody is Aristotle’s testimony about the plot of an unidentifiable comic play (Po. 1453a37-39): οἳ ἂν ἔχθιστοι ὦσιν ἐν τῷ μύθῳ, οἷον Ὀρέστης καὶ Αἴγισθος, φίλοι γενόμενοι ἐπὶ τελευτῆς ἐξέρχονται, καὶ ἀποθνῄσκει οὐδεὶς ὑπ’ οὐδενός Those who are deadliest enemies in the mythical tradition, such as Orestes and Aegisthus, exit at the end having become friends, and no one is killed by anyone.11

It is the current scholarly belief that in Middle Comedy12 myth and contemporary reality are inextricably intertwined. The traditional myth is comically distorted and accordingly presented in an adapted version that abounds in comic burlesque, twists, and unexpected turns; this is what Webster identified as “comic reversal of tradition.”13 Typically, plays that engage in mythological parody are dramatically situated in a distinct realm, in-between the mythical world and the contemporary reality of fourth-century Athens, thus transcending and blurring

8 English translation by Olson (2008) 3–5. See Olson (2007) 154–155, 172–173 for further analysis of this fragment. 9 This trend of myth burlesque can be traced back to Old Comedy (the major example being Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros). On Old Comedy’s legacy in dealing with mythical tradition, see Bowie (1993); Bowie (2000); Bowie (2007); Bakola (2010) 180–208; Bowie (2010); Ruffell (2011) 314–360; Henderson (2012). 10 Unlike Old and New Comedy, we have no intact surviving play from the period of Middle Comedy. 11 My translation. 12 I.e. the period between the performance of Aristophanes’ last intact surviving play, Plutos, in 388 BC, and Menander’s first stage appearance in 324/323 or 321 BC. 13 Webster (1948) 23. On mythological parody, see further Webster (19702) 16–19, 82–85; Nesselrath (1990) 188–241; Nesselrath (1995); Casolari (2003); Konstantakos (2014); Dixon (2015); Papachrysostomou (2016) 14; Papachrysostomou (2017).

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the boundaries between history/historicity/reality on the one hand and myth on the other. Accordingly, mythological figures are arbitrarily pulled out of the mythical sphere and plunged into the real world, where they commonly function as a dramatic disguise for contemporary politicians and other historical figures, whom the comic poet wishes to target, ridicule, and/or accuse (for various reasons). This indirect, subtle mockery should not surprise us, since after all the element of enigmatic/symbolic/veiled satire was the defining attribute of Middle Comedy (as opposed to the straightforward, caustic satire of Old Comedy), according to various ancient testimonies, like the one by Tzetzes (XIa I.70–71 Koster): τῆς μέσης δὲ καὶ δευτέρας ἦν γνώρισμα τὸ συμϐολικοτέρως, μὴ καταδήλως λέγειν τὰ σκώμματα Mocking through symbolisms/metaphors and not openly was the characteristic of the second period, the Middle one.

and another one by the ancient scholiast on Dionysius Thrax (XVIIIa.37–39 Koster):14 τρεῖς διαφορὰς ἔδοξεν ἔχειν ἡ κωμῳδία· καὶ ἡ μὲν καλεῖται παλαιά, ἡ ἐξ ἀρχῆς φανερῶς ἐλέγχουσα, ἡ δὲ μέση ἡ αἰνιγματωδῶς, ἡ δὲ νέα ἡ μηδ᾿ ὅλως τοῦτο ποιοῦσα πλὴν ἐπὶ δούλων ἢ ξένων Comedy seems to have had three distinct periods, one known as Old Comedy, which from its inception criticized openly; Middle Comedy, whose criticism was enigmatic; and New Comedy, which eschewed even this except in the case of slaves or foreigners.15

The Middle Comedy playwright Ephippus16 presents special interest with regard to the abovementioned dramaturgic technique, since not only did he practise mythological parody, but he also combined it with history burlesque and daring political innuendos;17 two of his surviving fragments are most typical and worthy of analysis. The first example comes from Ephippus’ play Busiris (Βούσιρις).18 The playtitle is revealing of the rich mythological material that constituted the basis of the

14 For an evaluation of the testimonies collected by Koster, see Dobrov (2010) 21–27. 15 English translation by Henderson (2008) 81–83. 16 Ephippus was an Athenian comic poet, who is recorded to have won a single Lenaean victory ca. 378–376 BC. See PCG 5,131–152; Millis and Olson (2012) 2325E.40; PAA 452960; PA 6160 + add.; RE 5.2,2858 s.v. Ephippos no. 3, Papachrysostomou (2021) 11–12. 17 For discussion of politics in Middle Comedy, see Webster (19702) 37–56; Nesselrath (1990) 218–225; Nesselrath (1997); Papachrysostomou (2009); Henderson (2014); Sommerstein (2014). 18 For analytical commentary of all aspects of the play and the surviving fragment, see Papachrysostomou (2021) 32–41.

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play’s plot (Busiris was a mythical king of Egypt, who used to sacrifice his guests, following some oracle, and was eventually killed by Heracles).19 Athenaeus, who preserves the play’s one surviving fragment (10.442d-e), informs us that the first speaker is Heracles (confronting either Busiris himself or one of his men): (Ἡρ.) οὐκ οἶσθά μ᾿ ὄντα, πρὸς θεῶν, Τιρύνθιον Ἀργεῖον; οἳ μεθύοντες αἰεὶ τὰς μάχας πάσας μάχονται. (B.) τοιγαροῦν φεύγουσ᾿ ἀεί20 (Her.) Don’t you know, by the gods, that I’m a Tirynthian Argive? These people always fight all their battles drunk. (B.) It is exactly for that very reason that they always run away.21

Given the era’s pronounced propensity for mythical burlesque and given the play’s Egyptian flavour (already introduced by the title and sustained by the fragment), it is conceivable that Ephippus handled and staged the traditional myth in a way that involved some political allegory and entailed burlesque of both myth and contemporary history. The choice of Egypt as the play’s backdrop may not have been a random or an innocent one; accordingly, Busiris and Heracles should not be taken at face value as mere mythological figures. We know that in mid-fourth century (343 BC) the Persian king Artaxerxes III (known as ‘Ochus’) commissioned the Greek general Nicostratus of Argos to lead a mercenary military force of 3000 Argive soldiers22 and join his expedition against Egypt and its ruler, the pharaoh Nectanebo II. In fact, these historical events can also help us date Ephippus’ play; Edmonds (2,147) suggested the year 342 BC as the play’s production date, precisely on the basis of the Argive participation in the invasion of Egypt by Ochus’ military forces the previous year. A further piece of information that fits nicely in our jigsaw puzzle is that Nicostratus in real life had much more in common with Heracles than just the Argive origin; Ephippus (in fr. 17, from the play The Peltast) refers to the Greek general as Νικόστρατος δ’ Ἀργεῖος ἕτερος Ἡρακλῆς (‘Nicostratus the Argive, a second Heracles’), while Diodorus of Sicily (16.44.3) reports that Nicostratus ἐμιμεῖτο τὸν Ἡρακλέα κατὰ τὰς στρατείας καὶ λεοντῆν ἐφόρει καὶ ῥόπαλον ἐν ταῖς μάχαις . . . μεμιγμένην δ᾿ ἔχων τῇ φρονήσει μανίαν (‘he imitated Heracles when on a campaign by wearing a lion’s skin and carrying a club in battle . . . having madness mingled with his intelligence’ – i.e. just like his mythical counterpart). Besides, for what it is worth, the Egyptian

19 See [Apollod.] 2.116–117. 20 Ephippus fr. 2 (apud Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 10.442d-e), PCG 5,132. 21 English translation by Papachrysostomou (2021) 34. 22 See Diod. Sic. 16.44.2.

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flavour of Ephippus’ play was not a first in Greek Comedy; some twenty years earlier, Middle Comedy had already exhibited a political interest in current affairs between Greece and Egypt. In particular, Anaxandrides fr. 40 is believed to allude to the alliance forged between the Egyptian king Tachos and the Athenian general Chabrias against the Persians in 361 BC.23 Taking everything into account (Middle Comedy’s tastes, current relations with Egypt, Nicostratus’ resemblance with Heracles), we can confidently argue that Ephippus’ play featured a – detectable – political allegory; in this allegorical context, Heracles stands for Nicostratus, while the Egyptian king Busiris is a mythical disguise for the real-life Egyptian ruler Nectanebo II; thus, the mythical and the real world blend with one another, allowing for all possible assimilations and paradigms to be drawn (e.g. Nectanebo II is visualized as an uncivilized, boorish figure). It is further intriguing that myth and history coincide even in their respective outcomes, in the sense that both Egyptian leaders were defeated in the end. In the mythical realm Busiris was overpowered by Heracles, whereas in reality Nectanebo’s defeat was significantly aided by Nicostratus, the other Heracles. The burlesque of both myth and history climaxes with – but is not limited to – the caricatural and allegorical portrayals of Nicostratus (as Heracles) and Nectanebo II (as Busiris). Another instance of history burlesque occurs in line 3 of this fragment, which features a sarcastic comment by character B. Arguably, the comment refers to at least one occasion, where some Argive military corps was forced to retreat (φεύγω: ‘flee, abandon the battle-field running’). It is likely that this reference alludes to the events narrated by Diodorus of Sicily (16.34.3, 16.39.4) regarding a military defeat of Argive forces in 352 BC, near the city of Ὀρνε(ι)αί (‘Orneae’) in Argolis. Judging from his surviving output, Ephippus had a special predilection for mythical material related to Heracles. The second example worth studying comes from his play Geryon.24 Geryon was a mythological ogre that possessed three heads and three bodies. According to the mythical tradition, Geryon was visualized dwelling on the remote island of Erytheia, beyond the Pillars of Heracles (i.e. the modern Strait of Gibraltar).25 Heracles killed Geryon, in order to accomplish his tenth labour, which consisted of stealing Geryon’s cattle. Three fragments survive from Ephippus’ Geryon; fr. 5 features an imaginative narration of how an enormous fish is being prepared for Geryon, who is visualized as

23 See Millis (2015) 189. 24 For analytical commentary of all aspects of the play and the surviving fragments, see Papachrysostomou (2021) 42–82. 25 See Hes. Theog. 287–294, 979–983; Scyl. 26.14–15 Müller; Hdt. 4.8; Diod. Sic. 4.17, [Apollod.] 2.42, 2.106–112. See further Gantz (1993) 402–408; LIMC iv.1.186–190, v.1.81–85.

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king (βασιλεύς, line 9); the two personal datives of interest (line 1, τούτῳ, and line 4, αὐτῷ) refer to Geryon, according to Athenaeus’ testimony (Deipn. 8.346f): τῷ Γηρυόνῃ σκευάζεσθαι (‘prepared for Geryon’). τούτῳ δ᾿ ὁπόταν ναέται χώρας ἰχθύν τιν᾿ ἕλωσ᾿ οὐχ ἡμέριον, τῆς περικλύστου δ᾿ ἁλίας Κρήτης μείζω μεγέθει, λοπάς ἐστ᾿ αὐτῷ δυνατὴ τούτους χωρεῖν ἑκατόν. καὶ περιοίκους εἶναι ταύτῃ Σίνδους, Λυκίους, Μυγδονιώτας, Κραναούς, Παφίους. τούτους δ᾿ ὕλην κόπτειν, ὁπόταν βασιλεὺς ἕψῃ τὸν μέγαν ἰχθύν· καὶ προσάγοντας, καθ᾿ ὅσον πόλεως ἕστηκεν ὅρος, τοὺς δ᾿ ὑποκαίειν. λίμνην δ᾿ ἐπάγειν ὕδατος μεστὴν εἰς τὴν ἅλμην, τοὺς δ᾿ ἅλας αὐτῷ ζεύγη προσάγειν μηνῶν ὀκτὼ συνεχῶς ἑκατόν. περιπλεῖν δ᾿ ἐπὶ τοῖς ἄμβωσιν ἄνω πέντε κέλητας πεντασκάλμους περιαγγέλλειν τ᾿· “οὐχ ὑποκαίεις, Λυκίων πρύτανι; ψυχρὸν τουτί. παύου φυσῶν, Μακεδὼν ἄρχων. σβέννυ, Κέλθ᾿, ὡς μὴ προσκαύσῃς”26 Whenever the inhabitants of the country catch an exceptional fish for him (sc. Geryon), larger in size than the sea-girt, thalassic Crete, a frying-pan is available for his sake, which is capable of holding one hundred of these. And the inhabitants dwelling around this country are Sindians, Lycians, Mygdonians, Cranaans, and Paphians; these, they chop wood, whenever the king is cooking the big fish, and carry it forward, up to the city’s boundaries, and set fire to it. And a lake full of water is supplied for the brine; and they marshal one hundred pairs of oxen to transport salt for it, for eight months non-stop. And up on the rim, five fast, five-tholed boats keep sailing about and carry orders around: “Won’t you turn up the fire,

26 Ephippus fr. 5 (apud Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 8.346f-347b), PCG 5,134–135.

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Lycian commander? This bit right here is cold! Stop blowing, ruler of Macedon! Quench that flame, Celt, lest you burn it all!”27

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The play’s mythological framework aptly intertwines with the poet’s contemporary reality; first, the speaker refers to present-day people dwelling in and around mainland Greece and on Greek islands (and not around the western island of Erytheia, Geryon’s habitat), and secondly we hear of some Macedonian ruler and some Celt (lines 20–21). Accordingly, it is likely that the monstrous mythological figure of Geryon was transferred28 to the poet’s contemporary reality and served as a comic disguise for some real-life character. Over the years, the title-figure of Ephippus’ Geryon has been interpreted as being a comic disguise for (i) the Athenian general Timotheus (a dominant figure of the Second Athenian League),29 (ii) Alexander the Great,30 and (iii) the Persian king.31 Acknowledging that certainty is impossible (given the fragmentary nature of evidence), it is my belief that Geryon is to be interpreted as a comic disguise for Philip II of Macedon. Philip’s sweeping political agenda and outstanding military achievements had unquestionably turned him into a dominant figure of the fourth century BC.32 We already know of another play from Middle Comedy, which was entirely dedicated to Philip II (and was probably set in Macedon); this is the play Φίλιππος (Philip) by Mnesimachus (PCG 7,23–26), a contemporary of Ephippus.33 Once again, Comedy (during the largely non-political era of fourth century) exhibits substantial political interest, albeit presently camouflaged under the veil of myth and mythological parody. We can confidently argue that Ephippus’ Geryon was a full-scale political allegory (just like Aristophanes’ Knights, Eupolis’ Marikas, and Plato’s Cleophon and Hyperbolus), wherein the mythological figure of Geryon functioned as a comic disguise – of grotesque dimensions – for the Macedonian king Philip II. Besides, this interpretation is compatible with the dates of Philip’s reign (360/ 359–336 BC), the Celts’ first contact with the Greeks (369 BC),34 and Ephippus’

27 English translation by Papachrysostomou (2021) 69–70. 28 For this idiosyncratic ‘transfer’, see Papachrysostomou (2017). 29 Dušanić (1980/1981). 30 Meineke 1,351–352. 31 Webster (19702) 40–42; Davidson (1993) 61. 32 On Philip II of Macedon, see Müller (2010); Worthington (2014) 25–119; Ober (2015) 239–240, 268–291. 33 See Papachrysostomou (2008) 183, 209–220; Mastellari (2020) 331, 339. 34 The Celts became involved in the Greek affairs for the first time in 369 BC, when Dionysius of Syracuse dispatched a Celtic mercenary force to assist the Spartans, as Webster points out (19702) 42; cf. Xen. Hell. 7.1.20 καταπλεῖ Λακεδαιμονίοις ἡ παρὰ Διονυσίου βοήθεια, τριήρεις

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floruit (first victory ca. 378–376 BC). In addition, Geryon’s non-human size and preposterous appetite fittingly correspond to Philip’s geostrategic agenda (regarding territorial expansion and political control). It is intriguing that Mnesimachus depicts a largely similar situation in his abovementioned play Philip; in fr. 8 the citizens of Pharsalus (a town in Thessaly and an ally of Philip II) are portrayed as gluttonous people who would even eat the tables, though they are currently busy chewing up the town of Halus (which Philip II had recently helped them reduce to submission).35 Furthermore, it is instructive that the food being prepared for Geryon is fish; given that fish was widely considered the luxury food par excellence,36 this is another piece of corroborating evidence that favours the identification of Geryon with Philip II, since it is consistent with our knowledge regarding the notorious sumptuousness of the Macedonian king. Indeed, Philip II was wellknown for his propensity for dissolute behaviour and self-indulging habits; see Theopompus 115 F 224 FGrH and Demosthenes 2.18–19.37 Philip’s greediness is both literal (the preposterously huge fish corresponds to ancient testimonies about his extravagance) and metaphorical, i.e. alluding to political greediness (‘imperialism’). Ephippus’ fragment mentions five areas of geostrategic importance (lines 7–8) that arguably form the king’s arc of political influence; the latter starts expectedly from Macedonia (Mygdonians),38 extends to the north up to the territory of Sindians (in the northern border of Black Sea),39 then extends south to Cyprus (Paphians), before entering Asia Minor to the east reaching Lycia (Lycians);40 of course, it includes the city of Athens (Cranaans),41 as well as all other areas in-between.

πλέον ἢ εἴκοσιν. ἦγον δὲ Κελτούς τε καὶ Ἴβηρας (‘the expedition sent by Dionysius to aid the Lacedaemonians sailed in, numbering more than twenty triremes; and they brought Celts and Iberians’); see further Freeman (1994). 35 See Papachrysostomou (2008) 216–218. 36 See Wilkins (2000) 293–304; Davidson (1997) 11–20. 37 For an exhaustive compilation of ancient testimonies relating to Philip II, see Bradford (1992); Lane Fox (2011) 257–269, 335–391. 38 These were the inhabitants of the region called Mygdonia (Μυγδονία), in Macedonia; see Steph. Byz. s.v. Μυγδονία, and Thuc. 1.58, 2.99.4–5. 39 The Sindians were a Scythian tribe, who lived south of the Maeotis Lake (modern Sea of Azof; see Steph. Byz. s.v. Σίνδοι), in the northern part of the Black Sea. 40 Lycia was situated in southwestern Asia Minor. 41 The term Cranaans is an archaic appellation of the Athenians, highlighting their descendance from Κραναός, the mythical king of Athens; see [Apollod.] 1.49, 3.186–187; Str. 9.1.18; Paus. 1.2.6, 1.31.3.

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The political repertoire may be receding during Middle Comedy, but it never disappears. The element of experimentation lies at the very core of Greek Comedy and quintessentially defines the entire genre. The comic playwrights love experimenting with the endless comic possibilities created when mythical characters step out from the mythical sphere into a very concrete and very political hereand-now. Myth becomes the vehicle that bridges the chronotopic gap with the present and facilitates the transfer of legendary figures (such as Heracles and Geryon) from a vague mythological chronotope to the play’s practically tangible contemporary reality. The result of this whimsical technique is blatantly anachronistic and consists of an imaginative amalgamation of mythical tradition with contemporary reality, including contemporary politics, as the mythical realm infiltrates the real world and blends with it. Not only does Comedy reverse the mythical tradition, but it also engenders a concomitant burlesque of history, with accompanying political echoes. Unfortunately, due to the fragmentary nature of the surviving evidence, the extent of history’s burlesque escapes us. Be that as it may, it would be interesting to try to imagine the grotesque staging of a monstrous (three-bodied and three-headed) Philip-Geryon devouring fish the size of the island of Crete; the identification does not need to have been spelled out to the audience but only hinted at – to a recognizable extent (cf. how at the beginning of Aristophanes’ Knights Paphlagon is immediately decoded as being a disguise of Cleon through the references to the tannery theme and the three-obol piece in lines 44 and 51). One should also bear in mind that the people who read Theopompus’ stories and listened to Demosthenes’ ardent harangues in the Popular Assembly were the same people who attended the theatre and watched Ephippus’ Geryon playing out as a grotesque caricature of Philip II. The same goes for Busiris and Nectanebo II; as soon as mythical tradition is reversed and coupled with history, history burlesque inescapably follows. Following the performance of Ephippus’ plays, Nectanebo II would be stuck in people’s minds as the real-life equivalent of the mythical killer king, while Philip II would be accompanied by the odious memory of some monstrous, non-human creature (cf. how Cleon is stuck in our minds as the vulgar slave Paphlagon). Ephippus (like any other Middle Comedy poet) does not tell his audience what to do;42 he simply winks at his audience inviting them to an archetypical version of a ‘who’s who’ challenge. These imbued in myth comic plays that meddle with

42 Unlike Aristophanes, who assumed all righteousness and wisdom for himself in the parabasis (and elsewhere); the sense is rather pervasive in the Aristophanic texts and the examples are numerous, e.g. Ach. 500–501, Vesp. 1015–1050, Ran. 686–737, etc.

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history had a considerable impact on people – in fact, a bigger and more considerable impact than what we are often willing to acknowledge at first sight. To conclude, myth – this multivalent phenomenon of ancient Greek thought – becomes a useful dramaturgic tool for comic poets, especially of the fourth century BC. Resourcefully adapted and comically twisted versions of traditional myth serve as a virtual platform, upon which history is stripped naked from its rigidness and gets burlesqued, along with myth, while historical figures – safely disguised behind their mythical counterparts – get their fair share of criticism and/or satire.

Bibliography Bakola, E. 2010. Cratinus and the Art of Comedy. Oxford. Boardman, J., et al. (eds.) 1981–2009. Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae. 8 vols. (and 2 vols. suppl.). Zürich. (abbr. as LIMC) Bowie, A. 1993. Aristophanes: Myth, Ritual, and Comedy. Cambridge. Bowie, A. 2000. Myth and Ritual in the Rivals of Aristophanes. In The Rivals of Aristophanes, eds. Harvey, F.D. and Wilkins, J.M., 317–339. London. Bowie, A. 2007. Myth in Aristophanes. In The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology, ed. Woodard, R.D., 190–209. Cambridge. Bowie, A. 2010. Myth and Ritual in Comedy. In Brill’s Companion to the Study of Greek Comedy, ed. Dobrov, G.W., 143–176. Leiden. Bradford, A.S. 1992. Philip II of Macedon: A Life from the Ancient Sources. Westport, CT. Burkert, W. 1979. Structure and History in Greek Mythology and Ritual. Berkeley. Calame, C. 2003. Myth and History in Ancient Greece. The Symbolic Creation of a Colony (transl. Berman, D.W.). Princeton. Casolari, F. 2003. Die Mythentravestie in der griechischen Komödie. Münster. Davidson, J.N. 1993. Fish, Sex and Revolution in Athens. CQ 43: 53–66. Davidson, J.N. 1997. Courtesans and Fishcakes. The Consuming Passions of Classical Athens. London. Dixon, D. 2015. Myth-Making in Greek and Roman Comedy (Ph.D. Diss. ProQuest). Dobrov, G.W. 2010. Comedy and Her Critics. In Brill’s Companion to the Study of Greek Comedy, ed. Dobrov, G.W., 3–33. Leiden. Dušanić, S. 1980–1981. Athens, Crete and the Aegean after 366/5 B.C. Talanta 12–13: 7–29. Edmonds, J.M. 1957–1961. The Fragments of Attic Comedy after Meineke, Bergk, and Kock. 3 vols. Leiden. (abbr. as Edmonds plus volume and page number) Freeman, P. 1994. The Earliest Classical Sources on the Celts: A Linguistic and Historical Study (Ph.D. Diss. ProQuest). Gantz, T. 1993. Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources. Baltimore. Graf, F. 1993. Greek Mythology. An Introduction (transl. Marier, T.). Baltimore. Hall, J.M. 2007. Politics and Greek Myth. In The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology, ed. Woodard, R.D., 331–354. Cambridge. Henderson, J. 2008. Aristophanes: Fragments. Cambridge, MA.

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Henderson, J. 2012. Pursuing Nemesis: Cratinus and Mythological Comedy. In No Laughing Matter: Studies in Athenian Comedy, eds. Marshall, C.W. and Kovacs, G., 1–12. London. Henderson, J. 2014. Comedy in the Fourth Century II: Politics and Domesticity. In The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, eds. Fontaine, M. and Scafuro, A.C., 181–198. Oxford. Jacoby, F., et al. 1923–1999. Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. Berlin. (abbr. as FGrH) Kassel, R. and Austin, C. (eds.) 1983–. Poetae Comici Graeci, 8 vols. Berlin. (abbr. as PCG) Kirchner, I., 1901. Prosopographia Attica, 2 vols, Berlin. (abbr. as PA) Kirk, G. 1970. Myth: Its Meaning and Functions in Ancient and Other Cultures. Berkeley. Konstantakos, I.M. 2000. Notes on the Chronology and Career of Antiphanes. Eikasmos 11: 173–196. Konstantakos, I.M. 2014. Comedy in the Fourth Century I: Mythological Burlesques. In The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, eds. Fontaine, M. and Scafuro, A.C., 160–180. Oxford. Koster, W.J.W. 1975. Scholia in Aristophanem, pars I, fasc. 1A: Prolegomena de Comoedia. Groningen. Lane Fox, R.J. (ed.) 2011. Brill’s Companion to Ancient Macedon: Studies in the Archaeology and History of Macedon, 650 BC-300 AD. Leiden. Lincoln, B. 1999. Theorizing Myth. Narrative, Ideology, and Scholarship. Chicago. Mastellari, V. 2020. Calliade – Mnesimaco. Introduzione, Traduzione e Commento. Göttingen. Meineke, A. 1839–1857. Fragmenta Comicorum Graecorum. 5 vols. Berlin. (abbr. as Meineke plus volume and page number) Millis, B.W. 2015. Anaxandrides: Introduction, Translation, Commentary. Heidelberg. Millis, B.W. and Olson, S.D. (eds.) 2012. Inscriptional Records for the Dramatic Festivals in Athens: IG II2 2318–2325 and Related Texts. Leiden. Müller, K. 1855. Geographi Graeci Minores. Tabulae in Geographos Graecos minores instructae. Paris. (facsimile repr. Hildesheim 1965) Müller, S. 2010. Philip II. In A Companion to Ancient Macedonia, eds. Roisman, J. and Worthington, I., 166–185. Chichester. Nesselrath, H.-G. 1990. Die attische Mittlere Komödie. Berlin. Nesselrath, H.-G. 1995. Myth, Parody, and Comic Plots: The Birth of Gods and Middle Comedy. In Beyond Aristophanes: Transition and Diversity in Greek Comedy, ed. Dobrov, G.W., 1–28. Atlanta. Nesselrath, H.-G. 1997. The Polis of Athens in Middle Comedy. In The City as Comedy: Society and Representation in Athenian Drama, ed. Dobrov, G.W., 271–288. Chapel Hill. Nilsson, M.P. 1951. Cults, Myths, Oracles and Politics in Ancient Greece. Lund. Ober, J. 2015. The Rise and Fall of Classical Greece. Princeton. Olson, S.D. 2007. Broken Laughter. Select Fragments of Greek Comedy. Oxford. Olson, S.D. 2008. Athenaeus. The Learned Banqueters, vol. 3: Books 6–7. Cambridge, MA. Papachrysostomou, A. 2008. Six Comic Poets. A Commentary on Selected Fragments of Middle Comedy. Tübingen. Papachrysostomou (Παπαχρυσοστόμου), A. 2009. Οὐδὲν πρὸς τὴν πόλιν; Αναφορές σε πολιτικά πρόσωπα στη Μέση Κωμωδία του τετάρτου αιώνα π.Χ. Ελληνικά 59.2: 181–204. Papachrysostomou, A. 2016. Amphis: Introduction, Translation, Commentary. Heidelberg. Papachrysostomou, A. 2017. Time- and Space-Travelling in Greek Middle Comedy. In Time and Space in Ancient Myth, Religion and Culture, eds. Bierl, A., Christopoulos, M., and Papachrysostomou, A., 165–178. Berlin.

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Papachrysostomou, A. 2021. Ephippus: Introduction, Translation, Commentary. Göttingen. Ruffell, I.A. 2011. Politics and Anti-Realism in Athenian Old Comedy: The Art of the Impossible. Oxford. Sommerstein, A. 2014. The Politics of Greek Comedy. In The Cambridge Companion to Greek Comedy, ed. Revermann, M., 291–305. New York. Traill, J.S. 1994–. Persons of Ancient Athens. 21 vols. Toronto. (abbr. as PAA) Webster, T.B.L. 1948. South Italian Vases and Attic Drama. CQ 42: 15–27. Webster, T.B.L. 19702. Studies in Later Greek Comedy. Manchester. Wilkins, J. 2000. The Boastful Chef: The Discourse of Food in Ancient Greek Comedy. Oxford. Worthington, I. 2014. By the Spear: Philip II, Alexander the Great, and the Rise and Fall of the Macedonian Empire. Oxford.

Part V: Loci and Tempora

Jorge J. Bravo III

The Myth of Opheltes at Nemea in the Context of Rivalry in the Archaic Peloponnese Abstract: The myth of Opheltes, a child who was ominously slain at Nemea during the visit of the Seven Against Thebes, served as the aetiology of the historical Nemean Games, traditionally established in 573 BC, and was celebrated at his shrine within the Sanctuary of Zeus. This chapter explores the value of projecting this myth into the history of Nemea within the context of rivalry among the archaic city-states of the Peloponnese. The myth associated the festival with the Seven Against Thebes, who were an integral part of Argive identity, and thus it reinforced the claim of Argos to manage the festival. By association with epic tradition, moreover, the myth of Opheltes bolstered the prestige of the Games. The situation at Nemea can be regarded as one among several examples of the use of hero cult to tie the mythic past to the realities of rivalry and competition within the Archaic Peloponnese. Other examples include the displacement of the cult of Adrastus in favor of the cult of Melanippus at Sicyon, Corinth’s establishment of the cult of Melicertes at Isthmia and the institution of the cult of Pelops at Olympia.

Introduction Visitors to the Sanctuary of Zeus at Nemea today find themselves in a picturesque setting, framed by rolling foothills and the seemingly flat-topped Mt. Apesas at the southern end of the Nemea Valley. The Temple of Zeus commands their attention now as it surely did in antiquity, but for the ancient visitor another shrine, more rudimentary in its construction, also played an important role in the life of the Sanctuary: the heroön or hero shrine of Opheltes. It was in this place that a child hero was worshipped whose myth constituted the aetiology of the Nemean Games, one of the four most prestigious athletic festivals of ancient Greece. In this chapter I shall explore the value of this combination of myth and cult within the political and historical context of the Archaic Peloponnese, demonstrating how it creates an important historical bond to the Nemea Valley for the city-state of Argos and arguing that this practice participates in a kind of rivalry, expressed through manipulations of cult and myth, that was being conducted by city-states around the Peloponnese at about the same time. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-017

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Opheltes, Nemea and Argos The myth of Opheltes at Nemea may be unfamiliar to many, but apart from its significance within the Sanctuary of Zeus, it finds expression to various degrees of detail throughout the art and literature of antiquity.1 In its main outline, the story begins with a visit from the Seven Against Thebes, who have just set out from Argos on their way to war. Upon their arrival in Nemea, they encounter the nurse Hypsipyle, who is charged with carrying the infant child Opheltes. They ask her for water and in her haste to fulfill the heroes’ request, she takes them to a spring, either laying the child on the ground before setting off or doing so once they arrive at their destination. It is in this moment of vulnerability that disaster strikes, in the form of a monstrous snake that kills the child. Hypsipyle reacts in horror and the Seven, who are too late to save Opheltes, quickly dispatch the snake. The Argive seer Amphiaraus, interpreting the child’s death as an omen of their own forthcoming disaster at Thebes, bestows a new name on the child, Archemorus, meaning ‘the Beginning of Doom’. The seer also instructs the Seven to bury the child with due rites and conduct funeral games in his honor, in an attempt to avert the omen. The renaming of the child, which comes only after the hero’s death and before his funeral rites, is consequently an important pivot in the myth, for it signals the transition from myth to cult. In the myth, it introduces the hero as a recipient of cult and in the cult its very etymology would recall for worshippers the narrative context of the myth that is used to authorize it. Thus, because the change of Opheltes’ name to Archemorus so neatly bridges myth and cult, it is an important recurring element in the ancient sources. Within the mythic narrative of the death of Opheltes, the new name Archemorus is but one manifestation of the hero’s newfound cult. The ancient sources repeatedly emphasize the aetiological connection between the hero’s death and the foundation of the Nemean Games, which begin as the funeral games held by the Seven. The earliest instance is found in Bacchylides’ ninth Epinician Ode, composed for Automedon of Phlius, a victor in the pentathlon at the Nemean Games in the mid-fifth century BC. In lines 10–14 we read: κε[ῖθι φοι]νικάσπιδες ἡμίθεοι πρ[ώτιστ]ον Ἀργείων κριτοὶ ἄθλησαν ⟨ἐ⟩π’ Ἀρχεμόρῳ, τὸν ξανθοδερκής

10

1 For a thorough treatment of the literary and artistic tradition of the myth of Opheltes, see now Bravo (2018) 101–170.

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πέφν’ ἀωτεύοντα δράκων ὑπέροπλος, σᾶμα μέλλοντος φόνου. There the crimson-shielded heroes, the chosen men of the Argives, first competed in honor of Archemorus, whom the yellow-eyed monstrous snake did slay as he plucked flowers, a marker of slaughter to come.2

10

The ancient sources also make an explicit connection between the athletic contest and the tomb of Opheltes. On occasion the act of burial receives special attention, but more generally we encounter references to the tomb, variously called σῆμα, ἤριον, τάφος, sepulcrum and tumulus, as another lasting consequence of the hero’s demise, parallel with the establishment of the Nemean festival.3 The excavations of the University of California at Berkeley, directed by Stephen G. Miller, first brought to light the Hero Shrine of Opheltes, located in the southwestern part of the Sanctuary of Zeus, in 1979 (Fig. 1). Continuing in 1980 and 1983 and again during a five-year period from 1997 to 2001, the excavations reveal that the Shrine flourished at Nemea for about three centuries, the period when the Nemean Games were celebrated here in the Sanctuary of Zeus. It was established in the second quarter of the sixth century BC, based on the finds within the construction layers of the shrine, an archaeological date that generally agrees with the literary tradition, which dates the establishment of the Games to 573 BC.4 The shrine originally had the shape of a broad, low earthen mound elevated 1.5 to 2 meters above the surrounding terrain. Stone rubble lined much of the perimeter of the mound and the principal feature on the surface of the mound was a construction of large unworked conglomerate stones. It was in the vicinity of this feature, particularly to the south of it, that the greatest concentration of ash, burnt bone, pottery and other votive material was found, suggesting that it served as a focal point of the ritual activity in the shrine. It may thus be identified as the marker of the tomb of Opheltes, a feature reported by Pausanias when he visited Nemea many centuries later.5 Subsequently, in the early third century BC, the mound shrine was furnished with a new enclosure wall of stone blocks. By

2 The Greek text is from the Teubner edition of Maehler (1970). All English translations of ancient texts are my own. For further discussion of the text, see Bravo (2018) 104–105. 3 Bravo (2018) 139. 4 For a detailed study of the physical remains of the Shrine of Opheltes, see Bravo (2018) 3–78, on which the present account is based. For a discussion of the traditional date of 573 BC, see Bravo (2018) 34 with n. 99. 5 Paus. 2.15.3 (ed. Musti and Torelli [1986]): ἐνταῦθα ἔστι μὲν Ὀφέλτου τάφος, περὶ δὲ αὐτὸν θριγκὸς λίθων καὶ ἐντὸς τοῦ περιβόλου βωμοί (“here there is a grave of Opheltes; around it is a

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the end of the second quarter of the third century, however, the shrine fell into disuse, along with the rest of the Sanctuary of Zeus, for the Nemean Games were moved to the urban center of Argos, the city-state that administered the festival. The archaeology also makes clear that the mound itself is but the southern extension of a long earthen embankment, which was constructed together with it (Fig. 1). It extended for at least 100 meters away from the shrine in a northnortheasterly direction and served as the western embankment of the Early Stadium at Nemea. In addition, it may have served as a viewing area for the Hippodrome, where the equestrian events took place, located to the west. Accordingly, we now understand that the contiguity of embankment and shrine and the juxtaposition of this cult center with the two venues for the performance of the Nemean Games physically underscore the aetiological bond between the Games and the hero Opheltes that permeates the literary tradition of the hero’s myth.6 As for the myth of Opheltes, most scholars treating this issue assert that the story formed part of the epic tradition of the Theban War, perhaps as early as the eighth century BC. Others have argued that it originated as an old, local legend later added to the Theban War tradition. An alternative to be considered, however, is that both the myth and the cult arise at the same time in the sixth century BC. There are plenty of examples throughout ancient history of the institution of new cults predicated upon the ‘rediscovery’ of an old, long-forgotten, or otherwise unknown, tradition, often sanctioned by an oracle: the Athenians’ institution of a cult of the farmer-hero Echetlus, who appeared for the first time at the Battle of Marathon, is one. In such cases, the rediscovery is a fiction that lends authority to the new cult.7 What, then, was the motivation for taking the myth of Opheltes, whether old or new, and establishing a cult in his honor in connection with this new athletic festival? The answer lies, at least in part, in its importance for Argos, the city that administered the Sanctuary and the festival. One of the unvarying elements of the myth of Opheltes is its setting within the larger narrative of the expedition of the Seven Against Thebes. This myth is explicitly linked to Argos, for it is the Argive heroes who precipitate Opheltes’ death and so incur the ritual obligation to commemorate continually the death of the hero. Consequently, establishing the cult of Opheltes in conjunction with the Nemean Games creates an enduring reminder that it is the city of Argos that is responsible for the conduct of the Games, and

fence of stones and within the enclosure are altars”). For discussion of this passage in relation to the physical remains, see Bravo (2018) 35–37. 6 Bravo (2018) 50–56. For a lengthier discussion of the evidence for the Early Stadium and Hippodrome, see Miller (2015) 323–331, 344–348. 7 Bravo (2018) 103–104. On the hero Echetlus, see Paus. 1.15.3; 1.32.5.

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thus the city’s prestige becomes linked to that of the Games. Claiming the Sanctuary and festival as part of Argive identity was also important given the location of the Sanctuary at the extreme limits of the territory of Argos. By giving the Sanctuary a definitive Argive stamp, Argos could assert the extent of its territory in the face of any competing claims from another state.8 The Nemean festival and the cult of Opheltes thus become another part of a network of cult sites and monuments that express Argive identity by reference to the mythical past of Argos.9 One of these is a shrine for the Seven that was established in the Agora of the city; stone fence posts have been found bearing inscriptions in the Archaic Argive epichoric alphabet that document the existence of their cult in the sixth century BC.10 Another indication of the importance of the Seven to Argive identity comes from additional epigraphic evidence, showing that Argive aristocrats of the archaic period were named after Adrastus and the other heroes.11 A final consideration is the value of epic tradition itself. To the extent that the Theban Expedition was already the subject of Panhellenic epic by the Archaic period, an association of Nemea with the Seven elevates the status of the Nemean myth, in tandem with the aim of organizing the Nemean Games as a Panhellenic festival.12 Having such a festival would have been of great value in the early sixth century BC, for it is in this period that a number of Greek city-states appear to have established similar new cults and festivals. In the pages that follow, I will focus on a set of similar developments elsewhere within the Peloponnese.

Adrastus and Cleisthenes of Sicyon Because of its proximity, the city-state of Sicyon in particular may have been interested in the actions of Argos in the Nemea Valley, and conflict between the two city-states in this era seems to lie behind the well-known actions taken by the tyrant Cleisthenes of Sicyon to express his antipathy toward Argos. As recounted by Herodotus (5.67), Cleisthenes ended the contests of rhapsodes performing the Homeric poems, on the grounds that they gave too much importance to Argos. He also wished to expel the Argive hero Adrastus, who had a shrine in

8 Doffey (1992) 193; Hall (1999) 55; Marchand (2002) 178–179; Bravo (2018) 103. 9 Bravo (2018) 103, citing Hall (1995) 608–609. See also Pariente (1992) 218; Hall (1999). 10 Pariente (1992). 11 Marchand (2002) 178 n. 87, citing Piérart and Touchais. 12 Bravo (2018) 103.

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the agora of Sicyon. After being denied permission to do so by Delphi, he accomplished his aim by bringing in the worship of another hero, the Theban Melanippus, and ascribing Adrastus’ rites to him, apart from the choral performances, which were transferred to Dionysus. Malcolm McGregor has connected these actions with later Pindaric scholia, to argue that these steps should be seen as part of a reorganization of a local Pythian festival of Sicyon, which the scholia say had been founded by Adrastus. McGregor dates the change to sometime in the 570s BC.13 The archaeological record unfortunately offers no insight into these cultic actions and our understanding of them necessarily involves some speculation, but I think it is a plausible claim that in reorganizing the festival, Cleisthenes was aiming to refashion one form of the expression of Sicyonian identity in a way that he as tyrant saw fit. At the very least he was trying to distance the identity of his city from that of Argos; and here it is worth noting the special myth-historical problem that Cleisthenes faced. Herodotus makes clear (5.67.4) that it was already embedded in the Sicyonians’ sense of their early history that Adrastus of Argos had become king of Sicyon as the maternal grandson of King Polybus, who did not have a son of his own. It was for this reason, he tells us, that the Sicyonians so greatly revered Adrastus, and this sense of history may also be reflected in the stern rebuke that Cleisthenes allegedly received from the oracle at Delphi, that Adrastus was king of Sicyon, while he was but a thrower of stones (5.67.2). It also seems plausible that Cleisthenes’ reform of the Pythian festival was not just a matter of substituting cult and ritual but also in some fashion was aimed to elevate the status of its appeal to other Greeks in a bid to make his city’s festival more panhellenic. Herodotus does not say this, of course, but such an aim would seem consistent with the tyrant’s other aggrandizing actions such as his notable participation in the competitions at Delphi and Olympia and, of course, the handling of the betrothal of his daughter, Agariste.14 In choosing to bring in the cult of Melanippus to displace Adrastus, finally, it is remarkable that Cleisthenes uses the same playbook as Argos, for once more it is the epic tradition of the Theban War that provides the mythic substance for his politically motivated manipulation of cult. Cleisthenes selected this hero for a new cult in Sicyon precisely because of the epic tradition that Melannipus fought against the Seven at Thebes and in fact killed Adrastus’ brother Mecisteus and his son-in-law Tydeus. So too Cleisthenes’ ban on the recitation of Homeric epics, on

13 McGregor (1941) 282–283. 14 See Hdt. 6.126–130. Forsdyke (2012) 108–110 independently develops a similar argument. On Agariste, see Levaniouk in this volume.

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the grounds that he perceived them as glorifying Argos, acknowledges the political implications of epic poetry for the Archaic city-state.15

Melicertes-Palaemon at the Isthmus of Corinth Less than a decade earlier, according to the literary tradition, that is to say in the late 580’s BC, it appears that the city-state of Corinth also decided to enhance its Sanctuary of Poseidon at the Isthmus by organizing a new competitive festival and associating it with a new hero cult, in honor of the child hero Melicertes. His myth, moreover, was inserted into the historical consciousness of Corinth as an event that most accounts place in the reign of Sisyphus.16 In many respects the myth of Melicertes is similar to that of Opheltes at Nemea and the two heroes are often linked together in our ancient sources. For he too died an untimely death, when his mother Ino plunged into the sea with him to escape her mad husband Athamas; his body was subsequently transported to the Isthmus on the back of a dolphin, a detail portrayed in his shrine during the Roman Period, as we know from coins of Corinth.17 Sisyphus found the body washed ashore near a pine tree, and after having it buried with due honors, he celebrated funeral games for him, thus originating the Isthmian Games. The child hero was also given a new name, Palaemon, or ‘Wrestler’, just as Opheltes was renamed Archemorus. It is regrettable, however, that the archaeological record so far offers us no confirmation about the cult of Melicertes before Roman times; no trace of an earlier phase of the cult has ever been securely identified by the excavators.18 Thanks to the testimony of Pindar, however, we can be reasonably sure that the hero was worshipped in the fifth century BC, and his cult may well have begun in conjunction with the establishment of the Isthmian Games. Indeed Catherine Morgan has argued that the parallelism between the myths of Melicertes and Opheltes is due precisely to the establishment of their festivals as part of the ancient circuit of

15 Forsdyke (2012) 91–113 argues that later popular tradition has distorted Herodotus’ account of Cleisthenes, so that she calls into question the historical veracity of his description of Cleisthenes’ cultic manipulations and proposes an alternative account of what actually happened at Sicyon. Even under her reconstruction, however, the events still illustrate the competitive manipulation of cult in the early sixth century BC, as she readily acknowledges (see previous note). 16 On the myth and cult of Melicertes-Palaemon at the Isthmus, see Pache (2004) 135–180. 17 See Pache (2004) 169, with figs. 60–63. 18 Gebhard and Dickie (1999) 159–160.

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athletic festivals within a short time span in the early sixth century BC.19 As for the competitions themselves, there is now good archaeological evidence to confirm a date in the first half of the sixth century for their inauguration, even though the Sanctuary of Poseidon itself had come into existence much earlier, perhaps as early as the eleventh century BC.20

Pelops and Olympia At Olympia too we can productively think about the use of cult and myth by citystates of the Archaic Peloponnese thanks to the work of Helmut Kyrieleis, whose excavations in the area of the hero shrine of Pelops in the 1990s have revised the picture of activity in the Sanctuary.21 That the cult of Pelops, centered around his grave, as well as the myth of his chariot race against Oenomaus for the hand of Hippodameia and for kingship, were central parts of the Olympic festival by the Classical Period is clear from the evidence of Pindar as well as the iconography of the east pediment of the Temple of Zeus.22 Throughout the twentieth century, however, a debate persisted about the age of the cult of Pelops, with some scholars claiming that it preceded the cult of Zeus and extended back to the Late Bronze Age.23 Based on his excavations, however, Kyrieleis has shown that the cult of Pelops could only have been established after 600 BC. While he makes a strong argument that the new cult should be connected with the same building program that led to a refurbishment of the sanctuary at about this time, or slightly thereafter, he admits that a later date in the sixth century cannot be ruled out; the only clear terminus ante quem is the testimony of Pindar in the early fifth century.24 Accordingly, the cult of Pelops at Olympia constitutes one more example of a new hero cult of the sixth century BC. Why then did Elis choose to adopt this cult and attach it to the Olympic festival, in both myth and cult, at this period of time, long after the festival was instituted? Kyrieleis’ thoughts align with those I have been pursuing so far. He argues that by the seventh century Pelops was recognized as the ancestor of prominent Greek heroes, who were tied to the mythic histories

19 Morgan (1990) 220. 20 Morgan (1999); Morgan (2002). 21 Kyrieleis (2006). 22 Pindar refers to the shrine of Pelops in two passages, O. 1.93 and 10.24–25. 23 For a summary of the debate, see Kyrieleis (2006) 55 n. 198; Ekroth (2012) 96 n. 8. 24 Kyrieleis (2006) 55–57, 79.

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of city-states throughout what accordingly became known as the Peloponnese. Consequently, the regional or even panhellenic importance of Pelops, as well as the lack of any clear pre-existing ties to a city-state, may explain the Eleans’ choice to establish his cult at Olympia. The addition of the hero cult, moreover, was only one aspect of the redevelopment of the sanctuary, which can generally be viewed as an effort to accommodate greater participation and enhance the prestige of the sanctuary and its festival, and thereby that of the city-state of Elis itself.25 The phenomena that I have explored in this chapter in regard to Nemea, Sicyon, the Isthmus of Corinth and Olympia can be related to other manipulations of hero cult and myth within the Archaic Peloponnese, such as the transfer of the bones of Orestes from Tegea by Sparta.26 The myth and cult of Opheltes at Nemea should now be recognized as an important and well-documented example of a wider phenomenon of the Archaic period, in which city-states associate new hero cults with festivals as a means of forging a historical bond, one that connects the ritual present with a mythic past embodied in poetic, especially epic, tradition. This bond creates and sustains claims of identity and prestige within the city-state, and also projects those claims outward to other city-states by virtue of the participatory nature of the festivals. And yet the political message of these new myths and cults is not lost on the Greeks and can lead to rivalry and resentment, as the case of Cleisthenes’ response to Argos demonstrates. Archaeological research of recent decades has, furthermore, enhanced our understanding of the relative contemporaneity of these phenomena, suggesting that we see them as the consequence of emulation and rivalry among the city-states rather than spontaneous and independent developments. Finally, in the case of Nemea, archaeology has established how the translation of the myth of Opheltes into the history of Argos and the Nemea Valley was expressed not just in mythic narrative and cult practice, but also physically in the juxtaposition of the hero shrine with the early athletic venues of the Nemean Games.

25 Kyrieleis (2006) 79–83. See also Ekroth (2012) 106–107. 26 On the significance of this cultic act, see Boedeker (1998); McCauley (1999).

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Fig. 1: Restored plan of the Sanctuary of Zeus at Nemea, showing the locations of the Shrine of Opheltes (‘Heroön’) and related features. Courtesy of the University of California, Berkeley, Nemea Excavation Archives, no. PD 03.1 (with enhancements by J. Bravo).

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Bibliography Boedeker, D. 1998. Hero Cult and Politics in Herodotus: The Bones of Orestes. In Cultural Poetics in Ancient Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics, eds. Dougherty, C. and Kurke, L., 164–177. Oxford. Bravo, J.J. 2018. The Shrine of Opheltes (Excavations at Nemea IV). Berkeley. Doffey, M.-C. 1992. Les mythes de fondation des Concours Néméens. In Piérart (1992) 185–193. Ekroth, G. 2012. Pelops Joins the Party: Transformations of a Hero Cult within the Festival at Olympia. In Greek and Roman Festivals: Content, Meaning and Practice, eds. Brandt, J.R. and Iddeng, J.W., 95–137. Oxford. Forsdyke, S. 2012. Slaves Tell Tales: And Other Episodes in the Politics of Popular Culture in Ancient Greece. Princeton. Gebhard, E.R. and Dickie, M.W. 1999. Melikertes-Palaimon, Hero of the Isthmian Games. In Hägg (1999) 159–165. Hägg, R. (ed.) 1999. Ancient Greek Hero Cult (SkrAth 8˚ 16). Stockholm. Hall, J.M. 1995. How Argive Was the ‘Argive’ Heraion? The Political and Cultic Geography of the Argive Plain, 900–400 B.C. AJA 99: 577–613. Hall, J.M. 1999. Beyond the Polis: Multilocality of Heroes. In Hägg (1999) 49–59. Kyrieleis, H. 2006. Anfänge und Frühzeit des Heiligtums von Olympia: Die Ausgrabungen am Pelopion 1987–1996 (Olympische Forschungen XXXI). Berlin. Maehler, H. (ed.) 1970. Bacchylidis. Carmina cum fragmentis. Leipzig. Marchand, J.C. 2002. Well-built Kleonai: A History of the Peloponnesian City Based on a Survey of the Visible Remains and a Study of the Literary and Epigraphic Sources. Berkeley (Ph.D. Diss. University of California). McCauley, B. 1999. Heroes and Power: The Politics of Bone Transferal. In Hägg (1999) 85–98. McGregor, M.F. 1941. Cleisthenes of Sicyon and the Panhellenic Festivals. TAPA 72: 266–287. Miller, S.G. 2015. Excavations at Nemea, 1997–2001. Hesperia 84: 277–353. Morgan, C. 1990. Athletes and Oracles: The Transformation of Olympia and Delphi in the Eighth Century B.C. Cambridge. Morgan, C. 1999. The Late Bronze Age Settlement and Early Iron Age Sanctuary (Isthmia VIII). Princeton. Morgan, C. 2002. The Origins of the Isthmian Festival: Points of Comparison and Contrast. In Olympia 1875–2000: 125 Jahre Deutsche Ausgrabungen, ed. Kyrieleis, H., 251–271. Mainz. Musti, D. and Torelli, M. 1986. Pausania guida della Grecia, II, La Corinzia e l’Argolide. Rome. Pache, C.O. 2004. Baby and Child Heroes in Ancient Greece. Urbana. Pariente, A. 1992. Le monument argien des ‘Sept contre Thèbes’. In Piérart (1992) 195–225. Piérart, M. (ed.) 1992. Polydipsion Argos (BCH Suppl. 22). Paris. Piérart, M. and Touchais, G. 1996. Argos: Une ville grecque de 6000 ans. Paris.

Chiara Di Serio

Marginal Remarks on the Concept of ‘Time of Origins’ in Classical Greek Culture Abstract: Among the general elements that define myth, the temporal dimension is certainly recognized as a crucial one by many scholars. The purpose of this chapter is to examine this aspect further. Since the temporal element is closely connected to the foundation of cosmological order, this chapter will focus on the analysis of specific case studies that confirm the relevance of this connection. Four myths shall be examined, whose purpose is to establish: a) the origin of a constellation; b) the separation of humans from animals; c) the role of the poet; d) a ritual for Hera’s festival in Argos.

Introduction One of the general features that fall within the definition of myth is its temporal dimension. It is worth dwelling on this aspect, which can become a useful tool on a heuristic level. Many scholars admit that there is a close correlation between mythical narratives and the past.1 Some agree that myth is a prototypical narrative2 that recreates the past of a given culture.3 In a more specific way, the concept of mythical time emerges from the studies of R. Pettazzoni,4 M. Eliade,5 K. Kerényi6 and A. Brelich,7 who defined a chronological dimension of the origins, when prototypical events take place, thus shaping history, i.e. founding reality. More recently, on the temporality of myths some considerations worth of interest are to be found in the critical analysis carried out by H. Haarmann (2015) within the historiography on this subject. The most significant elements are: 1 See the essential study of Vernant (1971) 93–124. Moreover, see Detienne (1981) 111–112; Bremmer (1987) 1–3; Graf (1985) 92–108; Tyrrell-Brown (1991) 15–16; Torrance (1994) 84; Doty (2000) 14–15; Finkelberg (2005) 10–12; Malkin (2011) 120–121; Clarke (2017); Johnston (2018) 8. See also the Preface to the present volume for an overview of significant landmarks in myth-history studies. 2 Vernant (1974) 210–212; Donald (1991) 215–216; Doty (2000) 51, 61–62. 3 In the works of Calame (1998) 133–138; (2006) 40–41 the exaltation of heroic past is discussed. See also Finkelberg on heroic age (2005) 167–176. 4 Pettazzoni (1947/1948) 104–116. Cf. Spineto (1996). 5 Eliade (1949) 390–392. Cf. Spineto (2015). 6 Kerényi (1951) 8. 7 Brelich (1966) 9–10. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-018

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(a) the mythopoetic experience reproduces the origins of the world;8 (b) mythical tales are the rich heritage of human cultural memory;9 (c) myth reworks human experience to construct knowledge of the world.10 As these statements presuppose in primis the construction of a cosmological order, they prove to be particularly appropriate to the Greek mythical heritage, which is rich in “narrative discourses” about the order of the cosmos and the human condition. Therefore, some interesting case studies are analyzed below, which confirm not only ideas already expressed by previous scholars on mythical time as a time of origins, but also Haarmann’s general observations in the context of Greek tradition. The present analysis focuses on narratives from late mythographic texts,11 since, especially from the Hellenistic period, we have several collections of short “foundation myths” which, far from being merely antiquarian or erudite works, provide important evidence of a long and ancient legacy of beliefs well rooted in Greek culture and traditions. In some cases, mythographic repertories are also found in apologetic works of Christian writers – such as Clement of Alexandria12 or Tatian13 – who mention mythical tales only for the purposes of their arguments, and yet they constitute a rich and useful heritage for reconstructing the religious history of Greek civilization.14 In the myths discussed here the temporal dimension is quintessential to founding decisive elements of Greek cultural memory: a) the origin of a natural element; b) the separation between animals, mankind and gods; c) the role of poetry; d) a ritual in honor of Hera.

The Catasterism of Aetos In order to illustrate how mythopoetic activity reframes the origins of the cosmos, it is useful to examine a myth that belongs to the genre of catasterisms,15 as they

8 Haarmann (2015) 2. 9 Haarmann (2015) 5. 10 Haarmann (2015) 5. 11 On Greek mythography in general, see the works of Henrichs (1987), Pellizer (1993), Higbie (2008). 12 See the Protrepticus. 13 See the Discourse to the Greeks. 14 Apologists often give allegorical explanations of Greek myths: cf. Kahlos (2012). 15 On the tradition of catasterisms in ancient Greece see Pamiàs (2019).

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were called in ancient Greece. It is one of the many traditional stories on the origins of the constellations,16 in which the events narrated concern the birth of astral elements. According to the common definition,17 catasterisms belong to the aetiological literature, i.e. the genre that expounds the “causes” (αἴτια) of certain phenomena. But regarding the term aetiological, it should be pointed out that: a) the “search for causes” applies in general to all myths;18 b) tales about constellations are actually not too different from others in their narrative structure; c) the Greek tradition distinguished between different genres of mythography, identifying different categories of mythical narratives, depending on their content, such as genealogies, myths of metamorphosis, tales about animals, paradoxographies. The first myth to be discussed is Eratosthenes’ tale on the constellation of Aetos (“Eagle”),19 where the eagle is the protagonist of many events: 1) this bird was attributed to Zeus when the gods distributed among themselves winged animals; 2) it also transported Ganymedes to Zeus to serve him as cupbearer;20 3) it reigns over the other birds;21 4) while the god was being chased by Cronus in Crete, the eagle transported him to Naxos, where he was raised;22 5) when the divine sovereign was to fight against the Titans, the eagle appeared as a good omen.23 Following these events, Zeus decided to place Aetos among the stars. In Eratosthenes’ text the motivation for the elevation of Aetos to constellation is indicated with the expression διὰ τοῦτο (“for this reason”). As J. Pàmias24 noted, this syntagm has an incisive value since it underlines very clearly the passage from mythical past to historical present. In this narrative the eagle is a supernatural being that in mythical time is closely connected to the story of Zeus and the achievement of his power. In this regard, we should recall another mythical tale by Antoninus Liberalis,25 in which

16 On the constellations and astrology in Greece, see Lorimer (1951); Condos (1997); Heilen (2002/2003). 17 Pamiàs and Zucker (2013) LXVII–LXIX; Pamiàs (2014) 202–203. 18 Brelich (1966) 11. 19 Eratosth. Cat. 30. See also the text of Hyg. Astr. 2.16 that reports, beside Eratosthenes’ one, two more mythical stories in which Aetos’ catasterism is founded. See the edition of Pàmias and Zucker (2013). 20 On the myth of the rape of Ganymedes, see Apollod. Bibl. 3.12.2; Strabo 13.1.11; Nonn. Dion. 10.309–320; 24.430–450; Verg. Aen. 5.252–257; Ov. Met. 10.155–161; Valerius Flaccus 2. 414–415; Stat. Theb. 1.548. 21 Cf. Ant. Lib. Met. 6. 22 Cf. Hyg. Astr. 2.16. 23 Cf. Fulg. Myth. 1.20. 24 Pàmias (2014) 202. 25 Ant. Lib. Met. 6 in the edition by Papathomopoulos (1968).

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Zeus wished to incinerate the hero Periphas, because, thanks to his piety, he received from men the same honors due to the god.26 However, through the prayers of Apollo, Zeus transforms him into an eagle and grants him the privilege of being king of the birds, of guarding the divine scepter and being close to his throne.27 In Eratosthenes’ account the eagle works for the affirmation of Zeus’ sovereignty by fighting against the generation of pre-Olympian beings, and for the conquest of the god’s privileges, among which the designation of the divine cupbearer on Olympus is included. In the distant primordial time, as the stories about the eagle show, animals cooperate with superhuman beings. However, the eagle’s connection to Zeus continues into the historical era, as the myth founds the consecration of the eagle to the god.28 Eratosthenes’ narrative is placed in a remote time, when the constellation of Aetos did not exist and had still to be established in its current position in the sky. Differently, in their daily life the Greeks could observe it and also considered it the harbinger of violent storms, if it rose from the sea in the winter night sky.29 The function of the myth, besides fixing the presence of a natural element in the cosmos known by the Greeks, also establishes the usual behavior of the bird that flies straight towards the sun undisturbed by its rays.30 This last aspect precisely shows that Eratosthenes’ narrative is evidence of the Greeks’ reworking of their knowledge of the world.

Talking Animals In the Greek mythical tradition, a significant example of the description of what happened in the “time of origins,” when things were qualitatively different from historical reality, is presented in Callimachus’ second Iambus, which reached us in fragmentary form and whose synthetical content can be found in the Diegesis:31

26 See the commentary on the myth by Braccini and Macrì (2018). 27 Cf. Pind. Pyth. 1.6–7. 28 In Hom. Il. 24.310–315 the eagle is already Zeus’ favorite bird. See Santoni (2009) 226 n. 253. On the special link between Zeus and the eagle, see Ar. Av. 514; Apul. Met. 6.15. On the artistic production about Zeus’ eagle see Mylonas (1946). 29 Aratus Phaen. 314–315; Schol. Arat. Vet. 314. 30 See the observation in Eratosthenes’ edition by Santoni (2009) 226 n. 254, where the author quotes the passages of Arist. Hist. An. 9.34 620a and Ael. NA 2.26, in which an eagle forces its young ones to stare at the sun and kills those who have tears in their eyes. 31 See Callim. Ia. 2, ed. by Gallavotti (1946) 38. Cf. Callim. Ia. 2, fr. 192, Dieg. VI 22–32 in the edition by Pfeiffer (1949). The translation is by the author.

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τἆλλα ζῷα ὡμοφώνει ἀνθρώποις, μέχρι κατάλυσιν γήρως ἐπρέσβευσεν ὁ κύκνος πρὸς τοὺς θεοὺς καὶ ἀλώπηξ τὸν Δία ἐτόλμησεν μὴ δικαίως ἄρχειν φάναι. ἔκτοτε δὲ εἰς ἀνθρώπους μετήνεγκεν αὐτῶν τὴν φωνήν, καὶ λάλοι ἐγένοντο· Εὔδημος δέ, φησίν, τὴν κυνὸς ἔσχε, Φίλτων δὲ ὄνου, παρεπικόπτων τούτους, ἴσως δὲ καὶ Σαρδιανὸν εἶπε τὸν Αἴσωπον. All animals spoke like humans, until the day when the swan went to the gods to ask for freedom from aging and the fox said that Zeus did not rule justly. Since then (Zeus) has transferred their voices to men and they have become chatty: Eudemos, the poet says, received that of the dog, Philton that of the ass, so introducing a bias against them. And similarly, the poet said that Aesop was from Sardis.

This tale focuses on a remote mythical age when animals had a voice. The qualitative difference from the historical dimension lies in the fact that animals and humans are described as living together and sharing the same language.32 The event that definitively determines the separation between primordial time and historical reality is the animals’ request to the gods to be freed from old age: this fact, on the one side, provokes the intervention of Zeus as guarantor of the natural order and of the structure of Greek society, and, on the other hand, it determines the impossibility of a condition where physical mutability does not exist. Following this event, humans start talking like beasts and become chatty. The myth ends with the foundation of an actual truth – that was familiar to Callimachus, the author of the iamb – when historical characters, such as Eudemos and Philton, start talking like animals. As to the original linguistic unity of all living beings, we have a similar version of the same myth reported by Philo of Alexandria33 and included in a comment to the Biblical tale of the confusion of the languages. It narrates how in a remote time all animals had a common language; when they asked to be freed from old age and stay forever young in order to reach immortality, they were punished for their presumption and each of them started speaking a different idiom. It is worth remarking that the author, who is of Hellenistic culture, connects the Greek myth with the tradition presented in the holy text of the Genesis.34 Back to the Hellenistic culture, the anomalous original condition of promiscuity between beasts and humans is the subject of another tale by Aesop, where Zeus orders Prometheus to create both species on his behalf. When the god realizes that the animals were higher in number, he orders that some of them be

32 Cf. Xen. Mem. 2.7.13; Pl. Plt. 272 b-c. Some scholars who have analyzed this passage of Callimachus speak of a ‘Golden Age’ in which there was no clear distinction between animals and humans: Gera (2003) 29–31; Kleczkowska (2014) 97–108. Babrius Prol. 1.6–7 makes explicit reference to the Golden Age: see more below. Cf. the edition by Luzzatto-La Penna (1986). 33 Philo De confus. ling. 6. 34 Gen. 11.1–9.

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transformed into humans, so that in the end only their bodies are human-like, but their instinct is animal.35 Last, regarding the same mythical theme, it is worth mentioning Babrius’ version that refers to the golden age, when not only all living beings, including animals and plants, but also the natural elements36 were able to speak;37 moreover, in that age mortals and gods shared a common existence.38 In this case too, primordial time has nothing to do with actual, historical life conditions, since it is totally unimaginable that all things can have a voice and that men can live together with the gods.39 Overall, the above-mentioned narratives belong to that series of stories that evoke the time when there was no separation between living beings, nor between immortals and mortals. In the common pattern of these tales, the primordial founding act refers to the creation of human language which is different from that of the animals and without which human society could not exist. At the same time, the condition of mortality of all living beings who must be separated from the immortal gods is established.

The Song of the Muses Another example that illustrates how events that occurred in a remote and untimely dimension can mark the beginning of historical time is the story of the origin and the role of the Muses. In the late version reported by Clement of Alexandria,40 the Muses are daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. In this narrative Megaclo was the daughter of Macar, king of the Lesbians, who was always at odds with his wife. For this reason Megaclo bought some handmaids from Mysia to help her mother, called them Muses (Mοίσαι according to Aeolic Greek) and taught them to sing old “ancient deeds”

35 Aesopus 323 in the edition by Chambry (1925/1926). 36 Babrius Prol. 1.6–7. In the Luzzatto-La Penna (1986) edition of the Babrii Fabulae Aesopeae we read: ἐπὶ τῆς δὲ χρυσῆς καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ τῶν ζώιων / φωνὴν ἔναρθρον εἶχε καὶ λόγους ἤιδει (“in the golden age all living beings had a voice and could utter words”). 37 Babrius Prol. 1.7–11. In the Luzzatto-La Penna (1986) edition we read: ἐλάλει πέτρη καὶ τὰ φύλλα τῆς πεύκης (“stones and pine leaves could talk”). 38 Babrius Prol. 1.13: θνητῶν δ’ ὑπήρχε καὶ θεῶν ἑταιρείη (“A fellowship existed between the gods and men”). See Hes. Op. 108; 120. Cf. Pl. Phlb. 16 c; Porph. Abst. 4.1.2. 39 In this regard, see the study of Piccaluga (1996) 331–345. 40 Clem. Al. Protr. 2.31.1–4, ed. by Marcovich (1995). Clement claims that this tale is reported by Myrsilus of Lesbos: see FGrH 477 F 7a.

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accompanied by the zither.41 Their music had the power of soothing Macar’s anger and Megaclo, as a sign of gratitude, erected statues for the Muses and ordered that they be venerated in all temples. This story follows the typical pattern of a sacred tale. The chronology is totally uncertain; it is a timeless time in which mythical characters, here specifically the Muses, are given their permanent features and tasks, in this case their ability to sing about past events. Such ability will then be accepted in Greek culture and the people will venerate and honor them in temples.42 From the time of the origins – as reported by Hesiod’s Theogony43 – the Muses sing hymns and delight Zeus’ mind on the Mount Olympos, saying “what is and what will be and what has been”;44 they possess an “immortal voice”45 to celebrate the race of the gods, from the beginning, when Gaia and Ouranos generated the early divinities, through Zeus and his offspring, up to the humans and the race of the Giants.46 In this myth, whose antiquity is undoubted, as demonstrated by Hesiod’s poem, the condition of primordial time is marked by the fact that the Muses sing of how life has developed, through the present, the future and the past,47 as it will permanently be in the historical dimension. Their voice gives permanent foundation to the world order according to which Zeus is “father of gods and men”48 and also “the foremost of the gods and greatest in power.”49 The Muses sing the supremacy of Zeus50 who defeated Cronus and assigned to the immortals their tasks and their roles.51 In this remote time the existential condition of immortals and mortals has not yet been determined and the Muses’ melody help fixing the definite order that will remain unchanged in the Greek culture.

41 Clem. Al. Protr. 2.31.3: ταύτας ἐδιδάξατο ᾄδειν καὶ κιθαρίζειν τὰς πράξεις τὰς παλαιὰς. 42 As to the places where the Muses were venerated, see Paus. 1.19.5; 1.30.2. On their representations see Paus. 5.18.4; 8.9.1. 43 Hes. Theog. 36–40. 44 Hes. Theog. 38: τά τ’ ἐόντα τά τ’ ἐσσόμενα πρό τ’ ἐόντα. Strauss Clay (1988) 330 interprets this expression as the knowledge not only of eternal things, but also of mortal ones. 45 Hes. Theog. 43: ἄμβροτον ὄσσαν. 46 Hes. Theog. 44–50. 47 Not only do the Muses know the past, the present and the future, but their singing is prophetic too; cf. the mythical tale of Peleus and Thetis’ wedding, when their singing founded Achilles’ fatal death (Pind. Isthm. 8.56–58; Nem. 3.90; Cat. 64.305–306; 338–370). See Piccaluga (1980) 1749. As Semenzato (2017) 98–99 has noted, in the succession of present, future and past, the present dimension prevails and the Muses are omniscient. 48 Hes. Theog. 47: θεῶν πατέρ’ ἠδὲ καὶ ἀνδρῶν. 49 Hes. Theog. 49: φέρτατός ἐστι θεῶν κάρτει τε μέγιστος. 50 On the prerogative of the Muses’ singing, see Pironti (2012) 525–528. On their function to sing the order of things, governed by Zeus, see Baglioni (2016) 13–16. 51 Hes. Theog. 73–74.

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In Hesiod’s myth, the foundation of the universal order, which will be decisive for the Greeks, does not stop with the stabilization of Zeus’ sovereignty, but it also includes the existence of the aoidoi and the citharists whose activity originated from the Muses themselves.52 In the mythical time, the subject of divine singing becomes paradigmatic and its perpetual validity is established, so much so that Hesiod claims that his work receives its inspiration directly from the Muses, who induced him to sing “what will be and what has been”53 and to write verses about the lineage of the immortals,54 by repeating what the goddesses had once done. Then the narration tells how the singers, who act as ministers of the Muses, have the task of celebrating the ancient men and gods.55 The goddesses, once they are invoked, can donate sweet tones that can alleviate sorrows and griefs.56 The meaning of the whole tale is clarified precisely by the institution of the aoidoi,57 as their role is to narrate myths that ensure the value of what ancient Greek society considers important. They are the main vehicle for preserving the cultural memory of the Greeks.

A Festive Ritual for Hera in Argos To illustrate how myths constitute a reworking of human experience, we shall examine an interesting story, as preserved by the late mythographer Palaephatus.58 It tells how the Argives regularly celebrated a “solemn assembly” (πανήγυρις) in honor of Hera, the protectress of the city of Argos.59 During the feast, a chariot, drawn by a pair of white oxen, carried the priestess of the goddess from a sanctuary outside the city to the city temple. The story goes on to say that “once upon a time the days of the festival came,”60 but there were no oxen. So, the priestess

52 Hes. Theog. 94–103. 53 Hes. Theog. 32: τά τ’ ἐσσόμενα πρό τ’ ἐόντα. According to Strauss Clay (1988) 330 the poet should only sing ‘eternal things’. See also Stoddard (2004) 80–81. 54 Hes. Theog. 33: μ’ ἐκέλονθ’ ὑμνεῖν μακάρων γένος αἰὲν ἐόντων. 55 Hes. Theog. 99–101. 56 Hes. Theog. 102–103. 57 On the function of the singing of the aoidoi, who receive their investiture from the Muses, there is a vast bibliography: see e.g. Arrighetti (1992) 45–63; Brillante (1992) 7–37; Pironti (2012) 526–527. 58 Palaephatus 50. See the edition by Stern (1996). Cf. Santoni (2000). 59 On the cult of Hera in Argos, see Pirenne-Delforge and Pironti (2016) 119–123. 60 Palaephatus 50: ἧκεν οὖν ποτε ὁ χρόνος φέρων τὴν ἑορτήν.

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devised a remedy: her two young sons were put in the place of the oxen to pull the cart. She then asked for a reward for them, and the goddess granted them eternal sleep. However, Palaephatus draws on an early tradition; the earliest version of this myth appears in Herodotus,61 where the two young men are called Cleobis and Biton.62 It should be noted that in Palaephatus’ text, the word πότε (“once upon a time”) emphasizes very clearly that we are dealing with a distant past, a mythical time when decisive events took place. From a temporal point of view, it is remarkable that the tale takes place in an occasion when it was not possible to fully comply with the norm (νόμος in Palaephatus’ text) for the performance of the ritual. In the mythical time of the story, the need for oxen to be used in the ceremony for the goddess was not yet established; in the historical time, instead, the priestess of Hera has – in the text we read δεῖ – to be transported by oxen to the seat of the divinity, her temple. Therefore, in the mythical dimension the whole ritual is not yet fixed. But from the moment that the two young heroes offer themselves for the service to the priestess, the condition of the ritual becomes definitive, so that the typical scheme of the foundation myth appears to be respected: first the ritual in fieri, and then in action. It should be noted that the mortal sleep given to Cleobis and Biton by the goddess is a determining factor, since not only does it constitute the best way to end life, which a god can grant to a mortal,63 but also it represents the fulfillment of the definitive, eternal condition of the two heroes, who are consecrated as superhuman beings to be worshipped in the cult. Evidence of their veneration by the citizens of Argos is given by Herodotus who speaks of the statues dedicated to them by the Argives at Delphi,64 and by Pausanias who speaks of their figures appearing on a relief.65 These two attestations are valuable, because they complete the religious context to which the two heroes belong: in fact, they clarify how the mythical story has its correspondence in the cult actions of the Argives through images consecrated to them.66 Literary sources, therefore, well document

61 Hdt. 1.31. Cf. Paus. 2.20. 3; cf. 2.19.5; Plut. Cons. ad. Apoll. 58 E; 108 E-F; Suida s. v. Κροῖσος; Tzetz. Chil. 1.1.; Cic. Tusc. 1.47.113. 62 On the interpretation of this myth, see the work by Chiasson (2005). 63 Death without suffering as a reward from the gods is a theme well present in Greek literature: see e.g. Soph. OC 1224–1227; Thgn. 425–428. 64 Hdt. 1.31.5. 65 Paus. 2.20.3. 66 On the statues found at Delphi at the end of the nineteenth century and identified by some scholars as Cleobis and Biton, see Sansone (1991).

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both the myth and the ritual established for the two superhuman beings.67 There is no doubt that the story first told by Herodotus, from which Palaephatus retains the fundamental elements, is the reproduction of a tradition that preserves the cultural memory of the Greek city of Argos.

Bibliography Arrighetti, G. 1992. Esiodo e le Muse: Il dono della verità e la conquista della parola. Athenaeum 80: 45–63. Baglioni, I. 2016. Dal suono del chaos all’armonia del kosmos. Osservazioni sulla dimensione sonora delle entità mitiche primordiali. In Ascoltare gli Dèi / Divos Audire. Costruzione e Percezione della Dimensione Sonora nelle Religioni del Mediterraneo Antico, vol. 2, ed. Baglioni, I., 13–21. Rome. Braccini, T. and Macrì, S.. 2018. Antonino Liberale. Le metamorfosi. Milan. Brelich, A. 1958. Gli eroi greci. Un problema storico-religioso. Rome. Brelich, A. 1966. Introduzione alla storia delle religioni. Rome. Bremmer, J.N. 1987. Interpretations of Greek Mythology. London. Brillante, C. 1992. Il cantore e la musa nell’epica greca arcaica. Rudiae. Ricerche Sul Mondo Classico 4: 5–37. Calame, C. 1998. Mûthos, lógos et histoire. Usages du passé héroïque dans la rhétorique grecque. L’Homme 147: 127–149. Calame, C. 2006. La fabrication historiographique d’un passé héroïque en Grèce classique: Ἀρχαῖα et παλαιά chez Hérodote. Ktema 31: 39–49. Chambry, É. (ed.) 1925–1926. Aesopi Fabulae. I-II. Paris. Chiasson, C.C. 2005. Myth, Ritual, and Authorial Control in Herodotus’ Story of Cleobis and Biton (Hist. 1.31). AJPh 126: 41–64. Clarke, K. 2017. Walking through History. Unlocking the Mythical Past. In Myths on the Map. The Storied Landscapes of Ancient Greece, ed. Hawes, G., 14–31. Oxford. Condos, T. 1997. Star Myths of the Greeks and Romans. A Sourcebook Containing the Constellations of Pseudo-Eratoshenes and the Poetic Astronomy of Hyginus. Grand Rapids, MI. Delattre, C. 2009. Αἰτιολογία: Mythe et procédure étiologique. Mètis 7: 285–310. Detienne, M. 1981. L’invention de la mythologie. Paris. Donald, M. 1991. Origins of the Modern Mind. Three Stages in the Evolution of Culture and Cognition. Cambridge. Doty, W.G. 2000. Mythography. The Study of Myths and Rituals. Tuscaloosa, AL.

67 Chiasson (2005) has well identified the mythical-ritual context attested by Herodotus’ account, although in his study he speaks of a “legendary” story with mythical elements (see pages 42 and 60) and not explicitly of myth. But the whole structure of the story, in its different variants, can be interpreted as a real myth. This is confirmed by Plu. Mor. 108 E-F, where this narrative is associated with others, such as that of Trophonius and Agamedes, who are unequivocally heroes. On Trophonius, his myths and rituals, see Brelich (1958) 46–59.

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Eliade, M. 1949. Traité d’histoire des religions. Paris. Finkelberg, M. 2005. Greeks and pre-Greeks. Aegean Prehistory and Greek Heroic Tradition. Cambridge. Gallavotti, C. (ed.) 1946. Callimaco. Il libro dei Giambi. Naples. Gera, D.L. 2003. Ancient Greek Ideas on Speech, Language, and Civilization. Oxford. Graf, F. 1985. Griechische Mythologie. Eine Einführung. Munich. Haarmann, H. 2015. Myth as Source of Knowledge in Early Western Thought. The Quest for Historiography, Science and Philosophy in Greek Antiquity. Wiesbaden. Heilen, S. 2002–2003. Teaching ‘Astrology in Greece and Rome’. CJ 98: 201–210. Henrichs, A. 1987. Three Approaches to Greek Mythography. In Interpretations of Greek Mythology, ed. Bremmer, J.N., 242–277. London. Higbie, C. 2008. Hellenistic Mythographers. In The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology, ed. Woodard, R.D., 237–254. Johnston, S.I. 2018. The Story of Myth. Cambridge. Kahlos, M. 2012. Pagan-Christian Debates over the Interpretation of Texts in Late Antiquity. CW 105: 525–545. Kerényi, K. 1951. Die Mythologie der Griechen. Band 1: Die Götter- und Menschheitsgeschichten. Zürich. Kleczkowska, K. 2014. Those Who Cannot Speak. Animals as Others in Ancient Greek Thought. Maska 24: 97–108. Lorimer, H.L. 1951. Stars and Constellations in Homer and Hesiod. ABSA 46: 86–101. Luzzatto, M.J. and La Penna, A. (eds.) 1986. Babrii Mythiambi Aesopei. Leipzig. Malkin, I. 2011. A Small Greek World. Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean. Oxford. Marcovich, M. (ed.) 1995. Clementis Alexandrini Protrepticus. Leiden. Mylonas, G.E. 1946. The Eagle of Zeus. CJ 41: 203–207. Pàmias, J. (ed.) and Zucker, A. (transl.) 2013. Eratosthène de Cyrène. Catastérismes. Paris. Pamiàs, J. 2014. Les “catastérismes” d’Eratosthène: Choix mythographiques et production du savoir. REG 127: 195–206. Pamiàs, J. 2019. Ἀστὴρ γενόμην – The Popular Roots of Catasterisms in Greece. In The Stars in the Classical and Medieval Tradition, eds. Hadravová, A., Hadrava, P., and Lippincot, K., 189–202. Prague. Papathomopoulos, M. (ed.) 1968. Antoninus Liberalis. Les Métamorphoses. Paris. Pellizer, E. 1993. La mitografia. In Lo spazio letterario della Grecia antica. Vol. I. La produzione e la circolazione del testo. T. II. L’ellenismo, eds. Cambiano, G., Canfora, L., and Lanza, D., 283–303. Rome. Pettazzoni, R. 1947–1948. Verità del mito. Studi E Materiali Di Storia Delle Religioni 21: 104–116. Pfeiffer, R. (ed.) 1949. Callimachus, vol. 1. Fragmenta. Oxford. Piccaluga, G. 1980. Pandora e i doni di nozze. In Φιλίας χάριν. Miscellanea di Studi classici in onore di E. Manni, vol. 5, 1737–1750. Rome. Piccaluga, G. 1996. Φίλος θεοῖσιν. La dimestichezza col sovrumano nella mitologia greca. In L’incidenza dell’antico. Studi in memoria di Ettore Lepore, ed. Montepaone, C., 331–345. Naples. Pironti, G. 2012. Gli dèi e le dee dei Greci. In L’Antichità. Grecia, ed. Eco, U., 518–554. Milan. Pironti, G. and Pirenne-Delforge, V.. 2016. L’Héra de Zeus. Ennemie intime, épouse definitive. Paris. Sansone, D. 1991. Cleobis and Biton in Delphi. Nikephoros 4: 121–132.

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Santoni, A. 2000. Palefato. Storie incredibili. Pisa. Santoni, A. 2009. Eratostene. Epitome dei Catasterismi. Pisa. Semenzato, C. 2017. A l’écoute des Muses en Grèce archaïque La question de l’inspiration dans la poésie grecque à l’aube de notre civilization. Berlin. Spineto, N. 1996. Raffaele Pettazzoni e la verità del mito (con scritti di R. Pettazzoni). Rivista Di Storia Della Storiografia Moderna 17: 59–105. Spineto, N. 2015. Il mito in Eliade. In Filosofie del mito nel Novecento, eds. Leghissa, G. and Manera, G., 121–130. Rome. Stern, J. 1996. Palaephatus. On Unbelievable Tales. Wauconda, IL. Stoddard, K. 2004. The Narrative Voice in the Theogony of Hesiod. Leiden. Strauss Clay, J. 1988. What the Muses Sang: Theogony 1–115. GRBS 4: 323–333. Torrance, R.M. 1994. The Spiritual Quest. Transcendence in Myth, Religion, and Science. Berkeley. Tyrrell, B. and Brown, F.S. 1991. Athenian Myths & Institutions. Words in Action. New York. Velardi, R. 2014. Presente, futuro, passato: Il sapere del mantis e il sapere dell’aedo (Hes. Theog. 38; Hom. Il. 1, 70). QUCC 107: 27–44. Vernant, J.-P. 19712. Mythe et pensée chez les Grecs. Études de psychologie historique. Paris. Vernant, J.-P. 1974. Mythe et société en Grèce ancienne. Paris.

Alexandros Velaoras

Myth and History in the Court of Archelaus Abstract: Euripides’ Archelaus was probably written for Macedonian king Archelaus (413–399 BC) during Euripides’ stay in Macedonia in the last years of his life and publicly performed at Dium in 408/407 BC. The dramatisation of mythical Archelaus’ adventures and the foundation of Aegae is usually assumed to have been meant to consolidate the historic Archelaus’ heroic ancestry and descent from Heracles; to confirm the Argive origins and, by extension, the Hellenicity of Archelaus and the Macedonian royal house; and thus – and above all – to legitimate Archelaus’ accession to the throne. Yet, the Hellenicity of the Argeads had similarly been confirmed by Herodotus (5.22 and 8.139), writing around 431–425 BC, and it was not disputed by Thucydides (2.99.3), still writing at the time of Archelaus’ death. In my contribution to this volume, I argue that Archelaus commissioned the tragedy bearing his name to dispel the doubts surrounding his own legitimacy as a king and as a son of Perdiccas II but also to face contemporary challenges to the Greekness of the Macedonian royal line. I wish to prove that tragedy as a genre was a more appropriate vehicle for the fulfilment of Archelaus’ political aims than historiography because of the very conditions of performance and reception of each genre in late fifth-century Macedonia, which I am trying to reconstruct based on literary and archaeological evidence.

From the Theatre of Dionysus to the Court of Archelaus Sometime soon after the performance of Orestes in 408 BC, for reasons which are impossible to ascertain, Euripides reportedly left Athens and went to Macedonia never to return. According to his ancient biographer, while at the court of Macedonian king Archelaus (413–399 BC), he wrote a tragedy bearing his host’s name in order to please him (χαριζόμενος αὐτῷ, T ii a1).1 It had been an established

1 “as a favour to him” (transl. by Kovacs [1994a]). Cf. also T ii a2. There is still controversy over Euripides’ stay in Macedonia and the place of the original performance of Archelaus – the latter issue only made more complicated by the attribution by the Scholiast of lines 1206–1208 from the famous lekythion scene in Aristophanes’ Frogs (= Eur. fr. 846) to the prologue of Archelaus (Kannicht [2004] 885 ad fr. 846; see Dover [1993] ad loc.). In this article, I follow the communis opinio, according to which Archelaus commissioned a tragedy which was performed in front of a https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-019

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practice among the Argead kings to invite intellectuals from Athens and the rest of the Greek world and host them at their court.2 So Archelaus spared no expense to have his palace spectacularly decorated by Zeuxis of Ephesus. He also hosted the famous Corinthian sculptor and architect Callimachus, the epic poet Choerilus of Samos, the tragic poet Agathon, the citharode and dithyrambic poet Timotheus of Miletus and possibly the historian Thucydides. The anecdotal tradition reports that even Socrates was invited but declined Archelaus’ invitation.3 The residence of such renowned intellectuals at the Macedonian court was inscribed within the king’s policy of “conscious and public adoption of some aspects of Greek culture . . . for purposes that were uniquely Macedonian.”4 Below I will discuss these purposes with reference to Euripides’ tragedy Archelaus. This commissioned tragedy is assumed to have been meant to consolidate the historic Archelaus’ heroic ancestry and descent from Heracles; to confirm the Argive origins and by extension the Hellenicity of Archelaus and the Macedonian royal house; and thus – and above all – to legitimate Archelaus’ accession to the throne.5 Herodotus’ Histories, which contain the earliest written record of Macedonian foundation myths, had been completed by the end of the fifth century and they also substantiated both the Herculean descent of the Argeads and their Hellenicity, neither of which was challenged by Thucydides, still writing at the time of Archelaus’ reign.6 The question I will try to answer is why tragedy as a

Macedonian audience during Euripides’ stay at his court; see Lamari (2017) 45–48; Stewart (2017) 126–138 and cf. Lefkowitz (2012) 88–103; Matthiessen (2002) 256; Scullion (2003); Gibert (2004) 337; Hanink (2008), esp. 116–117. I also refrain from entering into the discussion of the problem of the ‘two prologues’ (on which see Stoessl [1957–1959] 2339–2340; Xanthakis-Karamanos [1993] 31 and [2012] 112–113; Scullion [2006] 185–191). The sources for Euripides’ life are assembled in Kannicht (2004); see also Kovacs (1994b) 1–22. The reference text of Euripidean testimonia (T) and fragmenta (fr.) is Kannicht (2004). Testimonia to and fragmenta of Archelaus are cited without mention of title. 2 See Pownall (2017). 3 See Carney (2015) 193 and Pownall (2017) for the relevant testimonia. On poets and their patrons in Archaic and Classical Greece see Bremer (1991), esp. 42–44 on Euripides. 4 Borza (1990) 171–177 and (1993) calls this practice ‘philhellenism’. However, the term is problematic insofar as it suggests that the Macedonians were not Hellenes, a highly controversial issue in antiquity. On the political motives behind Archelaus’ overall ‘philhellenism’ see Greenwalt (2003) and infra. 5 See, for instance, Hall (1989) 180; Xanthakis-Karamanos (1993) and (2012); Pownall (2017) 220–221. 6 With the exception of two genealogies for the Macedonians’ eponymous ancestor (Macedon or Macednos), given in ps.-Hesiod’s Catalogue of Women (fr. 7 Merkelbach-West) and by Hellanicus (FGrH 4 F 74). Macedon’s implicit exclusion from Hellen’s family line may reflect archaic Greek uncertainty about the Macedonians’ Hellenicity, perhaps triggered by Amyntas’ subjection to

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genre was a more appropriate vehicle for the fulfilment of Archelaus’ political aims than historiography. For this, based mostly – and inevitably – on Athenian or Athenocentric sources, I will try to reconstruct the conditions of performance and reception of each genre in Macedonia.7

Something to Do with the King Euripides’ tragedy Archelaus probably performed publicly in Macedonia in 408/ 407 BC, dramatised mythical Archelaus’ adventures in Thrace, which ended with Apollo’s oracle for the foundation of Aegae.8 Tragic Archelaus, son of Temenus, is very likely to have been, at least in part, a Euripidean invention as he is not attested in other authors previously.9 The thirty-seven extant fragments by themselves do not permit a reconstruction of the plot; this is only possible with Hyginus’ Fabula 219.10 According to Hyginus, Temenus’ son Archelaus was banished

Persia (Asirvatham [2008] 237). On the contested ethnic identity of the Macedonians since classical times, see Hall (2001). Hall’s incisive and perceptive discussions of ethnicity and Hellenicity (Hall [1997], [2002] and [2015]) are valuable for a profound understanding of the concept but should be read with Vlassopoulos (2015). 7 On theatre and, in particular, tragedy in Macedonia see Adam-Veleni (2010) and (2012); Moloney (2014); Stewart (2017) and (2021). Moloney’s The Macedonian Kings and Greek Theatre (in preparation) is also looked forward to. Duncan (2011) and Seaford’s (2011) response to it are also valuable insofar as they discuss the ideological implications of the exportation of tragedy from a democratic to a non-democratic context with reference to Archelaus. 8 Where exactly in Macedonia Archelaus was originally performed is a matter of speculation which I discuss below. 9 Lesky (1972) 472; Jouan and Van Looy (1998–2003) 1.277–278. In fact, Archelaus is also attested in two testimonia to Euripides’ Temenidae (performed between 422 and 406 BC) and Temenus (whose date of performance is impossible to determine) (Temenidae / Temenus T i.15 and iv.12; on the dates of performance, see Cropp and Fick [1985] 91). Both testimonia were initially considered parts of hypotheses to Archelaus but Harder (1979) and (1985) 288–290 has shown that they most probably belong to hypotheses to either Temenidae or Temenus. This means that “Archelaus can no longer be considered to have appeared in or been especially invented for Archelaos only.” Besides, she remarks, the extant foundation myths of Macedonia contain “a number of elements that recur in the Archelaus and may well have been used by Euripides” ([1985] 289 and 132 – author’s emphasis). Following Zielinski, Webster assumed a ‘Macedonian’ trilogy consisting of Temenidae, Temenus and Archelaus – a hypothesis recently revived by Scullion (Zielinski [1925] 236; Webster [1967] 252–253; Scullion [2006] 191–197). Cf. also Di Gregorio (1987) and Katsouris (2005) 206–208. Harder (1985) 127–129 and Stewart (2017) 135–138 reject the idea – cogently in my opinion; cf. Gibert (2004) 337. 10 But consider the reservations expressed by Huys (1997), esp. 28–29. In her authoritative commentary, Annette Harder discusses the location of each fragment in the play (Harder

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from Argos by his brothers and went to Thrace, to the court of king Cisseus. Cisseus promised to give him his kingdom and his daughter in marriage if Archelaus helped him fend off his neighbours’ attacks. Having successfully accomplished the task, Archelaus sought from the king the rewards promised. However, the king was persuaded by his friends to betray his pledge and decided to kill Archelaus by deceit. One of the king’s servants disclosed the king’s secret plans to Archelaus, who was thus able to kill Cisseus by throwing him into the pit of burning coals which had been prepared for himself. Finally, instructed by an oracle of Apollo, Archelaus fled Thrace and, led by a goat, he arrived in Macedonia, where he founded the city of Aegae.11 The reconstructions of the plot consulted follow Hyginus closely. Many fragments are fitted into his story fairly easily but many others are of a gnomic nature and therefore their location – if attempted at all – is admitted to be “purely hypothetical.”12 However, the play’s major themes can be deduced from Hyginus’ fabula and the extant fragments.13 As mentioned earlier, Archelaus does not refer to Euripides’ contemporary Macedonian king but to his invented mythical namesake, Heracles’ greatgrandson, whose genealogy (fr. 228 and 228a) ultimately links him with Danaus. The crisis referred to in two fragments most probably belonging to the parodos of the play (fr. 229 and 230)14 serves as the ideal background for young Archelaus to display his valour and thus prove his heroic descent and live up to his reputation (fr. 231–232, 242). Harder thinks that the noble ancestry of Archelaus could have been “a kind of Leitmotiv in the play.”15 It is often contrasted with wealth and it is found superior to it. To be sure, as an exile, Archelaus was by necessity poor.16 However, his good birth, his courage and the effort he was expected to put into the

[1985] passim). Reconstructions of the plot have been attempted by Webster (1967) 255–257; Di Gregorio (1988); Xanthakis-Karamanos (1993) (= Xanthakis-Karamanos [2004] 21–46); Jouan and Van Looy (1998–2003) 1.282–286; Gibert (2004) 330–333; Katsouris (2005); and XanthakisKaramanos (2012) (I am citing only the ones consulted). 11 The foundation myth of Aegae by Archelaus bears strong similarities to that of Thebes by Cadmus (see Apollod. 3.4.1). 12 Harder (1985) 217 ad fr. 236 = 8A and passim; Xanthakis-Karamanos (1993) 522; Jouan and Van Looy (1998–2003) 1.287; Xanthakis-Karamanos (2012) 115. 13 Cf. Jouan and Van Looy (1998–2003) 1.287–288 and Gibert (2004) 331. 14 Harder (1985) 206 and 209 ad loc.; Jouan and Van Looy (1998–2003) 1.284; Gibert (2004) 353–354 ad loc. (among others). 15 Harder (1985) 212 ad fr. 231 = 5A. 16 On the poverty and other misfortunes of fugitives and exiles, cf. Eur. Heracl. passim and Phoen. 388–406.

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war against Cisseus’ neighbours (fr. 233, 236–240 and 243–244) were guarantees of success.17 Another series of virtues and vices must have been brought up, first, in the plotting scene between Cisseus and his friends, in which Cisseus was persuaded to betray his pledge,18 and, then, in the subsequent confrontation between Cisseus and Archelaus. In these (agon?) scenes, the themes of tyranny (and its relation to wealth), reciprocity, (in)justice and (im)piety could have been the focus of the debates. Finally, the theme of wandering must also have been prominent in the play, with Archelaus’ status changing from insider to outsider several times. Originally an Argive (insider), he was expelled by his brothers and became an exile (outsider) until he arrived in Thrace and became Cisseus’ xenos (insider). Then, after murdering Cisseus and following Apollo’s oracle, he became a fugitive (outsider) and, led by a goat, he founded Aegae, thus becoming the insider par excellence. If we are to believe Plato, historical Archelaus was a tyrant and an ‘ideally bad man’. An illegitimate son of Perdiccas II, born to a slave mother, Archelaus gained the throne – on which he could have no rightful claim – by triple murder.19 This story became proverbial in antiquity but its veracity has often been doubted.20 I suggest that Euripides’ Archelaus could be an argument in favour of Plato’s account. In fact, this commissioned tragedy is likely to have been responding to contemporary accusations made against king Archelaus both in Macedonia and in Athens. A fragment from Thrasymachus’ oration On behalf of the Larissaeans, in which Archelaus is accused of being a barbarian wishing to subjugate the Greeks,21 and the explicit and repeated references to the Macedonian kings’ Argive roots by Herodotus and Thucydides suggest that Archelaus did not only have to dispel the doubts surrounding his own legitimacy as a king and as a son of Perdiccas II. He

17 Cf. Hyg. 219: uno proelio fugavit (‘he routed in one battle’ – my translation). 18 Harder (1985) assigns to this scene (with varying certainty) fr. 246, 249–251 and 254–255. A discussion contrasting tyranny with the law (to which she assigns fr. 235, 248, 250 and 252) could also constitute part of the same scene. 19 Pl. Theages 124d; Alc. II 141d; Grg. 471a4-c6 (with Dodds [1959] ad loc.); Aristid. Or. 45.55 and 46.120 (with Schol.); Ael. VH 12.43.3–4. On Archelaus’ slave mother and his illegitimacy, see Hammond and Griffith (1979) 154–155 and 155 n. 1. On Archelaus’ reign, beside the classic references, namely Hammond and Griffith (1979) 137–141; Borza (1990) 161–179; Errington (1990) 24–27, see also the more recent Roisman (2010) 154–158; Mari (2011) 91–92; King (2018) 41–43. 20 Geyer (1930) 84–85; Hammond and Griffith (1979) 135–136; Borza (1990) 161–162; Sawada (2010) 394; Mueller (2017) 190–191. 21 Ἀρχελάῳ δουλεύσομεν Ἕλληνες ὄντες βαρβάρῳ; (“Shall we, Greeks, become slaves to Archelaus, a barbarian?” – my translation [85 B 2 DK]; this sentence is based on Eur. Telephus fr. 719: Ἕλληνες ὄντες βαρβάροις δουλεύσομεν;).

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also had to face contemporary challenges to the Greekness of the Macedonian kings, hence his own, too. Starting with the long genealogy in the prologue of Archelaus and continuing with the overall positive depiction of the protagonist, Euripides could have sought, first, to reaffirm the royal house’s Argive origin and descent from Heracles and by extension from Zeus;22 second, to prove the Hellenic origin of the Macedonian kings; and, third, to legitimate Archelaus as the rightful king, superior both by descent and in merit to all other domestic rivals. It was important for Archelaus to have the legitimacy of his rule recognised by the Macedonian elite, at whom the play is believed to have been aimed primarily, in order that challenges to the throne were prevented or suppressed. I suggest that it was equally important for Archelaus to be recognised as their rightful king by the Macedonian populace too, so that likely attempts at overthrowing him would not find popular support.23 Besides, the preservation of internal peace and order was a sine qua non for the implementation of Archelaus’ extensive reforms in Macedonia, some of which actually constituted Thucydides’ object of praise.24 But Archelaus, whose reign coincided with the decline of the Greek powers involved in the Peloponnesian war, was also interested in stabilising his relationship to Athens, for which it was important that the Macedonians were respected by the Greeks south of Mount Olympus and ceased to be regarded as barbarians.25 Euripides (no less than Archelaus) seems to have been well aware that, as Jonathan Hall puts it, “a genealogy might [among else] seek to elevate the claims

22 On the appropriation of Heracles by the Argead kings as a fundamental part of their selfrepresentation, see Moloney (2015). In ps.-Hesiod Macedon is son of Zeus, too. Hall (2001) 169 and 178 n. 89 remarks that “filiation from Zeus in itself provided no qualification for Greek descent” – the Trojan Sarpedon was the son of Zeus. It does prove, however, according to Hammond (1994) 134, that the Macedonians spoke Greek. On objections to treating language as a defining criterion of ethnicity, see Hall (1997) chapter 5. Coins intended mainly for international trade also bore images of Zeus, of a lion-helmeted Heracles or of a goat (Hammond and Griffith [1979] 138; Borza [1990] 173; Greenwalt [1994] 112–114; Carney [2015] 62 with n. 3). 23 Borza (1993) 240–241; Moloney (2014) 239–240 and (2015) 61–62. Cf. also Bremer (1991) 44 and Pownall (2017) 220–221. 24 On the importance to Macedonian kings of popular support (especially in cases of contested succession), see Errington (1978) 103–105; Thucydides’ praise (2.100.2), the only positive comment on Archelaus of which I am aware, concerns his achievements exclusively, not his character. 25 Borza (1993) 241. The Macedonians prior to Philip II are presented by Arrian as a barelycivilised people (Anab. 7.9.2). Thucydides also seems to consider the Macedonian people barbarian or semi-barbarian (4.124.1 with Hornblower [1991–2008] ad loc.), even if he does not challenge the Argive descent of the royal family (2.99.3 and 5.80.2).

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to status and authority of one particular family over ethnically related peers.”26 He thus exploits “the elasticity of genealogies,” which “not only enabled Greeks to attribute ‘Greek’ heroic genealogies to others but also allowed non-Greeks to adopt them”27 – even to revise them.28 The Macedonian rulers, “as active creators and as symbolic figures of Macedonian identity,”29 wished to show that they belonged with the civilised world of the Greeks and not with the barbarians. So, Archelaus sought to strengthen the Macedonians’ bid for civilisation with cultural credentials.30 Edith Hall has famously argued that after the Persian Wars there came into being, mainly among the Athenians, a subjective, that is an ideological, definition of Hellenicity, which rested on the polarity between Greeks and barbarians through the ascription to each group of opposing qualities.31 For Jonathan Hall, ethnicity is also a discursive construction with an important performative component. What the Macedonians said about themselves was as important as what they did.32 The philhellenism of the Argeads and in particular Archelaus’ cultural politics were thus meant as eloquent declarations of ethnic identity, aimed simultaneously at the rival tribes in Macedonia and the Greeks south of Mount Olympus.33

26 Hall (2002) 26; Koulakiotis (2017) 202. 27 Malkin (2001b) 10. 28 The introduction of Archelaus as a son of Temenus and the replacement of Perdiccas as the founder of Aegae, which inaugurated the revision of the Macedonian royal line, was followed soon after the beginning of the fourth century by the similar introduction of Caranus (Diod. Sic. 7.15–17; Theopompus FGrH 115 F 393), on which see Hammond and Griffith (1979) 5–14; Greenwalt (1985) and Mallios (2014). 29 Engels (2010) 91. 30 Similarly put by Revermann (1999/2000) 454: “to dispel the stigma of cultural inferiority”; and Pownall (2017) 215: “to win the respect of the Greeks as an equally civilized power.” 31 Hall (1989). For a non-structuralist approach to ethnicity and otherness, see Gruen (2011) and Vlassopoulos (2013). 32 Hall (2002) 15. 33 Hammond’s claim that “what made Macedon strong in relation to its constantly strong neighbours and the sometimes ambitious Greek powers was not its likeness to the Greeks but its essential difference in political structure, social layering, and economic development” (Hammond and Griffith [1979] 149) and Borza’s (1993) 238 remark that “the adoption of Greek adornments over the long run changed nothing fundamental in Macedonian society” do not contradict the Macedonian kings’ keen interest in being classified among the civilised peoples of the Eastern Mediterranean by displaying the affinity between the former and the latter.

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ἀπὸ τούτου δὴ τοῦ Περδίκκεω Ἀλέξανδρος ὧδε ἐγένετο: Herodotus and the Argive Descent of the Macedonian Royal House As already mentioned, the Hellenic heritage of the Macedonian royal house had been confirmed – more than once – by Herodotus, writing around 431–425 BC, and it was not disputed by Thucydides, who was still writing at the time of Archelaus’ death.34 In the first book of his Histories (1.56.3) and again in the eighth (8.43), Herodotus traces the formation of the Dorians to a fusion of Macedonians with other tribes, which was regarded in itself as important evidence of the Greekness of the Macedonians. In the fifth book (5.22), he narrates Alexander I’s successful attempt to participate in the Olympic games after his Argive, hence Hellenic, origin was recognised by the Hellanodikai.35 In Book 8, Herodotus returns – as promised in 5.22 – to the issue of Alexander’s descent, stating that (Hdt. 8.137.1) Τοῦ δὲ Ἀλεξάνδρου τούτου ἕβδομος γενέτωρ Περδίκκης ἐστὶ ὁ κτησάμενος τῶν Μακεδόνων τὴν τυραννίδα τρόπῳ τοιῷδε. Alexander was a seventh-generation descendant of Perdiccas, who had gained the kingdom of Macedonia in the following way.

and goes on to relate the Macedonian foundation myth. According to this folklore story, Perdiccas and his two brothers, all three Temenus’ sons, were banished from Argos and went to Lebaea in Macedonia. There they worked for the king as labourers – Perdiccas tending the sheep and goats. The daily miraculous growth 34 Hdt. 5.22, 8.139, 9.45.2 (αὐτός [sc. Ἀλέξανδρος] τε γὰρ Ἕλλην γένος εἰμὶ τὠρχαῖον (‘My family background makes me a Greek myself’) – I cite Waterfield’s (1998) translation of Herodotus’ Histories). The case for a lower date for Herodotus (sometime between 425 and 415 BC) is made by Fornara (1971) and Munn (2000) 43 and 363 n. 78 (for a brief account of the debate). A compromising suggestion is made by Sansone (1985). Th. 2.99.3: οἱ πρόγονοι αὐτοῦ [sc. Περδίκκου], Τημενίδαι τὸ ἀρχαῖον ὄντες ἐξ Ἄργους (‘his ancestors the Temenidai, who originally came from Argos’); 5.80.2: ἦν δὲ καὶ αὐτός [sc. Περδίκκας] τὸ ἀρχαῖον ἐξ Ἄργους (‘for he himself was of ancient Argive descent’) (transl. by Hornblower). But cf. Hornblower (1991–2008) 2. 391–3 ad 4.124.1, who suggests that for Thucydides “the Macedonians were intermediate between Greeks and (utter) barbarians and that Th[ucydides] did not operate with an undifferentiated concept ‘barbarian’” (quotation from p. 392). 35 Alexander’s participation in the Olympic Games is doubted: his name does not appear on the victor lists nor is there any other, independent confirmation; see Borza (1982) 10–11 with n. 12 and (1990) 110–113. Borza (1993) 241 argues that it actually seems unlikely that any Macedonian king competed in the Olympic festival prior to Philip II – but cf. Adams (2014) 334–335.

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in size of Perdiccas’ loaves of bread, which were made by the king’s wife, was regarded by the king as an omen. So, the king asked the three brothers to leave his land but refused to pay them their wages when asked. Instead he offered them a spot on the floor lit by the sunlight coming in through the smoke-hole, at which Perdiccas replied (Hdt. 8.137.5): Δεκόμεθα, ὦ βασιλεῦ, τὰ διδοῖς (‘My lord, we accept your gift’). Then, περιγράφει τῇ μαχαίρῃ ἐς τὸ ἔδαφος τοῦ οἴκου τὸν ἥλιον, περιγράψας δέ, ἐς τὸν κόλπον τρὶς ἀρυσάμενος τοῦ ἡλίου, ἀπαλλάσσετο αὐτός τε καὶ οἱ μετ’ ἐκείνου. He traced the circle of sunlight on the floor of the house with a knife that he happened to have on him, scooped the sunlight three times into his lap, and then left with his brothers.

Pursued by the king’s horsemen, the three brothers fled to another part of Macedonia and settled at the foot of Mount Bermium, from where ‘[they] expanded . . . until they had conquered the rest of Macedonia too’ (‘ἐνθεῦτεν δὲ ὁρμώμενοι ὡς ταύτην ἔσχον, κατεστρέφοντο καὶ τὴν ἄλλην Μακεδονίην’, Hdt. 8.138.3). This narrative concludes with the line of descent from Perdiccas to Alexander (8.139): ἀπὸ τούτου δὴ τοῦ Περδίκκεω Ἀλέξανδρος ὧδε ἐγένετο· Ἀμύντεω παῖς ἦν Ἀλέξανδρος, Ἀμύντης δὲ Ἀλκέτεω· Ἀλκέτεω δὲ πατὴρ ἦν Ἀέροπος, τοῦ δὲ Φίλιππος, Φιλίππου δὲ Ἀργαῖος, τοῦ δὲ Περδίκκης ὁ κτησάμενος τὴν ἀρχήν. The line of descent from this Perdiccas to Alexander was as follows: Alexander was the son of Amyntas, Amyntas of Alcetes, Alcetes of Aëropus, Aëropus of Philippus, and Philippus of Argaeus, whose father was Perdiccas, who gained the kingdom of Macedonia.

It has recently been remarked that by Euripides’ time “the Argead founding myth [had undergone] (at least three) changes of genre: probably starting as a popular story transmitted by means of oral tradition, it was recorded by Herodotus in his Histories and then presented on stage in Euripides’ tragedy.”36 In fact, there are considerable similarities between Herodotus’ and Euripides’ versions of the Macedonian founding myth: the Herculean descent of the mythical ancestors, their exile from Argos, their poverty, their dependence on a king, the king’s refusal to give them what he owes them (wages or promised reward), his attempt to do away with them, their flight to Macedonia and their eventual establishment there. Both versions also include a group of the king’s friends (amici) or advisers (πάρεδροι), goats and supernatural elements (the miraculous growth of bread and Apollo’s

36 Hatzopoulos (2003) 218; Gibert (2004) 334–335; Müller (2017) 189. According to Borza (1993) 239, on the other hand, “the tale of the Argive origin of Macedonian kings cannot be traced beyond Herodotus, who seems to have learned it from its probable inventor, Alexander I.”

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oracle).37 That means that if Herodotus’ and Euripides’ versions ever reached Macedonian ears, they might not have sounded altogether unfamiliar.

The Medium Is the Message: Herodotus’ Histories, Euripides’ Archelaus and Their Audiences It is generally accepted that Herodotus went on lecture tours and delivered public readings of excerpts of his Histories – its sheer volume would not allow its public reading in its entirety – or that his public lectures later formed the basis of his written work.38 Herodotus visited Macedonia during Alexander I’s reign, c. 460 BC.39 The biographical tradition even reports that he had spent time with Hellanicus at the court of Amyntas.40 Although such anecdotal information is usually not true, it suggests that a lecture by Herodotus or a public reading of a draft of some part of his Histories in the court of Alexander I in Macedonia is not inconceivable. On the other hand, it has been objected by those who do not regard the Histories as a compilation of orally delivered lectures41 – rightly, to my mind – that its internal qualities are clear indications of a work, firstly, conceived as a whole (even if its unity is undermined at times)42 and, secondly, meant to be put down in writing, even if only for a limited readership (mostly but not exclusively Athenian),43 who had grown fond of lengthy works of prose. Despite the relatively high literacy levels assumed for fifth-century Athens and the persistence of the oral culture alongside the written one, I think that Stewart Flory is right when arguing that “there is no convincing evidence to show that the work

37 On the oracles in Archelaus, see Mari (2002) 60–66 (esp. 65–66). 38 Jacoby (1913) 242; Flory (1980); Asheri (2007) 12–13. The accounts of Herodotus’ lectures are scrutinised and rejected as untrustworthy by Johnson (1994) 240–245. 39 Jacoby (1913) 250 thinks that such phrases as “Αἰγύπτιοι, Ἀθηναῖοι etc. λέγουσι” suggest that Herodotus actually visited the places whose local traditions he reports. So, he is confident – and so is Hatzopoulos (2003) 213 – that Herodotus’ accounts of Macedonian history (5. 17–21, 8.121 and 8.136–139) were heard during his travels in Macedonia, straight from Alexander’s mouth. 40 Suidae lexicon, s.v. Ἑλλάνικος. 41 For instance, Johnson (1994). 42 See Bakker (2006); contra Asheri (2007) 12–13. 43 Asheri (2007) 2 (Attic, Ionian, Delian, S. Italian).

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was even widely known in the late fifth century” – neither in Athens nor in the rest of the Greek world, Macedonia included.44 As far as Macedonia is concerned, there is evidence of, and a few fragments from, a rich historical, ethnographical and geographical prose literature with a Macedonian focus, but none dates prior to Philip.45 The relatively late appearance of Macedonian historians is not surprising. For one, it is with Philip II and even more so with Alexander the Great that Macedonia begins to play a leading role in world history and there appears the wish to have it recorded. That is also indicative, however, of the place of prose in Macedonian everyday and intellectual life of classical times. Despite our ignorance about literacy in Macedonia (in a way comparable to literacy in Athens), I will venture the conclusion that fifthcentury Macedonians – especially the populace, who, according to William Harris, must have been illiterate on the whole46 – were not prose readers (or prose listeners). So, if there was no ‘market’ or need (cultural, social, political or other) for prose writing in Macedonia in the late fifth and early fourth centuries, why should there be any, Macedonian or imported?47 I will now turn to the original performance of Euripides’ Archelaus. The performance of songs and speeches from the stage was not an uncommon feature of aristocratic symposia in Athens. The Macedonian symposium may have been notorious for the excessive consumption of unmixed wine but, like its Athenian counterpart, it also hosted such intellectual members as Agathon and Euripides and it featured sophisticated entertainments (especially from Philip II’s time).48 Even so, I agree with Eric Csapo, who remarks that “Archelaus’ primary interest in dramatic poets was . . . probably not in the adornment of his private table, but the establishment of an effective line of communication between himself and his subjects.”49 And there could be no better venue for that than a big public festival organised in Macedonia and open to all Greeks.

44 Flory (1980) 13. Cf. Rösler (2002) and Slings (2002). 45 Engels (2010) 85. 46 Harris (1989) 13. 47 The recently discovered lead curse tablet from Pella suggests that literacy might not have been the privilege of the male Macedonian elite; see Harris (1989) 108. Even so, Rosalind Thomas (2009) correctly distinguishes among different types of literacy, which are defined by the uses writing is put to: being able to write and / or read a curse tablet is very different from being able to write and / or read a historical treatise. 48 Cf. Hdt. 5.18–21; Ael. VH 13.4. On Macedonian court symposia see Csapo (2010) 172 and Sawada (2010) 393–399 with the suggested bibliography on p. 408. 49 Csapo (2010) 172 and Stewart (2021) 96–98. Errington (1990) 219 remarks that “what distinguished the Macedonian monarchy from others was that the king behaved in a way that kept him in close contact with his people.”

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Three cities in Macedonia have been suggested as the likely venue for the original performance of Archelaus: Pella, Aegae and Dium.50 The strongest argument in favour of Pella is that Archelaus made it the new capital of his kingdom. I imagine that it would have made a great impact if king Archelaus’ foundation of classical Pella were compared to mythical Archelaus’ foundation of Aegae – the historical king would have been elevated to the status of a mythical founding figure of the Macedonian royal house, to say the least. However, it is rather unlikely that the capital had been transferred by the time of Euripides’ death. Moreover, during Archelaus’ reign there seems to have been neither theatre nor a festival at Pella.51 For Aegae and Dium, there is more evidence to consider. First, the closing scenes of the play anticipate the founding of Aegae, which remained an important ritual centre even after the transfer of the capital. Moreover, in 1982, a theatre was discovered in Aegae, near the palace. The theatre is dated to the second half of the fourth century,52 but, as Sourvinou-Inwood correctly remarks, before this (semi-)permanent construction, in Archelaus’ time, an entirely wooden theatre could have been used – timber was abundant in Macedonia. Besides, Arrian records a religious and artistic festival (τὰ Ὀλύμπια), instituted in Aegae by Archelaus. That could be an appropriate context for the performance of Euripides’ play. Even so, however, Sourvinou-Inwood’s suggestion is unsupported by archaeological findings so far and Bosworth considers Arrian’s “Aegae” to be an error for “Dium” – and he must be right.53 There is sufficient and, to my mind, convincing evidence that the Ὀλύμπια festival founded by Archelaus was held at Dium in Pieria, below Mount Olympus,

50 Austin (1968); Lowicka (1975) 264 (cited in Harder [1985] 126); Snell (1986) 17 (Pella); Xanthakis-Karamanos (1993) 512 and (2012) 109; Taplin (1999) 42; Sourvinou-Inwood (2003) 41–42; Csapo (2010) 99 (Aegae); Girard (1904) 160; Goossens (1962) 672 n. 22; Harder (1985) 127; Jouan and Van Looy (1998–2003) 1.281; Mari (2002) 61; Katsouris (2005) 209; Carney (2015) 193 (Dium). 51 On the date of the move of the capital to Pella, see Hammond and Griffith (1979) 6 and Greenwalt (1999). It is recorded by Plutarch (Mor. 1096b4–8) that in Alexander III’s time there was a theatre in Pella, no traces of which – or of any other (earlier or later) – have been discovered yet. Archaeologists agree that it must have lain on the slope between the palace and the agora; see Drougou (2017) 98–99, but also Storchi (2018), who, based on aerial photographs, suggests that the theatre might have been located on the East of the palace. 52 Drougou and Kallini (2014/2015) 507–508. 53 Arr. Anab. 1.11.1. The discussion on Arrian’s ‘error’ and the existence or not of two distinct ‘Olympia’ is summarised by Manuela Mari (1998) 139–143; see esp. Bosworth (1976) 119–121 and (1980) 97 ad loc.

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in October – either periodically or occasionally.54 It was a national Macedonian festival dedicated to Zeus and the Muses and it was open to a greater Greek public. It ran for nine days – one for each Muse – probably on the pattern of the games in Olympia. It included not only athletic but also musical and dramatic competitions.55 So, my contention is that the ‘Olympia’ at Dium was where Euripides originally presented his tragedy both to the king and his circle of companions (and rivals) and to the people of Macedonia, who flocked to honour Zeus and the Muses and attend the performance by the famous Athenian playwright. A stadium and a theatre have been discovered in Dium in close proximity to each other. The stadium dates from classical times and it could sit an estimated 15,000 spectators. The excavated theatre dates from the Hellenistic age, but a row of seats in the koilon has been dated to Archelaus’ time. That means, Manuela Mari concludes, that both theatre and stadium had existed and been in use since at least the beginning of the fourth century – if not the fifth.56 She also argues, cogently to my mind, that king Archelaus based his own ‘Olympia’ on preexisting religious festivals of a smaller scale held at Dium, also dedicated to Zeus and the Muses, which he unified and reorganised, inserting his own innovations, especially as regards the dramatic contest. His ambition seems to have been to create a solemn festival, like the ones at Olympia and Delphi, which would bring the Hellenes and the Macedonians together at regular intervals and thus further consolidate their shared ethnic identity. The ‘Olympia’ at Dium could be seen as a two-way bridge, to borrow Mari’s metaphor, which could familiarise the Greeks South of Mount Olympus with the Macedonian Other and their cultic traditions and at the same time consolidate the mutual relations between Macedonia and the rest of the Greek world, especially Athens. It is plausible to assume that Archelaus, who was acquainted with the crème de la crème of the cultural and intellectual life of fifth-century Athens, was also familiar with Herodotus’ (and possibly Thucydides’) work. However, it appears that he deemed tragedy qua myth more appropriate for the accomplishment of his political purposes than historiography. Historiography as a genre was new in comparison with poetry and Archelaus’ targeted audience(s) was / were on the whole unfamiliar with it. Euripides’ tragedy Archelaus, however, because of the

54 See Diod. Sic. 17.16.3–4. Badian (1982) 35 calls the festival ‘counter-Olympics’ and Borza (1993) 174 calls Dium “a Macedonian Olympia.” On sport and spectacle inside Macedonia, see Adams (2014). 55 Errington (1990) 26 and 223; Borza (1993) 173–174; Mari (1998); Adams (2003) 209–210; Albanidis, Athanasiou, Schoinas and Mouratidis (2008) 5–9; Adam-Veleni (2010) 71; Moloney (2014) 241–242 with n. 49. 56 Karadedos (2005) 381–382 and (2012) 74; Mari (1998) 160.

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conditions and the context of its performance, namely in the framework of a solemn religious festival, attended by a large, socially varied audience from Macedonia and other parts of Greece, was more likely to be worth the commission.

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Hofmann, H. and Harder, A. (eds.) 1991. Fragmenta Dramatica: Beiträge zur Interpretation der griechischen Tragikerfragmente und ihrer Wirkungsgeschichte. Göttingen. Hornblower, S. 1991–2008. A Commentary on Thucydides. 3 vols. Oxford (vol. 1 repr. 2003; vol. 2 repr. 2009). Huys, M. 1997. Euripides and the ‘Tales from Euripides’: Sources of the Fabulae of Ps.Hyginus? APF 43: 11–30. Jacoby, F. 1913. Herodotos. In Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, ed. Kroll, W. (Supplement Vol. 2), 205–520. Stuttgart. Johnson, W.A. 1994. Oral Performance and the Composition of Herodotus’ Histories. GRBS 35: 229–254. Jouan, F. and van Looy, H. (eds.) 1998–2003. Euripide: Tragédies, vol. 8: Fragments. Paris. Kannicht, R. (ed.) 2004. Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta, vol. 5: Euripides. Göttingen. Karadedos, G. 2005. A Modern Theater in the Service of the Theatrical Agon in Dion, in the Sacred City of Macedonia. In Το αρχαιολογικό έργο στη Μακεδονία και στη Θράκη 19: 381–390. Karadedos, G. 2012. Το ελληνιστικό θέατρο του Δίου. In Adam-Veleni (2012) 73–89. Katsouris, A.G. 2005. Euripides’ Archelaos: A Reconsideration. In Euripide e i Papiri: Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi (Florence, 10–11 June 2004), eds. Bastianini, G. and Casanova, A., 205–226. Florence. King, C.J. 2018. Ancient Macedonia. London. Koulakiotis, E. 2017. The Hellenic Impact on Ancient Macedonia: Conceptualizing Origin and Authority. In Müller, Howe, Bowden, Rollinger, and Pal (2017) 199–213. Kovacs, D. 1994a. Euripidea. Leiden. Kovacs, D. (ed.) 1994b. Euripides: Cyclops, Alcestis, Medea. Cambridge, MA (repr. with changes and corrections 2001). Lamari, A.A. 2017. Reperforming Greek Tragedy: Theater, Politics, and Cultural Mobility in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC. Berlin. Lefkowitz, M.R. 20122. The Lives of Greek Poets. Baltimore. Lesky, A. 19723. Die tragische Dichtung der Hellenen. Göttingen. Malkin, I. (ed.) 2001a. Ancient Perceptions of Ethnicity. Cambridge, MA. Malkin, I. 2001b. Introduction. In Malkin (2001a) 1–28. Mallios (Μάλλιος), G. 2014. Cui bono; Ο πρώτος βασιλιάς των Μακεδόνων Κάρανος και οι σκοπιμότητες που επέβαλαν τις αλλαγές στον δυναστικό μύθο της ίδρυσης του μακεδονικού κράτους. In Η Έδεσσα και η περιοχή της. Ιστορία και Πολιτισμός. Πρακτικά Γ΄ Πανελληνίου Επιστημονικού Συνεδρίου (11–12 Δεκεμβρίου 2010). Έδεσσα. Mari, M. 1998. Le Olimpie macedoni di Dion tra Archelao e l’ età romana. RFIC 126: 137–169. Mari, M. 2002. Al di là dell’ Olimpo: Macedoni e grandi santuari della Grecia dall’ età arcaica al primo ellenismo. Athens. Mari, M. 2011. Archaic and Early Classical Macedonia. In Brill’s Companion to Ancient Macedon: Studies in the Archaeology and History of Macedon, 650 BC – 300 AD, ed. Fox, R.J.L., 79–92. Leiden. Matthiessen, K. 2002. Die Tragödien des Euripides. Munich. Moloney, E.P. 2014. Philippus in acie tutior quam in theatro fuit (Curtius 9.6.25). The Macedonian Kings and Greek Theatre. In Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century BC, eds. Csapo, E., Goette, H.R., Green, J.R., and Wilson, P.J., 231–248. Berlin. Moloney, E.P. 2015. Neither Agamemnon nor Thersites, Achilles nor Margites. The Heraclid Kings of Ancient Macedon. Antichthon 49: 1–24.

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Moloney, E.P. in preparation. The Macedonian Kings and Greek Theatre. Müller, S. 2017. The Symbolic Capital of the Argeads. In Müller, Howe, Bowden, Rollinger and Pal (2017) 183–198. Müller, S., Howe, T., Bowden, H., Rollinger, R., and Pal, S.. (eds.) 2017. The History of the Argeads: New Perspectives. Wiesbaden. Munn, M. 2000. The School of History: Athens in the Age of Socrates. Berkeley. Pownall, F. 2017. The Role of Greek Literature at the Argead Court. In Müller, Howe, Bowden, Rollinger and Pal (2017) 215–229. Revermann, M. 1999–2000. Euripides, Tragedy and Macedon. ICS 24–25: 451–467. Rösler, W. 2002. The Histories and Writing. In Bakker, de Jong and Wees (2002) 79–94. Roisman, J. 2010. Classical Macedonia to Perdiccas III. In Roisman and Worthington (2010) 145–165. Roisman, J. and Worthington, I. (eds.) 2010. A Companion to Ancient Macedonia. Malden, MA. Sansone, D. 1985. The Date of Herodotus’ Publication. ICS 10: 1–9. Sawada, N. 2010. Social Customs and Institutions: Aspects of Macedonian Elite Society. In Roisman and Worthington (2010) 392–408. Scullion, S. 2003. Euripides and Macedon, or the Silence of the Frogs. CQ 53: 389–400. Scullion, S. 2006. The Opening of Euripides’ Archelaus. In Dionysalexandros: Essays on Aeschylus and his Fellow Tragedians in Honour of Alexander F. Garvie, eds. Cairns, D. and Liapis, V., 185–200. Swansea. Seaford, R. 2011. Response to Wilson, Carter and Duncan. In Carter (2011) 85–91. Slings, S.R. 2002. Oral Strategies in the Language of Herodotus. In Bakker, de Jong and Wees (2002) 53–77. Snell, B. (ed.) 1986. Tragicorum Graecorum fragmenta, vol. 1: Didascaliae tragicae; Catalogi tragicorum et tragoediarum; Testimonia et fragmenta tragicorum minorum. Göttingen. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. 2003. Tragedy and Athenian Religion. Lanham, MD. Stewart, E. 2017. Greek Tragedy on the Move: The Birth of a Panhellenic Art Form, c. 500–300 BC. Oxford. Stewart, E. 2021. Tragedy and Tyranny: Euripides, Archelaus of Macedon and Popular Patronage. DHA Supplément 21: 81–101. Stoessl, F. 1957–1959. Prologos. In Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, ed. Ziegler, K., vol. 23, 632–641 and 2312–2440. Stuttgart. Storchi, P. 2018. Ipotesi di riconoscimento dei teatri di Pella e della colonia pellensis mediante immagini telerilevate. Annuario Della Scuola Archeologica di Atene e Delle Missioni Italiane in Oriente 96: 74–87. Taplin, O. 1999. Spreading the Word through Performance. In Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy, eds. Goldhill, S. and Osborne, R., 33–57. Cambridge. Thomas, R. 2009. Writing, Reading, Public and Private ‘Literacies’: Functional Literacy and Democratic Literacy in Greece. In Ancient Literacies: The Culture of Reading in Greece and Rome, eds. Johnson, W.A. and Parker, H.N., 13–45. Oxford. Vlassopoulos, K. 2013. Greeks and Barbarians. Cambridge. Vlassopoulos, K. 2015. Ethnicity and Greek History: Re-examining Our Assumptions. BICS 58: 1–13. Waterfield, R. (transl.) 1998. Herodotus. The Histories. Oxford. Webster, T.B.L. 1967. The Tragedies of Euripides. London.

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Part VI: Roman Era and Late Antiquity

Chris Trinacty

“Oceans Rise, Empires Fall”: Cyclical Time and History in Seneca’s Quaestiones Naturales 3 Abstract: Seneca concludes the third Book of his Quaestiones Naturales with an account of the catastrophic flood that will destroy the human race in the near future. Seneca utilizes quotations from Ovid’s Metamorphoses and intertexts with Vergil’s Eclogues 4 to stress cyclical time and eternal recurrence. My chapter considers this Stoic conception of time within Seneca’s Quaestiones Naturales and the ramifications of such a theory on myths, such as the flood of Deucalion and Pyrrha as well as Vergil’s Golden Age. Roman military and political successes are shown to be fleeting and miniscule in comparison with the workings of natura. Seneca’s scientific viewpoint not only rethinks formative myths of early human history, but also makes them speak to the ambitions of Rome and the particulars of ethical behavior under Nero. Nihil est tam violentum, tam incontinens sui, tam contumax infestumque retinentibus quam magna vis undae . . . QNat. 3.30.6

Seneca concludes the third book of his Quaestiones Naturales with a tour de force description of a catastrophic flood that will destroy the human race in the near future. Through quotations of Ovid and intertexts with Vergil’s Eclogues 4, Seneca makes his flood emblematic of the idea of eternal recurrence – a Stoic conception of the cosmos in which events are destined to repeat in a fixed manner ad infinitum.1 This chapter considers how Seneca represents the Stoic conception of time within his Quaestiones Naturales and how myths such as the flood of Deucalion and Vergil’s Golden Age are used for Stoic ends. Both history (‘ἱστορέω’) and natural science (quaestiones naturales) stress the role of inquiry for writer and reader, and Seneca shows how his scientific viewpoint not only questions formative myths of early human history, but also how the answers speak to the political ambitions of Rome, to the differences between writing history and writing philosophy, and to the particulars of ethical behavior under Nero. Seneca asks a lot of his reader, but the two primary goals of this chapter 1 See Barnes (1978); Mader (1983); Long (1985); Campion (1994) for more on ekpyrosis and eternal recurrence. Long and Sedley (1987) 1.274–279, 1.308–313 compile primary texts related to eternal recurrence and provide their analysis. In Seneca see Ben. 6.22, Dial. 6.26.6–7, Dial. 11.1.1–4, Ep. 9.16–18, Ep. 71.11–16, Thy. 830–883 and Berno (2019) for interpretation. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-020

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are to analyze (1) the way in which literary material, especially intertexts and quotations, is made to serve Stoic ends and (2) the way that the Stoic conception of cyclical time with its world-ends by flood and cosmic dissolutions by fire (ekpyrosis) influences Seneca’s presentation of history and myth and, ultimately, educates the reader about the importance of ethical and purposeful decisionmaking in his or her life. The Naturales Quaestiones is a doxographical work of Stoic physics that is enlivened by various literary, cultural and political flourishes. Book 3 – the original beginning of the treatise as a whole2 – opens with a preface that champions doing this sort of philosophical work as opposed to the political work that Seneca had been pursuing (he was Nero’s advisor until his retirement in 62 CE).3 Seneca also draws a firm distinction between historians and philosophers – historians may give information about great men like Alexander and Hannibal, but they do not tell you how to live your life,4 and the ethical reflection that philosophy inspires is more important than historical verisimilitude. Seneca writes (QNat. 3.pr.5): Quanto satius est sua mala extinguere quam aliena posteris tradere! Quanto potius deorum opera celebrare quam Philippi aut Alexandri latrocinia, ceterorumque qui exitio gentium clari non minores fuere pestes mortalium quam inundatio qua planum omne perfusum est, quam conflagratio qua magna pars animantium exarsit! How much better it is to eliminate one’s own vices than to hand down those of others to posterity! How preferable it is to celebrate the works of the gods than the robberies of Philip or Alexander or the rest who are famous for genocide and are as harmful for mankind as a flood which covers the whole plain or a fire which flashes up and destroys a large amount of life on earth!5

2 See G.D. Williams (2012) 12–14 for the original order of the eight books of Quaestiones Naturales. The order that places QNat. 3 as the first book of the treatise has been accepted by a majority of scholars, although a number of my findings do not require reading this book as the first of the Quaestiones Naturales. 3 Seneca claims that his earlier life was ‘misspent’ (aetatis male exemptae) in idle pursuits at QNat. 3.pr.2. 4 In general, he touts philosophy as the better reading material for those interested in selfbetterment (QNat. 3.pr.7): “How much better it is to seek what ought to be done rather than what has been done and to teach those who have surrendered themselves to fortune that nothing granted by fortune is stable; indeed, all of fortune’s gifts are more unpredictable than the wind!” – quanto satius est, quid faciendum sit quam quid factum, quaerere ac docere eos, qui sua permisere fortunae, nihil stabile ab illa datum esse, eius omnia aura fluere mobilius? His anti-historian sentiment reaches its apogee when discussing the views of Ephorus (QNat. 7.16.1): “it is easy to demolish the authority of Ephorus: he is a historian” – nec magna molitione detrahenda est auctoritas Ephoro: historicus est. 5 All translations are my own.

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The works of rulers are seen as evils (mala) that should not be recorded; their ‘great’ deeds are merely forms of destruction in terms of loss of life and suffering inflicted on others.6 This not only indicts historians (a typical genre of writing for retired Romans of Seneca’s age and standing), but also puts the subject of their works in perspective, especially compared to the works of the gods (deorum opera).7 These are what Seneca will celebrate in his Quaestiones Naturales, as he traverses the natural world and investigates phenomena from comets to rainbows, from mountain springs to the cataracts of the Nile. Seneca is purposeful in his writing and knows what he is doing. His mention of inundatio/ conflagratio here in the preface foreshadows later developments in this book when Seneca describes the flood that will destroy humankind and muses on the various beginnings and ends of cyclical time.8 The preface in which Seneca encourages ethical reflection and development and the conclusion about the flood bookend a fascinating treatise about rivers, lakes, springs, the ancient Stoic idea of the water cycle, springs and even ancient ‘foodie’ trends like the fad for red mullet. The ubiquity and necessity of water leads to Seneca’s holistic vision that stresses the transformation of elements (air to water, water to earth, earth to water, etc.) and envisions the earth with veins of water and arteries of air, much like the human body (this earth/body analogy is strong throughout the Quaestiones Naturales).9 Although much of this material is beyond the scope of this chapter, it is important to realize how often literary and rhetorical elements are foregrounded in his critical doxography.10 For example,

6 This is reiterated elsewhere in the preface where kingdoms are destined to fall (3.pr.9), imperial expansion and victories are shown to be less important than moral victories (3.pr.10) and freedom has nothing to do with Roman citizenship (3.pr.16). In addition, such military ‘glory’ is put in perspective with the worldly destruction of the flood, which is pervasively and persuasively couched in military terms; e.g. the waters will “conquer” (vincent) at QNat. 3.30.4, the elemental concordia is being “attacked and disrupted” (temptatur et divellitur) at QNat. 3.30.5. 7 Seneca’s view of historians in Quaestiones Naturales is negative for the most part, but he will utilize their works intertextually (Master [2015]) and he finds some common ground in Callisthenes (QNat. 6.23.2–4). 8 Cf. the repetition of these terms when Seneca explains how the flood can be caused by tides (QNat. 3.28.7) and elemental flux (QNat. 3.29.2–3). The Romans’ direct experience with floods of the Tiber must have led to some of Seneca’s imagery as well as the impression that such floods are both inevitable and, in some sense, divine. See Aldrete (2007) for the frequent flooding and divinity of the Tiber. 9 For elemental transformation, see esp. QNat. 3.10.1–5, 3.12.1–3; for world/body analogy, see QNat. 3.15.1–8 and G.D. Williams (2012) 127–128. 10 The very first words of the doxography proper include quotations from Ovid, Vergil and Lucilius (QNat. 3.1.1) and this book features the largest percentage of quotations of any book

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when Seneca writes about the nature of certain rivers that disappear and reappear (tapping into those underground channels or veins), he quotes a passage of Ovid’s Metamorphoses 15 from the speech of the philosopher Pythagoras who is interested in change and mirabilia such as these rivers (QNat. 3.26.3–4 ~ Met. 15.273–276): illo itaque recepta flumina cursus egere secreto, sed, cum primum aliquid solidi quod obstaret occurrit, perrupta parte quae minus ad exitum repugnavit, repetiere cursus suum: ‘Sic, ubi terreno Lycus est potatus hiatu, / existit procul hinc alioque renascitur ore. / sic modo combibitur, tacito modo gurgite lapsus / redditur Argolicis ingens Erasinus in undis’. So rivers are welcomed [below ground] and follow a hidden course; but as soon as some solid barrier is encountered, they break through at a point where there is less resistance to their escape and resume their original course: “Thus after the Lycus has been swallowed by a chasm in the earth, it emerges far from here and is reborn from another mouth. Thus, the great Erasinus is at one point imbibed, at another, after flowing with silent eddies, it is restored among the Argive waves.”

Seneca uses Ovid as evidence for his argument and posits the rationale that makes sense for such disappearing/reappearing rivers. This recontextualization contrasts with the view of Ovid’s Pythagoras for whom this wonder could not really be explained or was couched in terms such as rebirth (renascitur), which were consistent with Pythagorean ideas of metempsychosis. We can see how Seneca is vying with Ovid in some basic way here – Ovid had concluded his epic with this philosopher figure and his views on the change all around us (a major concern of the Metamorphoses) and now Seneca – in the opening book of his work – concurs that there is change all around us, but it is perfectly regular, providential, and able to be understood through a Stoic conception of natura grounded in Stoic physics.11 Another example comes from Seneca’s exasperated examination of the craze of watching red mullet die before eating them. This is a moment, like the preface and flood section, in which Seneca connects the physical world he has been investigating most directly to the ethics of his contemporary society. These fish were prized by Romans in the first century CE, often populated their fishponds, and actually change color as they die.12 Seneca writes about this

of the QNat. (see Mazzoli [1970] 240 and Berno [2012] 62), which indicates Seneca’s interest in evoking the larger literary associations of water (see Trinacty [2018]). 11 The way that Seneca utilizes Ovid’s own ideas about change to emphasize elemental change in QNat. 3 is expertly analyzed by Berno (2012). 12 For exhaustive references and images, see Andrews (1948) and, especially, https://penel ope.uchicago.edu/~grout/encyclopaedia_romana/wine/mullus.html (accessed 29.07.2019).

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spectacle (almost like a gladiatorial show in miniature)13 in which the diners watch these fish die before their eyes before eating them: “There is nothing more beautiful than a dying mullet” (nihil est mullo expirante formosius) is the refrain of the diners. While the observational skills of the diners might be considered a positive trait for the budding natural scientist (they detail the kaleidoscope of colors that the mullet assumes in its death throes), it is not utilized toward further knowledge of nature, nor does it lead to the proper moral actions. Although these diners will come a-running whenever someone is about to serve mullet, Seneca writes (QNat. 3.18.6): Ex his nemo morienti amico assidet; nemo videre mortem patris sui sustinet, quam optavit. Quotus quisque funus domesticum ad rogum prosequitur! Fratrum propinquorumque extrema hora deseritur; ad mortem mulli concurritur. ‘Nihil est enim illa formosisus’ From these people, not a single one would sit beside a dying friend, none could stand to watch his own father die, although he wished for it. How few follow the funeral of a family member to the pyre! They are not to be found at the final breath of brother or kinsman, but they hurry to the death of a mullet: “For nothing is more beautiful than that.”

He is incensed at their behavior and his mindset is directly embodied in the very words he writes, as he claims (QNat. 3.18.7): Non tempero mihi quin utar interdum temerarie verbis et proprietatis modum excedam. Non sunt ad popinam dentibus et ventre et ore contenti; oculis quoque gulosi sunt. I cannot hold myself back from using words too rashly now and then, and exceeding the rules of decorum: those men are not content with food for their teeth, stomach and mouth: even their eyes are gluttons.

This sort of self-conscious reflection on the very sententiae that both dapple and define Seneca’s pointed style is notable and highlights the way Seneca stresses the symbiotic relationship between medium and message. As Shadi Bartsch writes about Stoic dialectic, “there exists a natural link between the rational use of language and the order of the universe, with the former a vehicle for the expression of the latter.”14 Seneca self-consciously chooses his language and, if an event is monstrous or hyperbolic, Seneca implies the language should be as well. This

13 See Ep. 7.2 for the problematic morality of spectaculum: “Nothing is so damaging for good morals than to waste time at some show. For it is then that vices creep in more easily because of the pleasure” – nihil vero tam damnosum bonis moribus quam in aliquo spectaculo desidere. tunc enim per voluptatem facilius vitia surrepunt. 14 Bartsch (2017) 217.

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strong connection between medium and message will be true as well during the flood passage. While many cultures and belief systems feature a flood, it is usually thought of as a catastrophic event in the past: the story of Noah, the Epic of Gilgamesh and, for the Greeks and Romans, Deucalion and Pyrrha.15 The story of Deucalion and Pyrrha was recently told by Ovid in his Metamorphoses (written about 50 years before the Quaestiones Naturales) and Ovid’s epic account is very much on Seneca’s mind. Seneca’s flood, however, is on the horizon and he contextualizes it at the conclusion of the opening book of Quaestiones Naturales in order to achieve a number of tangible results (ethical, political, poetic). It is a striking section of the work because Seneca destroys the world by water multiple times (almost like a child making sandcastles and allowing waves to destroy them, only to build again in the same place). The intertextual and rhetorical play prevalent in this section hints at a larger Stoic idea that this section both evokes and embodies, namely, eternal recurrence. Eternal recurrence is the Stoic idea that the cosmos will end and be reborn and when that happens, because god governs the universe and god is providential and perfect, the same events must happen in the same order – some schools of thought would say it is an exact recurrence whereas others allowed for some leeway and it was a topic of some controversy during Seneca’s time.16 For Seneca, the cosmic perspective that he hopes his reader will acquire is, in part, predicated on the Stoic idea that life on earth is periodically wiped out by flood as well as the idea that the universe itself is destroyed at various points in fire (ekpyrosis).17 After surveying various watery phenomena in the course of Book 3, Seneca writes how the flood will occur when it seems right to god (a.k.a. natura). Seneca asks (QNat. 3.27.1–2):

15 For more on the Greek philosophical response to the flood, see Chroust (1973). 16 E.g. the thought of Nemesius: “For again there will be Socrates and Plato and each one of mankind with the same friends and fellow citizens; they will suffer the same things and they will encounter the same things, and put their hand to the same things, and every city and village and piece of land return in the same way” (SVF 2.625, transl. by Long and Sedley [1987]). Adamson (2015) 71–72 offers a nice overview of the idea. This concept would be influential for later thinkers and was made famous by Nietzsche (see below). 17 Hadot (2002) 207 clarifies this sort of self-awareness: “To view things from above is to look at them from the perspective of death. In both cases, it means looking at things with detachment, distance, and objectivity, seeing them as they are in themselves, situating them within the immensity of the universe and the totality of nature, without the false prestige lent to them by our human passions and conventions. The view from above changes our value judgments on things: luxury, power, war, borders, and the worries of everyday life all become ridiculous.”

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omnia uno agmine ad exitium humani generis incumbant? ita est. nihil difficile naturae est, utique ubi in finem sui properat. Does everything attack at once to destroy the human race? That is right: nothing is difficult for nature, especially when she is hurrying towards her own finale.18

The flood will occur when the tides push forward, precipitation falls, rivers rise, and the elemental transformation of earth into water occurs. Although Seneca claims that it will take all of these forces from tides to the elemental change of earth to water working together to destroy the world, his technique is to treat each water source individually and to ‘end’ the world multiple times. The final chapters of this book detail death by precipitation, death by rising tides and death by elemental transformation and, because of the previous chapters discussing the physics undergirding these topics, the reader has gained the scientific knowledge to understand how easily this will transpire.19 When Seneca describes the flood caused by rain, he has recourse to Ovid’s version of the flood found in the Deucalion and Pyrrha episode. Seneca writes how the rising rivers overcome the plains and make their way up the sides of mountains. This is the end and the few humans who have made their way to the summits are frozen in a state of silent paralysis.20 At this point Seneca quotes from Ovid’s flood description (QNat. 3.27.13 ~ Met. 1.292 and Met. 1.304): Sicut illud pro magnitudine rei dixit: “Omnia pontus erat, deerant quoque litora ponto,” ni tantum impetum ingenii et materiae ad pueriles ineptias reduxisset: “Nat lupus inter oves, fulvos vehit unda leones.” Non est res satis sobria lascivire devorato orbe terrarum . . .

18 Note that even here Seneca is playing with the idea of the ‘end’ (finis), which is repeated at QNat. 3.27.10, 3.28.7 (verbal form), 3.30.2 and 3.30.3. This word can also mean ‘goal’ (OLD 4b), ‘boundary’ (as at QNat. 3.30.2, OLD 1), ‘death’ (OLD 10), as well as ‘the end of the roll of the book’ (OLD 5b). As the reader makes his way to the end, so Seneca will have him question what is the true ‘end/goal’ (of the world, the book, life, etc.). 19 Seneca repeats the idea that this will be done easily (QNat. 3.28.4: nec id aquis arduum est; QNat. 3.30.1: sunt omnia . . . facilia naturae) and stresses the waters that surround us on all sides, as well as above and below (“Where has nature not stored water so that she can attack us from all sides whenever she should wish?” – ubi non umorem natura disposuit, ut undique nos, cum voluisset, aggredi posset?, QNat. 3.30.3). The reader has been made well aware throughout the book that water is abundant both on the surface of the earth and underground (“Believe whatever you see above exists below” – crede infra quicquid vides supra, QNat. 3.16.4) and that it is a supremely powerful element (QNat. 3.13.1). 20 The human reaction to such trauma is implicitly contrasted with the reader’s own informed viewpoint, i.e. the knowledge gained in reading this book places the reader above the concerns of the victims of the flood. Seneca makes a similar use of such bibliotherapy in QNat. 6 when portraying the traumatic responses of earthquake victims: see Trinacty (2020).

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just as he wrote the following in a manner worthy of the enormity of the event, “Everything was sea, and even the shores of the sea went missing.” If only he had not reduced the force of his great genius and the material itself to childish flourishes like “the wolf swims among the sheep, the tide carries tawny lions.” It is rather flippant to play around when the world has been devoured.

This moment of literary criticism, expectedly, has garnered quite a bit of critical attention.21 For our purposes, what I think is important is the way that Seneca uses Ovid’s own flourishes and bathos as a way to reflect on his own writing in this section.22 Seneca can be clever as well, but he writes in a way that is meant to reinforce his sublime conception of this event. He believes the language that he uses should be connected to his larger doxography and Stoic teachings.23 So one should not care about lions swimming with sheep, but rather, “you will know what is fitting, if you conceive of the whole world swimming” (scies quid deceat, si cogitaveris orbem terrarum natare, QNat. 3.27.15).24 Capping Ovid by using the verb natare in a bold, but fitting, manner, shows the correct language to be employed in such a description. The language matters, the topic itself and the quotations of Ovid lend themselves to the larger idea of repetition. If Seneca quotes Ovid and takes his reader back to Ovid’s flood (itself positioned after one human civilization has to be wiped out by Jove),25 then Seneca has just rewritten said flood and placed it in his work in an evocative manner. The change that is the leitmotif of Ovid’s work is also present in Seneca’s, but from a more holistic perspective that embraces elemental change as well as the larger cosmic change that Stoicism endorses with this infinite parade of world-orders and conflagrations. As Long and Sedley stress, “Hence the end of the present world will not be a ‘destruction’ in an unqualified sense . . .; it introduces no discontinuity in the life of the

21 See Degl’Innocenti Pierini (1990) 177–210; Hutchinson (1993) 128–131; Morgan (2003) 69–73; Berno (2012) 64–66; G.D. Williams (2012) 129–132. 22 Ovid is quoted four times in quick succession and Ovidian intertexts abound in the flood section; see the commentary available on www.oberlinclassics.com (accessed 01.08.2019). 23 For a similar example in QNat. 3, note the way Seneca ties his use of naufragium (‘shipwreck’) to describe the flood at QNat. 3.27.7 to other appearances at QNat. 3.26.8 and QNat. 3.28.2. The epistemological question of the correct terminology (he has victims of the flood wonder if they should call the cataclysm ruina or naufragium at QNat. 3.27.7) is contextualized by his scientific observations (QNat. 3.26.8) and his subsequent use of the term naufragium at QNat. 3.28.2 is now shown to be the mot juste and not an example of mere cleverness. 24 His use of quid deceat is a probable recollection of the literary criticism of Horace at Ars Poetica 337. See the extensive note of Brink (1971) ad loc. 25 Jupiter must rid earth of all humans after the actions of Lycaon, only relenting when Deucalion and Pyrrha are the sole survivors (Met. 1.177–329).

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world at its most extended, but only a ‘natural change’.”26 These floods happen on the cosmic scale again and again; flood narratives are now seen to be rewritable and already (re)written as Seneca enters into dialogue with Ovid. If an intertextual allusion can be a flashback for the reader into a previous author’s work, here it is also a flashforward to a future event, thus breaking down chronology in an evocative manner. Ovid’s words about the flood are repeated verbatim just as the flood will happen in exactly the same way in the future according to eternal recurrence.27 Form and function coalesce. The reader may recall how Ovid’s Jupiter is made to resemble Augustus28 and how this catastrophe itself then leads to another race of man formed from stones with Ovid exploiting a similar body/world analogy.29 The quotations give us Ovid’s words, but in Seneca’s world. Are they still Ovid’s? If the quotations from Pythagoras that Seneca used earlier are from the final book of the Metamorphoses, these quotations are from the first book. Not only is Seneca encompassing the whole of the Metamorphoses in only the opening book of his Quaestiones Naturales, but he is also making time run backwards in some way.30 His transformation of the epic Metamorphoses results in repetition of an epic catastrophe, in which Seneca’s flood overwhelms all previous flood accounts. The flood destroys, but mankind reappears; Ovid’s flood is allowed to happen in Seneca’s work,31 but

26 Long and Sedley (1987) 1.279. 27 The one quotation from Ovid in this section that does not derive from Book 1 is taken from Book 2 and the flight of Phaethon, which Seneca purposely chooses to tie this event into ekpyrosis narratives “as a subtle means of signaling that the cataclysm and conflagration are parallel agents of destruction” (G.D. Williams [2012] 129). 28 The political ramifications of the flood (in its depiction as ‘revolution’ res novae at QNat. 3.28.7) are hinted at throughout this passage: see Berno (2019) for Nero as the Apocalypse and Star (2021). 29 Ovid remarks how the veins in stones are made into those of men (quae modo vena fuit, sub eodem nomine mansit, Met. 1.410) and how we are now a “hard race, inured to work” (genus durum sumus experiensque laborum, Met. 1.414). See Wheeler (1999) 200–201 for the way Ovid “connects the traditional Greek myth with Vergil’s own vision of the present, in which labor is a metaphor for man’s struggle with nature, the precariousness of civil and social order, and the threat of anarchic forces” (201). 30 It is notable that time does not seem to work correctly in this section: Seneca utilizes the present tense in a novel manner (see Corcoran [1971/1972] 1.271 n. 2 and G.D. Williams [2012] 114–115), he writes how the flood will occur in simply one day (QNat. 3.29.9) or one moment (momento, QNat. 3.30.6) but, in other passages he implies a longer period of time with famine striking the survivors (QNat. 3.27.5), and winter holding foreign months (tenebit alienos menses hiems, aestas prohibebitur) with the stars refusing to shine (QNat. 3.29.8). 31 He points to the image he wants his reader to take of Ovid’s flood, namely Met. 1.285–290 – dixit ingentia et tantae confusionis imaginem cepit cum dixit . . . (QNat. 3.27.14).

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now in the future, not the past. If these floods are the end of a world period,32 Seneca is positing that, as such, they resemble the larger cosmic eternal recurrence and that the events will recur in much the same way. The quotations from Ovid concretely point to the very similarities even as Seneca modifies their context and updates the rhetoric surrounding Ovid’s words. Repetition and change, but yet semper idem. The next two chapters detail two subsequent waves of destruction by the tides (QNat. 3.28) and then by elemental transformation (QNat. 3.29),33 concluding with the following description of the death of mankind (QNat. 3.29.8–9): Non muri quemquam, non turres tuebuntur. Non proderunt templa supplicibus nec urbium summa, quippe fugientes unda praeveniet et ex ipsis arcibus deferet. Alia ab occasu, alia ab oriente concurrent. Unus humanum genus condet dies; quicquid tam longa fortunae indulgentia excoluit, quicquid supra ceteros extulit, nobilia pariter atque adornata magnarumque gentium regna pessum dabit. Neither walls nor towers will protect anyone. Temples will bring no aid to their supplicants, neither will the high points of the city – of course the flood will overcome anyone fleeing and it will overcome even those on the heights. Water from the west will join the water from the east. One day will bury the human race. Whatever the long indulgence of fortune has cultivated, whatever it has raised above the rest, nobility as well as glitterati, the reigns of the great houses, will sink to the bottom and be destroyed.

Yet another purely regular, expected and normal destruction of mankind. Even the kingdoms of great nations – a jab at Rome with its seven ‘citadels’ arces (s.v. OLD 5) – will easily be submerged and forgotten. But what I want to stress is that however often Seneca seeks to end the world, he is doing it for the larger reason of illustrating the Stoic idea of eternal recurrence and giving evidence for the destruction. Although Seneca does have a dark streak, he is not repeating it simply because he feels like it, but that it is by design. This is what eternal recurrence ‘feels’ like and it should be understood in such a way.34 When we get to the final section of this book, we think surely Seneca will end the book with this destruction, and

32 The view of Long (1985), which G.D. Williams (2012) and I support. 33 QNat. 3.29 also provides further evidence about the earth’s future downfall in astrological theories (QNat. 3.29.1) and the conception of the earth as a living being (QNat. 3.29.2–3). 34 There is the sense that Seneca may be ‘testing’ his reader to see if he has truly understood the lesson of this book (à la Lucretius’ plague description, cf. Morrison [2013]) – these descriptions could be traumatic to the reader, but Seneca would hope the reader has attained a heightened and learned viewpoint of the workings of natura. As Hadot (2001) 177 comments, “When human affairs are viewed from above, we are able to imagine the past as well as the future and this view reveals that even if individuals disappear, the same scenes are repeated throughout the centuries.”

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that the book will end just as the world/words of Seneca come to an end.35 Well, not so fast. All these timelines come together in the concluding chapter (QNat. 3.30). At this point, where you might expect the world to end once and for all (at the end of the book), Seneca gives us the rebirth and regeneration of the earth. This is signaled in part through an intertext with Vergil’s fourth Eclogue. Seneca writes how the ocean will return to its original position (QNat. 3.30.8): antiquus ordo revocabitur. omne ex integro animal generabitur, dabiturque terris homo inscius scelerum et melioribus ausipiciis natus and the ancient order will be recalled. Every animal will be created anew, mankind will be returned to earth unknowing of crimes and born to better auspices.

These lines allude to the moment of Vergil’s poem in which he is celebrating the return of the Golden Age to the earth in his own take on the cyclic history and eternal recurrence that Seneca has been discussing (Ecl. 4.4–5): “Now the final age of Cumaean song has come; the great order of the centuries begins anew” – Ultima Cumaei venit iam carminis aetas; / magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo. Seneca clearly understands the full context of the Vergilian lines and expects his reader to come upon this repetition and see how it was already figured in the poetry of the Augustan writer par excellence. Vergil himself was writing about eternal recurrence in that poem and signals it in part through the repetition of phrases in his poem (‘Pan etiam, Arcadia’, Ecl. 4.58–4.59; ‘incipe, parve puer’, Ecl. 4.60, 4.62) as well as the intertextual ‘repetition’ of Catullus (Ecl. 4.46–47 and Cat. 64.326) and others.36 Seneca follows Vergil’s lead then and crafts his own passage about this topic, but, ultimately with a less optimistic result. Vergil’s Golden Age will develop and mature during the life of the child whose birth the poem celebrates, while Seneca’s view is one of the decline of morals.37 Seneca has given us

35 One might think this would be the sort of wit he would endorse; for Seneca’s interest in a fitting ending and final word in his Epistulae see Edwards (2019) 9: “The issue of how and when an individual letter should draw to a close is often raised, e.g. 11.8, 22.13, 26.8. These playful questions echo on a formal level one of the collection’s most profound concerns, what might be an appropriate clausula for the individual human life.” 36 For Vergil’s understanding of cyclical history, see the note of Coleman (1977) ad 4.5. Vergil himself mentions Pyrrha in Ecl. 6 and is interested in the connections between science and myth there; see Paschalis (2001). 37 As Conington (2007) ad Ecl. 4.18 explains: “The coming of the golden age will be gradual, its stages corresponding to those in the life of the child.” It must be noted that even Vergil’s vision leads to future wars and strife (Ecl. 4.35–36). For Seneca the world/body analogy prevalent in the Quaestiones Naturales ensures that the earth will ‘die’ like a human (QNat. 3.27.2)

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another view of fate, similar to that of Vergil with the sense of eternal recurrence, but even more informed by Stoicism and he has used Vergil’s own words to do so. Seneca finds creative ways to endorse the idea of eternal recurrence and the fact that these differ in some ways (intertexts) or show exact correspondence (i.e. the quotations of Ovid), seems to imply that there can be some potential variation in future world cycles.38 By positioning Ovid’s quote (of a past flood) in a description of a future flood we get a weird blending of times almost like a black hole in which time collapses on itself. Vergil’s Golden Age may be the age in which we are living and Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis, written at the beginning of Nero’s reign often made Nero’s impending rule a new Golden Age.39 Are these Golden Ages becoming more and more debased with each successive saeculum? Would Seneca’s readers see themselves now living in this new post-deluge Rome in which things are getting worse and worse? Can the Naturales Quaestiones show them a way out, or, at the very least, a different perspective on their current form of life? In fact, the reader should become more educated and learn ways to fight vice even as the world descends into its usual awful state (QNat. 3.30.8):40 sed illis quoque innocentia non durabit, nisi dum novi sunt. cito nequitia subrepit; virtus difficilis inventu est, rectorem ducemque desiderat; etiam sine magistro vitia discuntur. But even their innocence will not last except while they are newly formed. Wickedness soon creeps in. Virtue is difficult to discover, it needs a guide and leader; vice is learned even without a teacher.

The guide and leader clearly should be seen as Seneca himself, with, again, possible political undertones for the time in which he was the rector and dux of Nero, and the reader will have gained some sense of how to discover virtus through the learning and discoveries in this text. In fact that last word discuntur

and even leads to some rather graphic details (it will liquify like someone suffering from diarrhea at QNat. 3.30.4). 38 See Long and Sedley (1987) 1.312–313 for the way small ‘morally indifferent’ changes (such as a mole on the body) could exist in future cycles, but I believe Seneca is hinting that one’s learning (embodied in this book) would lead to a more enlightened perspective on issues such as natura, fortuna, death, etc. 39 “The sisters marvel at their work: the cheap thread is transformed into valuable metal, a golden age descends from the beautiful filament” – Mirantur pensa sorores: / Mutatur vilis pretioso lana metallo, / Aurea formoso descendunt saecula filo (Apo. 4). The promise of Nero’s rule had been tarnished to such a degree that “the twilight of the world, it seemed to Seneca, was coinciding with the twilight of his own life” (Romm [2014] 158). For more on the concept of the Golden Age in the age of Nero see Star (2021). 40 See Ep. 90 for Seneca’s view of early man; for the larger Stoic tradition, see Boys-Stones (2001) 18–59.

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will remind the reader of where it previously appeared in the work – namely the end of the preface where Seneca wrote, “nothing is more obvious than those remedies which are learned (discuntur) in order to counter our wickedness and madness” (QNat. 3.pr.18).41 The reader should have spent the book learning just how the secrets of the natural world and the rationale for terrestrial waters can be applied mutatis mutandis to counter vice. If the reader continues to the next book of the Quaestiones Naturales (and, of course, Seneca encourages this sort of progress), one will find the flood of the Nile, which is a positive example of waters taking over the lands and mankind smiling the higher the water rises (QNat. 4a.2.11).42 This can be seen as a corrective for the more traumatic flood of Book 3. There is the sense that the reader will have grown and the experiences of ending the world by rain (QNat. 3.27), by tide (QNat. 3.28) and by elemental transformation/time (QNat. 3.29) will create a wiser mindset and perspective not only of the destruction but also of one’s everyday actions. Seneca retells the flood from multiple perspectives to hint at the most important ways to look at one’s own life and the most effective way of expressing this event and its ethical pay-off. From a more philosophical viewpoint, this approaches Nietzsche’s concept of eternal recurrence (which he takes from the Stoics) and Nietzsche’s belief that such a conception will ultimately help the individual become well disposed toward life and his own self-conception. Nietzsche, also playing with the ideas of beginnings and endings by placing this aphorism in the penultimate position of The Gay Science (and thus at the beginning of Thus Spake Zarathustra), writes (GS 341): What if some day or night a demon were to steal into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: “This life as you now live it and have lived it you will have to live once again and innumerable times again; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unspeakably small or great in your life must return to you, all in the same succession and sequence – even this spider and this

41 And this is also a return of sorts to the beginning of the investigation. Cyclic history indeed, if one has to roll the scroll back to the start of the work! For the importance of reading Seneca holistically and his own strictures to do so, see Wilson (2001) 185, on Ep. 33 and the role of the implied reader “To apprehend the intended effect of the Epistles, it seems obvious that we should aim to duplicate Lucilius’ experience by reading them in the same sequence; not just as a collection but as a series.” 42 See G.D. Williams (2012) 93–135 for a reading of QNat. 3 and 4a in tandem and Merrills (2017) 171–174, “we can read Seneca’s Nile as both a fragment of the larger whole (both terrestrial and cosmic) and a functional microcosm of it. The floods of the river may be couched as a reminder of the benevolence of providence, after the shock of this cataclysm, but they remain a firm reminder that the cataclysm is coming” Waiblinger (1977) 55–58 stresses how the beneficent view of nature in QNat. 4a contrasts with that in QNat. 3.

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moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!”

This should not cause despair, but rather reinforce the importance of personal decisions, individual freedom, and, ultimately, one’s actions.43 This will happen again and again innumerable times, so you should make sure your thoughts and actions are deliberate and reflect your core beliefs. This theory lurks behind the lesson of Seneca’s work as well. So, in Seneca’s flood passage we see how Ovid and Vergil loom large, but their inclusion is made to speak to a Stoic conception of time and to contextualize Seneca’s interests in rhetoric, politics and history. Flood and Golden Age are seen to be part of a continuum that will repeat just like the flood of the Nile repeats annually and both are to be seen as part of the providential plan of god.44 When the reader glances at a cool spring or walks along the shore after reading this book, there will be reverie: “Time present and time past are perhaps present in time future: the behavior of waters in the present both anticipates the cataclysm to come and recalls the earliest origins of the world.”45 Seneca gives us the literary expression of a complex philosophical idea that the Stoics themselves were wresting with in a real way at this time.46 Such cyclical rhythms question and critique the Roman ideal of imperium sine fine (Aen. 1.279) and teleological conceptions of historical time. Seneca had opened Quaestiones Naturales 3 with a jeremiad against historians and their view of history, and his work offers an emended perspective of the way the reader should understand historical events and ‘heroes’ like Alexander the Great. Their successes are puny when considered against the works of god (“I will know everything is small, having measured god” – sciam omnia angusta esse mensus deum, QNat. 1.pr.17). Indeed, virtue is difficult to find, but teachers are available (Seneca’s text is one), and if one pays attention not just to what he says, but how he says it, the reader will have the tools (Stoic physics, dialectic, literary know-how) to live a fulfilled life, no matter how many times one will live it.

43 As R.R. Williams (2012) 276 writes, “As an imperative, Eternal Recurrence means to live in such a way that you would wish to live it again – eternally repeated.” Marcus Aurelius often contemplates eternal recurrence with a similar perspective (e.g. Med. 2.14, 9.35, 10.7, 11.1) and I believe Seneca would endorse this viewpoint. 44 See Long (1985) 25: “These physical processes, moreover, are not laws of an undesigning, uncaring, or lifeless nature. On the contrary, they are quite literally acts of god, who works with a rational and beneficent plan for the good of the whole . . . Therefore, to ensure the continuity of cosmic goodness, the present world is everlastingly recreated.” 45 Merrills (2017) 174. 46 For some of the problems inherent in the theory and the ways in which it was modified by later Stoics, see Long and Sedley (1987) 1.311–313.

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Star, C. 2021. Apocalypse and Golden Age: The End of the World in Greek and Roman Thought. Baltimore. Trinacty, C.V. 2018. The Surface and the Depths: Quotation and Intertextuality in Seneca’s Naturales Quaestiones. TAPA 148: 361–392. Trinacty, C.V. 2020. Non est facile inter mala magna consipere: Trauma, Earthquakes, and Bibliotherapy in Seneca’s Naturales Quaestiones. In Emotional Trauma in Greece and Rome: Representations and Reactions, eds. Karanika, A. and Panoussi, V., 125–142. Abingdon. Waiblinger, F.P. 1977. Senecas Naturales Quaestiones: Griechische Wissenschaft und römische Form. Munich. Williams, G.D. 2012. The Cosmic Viewpoint: A Study of Seneca’s Natural Questions. Oxford. Williams, R.R. 2012. Tragedy, Recognition, and the Death of God. Oxford. Wilson, M. 2001. “Seneca’s Epistles Reclassified.” In Texts, Ideas, and the Classics: Scholarship, Theory and Classical Literature, ed. Harrison, S.J., 164–188. Oxford.

Françoise Lecocq

Herodotus’ Phoenix between Hesiod and Papyrus Harris 500, and Its Legacy in Tacitus Abstract: We propose a secular origin for a part of the narrative about the Egyptian sacred bird to which Herodotus gives the name φοῖνιξ and a long lifespan, both borrowed from Hesiod. For the making of a myrrh egg enclosing the paternal corpse and transported to the City of the Sun, Heliopolis, the priests may have nothing to do with what possibly refers to a popular tradition attested in a love song, where a female bird catcher sings about the birds of the land of Punt carrying to Egypt myrrh balls in their talons: that is the shape and matter of the egg. In religious iconography, the image of a bird holding round objects is seen for the falcon Horus. Then we study the legacy of these double sources in the development of the myth until Tacitus, the first historian writing about the phoenix after Herodotus. If the mummy-like egg disappears and if myrrh is replaced by cinnamon, the mythical bird, whose lifespan is linked with the calculation of the cosmic Great Year, appearing more often, encounters at least an Egyptian astronomical cycle and becomes at the same time more real as an official figure of the Roman imperial power.

Introduction Since Van den Broek’s study on the myth of the phoenix fifty years ago,1 many documents have been discovered, textual and iconographic, and the in-depth analysis of the already known corpus delivers new sources and interpretations. We propose the hypothesis of a secular Egyptian origin for a detail in Herodotus’ narrative, ‘father of history’ in the fifth century BC, credited with introducing the mythic bird in Greek literature.2 Ἔστι δὲ καὶ ἄλλος ὄρνις ἱρός, τῷ οὔνομα φοῖνιξ. Ἐγὼ μέν μιν οὐκ εἶδον εἰ μὴ ὅσον γραφῇ· καὶ γὰρ δὴ καὶ σπάνιος ἐπιφοιτᾷ σφι, δι᾽ ἐτέων, ὡς Ἡλιοπολῖται λέγουσι, πεντακοσίων· φοιτᾶν δὲ τότε φασὶ ἐπεάν οἱ ἀποθάνῃ ὁ πατήρ. Ἔστι δέ, εἰ τῇ γραφῇ παρόμοιος, τοσόσδε καὶ τοιόσδε· τὰ μὲν αὐτοῦ χρυσόκομα τῶν πτερῶν τὰ δὲ ἐρυθρὰ ἐς τὰ μάλιστα· αἰετῷ

1 Van den Broek (1972). 2 See Lecocq (2008). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-021

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περιήγησιν ὁμοιότατος καὶ τὸ μέγαθος. Τοῦτον δὲ λέγουσι μηχανᾶσθαι τάδε, ἐμοὶ μὲν οὐ πιστὰ λέγοντες· ἐξ Ἀραβίης ὁρμώμενον ἐς τὸ ἱρὸν τοῦ Ἡλίου κομίζειν τὸν πατέρα ἐν σμύρνῃ ἐμπλάσσοντα καὶ θάπτειν ἐν τοῦ Ἡλίου τῷ ἱρῷ. Κομίζειν δὲ οὕτω· πρῶτον τῆς σμύρνης ᾠὸν πλάσσειν ὅσον τε δυνατός ἐστι φέρειν, μετὰ δὲ πειρᾶσθαι αὐτὸ φορέοντα, ἐπεὰν δὲ ἀποπειρηθῇ, οὕτω δὴ κοιλήναντα τὸ ᾠὸν τὸν πατέρα ἐς αὐτὸ ἐντιθέναι, σμύρνῃ δὲ ἄλλῃ ἐμπλάσσειν τοῦτο κατ᾽ ὅ τι τοῦ ᾠοῦ ἐκκοιλήνας ἐνέθηκε τὸν πατέρα· ἐσκειμένου δὲ τοῦ πατρὸς γίνεσθαι τὠυτὸ βάρος· ἐμπλάσαντα δὲ κομίζειν μιν ἐπ᾽ Αἰγύπτου ἐς τοῦ Ἡλίου τὸ ἱρόν. Ταῦτα μὲν τοῦτον τὸν ὄρνιν λέγουσι ποιέειν. There is also another sacred bird called the phoenix which I did not myself see except in painting, for in truth he comes to them very rarely, at intervals, as the people of Heliopolis say, of five hundred years; and these say that he comes regularly when his father dies; and if he be like the painting, he is of this size and nature, that is to say, some of his feathers are of gold colour and others red, and in outline and size he is as nearly as possible like an eagle. This bird they say (but I cannot believe the story) contrives as follows: setting forth from Arabia he conveys his father, they say, to the temple of the Sun (Helios) plastered up in myrrh, and buries him in the temple of the Sun; and he conveys him thus: he forms first an egg of myrrh as large as he is able to carry, and then he makes trial of carrying it, and when he has made trial sufficiently, then he hollows out the egg and places his father within it and plasters over with other myrrh that part of the egg where he hollowed it out to put his father in, and when his father is laid in it, it proves (they say) to be of the same weight as it was; and after he has plastered it up, he conveys the whole to Egypt to the temple of the Sun. Thus, they say that this bird does.3

After listing the problems raised by that text, compared with what we know about its Greek sources and about the Egyptian cult of two solar birds, the heron benu, a wader, and the falcon Horus, a raptor, we will examine its links, for the image of the bird carrying an egg of myrrh, with two possible sources not yet identified: the love song of a bird catcher and religious iconography.

The Phoenix from Hesiod’s fr. 304 to Herodotean Egypt The first account on the phoenix is surprising, but Herodotus is not the first to mention the bird: it appears in a charade attributed to Hesiod, a list of μακροβίοι (‘long-lived beings’), connected with the calculation of cosmic cycles.

3 Hdt. 2.73, transl. by Macaulay 1890.

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Ἐννέα τοι ζώει γενεὰς λακέρυζα κορώνη ἀνδρῶν ἡβώντων· ἔλαφος δέ τε τετρακόρωνος· τρεῖς δ’ ἐλάφους ὁ κόραξ γηράσκεται· αὐτὰρ ὁ φοῖνιξ ἐννέα τοὺς κόρακας· δέκα δ’ ἡμεῖς τοὺς φοίνικας νύμφαι ἐυπλόκαμοι, κοῦραι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο. A screaming crow lives for nine generations of men who have reached puberty; a deer is four crows; the raven grows old at three deer; then the phoenix at nine ravens; and we at ten phoenixes, we beautiful-haired nymphs, daughters of aegis-holding Zeus.4

That list is problematic, especially regarding the phoenix, despite the many partial or full quotations of fr. 304 that has become almost proverbial, in Greek and Latin literature, from Aristophanes to Ausonius. Was that bird real or legendary? Whatever are the calculations to determine its imaginary lifespan, the results greatly exceed five centuries. It takes all Van den Broek’s science and ingenuity to show that Herodotus and Hesiod are nevertheless compatible if derived from Chaldean astrology. For these numbers are consistent only with the Babylonian sexagesimal computation system and its unit of 60, the sos. That sos multiplied by 540 (as 9 × 60) gives the Hesiodic phoenix a 32,400 years long lifespan, that is the duration of 972 human generations; but Herodotus only retains the figure 540, rounded to 500, considerably changing the order of magnitude.5 According to us, he borrowed from the Praecepta the name and the longevity all together not from the Heliopolitans, in spite of what he said.6 Herodotus is not even the second author mentioning the bird, since Porphyry accuses him of plagiarizing Hecataeus of Miletus, an historian and geographer:7 his curious use of the word περιήγησις could refer to the title of his predecessor.8 Not to quote his sources is the general practice for ancient authors. But the historian, being more of a geographer and ethnographer in that part of Book 2, attributes the authorship of information to himself, saying he has seen or heard what he is talking about, such as the phoenix presented as a real creature of the Egyptian bestiary, as are the crocodile or the hippopotamus.

4 Praecepta Chironis, fr. 304 M-W, transl. by Most (2007). 5 Van den Broek (1972) 67–145. 6 Contra, see Labrique (2013) (not entirely convincing according to the reviews of her article). 7 Hdt. 2.73; Porphyrus, in Euseb. Praep. Euang. 10, 3: Ἡρόδοτος ἐν τῇ δευτέρᾳ πολλὰ Ἑκαταίου Μιλησίου κατὰ λέξιν μετήνεγκεν ἐκ τῆς περιηγήσεως βραχέα παραποιήσας, τὰ τοῦ Φοίνικος ὀρνέου καὶ τὰ περὶ τοῦ ποταμίου ἵππου καὶ τῆς θήρας τῶν κροκοδείλων (“Herodotus in his second Book has transferred many passages of Hecataeus of Miletus from the Geography, verbally with slight falsifications, as the account of the bird Phoenix, and of the hippopotamus and of the hunting of crocodile”) (transl. by Gifford [1903]). 8 Dillery (2018).

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But his description of these last two animals is notoriously inaccurate9 and the very fact that he went to Egypt was questioned. Moreover, the narrative is incomplete: neither the exceptional longevity nor the uniqueness of the bird is mentioned. In regard to the posterity of the myth, Herodotus does not expressly state that the young bird is reborn from the father’s corpse and no date is given for its alleged appearances, as we read in later authors, mentioning the reign of two pharaohs named in the same Book 2.10 The Greek historian is more interested in falcons and ibises, in the crocodiles or the bull Apis, not even mentioning the Heliopolitan sacred bull Mnevis, another incarnation of Ra. Herodotus signals the mummification and burial of animals in some temples.11 A real bird may have been venerated alive and mummified in Heliopolis, like did Mnevis, or the falcon of Edfu and the ibis of Hermopolis: he talks at length about these real birds of which thousands of mummies have been found.12 The common gray heron, from an existing creature, has become a religious and metaphysical entity under the name benu. The historian refuses to give too much detail on religious facts, out of respect for the divine mysteries. He does not associate any god by name with the sacred animal: one derives from the name of the city, Heliopolis, that the phoenix is related to the sun (Tacitus will say sacrum Soli),13 the main divinity of the country, under the names of Atum, then Ra-Horakhty ‘Ra of the two horizons’ (or Horus the Elder), the falcon god.14 The portrait, made after a painting he has seen, shows a raptor better corresponding to the falcon than to the heron benu. Attested from the first dynasties as well as the divine falcon, the benu lived two millennia before metamorphosing into the phoenix. It was a cosmogonic and astral, religious and funerary bird, mentioned in allusive religious documents spread over centuries: Egypt has no mythology in the sense of structured narrative, unlike Greece. They are the Texts of the Pyramids engraved on the walls of the Pharaonic mausoleums, without pictures, the Texts of the Sarcophagi painted on the walls of the coffins and the spells of the Books of the Dead (dating from the New Empire), written on papyrus and illustrated. The documentation is therefore mainly funerary. The benu was, in the Heliopolitan cosmogony, the first creature at the origins of the world created by the Sun god (other cities honor a goose); then it became a form of the

9 Hdt. 2.68 and 71. 10 Tac. Ann. 6.28. 11 Hdt. 2.67. 12 He provides an explanation only for the cult of the ibis, protecting Egypt from the invasion of Arabian flying snakes (Hdt. 2.75). 13 Tac. Ann. 6.28. 14 He is different from Horus the Young, the only son of Isis and Osiris.

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morning and vesper time, and of the diurnal and nocturnal time, since the sun lives, dies and lives again every day and night The benu is also assimilated to the soul: ba, of gods and men (often portrayed as a bird with a human head) and is a psychagogue for the deceased. The bird appears in the religious and civil calendar, at the feasts of the solar god and of the New Year, for the Royal Jubilee, and at the heliac rising of the star Sopdet signaling the Nile flooding, the major annual event of the country. The two Egyptian divine, however real creatures, falcon and heron, were certainly associated, or even interchangeable, in the solar cult, embodying the star at its sunrise and sunset, in its diurnal youth, then its old age and its nocturnal death. The red color of the phoenix seems to come from its Greek name,15 as for the hippopotamus resembling a horse (ἵππος) according to Herodotus. Φοῖνιξ is borrowed from the Praecepta (via Hecataeus?), a polysemous word also designating an inhabitant of Phoenicia and the date palm. Herodotus uses the Egyptian name of the ibis and gives an Egyptian name for the crocodile,16 but not for the phoenix; neither etymology nor explanation is offered.17 The word as referring to a color means ‘blood red’, and probably ‘tinted with the precious purple originated from the land of Phoenicia’. Neither the falcon nor the heron is reddish, only the pink flamingo, φοινικóπτερος (‘red wings’) is, but it has almost no place in Egyptian religion and iconography.18 If the red hue is sometimes negatively connoted, as the color of the desert and its malefic god Seth, gold is positive and makes sense with the ‘Golden Falcon’ god. The titulature of the sovereign includes the name ‘Horus of gold’ (Hor nebu), whose hieroglyph shows a falcon above a necklace of that metal, shaped as a semicircle with pendants similar to drops. In the Texts of the Pyramids, the late pharaoh resurrects under the shape of a falcon and the Book of the Dead mentions a ‘golden falcon with the head of a benu’ (chap. 77). If the red color derives from the Greek name, the gold color would be less descriptive than symbolic: besides its universal value and its connection with Horus, the matter of the body of the Egyptian gods is reputed to be gold. The adjective χρυσόκομα is inappropriate for a bird, referring not to feathers, but to hair, such as that of the Greek solar god Apollo,19 assimilated by Herodotus with Horus.20

15 See Guilleux (2001) cf. φοινίκουρος, (‘red-tail’), the Luscinia phoenicurus; φοινικόπτερος, (‘red-feathered’), the flamingo; φοινικόρυγχος, (‘with a red bill’); φοινικόλεγνος, (‘red-streaked’); φοινικόλοφος (‘purple-crested’). On these birds and all others, see Thompson (1895). 16 Hdt. 2.69: χάμψα; see also Diod. Sic. 1.83–89; Strab. 17.1.38 (Σοῦχος) and 17.1.39–40. 17 No more than for ἴρηξ (‘falcon’) (Ionian form for ἱέραξ, etymology unknown). 18 See Lecocq (2019a). 19 For example, in Ar. Av. 217. 20 Hdt. 2.156.

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The head of that last god is often crowned by the uraeus: a red solar disk surrounded by a yellow snake, while the divinity often has a red body (the male color) and a yellow loincloth. Furthermore, if the meaning of the Herodotean phoenix is also related to sonship and transmission of power, with religious and dynastic echoes, it effectively can refer to the father of Horus the young Osiris,21 the god who died and resurrected: that divine couple would make sense with regard to the bird piously burying the paternal corpse.22 But Herodotus’ phoenix is presented in a way that belongs less to a list of sacred birds than to the marvels of exotic fauna (and that point of view will last for centuries after him). For what interests him most is the journey of the clever bird finding a way to transport its burden between Arabia and Egypt. All these negative remarks also concern other passages of his work where ancients saw ‘countless fables’;23 neither Aristotle in his History of animals nor Diodorus of Sicily nor Strabo in their developments on Egyptian animals will take up the story of the phoenix, although naming Mnevis.24 Between Herodotus and the Roman era, the Greek mentions of the bird are reduced to a few lines in rare authors;25 the phoenix seems to fall out of interest.

The Myrrh of Punt in the Love Song of the Bird Catcher For Van den Broek, who mainly studies the Christian phoenix and does not dedicate a specific chapter to Herodotus, the historian is not credible and provides few properly Egyptian elements; so, the fable would come from an earlier Greek legend. But that is very hypothetical in the absence of any other text than the Praecepta, where the bird is used as an astrological allegory, still unidentified as a species, maybe legendary, maybe as real as the other creatures of its list, but none having a link with Egypt. At approximatively the same time, the most famous Phoenix is the Homeric preceptor of Achilles, always called ‘father’ or ‘old’.26

21 See Belluccio (1993); Quirke (2001); Postel (2013); Coulon (2013). 22 Hdt. 2.144 and 2.156. 23 See for example Cic. De leg. 1.5. 24 Diod. Sic. 1.83–88; Strab. Geog. 17.38–40. 25 Antiphanes of Rhodos Homopatrioi 173, Ezekiel the Tragedian Exagôgè, fr. 17.256–269, and Aenesidemus of Cnossos Pyrrhonian discourses (in Diog. Laert. 9.11.9). 26 Iliad, passim.

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Modern historians however, after a time of denigration, are rehabilitating Herodotus by deciphering in Book 2 the interpretatio graeca of authentic Egyptian facts or beliefs.27 Françoise Labrique wrote a long article on the Herodotean phoenix, thinking that the historian has faithful theological information despite some analogic transpositions for his Greek audience.28 We partially confirm her validation, by linking to an Egyptian document of a rather unexpected nature the part about the extraordinary behavior of the bird: making a myrrh egg, enclosing in it the paternal remains like a mummy and transporting it to Heliopolis. The historical genre is unknown in Egypt; there is no narrative, neither secular nor religious, on the life and death of the divine birds.29 What is known about them comes from sacred texts and images, sculptures and paintings on the walls of temples and tombs, extending over a long time. But there is a corpus of tales and songs. One often reads that Herodotus’ sources, as he says repeatedly, are the priests of Memphis and Heliopolis, the latter praised for their knowledge, in one of the oldest temples of the country.30 The priests indeed are the main holders of religious and historical knowledge, thanks to the records kept in their temples;31 the expression ‘the priests told me’ is a leitmotiv of Book 2 for both types of knowledge. For the phoenix, the source of that part of the narrative could be the ‘Heliopolitans’ as the secular inhabitants of the city. The historian marvels at the phoenix making a funerary egg and transporting it. It is the image of a bird with a globe, on its head, its back or in its claws, not the same image as the picture previously mentioned, the one Herodotus saw with his own eyes, but another one coming from some popular source maybe unrelated to religion, perhaps . . . a love song.32 In a papyrus from the 19th dynasty (thirteenth–twelfth century BC), a female bird catcher sings a song for her beloved, called ‘brother’, in the manner of King Solomon’s ‘Song of Songs’, and she speaks about birds carrying myrrh balls in their claws. That corresponds exactly to the shape and matter of the burden of the phoenix. My beloved, my cherished one, My heart is in search of your love And everything created for you. I shall speak to you, that all I do may be open.

27 See Tallet (2010); Postel (2013). 28 Labrique (2013). 29 See Medini and Tallet (2018). 30 Hdt. 3.3. 31 See Raue (2018). 32 There is only a funerary song mentioned in Book 2 (Hdt. 2.79).

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I have come to set my snare; In my hand are my bird cage and my throw-stick. All the birds [apdw] of Punt [pwnt] alight in Egypt [kmt], anointed33 with myrrh [antyw], But the one who comes first seizes my lure. His fragrance has come from Punt, And his talons [anwtf] are covered with resin [qmyt]. But my yearning is toward you. Let us set him free together, And I shall be alone with you. I shall let you hear my voice Lamenting over my (bird) anointed with myrrh. How wonderful it would be if you were there with me When I set my snare. (How) pleasant it is for one who is cherish To go to the fields.34

Is the detail of the bird with droplets of resin in its claws realistic? The myrrh tree, commiphora (‘gum bearer’), from -φόρος (‘-bearing’) and κόμμι (‘gum, resin’) (after Egyptian qmy), grows in southern Arabia, homeland of the Herodotean phoenix. That distant, mysterious and paradisiac country of Punt35 (its Egyptian name) was supposed to be inhabited by the gods. Pharaohs organized expeditions to import, among other items, the precious fragrant resin antyw produced by the myrrh tree, much appreciated and used in their religion and specially the embalming of the dead.36 There are two documents on these expeditions, textual and iconographic. In the absence of an historical genre, Egyptian literature has tales, such as the one in which a sailor ventures into Punt where a snake king reigns; no bird, but a lot of myrrh, brought back to Egypt by the hero.37 The figurative document is the relief, on the walls of the Deir el-Bahari temple, showing the expedition to Punt of Queen Hatshepsut between 1479 and 1457 BC.38 One can see trees with myrrh and a large flying bird, maybe a cinnyris, a species of multicolored humming bird with metallic reflections, but a small creature,39 having a characteristic tail with two longer feathers, one clearly visible on the relief.

33 Or ‘coated’ [wrH]. 34 P. Harris 500, transl. by Simpson (2003) 312. 35 In the southeastern part of the Arabian Peninsula (Servajean [2019]). 36 The two other mentions of myrrh are also about religion and mummification (Hdt. 2.40 and 86). See Aufrère (2017). 37 See Parkinson (1999). 38 See Taterka (2016). 39 See Ratié (1979) 151 (erroneously spelled ‘cinnytis’). Its modern name is coined after κιννυρíδες: τὰ μικρὰ ὀρνιθάρια (‘the small birds’) mentioned in Hesychius’ Lexicon; it resembles

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Could it be the model of the phoenix transporting a myrrh ball? It is difficult to say because the scene shows a rural landscape with huts, trees, cows, donkeys, monkeys, turtles, fish and that bird, perhaps only decorative. An unfortunate break in the stone does not allow to see if it carries pellets in its claws, but the myrrh trees show neither drops of resin nor leaves, just silhouetted and streaked with branches. For myrrh exudes from the trunk, as does Boswellia frankincense, another local production, which the poet Ovid makes the food of the bird under the word ‘tears’.40 The drops can weigh up to 200 grams. Like any resin, it is sticky, and it is not impossible that a bird would get caught in it: glue and traps are precisely the two techniques of bird hunting.41 Nor is it implausible that a bird flies away with a pellet of myrrh stuck to its claws, as it is said in the song. Would the Hesiodic allegorical φοῖνιξ have become in Herodotus, by a phonetic encounter and/or a pseudo-etymology, ‘the Puntite’, i.e. the inhabitant of Punt, a word variously vocalized as punet or punit?42 In the real world, the transport was made by ships, such as those seen on Hatshepsut’s relief or in the tale of the shipwrecked sailor. But behind the Herodotean phoenix as a marvelous transporter of aromatics could be the bird of a folk legend about the importation of myrrh, born from the fact that pellets of the resin can stick to the claws of a bird. The phoenix collecting myrrh recalls other legendary creatures linked with aromatics: the cinnamon birds collecting the twigs of the spice of that name in the same Herodotus and also in Aristotle – Pliny the Elder will confuse them with the phoenix because κíνναμον (‘cinnamon’), is a word of ‘Phoenician’ origin, i.e. Semitic.43 But one has also seen a religious background in the text despite Herodotus’ skepticism. His story loosely reminds of the cosmic egg of some Egyptian narratives about the origins of the world: in the Hermopolitan cosmogony, the demiurge: the ibis-god Thoth, lays it on the primordial mound coming out of the waters; brooded by the gods, it produces the sun when hatching.44 In Greece, in the Orphic beliefs too, besides reincarnation into birds,45 there is a primordial

one of the names attributed to the father of the legendary heroin Myrrha (Ov. Met. 10.299). That bird does not figure on the relief of the Botanical garden of Thutmose III in Karnak, inspite of what Ratié wrote. 40 Ov. Met. 15.394. 41 See Vendries (2009). 42 For several other puns in the elaboration of the myth, see Lecocq (2016). 43 Hdt. 3.111 (without a name); Arist. Hist. An. 9.13.616a (κιννάμωμον ὄρνεον); Plin. HN 10.97 under the name cinnamolgus, assimilated with the phoenix in HN 12.85; see Lecocq (2009) and (2011). 44 See Bickel (1994). 45 See Turcan (1959).

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deity of light born from an egg, whose name Phanes may have been, falsely but significatively, linked to φοῖνιξ.46 For the phoenix however, it is not about birth, but death: nowhere and never is the bird hatching from an egg. But that image of a bird with a ball is omnipresent in Egyptian religion. The winged solar disk behedety, another figure of the divine falcon, shows blue gray wings on either side of a red disk representing the sun, looking like a bird flying with extended wings and carrying a ball in not visible claws. Behedety is a cult name for the falcon-headed god Ra, also called ‘Lord of Punt’ as the God’s land, especially worshiped at the Edfu temple. Also common is the image of the ba bird, symbol of the soul of the dead, a hybrid with a human head, sometimes assimilated with the benu, carrying in its claws the cross of life, ankh, whose upper part has an ovoid shape. Another frequent figure is the shen ring carried by the falcon god Horus or a vulture goddess. That circular symbol expresses ‘eternity’, the circle having neither beginning nor end, like the Ouroboros snake biting its tail; the shen had also a solar meaning when the sun disk is depicted in its center. On Tutankhamun’s pectoral, a multicolored falcon bears the red solar disk on the head and holds in each claw a shen ring surmounted by the ankh cross (Fig. 1). Later, some authors describe the phoenix carrying a load of spices on the wings, while the image of the bird perched atop a ball becomes official with a new meaning: no more the sun, but the terrestrial globe dominated by the imperial power, where the phoenix replaces the Roman eagle. So, the egg of myrrh may originate from different sources at the same time, from a popular tale and from religious images. The love song offers the figure of a bird with a pellet of myrrh in its claws coming from Punt to Egypt; that pellet has become in Herodotus’ narrative a kind of egg, more realistic and appropriate for a bird, even if that egg cannot be laid, since the phoenix is a male (the word ‘father’ is used several times).47 However, the egg is a funerary artifact containing the mummified corpse of the father, because myrrh is the main ingredient of the embalming process; it is transported to Heliopolis for the burial, along the spice trade route, but by air, not by sea, from East to West. In a similar way, another sacred animal, the scarab, as a form of the god Khepri, rolls a ball of dung, image of the sun at its zenith.48

46 See Albrile (2000) and Lecocq (2019b). 47 For another association of a bird, an egg and myrrh, see Aufrère (2017): female falcons were supposed able to produce myrrh resin. 48 Zucker (2004) 85–86.

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Herodotus’ Legacy in the Myth until Tacitus What will remain of the double- or even triple-natured phoenix of Herodotus, taking its name (plus one color) and its long lifespan from the astrological allegory of the Hesiodic Praecepta, described mostly as the Egyptian divine falcon Horus and acting as the birds of Punt, land of myrrh, in the love song? It will continue to appear as a creature of Egyptian wildlife (not religion), in ethnographic or natural science books and in catalogs of wonders, for its longevity and asexual reproduction. The gaps in the narrative will be filled by inventions or borrowings from other legends, or even confusions.49 Then, with the drastic shortening of its Herodotean lifespan, the phoenix will be allowed to appear in the real history of Rome, before returning to a sacred register with Christianity, adopting the phoenix as the proof of the bodily resurrection. The legacy proper to Herodotus is to have linked almost indissociably the φοῖνιξ to Egypt,50 to the cult of the Sun, and to the pious burial of a father. But the name and the lifespan do not come from that country. The main potential for the development of the myth was in the polysemy of that name and in the interpretation of the lifespan, the two borrowed as a whole from the allegorical bird of the Hesiodic enigma. For the historian, φοῖνιξ meant only ‘red’. But for the following authors, the word provides matter to elaborate: from Ezekiel the Tragedian and Ovid for Pagans and from Tertullian to Lactantius Or rather PseudoLactantius according to Henke (2020) 535 sq. for Christians, the bird is seen perched in the homonymous date palm and/or living in the homonymous land Phoenicia, sometimes under the alternative name of Syria, even Assyria.51 For the joyous song of the bird catcher, the Greco-Roman posterity will embroider a love story, but a sad one, to explain the origin of the droplets of that resin, called ‘tears’, as does Ovid.52 The link to the myth of the phoenix will then be replaced by the toponymic anthroponym ‘Phoenician’, since ‘myrrh’ is a Semitic word: princess Myrrha is said to be the incestuous daughter of a king sometimes named Phoenix of Byblus,53 fathering Adonis, i.e. the Phoenician god Tammuz.54

49 See Lecocq (2016). 50 However, no visible traces of Egypt in Manilius (Plin. HN 10.3–5). 51 Ov. Met. 15.393; Lactant. de aue Phoen., 65 and 80. 52 Ov. Met. 10.298–367. 53 Hes. fr. 139 M-W. 54 See Detienne (1994) chapter 1, “The Perfumes of Arabia”, 5–36.

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The Egyptian mummy underlying the egg of myrrh most often disappears, replaced by a more rational and universal nest55 of twigs, preferentially cinnamon due to the confusion between the phoenix and the cinnamon birds: that egg makes no sense compared to the Greek and Roman funerary customs. Moreover, the fire appears, probably originating in the religious practices of these two peoples, burning animals in honor of the gods on the altars56 and cremating their dead on pyres of aromatics. The hollowed ‘egg’ of myrrh will only return in Celsus and Achilles Tatius who do not use the word, but replace it by σφαίρα (‘sphere, globe’),57 or βῶλος (‘lump, clod’) of myrrh.58 As for the several centuries long cycle, originally linked to the calculation of the duration of the Great cosmic year, which was the topic of the Hesiodic fr. 304, the subject was reactivated during the first century BC. Chaldean astrology revived in Berossus, whose theories were largely diffused in Rome. Ancients believed in the cyclical nature of time, with planets returning to their original position at regular intervals. The cosmic order was considered immutable. For Plato, the length of the Great Year was 25,920 years.59 For Berossus, it was 432,000 years, divided into three seasons and twelve months;60 the tenth month would have ended at Alexander the Great’s death; a new cosmic month thus began with the advent in Syria of his lieutenant Seleucus, in 312, while Ptolemy became the first Greek Pharaoh (that is probably why Manilius mentioned the phoenix for that year). Then the duration is shortened to 12,954 years in Cicero, Tacitus and Solinus.61 It has been proven that the phoenix lives for 540 years . . . Authorities are convinced that its life coincides with the cycle of the Great Year, although many of them say a Great Year lasts not 540 years, but 12,954.62

Not all authors are interested in the longevity of the bird, using vague expressions: ‘a long age’, ‘many centuries’. Those specifying a number usually keep Herodotus’ 500 years, but other figures appear, rarely explained: 540, 1000, 1461, 7006. For Manilius according to Van den Broek, 540 is the exact Babylonian 55 With sometimes also a more realistic, but less poetic worm born from the decaying corpse (Manilius in Plin. HN 10.4). 56 As in Pompon. 3.83. 57 Origen. C. Cels. 4.28. 58 Ach. Tat. 3.25. 59 Plat. Tim. 39d. 60 Van den Broek (1972) 90–96. 61 Cic. Nat. D. 2.51–52; Tac. Dial. 16; Solin. 33.15. 62 Solin. 33.12–3, transl. by Apps, Gaius Iulius Solinus and his Polyhistor (Ph.D. Diss. Macquarie University [2011]).

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number deduced from the Hesiodic charade, but rounded by Herodotus, although it is strange that, no more than the historian, Manilius does not multiply it by 60.63 From now on, many scholars will propose each their own figure: for Chaeremon, author of treatises on astronomy and hieroglyphs, 7000 or 7006, Pliny the Elder and the poet Martial 1000, Tacitus 1461.64 As they try to precisely date the return of the cycle symbolized by the bird, the phoenix is leaving myth to enter the time of history, when it is supposedly exhibited on the Roman forum at the sight and for the joy of a credulous people in 48 AD.65 By the way, not only scientists, but also the political community, and even the religious sphere are interested in these calculations.66 Some sibylline oracles, from Jewish origin, announce the close end of the Roman empire coined ‘the time of the phoenix’. Tacitus also is interested in the topic of the Great Year,67 and his figure 1461 is the duration of an astronomical period considered to be the Egyptian Great Year. At the end of the Sothic, or canicular, year, or cycle, the heliacal rising of the star Sopdet (in Egyptian), Sothis (in Greek), Sirius or Canis maior (in Latin), coincides at Heliopolis at the same time with the New Year and with the beginning of the Nile flood. That event was to occur on July 19, 139 AD, twenty years after Tacitus’ death, and had previously occurred around 4241, 2781 and 1321 BC. That cycle has nothing to do with either the benu or the falcon, or even with the pharaohs named by Tacitus, remarking with reason that these years are too close to each other to match with the Herodotean cycle. The first sovereign is more or less imaginary, the second and third are real characters. Sesosis is the Herodotean Sesostris,68 idealized as the best of all rulers, a composite of some historical pharaohs, the first in the list of Book 2, when Amasis II is the last sovereign of independent Egypt (570–526 BC) before the Persian conquest at the end of the excursus on that country.69 They are the only two pharaohs about which Diodorus speaks, summing up his predecessor by immediately narrating Amasis’ life after that of Sesostris. These two facts may have played a role in Tacitus’ choice.70 For the Decree of Canopus of Ptolemy III, in 238 BC, 63 Plin. HN 10.4–5. 64 Chaeremon Hieroglyphs, in Tzetz. Chil. 5.395–398; Plin. HN 29.29; Mart. Epigr. 5.7.2; Tac. Ann. 6.28. 65 Plin. HN 10.5. 66 See Lecocq (2020). 67 Tac. Dial. 16. 68 Hdt. 2.102–110, cf. Diod. Sic. 1.53–60. 69 Hdt. 2.154–182, cf. Diod. Sic. 1.60–69. 70 The appearance of the phoenix during their reign in Tacitus may be explained by the use of a summary of Herodotus’ Book 2 such as: “Egypt: pharaohs, from Sesostris to Amasis; the phoenix in Heliopolis,” understood as “The phoenix came in Heliopolis under Sesostris and Amasis.”

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rearranging the obsolete Egyptian calendar to coincide with the real course of the stars, it is generally accepted as the reason why the phoenix is pretended to appear under his reign; so, it is only a chronological symbol.71 Paulo Fabio L. Vitellio consulibus post longum saeculorum ambitum avis phoenix in Aegyptum venit praebuitque materiem doctissimis indigenarum et Graecorum multa super eo miraculo disserendi. de quibus congruunt et plura ambigua, sed cognitu non absurda promere libet. sacrum Soli id animal et ore ac distinctu pinnarum a ceteris avibus diversum consentiunt qui formam eius effinxere: de numero annorum varia traduntur. maxime vulgatum quingentorum spatium: sunt qui adseverent mille quadringentos sexaginta unum interici, prioresque alites Sesoside primum, post Amaside dominantibus, dein Ptolemaeo, qui ex Macedonibus tertius regnavit, in civitatem cui Heliopolis nomen advolavisse, multo ceterarum volucrum comitatu novam faciem mirantium. sed antiquitas quidem obscura: inter Ptolemaeum ac Tiberium minus ducenti quinquaginta anni fuerunt. unde non nulli falsum hunc phoenicem neque Arabum e terris credidere, nihilque usurpavisse ex his quae vetus memoria firmavit. confecto quippe annorum numero, ubi mors propinquet, suis in terris struere nidum eique vim genitalem adfundere ex qua fetum oriri; et primam adulto curam sepeliendi patris, neque id temere sed sublato murrae pondere temptatoque per longum iter, ubi par oneri, par meatui sit, subire patrium corpus inque Solis aram perferre atque adolere. haec incerta et fabulosis aucta: ceterum aspici aliquando in Aegypto eam volucrem non ambigitur.

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In the consulate of Paulus Fabius and Lucius Vitellius, after a long period of ages, the bird known as the phoenix visited Egypt, and supplied the learned of that country and of Greece with the material for long disquisitions on the miracle. I propose to state the points on which they coincide, together with the larger number that are dubious, yet not too absurd for notice. That the creature is sacred to the sun and distinguished from other birds by its head and the variegation of its plumage, is agreed by those who have depicted its form: as to its term of years, the tradition varies. The generally received number is five hundred; but there are some who assert that its visits fall at intervals of 1461 years, and that it was in the reigns, first of Sesosis, then of Amasis, and finally of Ptolemy (third of the Macedonian dynasty), that the three earlier phoenixes flew to the city called Heliopolis with a great escort of common birds amazed at the novelty of their appearance. But while antiquity is obscure, between Ptolemy and Tiberius there were less than two hundred and fifty years: whence the

71 Van den Broek (1972) 416.

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belief has been held that this was a spurious phoenix, not originating on the soil of Arabia, and following none of the practices affirmed by ancient tradition. For – so the tale is told – when its sum of years is complete and death is drawing on, it builds a nest in its own country and sheds on it a procreative influence, from which springs a young one, whose first care on reaching maturity is to bury his sire. Nor is that task performed at random, but, after raising a weight of myrrh and proving it by a far flight, so soon as he is a match for his burden and the course before him, he lifts up his father’s corpse, conveys him to the Altar of the Sun, and consigns him to the flames. – The details are uncertain and heightened by fable; but that the bird occasionally appears in Egypt is unquestioned.72

If the imperial historian is interested in the phoenix, it is not only because Roman authors of the first century have developed and embellished the myth (either poets: Ovid, Statius, Martial, or naturalists: Pliny the Elder), but because the allegorical bird is at his time a topical subject, since a new Sothic cycle is foreseen for a date relatively close to him: 139 AD. Even if Tacitus writes about the bird for the year 34, during Tiberius’ reign,73 that must have to do with contemporary preoccupations: he lives under Trajan. The occurrence of the Sothic year in the second century is later mentioned in Censorinus’ treatise The Birthday Book, with no hint to the bird: it was not necessary.74 So, why that interest of Tacitus for the phoenix? It is not a prodigy like others: the bird has become since the beginning of the century a political and sensible matter (not to mention the growing interest of Christians): all considerations about the lifespan of the emperors, about the duration of the world and its renewal or possible end have to be controlled and supervised by the power in place, and the myth of the phoenix falls into that category. Not long after the publication of Tacitus’ work, the new emperor Hadrian replaces his adoptive father Trajan deceased in 117 and produces to honor him gold coins showing, for some, the phoenix crowned by a nimbus with twelve solar rays (symbolizing the months of the year), for others the bird in the zodiac circle with the legend Saeculum aureum (‘Golden age’). Neither a heron nor a raptor, but a large wader, it is now an official symbol inaugurating a long numismatic series: an identical son replaces his father, with the promise of dynastic continuity and of ensuing bliss for the world (Fig. 2). Then, emperor Antoninus will produce in Alexandria, in the very year of the renewal of the Sothic cycle, another coin with the phoenix and the word Ἀιών (‘Eternity’). That political propaganda around the bird is probably the reason why the Roman historian feels obliged to believe in the existence of that Egyptian bird: contrary to Herodotus, he and his country are personally concerned. In any

72 Tac. Ann. 6.28, transl. by Jackson (1937). 73 Or in 36 (Dio Cass. 58.27.10). 74 Censorinus DN 18.10–11.

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case, and no more than all other authors (but not all are historians), does he distinguish the Hesiodic astrological symbol from the Egyptian sacred bird.

Conclusion We read three strata of sources in Herodotus’ narrative on the phoenix: one taken from Hesiod, one from the love song (or the tale underlying it), one from Egyptian religion. The historian borrows from the allegorical bird of the Great Year in the Hesiodic Praecepta its name and its century-long longevity (all what we know about it), although misquoting or misunderstanding the calculations made in a Babylonian computation system. He borrows from the love song of the bird catcher a bird of the land of Punt carrying a ball of myrrh in its claws, a real or allegorical creature. He applies that Hesiodic name and lifespan, that have very early become almost proverbial, plus the ball of myrrh of the song to an Egyptian solar bird linked with Heliopolis, probably the benu specific to that city, but also the omnipresent falcon carrying some circular symbolic objects. For the development of the potential of his heritage, various puns on its polysemous name confer to the bird a preferential tree and country: the homonymic date palm and Phoenicia. That is more important than the fact that, originally red by name, the phoenix becomes multicolored, like many exotic birds, in the stories and the mental images; some authors even look for another etymology.75 The aromatics multiply and diversify, mainly under the influence of the cinnamon bird of the same Herodotus, but they are now the materials of a nest (as a cradle or a pyre), avatar of the myrrh egg. The mummy-egg remains only as an approximate shape in a couple ‘bird + circular object’, but the references have changed: it is either a nest or the earth globe, according to whether the phoenix is treated as a real being or a symbol; in the latter case, the sphere is no longer transported, but used as a perch. The lifespan of the bird lengthens over time, according to some astrological theories and astronomical events, from the propagation in Rome of Berossus’ Babylonian theories on the Great Year to the occurrence of the Egyptian Sothic cycle in 139, echoed by the historian Tacitus. He therefore judges necessary to speak about the phoenix: it is no more some ancient, strange and foreign creature, but a hot topic in the Roman Empire. He integrates in the narrative borrowed from his colleague Herodotus new elements coming from intermediate developments of the myth and even the names of two Herodotean pharaohs, but above all, he actualizes the subject in regard to the concerns of his fellow citizens on the duration of 75 For example, the Vienna Physiologus; see Lecocq (2019b).

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Fig. 1: A jewelled falcon of Tutankhamun with the sun disk on the head, carrying in its talons the shen ring, symbol of the eternity of the universe, surmounted by the ‘ankh’ or sign for life in Ancient Egypt. Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/dalbera/1816840234/in/set72157602827251285/. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

Fig. 2: Aureus, Hadrian, 117/118 AD. The phoenix, here a large wader with a short beak, is identified by a stylized radiate nimbus. ID 00535894001. Purchased by and licensed to Françoise Lecocq, University of Caen Normandy, France.

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the universe, including not only scholars, but Christians and the Roman emperors themselves: the future of the world is at stake.

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Lecocq, F. 2020. Deux faces du phénix impérial: Trajan et Hadrien sur l’aureus de 117/118. In Mémoires de Trajan, mémoires d’Hadrien, eds. Benoist, S., Gautier, A., Hoët-Van Cauwenberghe, C., and Poignault, R., 57–70. Lille. Macaulay, G.C. 1890. The History of Herodotus, I. London. Medini, L. and Tallet, G., 2018. Qu’est-ce qu’un mythe égyptien? RHR 235.4: 595–607. Most, G.W. 2007. Hesiod, II. Cambridge, MA. Parkinson, R.B. 1999. The Tale of Sinuhe and Other Ancient Egyptian Poems 1940-1640 B.C. Oxford. Postel, L. 2013. Hérodote et les annales royales égyptiennes. In Regards croisés sur le Livre II de l’Enquête d’Hérodote, eds. Coulon, L., Giovannelli-Jouanna, P., and Kimmel-Clauzet, F., 89–118. Lyon. Quirke, S. 2001. The Cult of Ra. Sun Worship in Ancient Egypt. London. Ratié, S. 1979. La reine Hatchepsout. Sources et problèmes. Paris. Raue, D. 2018. Religion et politique au cœur de l’ancienne Égypte: Le temple d’Héliopolis. Annuaire de l’ÉPHE, Sciences Religieuses 125: 93–108. Servajean, F. 2019. Les pays des arbres à myrrhe et des pins parasols. À propos de Tȝ-nṯr. ENiM 12: 87–122. Simpson, W.K. 2003. The Literature of Ancient Egypt: An Anthology of Stories. New Haven. Tallet, G. 2010. Mythologie et hellénisme en Égypte gréco-romaine. In Mythe et fiction, eds. Auger, D. and Delattre, C., 399–425. Nanterre. Taterka, F. 2016. Hatshepsut’s Expedition to the Land of Punt. Novelty or Tradition? In Current Research in Egyptology 2015: Proceedings of the Sixteenth Symposium, eds. Alvarez, C., Belekdanian, A., Gill, A.-K., and Klein, S., 114–123. Oxford. Thompson D’A.W. 1895. A Glossary of Greek Birds. Oxford. Turcan, R. 1959. L’âme-oiseau et l’eschatologie orphique. RHR 155.1: 33–40. Van Den Broek, R. 1972. The Myth of the Phoenix according to Classical and Early Christian Traditions. Leiden. Vendries, C. 2009. L’auceps, les gluaux et l’appeau, à propos de la ruse et de l’habileté du chasseur d’oiseaux. In Chasses antiques. Pratiques et représentations dans le monde gréco-romain (IIIe s. av. - IVe s. apr. J.-C.), eds. Trinquier, J. and Vendries, C., 119–140. Rennes. Zucker, A. 2004. Physiologos: Le bestiaire des bestiaires. Grenoble.

Joel Allen

Empire, Ethnicity, Exegesis: Lucian on Interpretations of Greek Myth in the Roman Mediterranean Abstract: Three of Lucian’s texts – Toxaris sive Amicitia, De Dea Syria and Hercules – demonstrate the author’s interest in the primacy of Greek myth and its reception among the far-flung populations of the empire. Each essay, in varying levels of detail, portrays a non-Hellenic, non-Roman figure (a Scythian, a Syrian and a Celt, respectively) reinterpreting themes, plots and characters from Hellenic mythologies to suit their own understanding of history and ethics. These outsiders to paideia repeatedly find fault with their Greek interlocutors and the exegetical methods they deploy. Lucian thus reveals that although the cosmopolitan Mediterranean of which he was a part was dominated by a single mythology, it harbored a mess of meanings, each ‘blurring the lines’ that are the focus of this volume in its own way. Any (hi)story could support a multiplicity of beliefs, consonant with the empire’s variously fraught ethnicities.

Introduction Lucian of Samosata’s subversive habit knew many targets. Throughout his body of work an overall project – Lucian’s passion, it seems – was to challenge received wisdom, upset conventional expectations and adopt new perspectives that reveal the contrivances behind human behavior. All is artifice, be it philosophy, religion, gender roles, even athletics.1 But more than these, or perhaps a part of all of

1 On philosophy, see the De Morte Peregrini, the Nigrinus, the Hermotimus, among many others, alongside Nasrallah (2005), who imagines Lucian operating within a ‘philosophical marketplace’, in which participants “ru[n] around in philosophical drag, claiming serious interest in philosophy but really in love with money and fame,” 289–290); also Berdozzo (2011) and Fields (2013). On religion, see Alexander and Philopseudes sive Incredulus, alongside Dickie (2010); Berdozzo (2011) and Costantini (2019). On gender, note the Amores or Dialogi Note: I am grateful to Menelaos Christopoulos, Athina Papachrysostomou and Andreas P. Antonopoulos for the superb organization of both this volume and the Conference that precipitated it, and to the New York City Roman History reading group for their comments: Sulochana Asirvatham, Graham Claytor, Matthew Perry, Cristiana Sogno and Liv Yarrow. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-022

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them, Lucian took a particular interest in what we might call ethnicity – the characteristics and precepts of one’s culture that were determined, at least as Lucian’s contemporaries saw it, in a collaborative way by geography, by language and by family or tribe and which became fixed across an expanse of time and thus were innate to every individual (or thought to be). The identification of a group’s ethnicity in the second century CE constituted an assertion of paradigms that should govern its actions and reactions, whatever the context: all Scythians act as follows; the typical Syrian believes thus; we can expect the same behavior from any Celt. Atop a basic, tiered arrangement of ethnicities – again, according to Lucian’s peers, as he himself implies – sat paideia, that brand of Hellenism and the Hellenic point of view that prevailed among the Greek-speaking elite in a sophisticated and orthodox vein. But as recent scholarship has shown,2 across multiple texts Lucian deconstructed paideia, generally, into its constituent parts, the better to plumb its depths and potentially to chart its waters anew. As a Syrian – or more specifically, as a Commagenean, on the fringe of Roman Syria which was itself already a fringe province –, Lucian was especially well positioned for his distinctive, outsider perspective.3 For the purposes of this chapter we take up what Lucian seems to view as a principal facet of any ethnicity’s defining traits, including that of paideia – its understanding of myth and myth’s relation to history. As we shall see, in three texts – the Toxaris sive Amicitia; the De Dea Syria; and the Hercules –, Lucian depicts the act of interpreting myth as part of an agon of ethnicities, in which different peoples find different meanings in the same sets of stories and the same sets of histories.4 What follows is not a study of the myths themselves as recounted by Lucian’s characters, but rather Lucian’s portrayal of conversations about myth among speakers of divergent backgrounds. In these three texts Lucian features a non-Hellenic speaker putting a new spin on Greek myth and its exegesis: the Toxaris has a Scythian in direct dialogue with a Greek; the speaker

Meretricii, among others, alongside Hubbard (2009); Jope (2009); Blondell and Boehringer (2014). On athletics, the Anacharsis, with Richter (2011) 161–164. For an overview of Lucian’s satirical method, see especially Camerotto (2014). 2 Branham (1989); Camerotto (1998); Whitmarsh (2001); Lightfoot (2003); Nasrallah (2005); Richter (2011); Bozia (2015); Andrade and Rush (2016). 3 Cf. Andrade and Rush (2016) 161 and Richter (2011) 159: in Lucian’s Revivescentes sive Piscator 19, a Syrian figure named Parrhesiades (‘Bold Speech’) is described as the son of ‘Truth’, who is the son of ‘Famed Investigator’ (or might we call it ‘Exegesis’?): Παρρησιάδης Ἀληθίωνος τοῦ Ἐλεγξικλέους. 4 On the centrality of agonistic exchange in Lucian’s work, see Fields (2013) 230–234, in this case with emphasis on the De Morte Peregrini and also Richter (2011) 147–152, as regards Syrians in Lucian’s oeuvre (though not in the De Dea Syria).

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of the De Dea Syria self-avows as a Syrian, even while engaging in Herodotean modes of story-telling; and the Greek-speaking orator of the Hercules reports on a conversation he once had with a Celt.5 The essays differ from each other in important ways – in genre, in style and in content – but I argue that they collectively demonstrate an ‘ethics of exegesis’ as espoused by Lucian, one that is at odds with conventional paideia. To Lucian’s view, certain conditions must be met before a myth can be credibly grounded in meaning, and time and again, paideia, as presented, is not up to snuff, in spite of the Hellenic ‘ownership’ of the stories to begin with. Outsider views, by contrast, in presenting novel exegesis that challenges well-worn topoi, read as more satisfying and harder earned and thus constitute radical acts. Lucian himself, to be sure, was a member of the Greek-speaking elite, but even as he is a zealous participant in paideia, we see him going to great lengths to valorize alternatives.6 A review of the texts in question is in order. In the Toxaris, a Greek, Mnesippus, confronts a Scythian, Toxaris. Mnesippus wants to know why Toxaris and his fellow Scythians venerate Orestes and Pylades from Greek myth, in spite of the tradition that those two heroes perpetrated an assault on Scythia during their peregrinations. Toxaris replies that their collective interest is in the close friendship of the pair, which was exceptional to the point of obscuring all other aspects of their narrative. In Scythia, Toxaris asserts, friendship is a paramount virtue and the type enacted by Orestes and Pylades made them exemplary. Mnesippus and Toxaris then enter into a dialogue about how each of their ethnicities conceives of friendship and in a spirit of competition, however absurd, they debate which one reveres it more. The question will be decided after each has recounted five stories of friendship – the word they use is mythoi – from their respective cultures.7 The tone between the two begins cordially but grows increasingly combative and even ridiculous: in a meager resolution Mnesippus and Toxaris realize that they forgot to appoint a judge and so they call it a draw. No-one’s tongue will be

5 It is not necessary to argue that the speaker of the Hercules, even in first-person singular, is Lucian himself, nor that this speaker is Syrian. Other texts of Lucian’s may be viewed as ‘near misses’ from the category of analysis of this chapter: the Bacchus, for example, presents Indian characters encountering the Greek god, but they do not actively reinterpret the mythologies surrounding him; in the Anacharsis, a Scythian character postulates on the meanings behind aspects of Greek culture, but none involving myth; in Bis Accusatus sive Tribunalia, a Syrian character questions oratory and other dominant modes of paideia, but again, without reference to myth. 6 See Richter (2005) 91, who identifies a ‘postcolonial Lucian’ along the lines of Chinua Achebe and Jamaica Kincaid, “writers who self-consciously use the language of the dominant other as a vehicle for the exploration of their own ambiguous cultural identities.” 7 Anderson (1976) 12–23 analyzes the ten stories as separate classifications of myth.

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cut out after all and no-one’s right hand will be chopped off.8 Still, in ways that we shall see in the coming analysis, Lucian manages to privilege the Scythian and thus undermine the paideia of his opponent.9 The De Dea Syria is not a dialogue but rather takes the form of history, and not just any history, but the kind practiced by the forefather of them all, Herodotus, complete with the type of ethnography that he pioneered. The text famously mimics Herodotus’ old Ionic Greek in its morphology, syntax and vocabulary. But Herodotus’ presence is seen not only in the language: the methodology, as well, follows his mold, as the speaker rambles through a number of originstories, or aitia, explaining various elements of the cult of the goddess at Hierapolis in Syria, identified by the speaker as an alternate form of the Greek Hera. He both begins and ends by highlighting his ethnicity: γράφω δὲ Ἀσσύριος ἐών, καὶ τῶν ἀπηγέομαι τὰ μὲν αὐτοψίῃ μαθών, τὰ δὲ παρὰ τῶν ἱρέων ἐδάην, ὁκόσα ἐόντα ἐμεῦ πρεσβύτερα ἐγὼ ἱστορέω. (Syr. D. 1) I myself that write am an Assyrian; and of the things that I relate I have seen some with my own eyes, while others – the parts of my account that happened before my time – I have learned from the priests. τοῦτο καὶ ἐγὼ νέος ἔτι ὢν ἐπετέλεσα, καὶ ἔτι μευ ἐν τῷ ἱρῷ καὶ ὁ πλόκαμος καὶ τὸ οὔνομα. (Syr. D. 60) [after describing a ritual of native-born Assyrian youths dedicating a lock of hair to the goddess] I myself did this when I was young, and still to this day in the temple are the lock and my name.10

The speaker is a Syrian who has himself participated in the cult, which surely read as strange given his quintessentially Hellenic mode of presentation as a latter-day Herodotus. As I will argue, it is as if the Syrian is in a dialogue not with an interlocutor but with a literary, historiographical technique, which in turn comes up short. Andrade has memorably described the De Dea Syria as a case of Lucian ‘writing back’ against his Hellenic peers, in the sense of mocking the nature of 8 Perhaps Lucian is playing with Herodotus’ ethnography of the Scythians (4.62–64) and its salacious emphasis on violence. 9 This Toxaris is different from the homonymous figure that appears in Lucian’s Scytha, the main character of which is rather a stooge for Greek paideia, clinging to Greek texts. It is this latter Toxaris that inspired the identification by Braund (2004) of a Scythian figure in the Kerameikos – a costumed figure who cradles a Greek-style book. 10 All ancient texts are from the Loeb translations, which have also influenced the translations of the Toxaris and Hercules, discussed below. Translations of De Dea Syria are from Lightfoot (2003). Elsner (2001) 143 interprets the speaker’s reference to the lock of hair as a “sacred affirmation . . . of its author’s Assyrian identity.”

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Greek ‘inquiry’, or historia, as Herodotus coined the term, and satirizing their naïveté.11 Versions of such a reading appear elsewhere in scholarship,12 but I argue further that some specific lines of comparison can be drawn among this satire and the Toxaris above and our third text, the Hercules. The Hercules occupies yet a third Lucianic genre – not a dialogue, not a history or ethnography, but a prolalia, or, a prologue to an epideictic speech that is not included in the corpus and which is not crucial to the prolalia’s integrity in any case. To set his stage, the orator is recounting his journey to Gaul and his conversation with a Celt about a painting of a deity that the Celts had associated with the Greek Hercules.13 The god displays some familiar iconography – a club, a lion skin, a bow and quiver – but his epithet is Ogmios and unlike the Greek Hercules he is depicted as elderly and broken down. What is even more peculiar, the god’s tongue is linked by chains of amber to a crowd of acolytes who joyfully attend him, thus ‘hanging on his every word’, figuratively. The Celt explained that in their view, true strength – even superhuman strength such as emblematized by the Greek Hercules – came from eloquence and the ability to persuade and to lead, skills that are best honed with age, hence the metaphor of the tongue and the chains as contrasted with the the hero’s frailty. We learn relatively late in the text that the speaker of the prolalia is himself an old man, which explains why he has chosen this opener – to justify his presence before an apparently skeptical audience. Scholarship is extensive on all of these texts individually. What may be gained in putting them side by side is to observe how the author Lucian – who is best seen as different from the speakers he deploys – establishes a set of standards for finding meaning in myth, for tracing historical elements in myth and for shaping one’s identity thereby.14 In all three, I argue, the non-Hellenes are depicted as performing ‘good’ exegesis in three distinct ways, each of which exists in opposition to how contemporary paideia functioned, or failed to function, at least as Lucian portrays it. First, each essay argues for an openness of texts to a range of viable meanings. That is, myth and history, history and myth are flexible in their applications and as such may inherently hold universal relevance beyond the parochialism of paideia. Second, the new exegesis relies on work – active, responsible and

11 Andrade (2013) 288–313. 12 Swain (1996) 305; Elsner (2001); Richter (2011) 235–242. 13 Billault (2006) compares Lucian’s use of ekphrasis with novelistic techniques for propelling narrative. 14 Some combinations of these texts have appeared in scholarship, but with different goals and observations. Andrade (2013) 303–304 discusses the De Dea Syria alongside the Hercules (see Andrade and Rush [2016] 163); Bozia (2015) discusses the Toxaris alongside all prolaliae, not just the Hercules, as well as other essays.

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thorough-going. Lucian’s non-Hellenes often trace precepts famously articulated by Greek historians of yore, like Thucydides, but which have fallen into abeyance in their day: autopsy is prized, and in its absence, there must be evidence and proof of other sorts. Hearsay or slavish reliance on past models are to be eschewed, even if they have become part and parcel of paideia. Third, the stakes are high in non-Hellenic exegesis and more than just intellectual gamesmanship hangs in the balance. What is more, as matters of near life-or-death they require, and are worthy of, documentation: ideally there is a physical, venerated text of some kind among the non-Hellenes – an inscription, a painting, a lesson for children – which possesses an authority that makes their new interpretation canonical. In sum, outsiders to paideia, in Lucian’s formulations, subscribe to myth’s universality even if it is Hellenic in origin; they study it with rigor; and there is much that they derive from the enterprise. By contrast, their Greek counterparts are narrow in their outlook, passive in their readings and at times, apathetic in any case.

The Universality of Myth To begin with the first point, universality, Toxaris makes it clear that Mnesippus and the other Greeks have no monopoly in what to do with Orestes and Pylades (Toxaris 5): [Toxaris:] κωλύει τε οὐδὲν ὅτι ξένοι ἦσαν ἀλλὰ μὴ Σκύθαι ἀγαθοὺς κεκρίσθαι καὶ ὑπὸ Σκυθῶν τῶν ἀρίστων θεραπεύεσθαι. οὐ γὰρ ἐξετάζομεν ὅθεν οἱ καλοὶ καὶ ἀγαθοί εἰσιν, οὐδὲ φθονοῦμεν εἰ μὴ φίλοι ὄντες ἀγαθὰ εἰργάσαντο, ἐπαινοῦντες δὲ ἃ ἔπραξαν, οἰκείους αὐτοὺς ἀπὸ τῶν ἔργων ποιούμεθα. The fact that they were not Scythians but foreigners is no hindrance to their having been accounted good men and their being cherished by the foremost Scythians; for we do not enquire what country proper men come from, nor do we bear a grudge if men who are not friendly have done noble deeds; we commend what they have accomplished and count them our own in virtue of their achievements.

Toxaris thus contends that the quintessential qualities of a Greek hero (καλοὶ καὶ ἀγαθοί) are relevant to others, and such a figure may ‘belong’ (οἰκείους) to another group by virtue of his actions. Similarly, in the Hercules, the unnamed Celt who addressed the speaker drew an explicit distinction between ethnic readings of myth (Hercules 4): τὸν λόγον ἡμεῖς οἱ Κελτοὶ οὐχ ὥσπερ ὑμεῖς οἱ Ἕλληνες Ἑρμῆν οἰόμεθα εἶναι, ἀλλ᾿ Ἡρακλεῖ αὐτὸν εἰκάζομεν, ὅτι παρὰ πολὺ τοῦ Ἑρμοῦ ἰσχυρότερος οὗτος.

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We Celts do not agree with you Greeks in thinking that Hermes is Eloquence: we identify Hercules with it, because he is far more powerful than Hermes.

Celts do not follow Greek thinking by any stretch – not about Hermes, not about Hercules. The implication is that the list could go on: when it comes to exegesis of Greek myth, anyone can legitimately aspire to participate. But Lucian’s Greeks do not agree: in both the Toxaris and the Hercules, the respective Hellene is displeased by the appropriation of ‘their’ story by the Other (capital O, intended). Mnesippus says Toxaris is ridiculous (γελοῖα, Toxaris 3) and the speaker of the Hercules, before the Celt intervened, was fuming (ἀγανακτῶν, Hercules 4) at the image of Hercules Ogmios and later was described as troubled, (ταραττομένῳ, Hercules 4), believing that the Celts were trying to spite the Greeks (παρανομεῖν, Hercules 2). Both are proven to be wrong by the end of their respective texts; in the Hercules the speaker’s opinion of the Celt is pointedly reversed: he has been persuaded to the Gallic view (Hercules 8). In the De Dea Syria, universality is conveyed both explicitly and implicitly. At De Dea Syria 11, the speaker reports that he encountered a range of stories in his research, “some sacred, some manifest, some thoroughly mythological, and others barbarian, of which some agreed with the Greeks” (οἱ μὲν ἱροί, οἱ δὲ ἐμφανέες, οἱ δὲ κάρτα μυθώδεες, καὶ ἄλλοι βάρβαροι, οἱ μὲν τοῖσιν Ἕλλησιν ὁμολογέοντες). A multiplicity of ethnicities at the locus of the cult is also implied, as the Syrian recounts the important roles played by a range of Others in the rituals of the goddess. Tributes to the temples of Hierapolis arrive from Arabia, Phoenicia, Babylon, Cilicia and Assyria. Participants in a ritual include Syrians, Arabians and many from ‘beyond the Euphrates’. Offerings to this ‘Hera’ came from Sardinia, Egypt, India, Ethiopia, Media, Armenia and Babylon. Oracles similar to that at Hierapolis exist in Greece, Egypt, Libya and Asia.15 The Syrian goddess thus exists in a wide world, not at all the province of any single interpretation.

The Rigor of Reading Lucian’s non-Hellenic exegetes in these three essays all lay claim to a special degree of diligence in their investigation of stories, a diligence that turns out to be lacking among their Hellenic counterparts. In the Toxaris, both speakers,

15 These four examples: Syr. D. 10, 13, 32, 36.

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Greek and Scythian, are obsessed with the legitimacy of their stories of friendship. But at every turn Mnesippus is challenged by Toxaris. After Mnesippus’ first story, Toxaris suggests that it is fabricated and after all the stories are done, he points out inconsistencies among them (Toxaris 35) and accuses Mnesippus of embellishment (Toxaris 42): καίτοι ἐγὼ μέν σοι γυμνὸν τὸ ἔργον διηγησάμην· εἰ δὲ σύ τινα τοιοῦτον ἔλεγες, εὖ οἶδα, ὁπόσα ἂν κομψὰ ἐγκατέμιξας τῷ λόγῳ, οἷα ἱκέτευεν ὁ Δάνδαμις καὶ ὡς ἐτυφλοῦτο καὶ ἃ εἶπεν καὶ ὡς ἐπανῆκεν καὶ ὡς ὑπεδέξαντο αὐτὸν ἐπευφημοῦντες οἱ Σκύθαι καὶ ἄλλα ὁποῖα ὑμεῖς μηχανᾶσθαι εἰώθατε πρὸς τὴν ἀκρόασιν. I have told you the naked facts; but if you were describing anyone like that, I know very well how many embellishments you would intersperse in the story, telling how Dandamis pleaded, how he was blinded, what he said, how he returned, how he was received with laudation by the Scythians, and other matters such as you Greeks are in the habit of manufacturing to gratify your hearers.

Mnesippus is also criticized implicitly for accepting outlandish hearsay about the Scythians without examination. Elsewhere in the text we learn, somewhat preposterously, that Mnesippus ‘has heard’ that Scythians cannibalize their fathers (Toxaris 8). In the Toxaris, much attention is paid to the oaths sworn by the interlocutors to guarantee the truth of their stories. Mnesippus makes a rather conventional vow in the name of Zeus Philios (Toxaris 12). For his part Toxaris’ oath is sworn by the Wind and the Sword (Toxaris 38): ΤΟΞΑΡΙΣ: . . . μᾶλλον δὲ πρότερον ὀμοῦμαί σοι τὸν ἡμέτερον ὅρκον, ἐπεὶ καὶ τοῦτο ἐν ἀρχῇ διωμολογησάμην · οὐ μὰ γὰρ τὸν Ἄνεμον καὶ τὸν Ἀκινάκην, οὐδὲν πρὸς σέ, ὦ Μνήσιππε, ψεῦδος ἐρῶ περὶ τῶν φίλων τῶν Σκυθῶν. ΜΝΗΣΙΠΠΟΣ: Ἐγὼ μὲν οὐ πάνυ σου ὀμνύντος ἐδεόμην · σὺ δὲ ὅμως εὖ ποιῶν οὐδένα θεῶν ἐπωμόσω. ΤΟΞΑΡΙΣ: Τί σὺ λέγεις; οὔ σοι δοκοῦσιν ὁ Ἄνεμος καὶ ὁ Ἀκινάκης θεοὶ εἶναι; TOXARIS: . . . but stay! first let me take my oath for you in our way, since that also was part of the agreement that I made with you in the beginning. I swear by Wind and Sword that I shall tell you no falsehood, Mnesippus, about Scythian friends. MNESIPPUS: I scarcely felt the need of your swearing, but you did well to avoid taking oath by any god! TOXARIS: What is that you say? Do you not think Wind and Sword are gods?

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Lucian draws attention to this oath by stopping the flow of the text abruptly. Mnesippus challenges the nature of these attributes as gods and Toxaris rather impatiently goes on to clarify them as metaphors, chastising Mnesippus for splitting hairs and excessive ‘bickering’ (Ὁρᾷς τοῦτο ὡς ἐριστικὸν ποιεῖς καὶ δικανικόν). The result is that Toxaris establishes the primacy of his oath in that it is complex, innovative and not a reflex.16 The Celtic interlocutor of the Hercules is also more sophisticated than the Greek speaker he addresses. He is given little to say in the limited quotation of him, but what is there takes the form of references to Homer, Euripides and an obscure comic playwright unknown to modern editors, as evidence for his view of what Hercules should represent. The speaker, by contrast, has no use for such erudition and thought that the only reason that the tongue held the followers by the amber chains was because Hercules’ hands were already occupied with the bow and the club (Hercules 3). It is an egregious misinterpretation of an obvious metaphor, which Lucian must have inserted as an illustration of the orator’s limitations. As mentioned earlier, the speaker ends with an admission that he learned from the Celt in the end. In the De Dea Syria, the absence of rigor in Hellenic exegesis is conveyed more discursively, through the flaws of the Herodotean method deployed by the Syrian toward his subject. The principal case-in-point is the longest and most detailed aition of the piece – the mythos explaining the origins of the Galli, the self-castrating priests of the Syrian goddess. This constitutes the central third of the entire text (sections 17–27). To account for the ritual, the Syrian tells the story of Stratonice, queen of the region, and how she passed in marriage from her husband the king to her stepson, who then ascended the throne (Syr. D. 17–18, excerpted): Δοκέει δέ μοι ἡ Στρατονίκη ἐκείνη ἔμμεναι, τῆς ὁ πρόγονος ἠρήσατο, τὸν ἤλεγξεν τοῦ ἰητροῦ ἐπινοίη· ὡς γάρ μιν ἡ συμφορὴ κατέλαβεν, ἀμηχανέων τῷ κακῷ αἰσχρῷ δοκέοντι κατ᾿ ἡσυχίην ἐνόσεεν . . . πείθεται μὲν τουτέοισι, καὶ τῷ μὲν παιδὶ λείπει καὶ γυναῖκα καὶ βασιληίην, αὐτὸς δὲ ἐς τὴν Βαβυλωνίην χώρην ἀπίκετο καὶ πόλιν ἐπὶ τῷ Εὐφρήτῃ ἐπώνυμον ἑωυτοῦ ἐποιήσατο, ἔνθα οἱ καὶ ἡ τελευτὴ ἐγένετο. I think she was that Stratonice whose stepson fell in love with her and was discovered by a stratagem of his doctor. For when disaster struck, he was helpless against a plight he thought shameful and suffered in silence . . . The father complied, and ceded to his son

16 Again, with attention paid to Ἀκινάκην, Lucian may be alluding to Herodotus’ Scythian ethnography (4.62). Cf. Bozia (2015) 69: “Lucian’s unprecedented social awareness displays itself when the Scythian’s cultural and religious maturity assumes the primary role throughout the entire work and is sharply contrasted to the Greek’s narrow-mindedness and cultural intolerance.”

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both wife and kingdom; he himself went to Babylonia and founded a city named after himself on the Euphrates where he indeed died.

Elements of folklore are obvious – in this case, seduction by a stepmother – and they continue in the ensuing story of Combabos, Stratonice’s architect for this temple of ‘Hera’. Combabos knew that he would be in jeopardy if he were accused of trying to seduce the queen and so, to preempt the charge, he castrated himself in secret.17 This is not the place to review the rest of this long and grizzly tale; it is sufficient to note, along with Lightfoot, that the tale’s revelations, twists and variant accounts place it in the category of myth.18 And yet, the story is rooted, at least in the beginning, in history – and wellknown history –, at that. Readers of Lucian would have had perfect familiarity with the story of Seleucus I giving Stratonice, the daughter of major Hellenistic players Demetrius Poliorcetes and Phila, to his son Antiochus I, as a way of ensuring the succession. To now encounter a version of the story in which the context of politics and foreign relations is entirely absent and in which none of the famous men are even named, is to witness the active reduction of history to fantasy.19 What Lucian’s readers are seeing foremost is thus an absence of rigor. But there is reason not to think of the speaker as the culprit so much as the Herodotean tendency to simplify and obliterate native readings of themselves. Whatever exegetical rigor does exist in the De Dea Syria, is performed by those outside paideia, as reported by the Syrian. For example, it is from the research of a naturalist from Byblos that the reader learns that the red color of the Adonis River comes not from the blood of the hero but from effluvia of colored soil further upstream (Syr. D. 8): ἐμοὶ δέ τις ἀνὴρ Βύβλιος ἀληθέα δοκέων λέγειν ἑτέρην ἀπηγέετο τοῦ πάθεος αἰτίην. ἔλεγεν δὲ ὧδε· “ὁ Ἄδωνις ὁ ποταμός, ὦ ξεῖνε, διὰ τοῦ Λιβάνου ἔρχεται· ὁ δὲ Λίβανος κάρτα ξανθόγεώς ἐστιν. ἄνεμοι ὧν τρηχέες ἐκείνῃσι τῇσι ἡμέρῃσι ἱστάμενοι τὴν γῆν τῷ ποταμῷ ἐπιφέρουσιν ἐοῦσαν ἐς τὰ μάλιστα μιλτώδεα, ἡ δὲ γῆ μιν αἱμώδεα τίθησιν· καὶ τοῦδε τοῦ πάθεος οὐ τὸ αἷμα, τὸ λέγουσιν, ἀλλ᾿ ἡ χώρη αἰτίη.” But a certain Byblian who seemed to be telling the truth gave another explanation. His account was this: “The river Adonis, stranger, passes through Lebanon, and Lebanon has very yellow soil. Strong winds which arise on those days carry the earth, which is red in the highest degree, into the river, and it is the earth that makes it bloody. So the reason for the phenomenon is not the blood, as they say, but the terrain.”

17 Elsner (2001) 144–149 reads the Combabos myth as an encoded representation of the author’s experience of self-sacrifice in regard to his cultural identity as he functions in a Hellenic realm. 18 Lightfoot (2003) 384–388. 19 Andrade (2013) 298–299 argues that the speaker is eliding (the unnamed) Seleucus I with the line of Assyrian kings and queens as an undifferentiated line.

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Herodotean analysis misses the obvious; non-Hellenic analysis digs deep. The effect is to throw into question all that Herodotus stood for as a standard-setting historian. Herodotus’ old accounts of far-flung realms are essentially thus recast as simplistic and incomplete.20 The De Dea Syria implies that Greeks like Herodotus, who started the enterprise of ethnography, have been getting it wrong for centuries, and now with the eclipse of the foundational Seleucid dynasty’s narrative by the Syrian speaker, the Greeks are getting a taste of their own medicine.

The Stakes of Exegesis Finally, for the non-Hellenes, the stakes in exegesis are high. On several occasions, Toxaris faults the Greeks for having stories of many types – tragedy, epic – that have become meaningless over time (Toxaris 9): Ὑμεῖς γάρ μοι δοκεῖτε τοὺς μὲν περὶ φιλίας λόγους ἄμεινον ἄλλων ἂν εἰπεῖν δύνασθαι, τἄργα δὲ αὐτῆς οὐ μόνον οὐ κατ᾿ ἀξίαν τῶν λόγων ἐκμελετᾶν, ἀλλ᾿ ἀπόχρη ὑμῖν ἐπαινέσαι τε αὐτὴν καὶ δεῖξαι ἡλίκον ἀγαθόν ἐστιν· ἐν δὲ ταῖς χρείαις προδόντες τοὺς λόγους δραπετεύετε . . . ἡμεῖς δὲ ἔμπαλιν· ὅσῳ γὰρ δὴ λειπόμεθα ἐν τοῖς περὶ φιλίας λόγοις, τοσοῦτον ἐν τοῖς ἔργοις αὐτῆς πλεονεκτοῦμεν. It seems to me that you Greeks can indeed say all that is to be said about friendship better than others, but not only fail to practise its works in a manner that befits your words, – no, you are content to have praised it and shown what a very good thing it is, but in its times of need you play traitor to your words about it and beat a hasty retreat . . . We are your opposites; for we have as much the better of you in practicing friendship as we fall short of you in talking about it.

The Scythian predicts that Mnesippus will have plenty of examples of friendship at his disposal from antiquity, but that their value is lessened by Greeks’ refusal to live by the ethics that are so described.21 Moreover, to Toxaris’ view 20 This reading differs from Andrade (2013) 299, who sees not a Syrian mockery of Herodotus but an appropriation of him; rather, I interpret the essay as an assault that is as withering as it is subtle, perhaps because it is subtle. As Richter (2011) 147–160 has shown, Lucian seems to endeavor to put his Syrian characters into agonistic situations, cataloguing a number of examples – Bis Accusatus sive Tribunalia; Revivescentes sive Piscator; Scytha. He omits the De Dea Syria, but perhaps the text fits the trend if one understands the agon as internal, between the speaker and a mode of historiography that is pure affect. For other assaults on Herodotus in Lucian (and in Plutarch and others) see Elsner (2001) 128–129, complicating Branham’s (1989) 158 argument for the text as a ‘comic homage’. See also Lightfoot (2003) 161–183. 21 Compare the speaker of the Hercules, who has no access to relevant texts for interpreting Ogmios.

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the Greeks favor stories that are relatively inconsequential (Toxaris 35–36, excerpted): πάνυ γὰρ εὐτελῆ ταῦτα καὶ μεγαλουργὸν ἐν αὐτοῖς ἢ ἀνδρεῖον ἔνι οὐδέν. ἐγὼ δέ σοι διηγήσομαι φόνους πολλοὺς καὶ πολέμους καὶ θανάτους ὑπὲρ τῶν φίλων, ἵν᾿ εἰδῇς ὡς παιδιὰ τὰ ὑμέτερά ἐστιν παρὰ τὰ Σκυθικὰ ἐξετάζεσθαι. [T]hose are very paltry matters, and there is nothing of greatness or bravery in them. I shall tell you of many deeds of blood and battles and deaths for the sake of friends, that you may know the achievements of your people to be child’s play in comparison with those of the Scythians.

Whereas Greek stories pivot around things like social status, personal wealth, good marriages and a complete education, the Scythians talk of war and heroism and life-or-death situations.22 The Scythians feel so strongly about what the stories mean that they produce documents, weighty, sacred and complex, which become touchstones of their identity (Toxaris 6): καὶ ἅ γε μετ᾿ ἀλλήλων ἢ ὑπὲρ ἀλλήλων ἔπαθον ἀναγράψαντες οἱ πρόγονοι ἡμῶν ἐπὶ στήλης χαλκῆς ἀνέθεσαν εἰς τὸ Ὀρέστειον, καὶ νόμον ἐποιήσαντο πρῶτον τοῦτο μάθημα καὶ παίδευμα τοῖς παισὶ τοῖς σφετέροις εἶναι τὴν στήλην ταύτην καὶ τὰ ἐπ᾿ αὐτῆς γεγραμμένα διαμνημονεῦσαι. All that they went through in each other’s company or for each other’s sake our ancestors inscribed on a tablet of bronze which they set up in the Oresteum; and they made it the law that the first study and lesson for their children should be this tablet and the memorizing of all that had been written upon it.

The existence of the bronze tablet among the Scythians is similar in effect to the physicality of the painting of Hercules Ogmios among the Celts – a material text that outlines their exegesis. In a way, the De Dea Syria also ends with an authoritative document – the speaker’s own votive offering to the goddess containing a lock of his hair from adolescence and inscribed with his name, τὸ οὔνομα (quoted above), the final word of the entire piece (though the speaker ironically – purposefully? – is unnamed). The temple itself – not a textual interpretation of it but the physical place – is where one may find the speaker’s ‘true’ experience of the goddess.

22 See Richter (2011) 154–158: in the Bis Accusatus sive Tribunalia, Oratory is a shadow of her former self, duped by a Syrian.

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Whose Stories? In writing about how others talk about the balance, the intersection, the negotiation between myth and meaning, Lucian broadens participation in the legitimizing project of exegesis to the entire oikumene. As Swain has shown, writers like Plutarch tended to tell every story, even earliest Roman history when it was its least Hellenic, with the vocabulary and paradigms of his own Greek culture.23 Up against these precedents, Lucian seeks to decouple Greek ethnicity from its paideia and thus render the latter less exclusive and more open to others. In this way, he is pursuing a project similar to what Andrade observed in Josephus’ Against Apion, to what Richter read in Favorinus’ exilic literature, and to what Allen interpreted in Herodes Atticus’ promotion of an Ethiopian student in his entourage – all cases of outsiders breaking in.24 The reorientation of cultural credibility is clear in a fourth, brief text of Lucian’s that also recounts acts of exegesis, only not by capital-O Others. In his essay Electrum – which is a prolalia like the Hercules – Lucian portrays the interpretation of myth by none other than a crowd in Athens, the expected locus for classical knowledge. The speaker knows that myth attributes the poplar trees lining the Eridanus River to transformations of Phaethon’s sisters after he was thrown from the chariot of the sun, and the amber that falls from them are their tears. But when asked, the boatmen of Athens do not comprehend such thinking: what would be the need for oarsmen to row boats if they could collect amber for cash? With such elementary reasoning, they come off as rubes, oblivious to the possibilities of poetry and to the romance of meaning. These are the types of jaded, simple Greeks at which Lucian’s Scythian, Syrian and Celt, in the Toxaris, De Dea Syria and Hercules, would roll their eyes.25 The above analysis has proposed a unifying theory for a small corner of Lucian’s corpus, but as with any study of this remarkable writer we must be attuned to layered ironies and remain open to alternative readings. Lucian is irrepressibly ludic, to the point of abject inscrutability.26 As Tim Whitmarsh has

23 Swain (1999) 173: “Plutarch’s presentation of his Roman heroes . . . reflects a view commonly held by educated Greeks that there was only one culture worth pursuing in the ancient world.” 24 Andrade (2013) 262; Richter (2011) 143–144; Allen (2017). Compare also Philostratus’ portrayal of Greek-speaking Indian and Ethiopian characters in the Vita Apollonii and the challenges they level against paideia: Flinterman (1995) 103–106. 25 Cf. Kemezis (2014) 395 on Lucian’s “attacks on any complacent equation between Athenian birth and true Greekness.” 26 Dickie (2010) 349.

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said, one can never be sure if Lucian is laughing with you or at you.27 In our cases, could it be that Lucian is in fact laughing at the non-Hellenic interlocutors?28 In these three texts, rather than challenging paideia might he simply be joining in its fun? Notably the Scythian, the Syrian and the Celt are well versed in Hellenic learning – is this not a form of praise? Whatever the case, we must certainly resist so dogmatic or so schematic an inference as to declare that Lucian is ‘antipaideia’, or that he’s ‘pro-’ it. But it is possible, by way of conclusion, to rest as many others do: Lucian is complicated. A choice of metaphors is available: Lucian is an amoeba, or he is a hydra; he is hard to pin down.29 Nesselrath, in his (1990) article about how to define the genre of Lucian’s peculiar prolaliai, ends one sentence with a noncommittal, ‘whatever’.30 But in saying Lucian is complicated, especially in these ways of depicting exegetical conversations, perhaps we are reaching a useful observation after all. If the paideia that Lucian encountered was becoming anodyne and – a worse crime to him – boring, then complexity could itself be the point. This Roman Empire is far more expansive than the Alabama-sized peninsula that is Balkan Greece,31 and so Lucian inherently highlights the importance of alterity. Elsewhere Lucian exploded the notion that Hellenic paideia was an all-powerful force that was embraced by those foreign to it, who were then transformed for the better.32 Rather, as our three texts go on to declare, cultural transformation was a two-way street. Debate exists; debate matters; and it may have the effect of rescuing paideia from superficiality. Radical exegesis may be destabilizing, but nevertheless Lucian views it as a form of oxygen on dying embers, just in time to reinvigorate a flame, and one that is more enlightening by virtue of its newfound ubiquity.

27 Whitmarsh (2003) 76. 28 For example, Anderson (1976) 13 reads Toxaris’ oath by the Wind and the Sword (above) as a species of ridicule on the part of the author. Richter (2005) 91 (noted above) reads Lucian’s complication of paideia along postcolonial lines, but one may easily defend an opposite reading: for example, in Lucian’s Somnium sive Vita Luciani the speaker (Lucian?) claims to have proactively chosen paideia as his path when faced with an alternative (sculpture). 29 Or, Nasrallah (2005) 292: “the David Sedaris of the second century.” A superb overview (of that-which-cannot-be overviewed) is Andrade and Rush (2016). 30 Nesselrath (1990) 111. 31 On Lucian’s ‘geographical thinking’ in depicting the varied settings of his essays, see Nasrallah (2005) 298. 32 Note Allen (2006) 151–152 on the provocatively ironic passage at Ver. hist. 2.20, where the character of ‘Homer’ is portrayed as a Babylonian hostage (a homeros) who took up Hellenism in captivity; he had formerly been called Tigranes, an effectively clichéd name for Armenian detainees in Rome.

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Bibliography Allen, J. 2006. Hostages and Hostage-taking in the Roman Empire. Cambridge. Allen, J. 2017. Herodes Atticus, Memnon of Ethiopia, and the Athenian Ephebeia. In Imperial Identities in the Roman World, eds. Vanacker, W., and Zuiderhoek, A., 162–175. London. Anderson, G. 1976. Studies in Lucian’s Comic Fiction. Leiden. Andrade, N.J. 2013. Syrian Identity in the Greco-Roman World. Cambridge. Andrade, N. and E. Rush. 2016. Introduction: Lucian, a Protean Pepaideumenos. ICS 41: 151–184. Berdozzo, F. 2011. Götter, Mythen, Philosophen: Lukian und die paganen Göttervorstellungen seiner Zeit. Berlin. Billault, A. 2006. Very Short Stories: Lucian’s Close Encounters with Some Paintings. In Authors, Authority, and Interpreters in the Ancient Novel, eds. Byrne, S.N., Cueva, E.P., and Alvares, J., 47–59. Groningen. Blondell, R. and S. Boehringer. 2014. Revenge of the Hetairistria: The Reception of Plato’s Symposium in Lucian’s Fifth Dialogue of the Courtesans. Arethusa 47.2: 231–264. Bozia, E. 2015. Lucian and his Roman Voices: Cultural Exchanges and Conflicts in the Late Roman Empire. London. Branham, R.B. 1985. Introducing a Sophist: Lucian’s Prologues. TAPA 115: 237–243. Branham, R.B. 1989. Unruly Eloquence: Lucian and the Comedy of Traditions. Berlin. Braund, D. 2004. Scythians in the Cerameicus: Lucian’s Toxaris. In Pontus and the Outside World, ed. Tuplin, C.J., 17–24. Leiden. Camerotto, A. 1998. Le metamorfosi della parola: Studi sulla parodia in Luciano di Samosata. Pisa. Camerotto, A. 2014. Gli occhi e la lingua della satira: Studi sull’eroe satirico in Luciano di Samosata. Milan. Costantini, L. 2019. Dynamics of Laughter: The Costumes of Menippus and Mithrobarzanes in Lucian’s Necyomantia. AJPh 140.1: 101–122. Dickie, M. 2010. Lucian’s Gods: Lucian’s Understanding of the Divine. In The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformations, eds. Bremmer, J.N., and Erskine, A., 348–361. Edinburgh. Elsner, J. 2001. Describing Self in the Language of the Other: Pseudo (?) Lucian at the Temple of Hierapolis. In Being Greek Under Rome, ed. Goldhill, S., 123–153. Cambridge. Fields, D. 2013. The Reflections of Satire: Lucian and Peregrinus. TAPA 143: 213–245. Flinterman, J-J. 1995. Power, Paideia, and Pythagoreanism: Greek Identity, Conceptions of the Relationship between Philosophers and Monarchs, and Political Ideas in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius. Amsterdam. Hubbard, T.K. 2009. The Paradox of “Natural” Heterosexuality and “Unnatural” Women. CW 102.3: 249–258. Jope, J. 2009. Lucian’s Triumphant Cinaedus and Rogue Lovers. Helios 36.1: 55–65. Kemezis, A. 2014. Greek Ethnicity and the Second Sophistic. In A Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. J. McInerney, 390–404. Malden, MA. Lightfoot, J.L. 2003. Lucian: On the Syrian Goddess. Oxford. Nasrallah, L. 2005. Mapping the World: Justin, Tatian, Lucian, and the Second Sophistic. HThR 98.3: 283–314.

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Nesselrath, H.-G. 1990. Lucian’s Introductions. In Antonine Literature, ed. Russell, D.A., 111–140. Oxford. Richter, D. 2005. Lives and Afterlives of Lucian of Samosata. Arion 13.1: 75–100. Richter, D. 2011. Cosmopolis: Imagining Community in Late Classical Athens and the Early Roman Empire. Oxford. Swain, S. 1996. Hellenism and Empire. Oxford. Swain, S. 1999. Plutarch, Plato, Athens, and Rome. In Philosophia Togata II: Plato and Aristotle at Rome, eds. Barnes, J., and Griffin, M., 165–187. Oxford. Whitmarsh, T. 2001. Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation. Oxford. Whitmarsh, T. 2003. Varia Lucianea. CR 53.1: 75–78.

Grammatiki Karla

Myth and History in Libanius’ Imperial Speeches Abstract: Libanius, a fourth-century AD orator, wrote speeches addressed to the Emperors Constantius and Constans, Julian and Theodosius. In these speeches myth and history are often employed as a rhetorical device. My analysis focuses on Libanius’ meta-rhetorical discourse on the distinction between myth and history (Or. 59) and on specific exempla, in which myth and history are accumulated. It examines how myth and history interlock in the exempla narrative, their function and impact. Particular attention is paid to the issue of whether myth and history, operating through an exemplum, simply work as figures of adornment (ornamenta) or essentially advance argumentation strategies; how they meet the intended audience’s expectations and what communicative function they serve.

Introduction Libanius (fourth century AD) was a famous orator from Antioch, who has left behind him a substantial opus (orations, declamations, progymnasmata, epistulae). Ιn his declamations and progymnasmata, which were composed mainly for educational purposes, myth and history both constitute central themes. However, since these genres follow a specific model of presentation, which takes an event, be it mythical or historical, as given and beyond questioning, I consider that any research on the distinction between myth and history in work of Libanius is best conducted on the basis of his speeches.1 For methodological reasons, I shall limit myself to his imperial speeches.2 The aim of this chapter is to present the rhetorical function of the distinction between myth and history in Libanius’ imperial speeches and the goals it serves. I shall further attempt to demonstrate, through specific examples, that this distinction, already in existence since the classical time, is incorporated in rhetorical speeches (and more specifically imperial speeches, which flourish in

1 On myth in Libanius’ Letters, see López Eire (2003). On a broader scale, see the Preface to the present volume for a synopsis of the major landmarks in myth-history studies. 2 There are ten speeches to the emperors in the Libanian corpus: one dedicated to Costantius II and Constans (Or. 59), two to the emperor Julian (Or. 12, 13) and seven speeches dedicated to Theodosius (Or. 19, 20, 24, 30, 45, 49, 50). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-023

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the fourth century AD) as a kind of literary/rhetorical topos. The present chapter will be structured along two main axes: a theoretical one, based on Libanius’ meta-rhetorical discourse (Or. 59) and an applied one, centred on specific exempla, in which myth and history are accumulated.

Meta-rhetorical Discourse The most extensive discussion of the distinction between myth and history is to be found in Libanius’ first imperial speech (Or. 59). The Basilikos of Libanius is addressed to both emperors, Constantius II and Constans, and is dated between AD 344 and 349.3 Of special interest for any consideration of the relationship between the myth and the history is the reference to the birth of the two emperors (Or. 59.23–29): Μέλλων δὲ ἐπὶ τὰς εὐδαίμονας τῶν βασιλέων προβαίνειν γονὰς ἔννοιάν τινα λαμβάνω ποιητῶν τέ τινων καὶ τῶν ἐν ἱστορίαις ἀτόπων καὶ σκοπῶν εὑρίσκω μύθοις μὲν καὶ τερατείαις κεκοσμημένους τοὺς ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν ᾀδομένους, λειπομένην δὲ ὅμως τὴν τῶν μύθων ἐξουσίαν τῆς ἐπὶ τοῖς παροῦσιν ἀληθείας. Κῦρον μὲν τοίνυν οἱ σεμνύνοντες ὄψιν ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις Ἀστυάγει γενέσθαι φασίν, ὡς ἐκ Μανδάνης τῆς ἐσομένης Κύρου μητρὸς ἀναβλαστήσειέ τε ἄμπελος καὶ τὴν Ἀσίαν ἅπασαν ἐπιλάβοι. ὑπὲρ δὲ Ἀλεξάνδρου τοῦ Μακεδόνος αἰσχυνθέντες εἰ πατρὸς νομίζοιτο Φιλίππου, δράκοντα συγκατακλίνουσιν Ὀλυμπιάδι πρὸς ἔκπληξιν τῶν μειρακυλλίων τὴν συνουσίαν συμπλάσαντες.4 Now that I am about to proceed to the blessed birth of the emperors, I consider a notion from certain poets and those who record unusual events in their histories; and when I investigate I find that those who were celebrated in former times had their characters embroidered with stories (μύθοις) and wondrous events (τερατείαις), but that nevertheless the wealth of stories would fall short of the truth for these present characters. So, for instance, those who exalt Cyrus say that Astyages had a vision in his sleep, that a vine would spout forth from Mandane the future mother of Cyrus and would encompass all Asia. And those who feel it a disgrace for Alexander the Great, that he should be considered the son of Philip, make a snake bed down with Olympias and fabricate the union for the utter amazement of young boys.5

3 On the date of this oration, see Callu (1987) 135–136; Portmann (2002) 22–43; Malosse (2001) 297–306; Malosse (2003) 7–11; Nesselrath (2012) 39. It was probably delivered in Nicomedia, although it was unlikely that the emperors were present. It was written at the request of an official of some kind, who commissioned Libanius to compose and deliver the piece. 4 Or. 59.23–24, ed. Malosse. 5 English translation of the Or. 59 by Dodgeon (1996) 164–205.

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The way in which Libanius handles the literary topos of birth is rhetorically elaborate.6 At this point, he enters into an intertextual dialogue with the previous tradition (multiple references),7 in particular with Isocrates’ Panathenaicus (Or. 12.1) and Euagoras (Or. 9.21), as allusions with the same topos and the same vocabulary to these works demonstrate (Isoc. 12.1.1–3): Νεώτερος μὲν ὢν προῃρούμην γράφειν τῶν λόγων οὐ τοὺς μυθώδεις οὐδὲ τοὺς τερατείας καὶ ψευδολογίας μεστούς . . . When I was younger, I elected not to write the kind of discourse which deals with myths nor that which abounds in marvels and fictions.8

In Isocrates’ Euagoras again we find the disapproval of the oracles, dreams and portents which are connected with superhuman birth (Isoc. 9.21.3–6): περὶ οὗ τὰς μὲν φήμας καὶ τὰς μαντείας καὶ τὰς ὄψεις τὰς ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις γενομένας, ἐξ ὧν μειζόνως ἂν φανείη γεγονὼς ἢ κατ’ ἄνθρωπον, αἱροῦμαι παραλιπεῖν. I prefer to say nothing of the portents, the oracles, the visions appearing in sleep, from which the impression might be gained that he was of superhuman birth.9

The choice of the above passages, of the specific literary topoi from the two works of Isocrates is, in my view, far from accidental and has to do with the conscious classification of the imperial speech to the epideictic genre, alongside Isocrates’ Panathenaicus and Euagoras. Through this intertextual dialogue, Libanius attempts to integrate his own panegyric into the literary tradition of panegyrics and encomia of the fourth century BC and become part of this chain of transmission. On the other hand, another hypo-text underlying the passage of Libanius is the Menandrian precepts on imperial speech. Menander suggests in his theoretical treatise the following (Men. Rhet. II.371.3–14): οὐκοῦν ἔστω σοι μετὰ τὴν πατρίδα καὶ μετὰ τὸ γένος τρίτον κεφάλαιον τὸ περὶ τῆς γενέσεως, ὡς ἔφαμεν, εἴ τι σύμβολον γέγονε περὶ τὸν τόκον ἢ κατὰ γῆν ἢ κατ’ οὐρανὸν ἢ κατὰ θάλασσαν, [καὶ] ἀντεξέτασον τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ῥωμύλον καὶ Κῦρον καὶ τοιούτοις τισί. [τὰ] κατὰ τὴν γένεσιν [καὶ] γὰρ κἀκείνοις συνέβη τινὰ θαυμάσια, τῷ μὲν Κύρῳ τὰ τῆς

6 See Karla (2017) 140–144. 7 The term ‘multiple reference’ is developed by Thomas (1999) in the field of classical Latin literature and means “a practice that allows the poet to refer to a number of antecedents and thereby to subsume their versions, and the tradition along with them, into his own.” 8 Cf. σκοπῶν εὑρίσκω μύθοις μὲν καὶ τερατείαις κεκοσμημένους (Lib. 59.23.3–4). 9 Cf. Κῦρον μὲν τοίνυν οἱ σεμνύνοντες ὄψιν ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις Ἀστυάγει γενέσθαι φασίν (Lib. 59.23.6–8).

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μητρὸς ὀνείρατα, τῷ δὲ τὰ περὶ τὴν λύκαιναν· κἂν μὲν ᾖ τι τοιοῦτον περὶ τὸν βασιλέα, ἐξέργασαι, ἐὰν δὲ οἷόν τε ᾖ καὶ πλάσαι καὶ ποιεῖν τοῦτο πιθανῶς, μὴ κατόκνει· δίδωσι γὰρ ἡ ὑπόθεσις διὰ τὸ τοὺς ἀκούοντας ἀνάγκην ἔχειν ἀβασανίστως δέχεσθαι τὰ ἐγκώμια. After country and family, then, let the third heading, as we have just said, be ‘birth’, and if any divine sign occurred at the time of his birth, either on land or in the heavens or on the sea, compare the circumstances with those of Romulus, Cyrus, and similar stories, since in these cases also there were miraculous happenings connected with their birth – the dream of Cyrus’ mother, the suckling of Romulus by the she-wolf. If there is anything like this in connection with the emperor, work it up; if it is possible to invent, and to do this convincingly, do not hesitate; the subject permits this, because the audience has no choice but to accept the encomium without examination.10

Libanius, in his Basilicus, openly enters into a dialogue with Menander’s theoretical model, and via the exempla creates a multiple reference, which will touch upon both poetry and history (especially Herodotus and perhaps Plutarch), in this time in order to disapprove his models.11 The orator characterizes the stories of the kind proposed by Menander Rhetor, which also appear in poets and historiographical texts, as inappropriate and untrue.12 He discusses in greater detail (in comparison to Menander) the story of Cyrus, obviously drawing on Herodotus. He refrains at this point from mentioning Romulus (he will make use of this example when discussing the raising of the emperors, Or. 59.30), but instead mentions another popular example, the birth of Alexander the Great (probably drawing on Plutarch, PseudoCallisthenes or some other source now lost). Libanius uses these examples in order to establish a contrast between myth and history, between these exempla considering as myth and the dignity that characterizes the line of descent of the two emperors (“so the generation of these surpasses every strange tale and has required only itself to provide its dignity”).13 And later he claims that “I shall refer to nothing merely for purposes of mythology by diverting my account to the obscure, but I shall state what everyone knows.”14 The connection of mythology with obscuritas in this passage, and its contradistinction to ‘common knowledge’ can be seen as expressing a relatively unusual view of myth and

10 English translation by Russell and Wilson (1981). 11 On this issue, see Karla (2020) 37–40. 12 On the relationship between encomium and historiography in Libanius, see Ross (2016). On the tradition of mythology in Libanius, see Schouler (1984) 746–760. 13 οὕτως ἡ τῶνδε γένεσις πάντα ὑπερβᾶσα λόγον ἀλλόκοτον αὑτῇ μόνῃ πρὸς σεμνότητα κέχρηται (Or. 59.25.16–18, ed. Malosse). 14 ἀνοίσω δὲ οὐδὲν εἰς μυθολογίαν εἰς ἀφανὲς ἀποφέρων τὸν λόγον, ἀλλ’ ἃ πάντες ἴσασιν ἐρῶ (Or. 59.26.24–25, ed. Malosse).

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mythology.15 Ancient rhetoric is more prone to connect myth with sweetness (suavitas).16 Libanius embarks in a meta-literary evaluation, drawing a connection between mythology and the obscurity (obscuritas) of the speech. If one wanted to interpret this evaluation, one would say that the use of myth has, from a rhetorical point of view, a detrimental effect for a work (and especially for an encomium), since it gives the impression of distanciation from scientific research for truth and clarity. Therefore, at this point Libanius, wishing to present his own panegyric speech as a true one, and attempting to bring the genre of the imperial speech (encomium, in his terms) closer to history/historiography, differentiates his practice from poetry and other fictional stories embedded in historiographical works. The tool of this differentiation is the contrast between myth and history. Libanius goes on to describe the victories of their father, which coincided with the birth of the two emperors and are regarded as good portents. At the end of this section on the birth, all of this is aptly summed up with rhetorical questions by Libanius, who uses the technique of ring composition to do so (Or. 59.29.19–24): συνελόντι δὲ εἰπεῖν, ἢ λογισμὸς ὑπὲρ ἅπασαν ἀνθρωπίνην φύσιν ἐπὶ νοῦν ἤρχετο ἢ τὸ βουλευθὲν εἰς ἔργον ἤγετο. ταῦτα τίνος ἀμπέλου θαλλούσης ἐν ὀνείρασιν οὐκ ἀμείνω, τίνος ὀρνίθων πτήσεως οὐκ ἰσχυρότερα σημεῖα; τίνος δρακόντων φάσματος οὐκ ἀληθέστερα πρὸς πίστιν; To put it concisely, either a reasoning surpassing all human nature was coming to his mind or the deliberation was being put into practice. Are not these things better than a vine flourishing in dreams, are they not surer signs than the flight of birds? Are they not more credible than a phenomenon of snakes?

In general, Libanius seems to put this contrast between myth and history to rhetorical use, in order to delimit his encomium, to free it from exaggerations and mythology and to provide verisimilitude. As has already been demonstrated,17 in this speech Libanius attempts to emulate Thucydides and to present his encomium as a genre related to historiography. Furthermore, if one considers the fact that Menander

15 The relevant testimonies I have managed to locate are a passage by Vettius Valens (second century AD): Ταῦτα μὲν οὖν συνέταξα οὐ ποιητικῶς ὥς τινες ἢ ἐπακτικὴν ἀκρόασιν πράσσουσιν τῇ τῶν λόγων συνθήκῃ ἢ καὶ μέτρου ἁρμονίᾳ θέλγοντες τοὺς ἀκούοντας, μυθώδεις καὶ ἐπιπλάστους ἐπιφερόμενοι σκοτεινολογίας . . . (Anthologiarum Liber 6.9.20–21) and in the Etym. Magn.: Μῦθος σημαίνει δύο· τόν τε σκοτεινὸν λόγον, παρὰ τὸ μύω, τὸ καμμύω, τόν τε ἁπλῶς λόγον . . . (p. 593, ed. Gaisford). 16 Γλυκύτης δὲ γίνεται καθολικῶς τριχῇ, κατὰ γνώμην, κατὰ σχῆμα, κατὰ ἀπαγγελίαν. κατὰ μὲν γνώμην οὕτως, ὅταν τις ταῖς ἔξωθεν ἐπινοίαις χρῆται, οἷον ἐξ ἱστοριῶν καὶ παροιμιῶν καὶ μύθων (Aelius Aristeides, Ars Rhetorica 1.9.1). 17 Ross (2016).

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justifies the permission to use fictional stories with the phrase “because the audience has no choice but to accept the encomium without examination,” the rejection of this position on the part of Libanius perhaps signifies his respect towards his audience, the public of Nikomedeia, which is the recipient of his encomium. The distinction between myth and history, fictional and true, and particularly the connection of mythical events with exaggeration and falsehood seem to constitute a rhetorical topos since the times of Isocrates (fourth century BC). This rhetorical topos can be followed along a diachronic pathway through the Hellenistic and Roman period (e.g. Polybius, Histories 12.24.5; Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca historica 4.47.2, 6.1.3; Strabo, Geographica 1.2.8.38–41, 11.5.3.1–2;18 Plutarch, Theseus 1.3.1), and even beyond, in Late Antique and Byzantine times. Its masterly use in the fourth century AD by Libanius and other authors (Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica 4.7.4; Gregory of Nyssa; Didymus, Commentarii in Job vol. 39, p. 1145; Eunapius, Fragmenta historica vol. 1, p. 259) seems to have given it a new life, so that it may continue to survive in a different context in Byzantium: in Christian literature, this topos is transformed, with the same ingredients, into a distinction between Greek myth and Christian truth already since the fourth century AD (see e.g. the works of Gregory of Nyssa)19 and its trajectory can be followed throughout Byzantine literature, well into Comnenian and Palaeologan times.

Accumulation of Myth and History in Libanius’ Exempla Αlthough in the above discourse Libanius seems to be putting the distinction between myth and history to rhetorical use, in the exempla he uses in his speeches no such distinction is made, and the reference to historical and fictional events is

18 Ἴδιον δέ τι συμβέβηκε τῷ λόγῳ [τῷ] περὶ τῶν Ἀμαζόνων· οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἄλλοι τὸ μυθῶδες καὶ τὸ ἱστορικὸν διωρισμένον ἔχουσι χοτὰ γὰρ παλαιὰ καὶ ψευδῆ καὶ τερατώδη μῦθοι καλοῦνται, ἡ δ’ ἱστορία βούλεται τἀληθές, ἄν τε παλαιὸν ἄν τε νέον, καὶ τὸ τερατῶδες ἢ οὐκ ἔχει ἢ σπάνιον (Strabo 11.5.3.1–2). 19 τὸ δὲ λέγεσθαι παρὰ τῶν ὑπεναντίων τὰ μυθώδη πλάσματα καὶ τὰ ψευδῆ τερατεύματα παρὰ τῆς ἐπινοίας λογοποιεῖσθαι καὶ πλάσσεσθαι, οὐδὲ αὐτὸς ἀντιλέγω (Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium, vol. 2.1, p. 187). See also καὶ καθάπερ οἱ μῦθοι ἐκ διαφόρων συμπλέκοντες φύσεων τερατεύονται ζῷον καὶ σχήματα καὶ ὀνόματα ἱππελάφους καὶ τραγελάφους καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πλάσσοντές τε καὶ ὀνομάζοντες, οὕτως καὶ ὁ νέος μυθοποιὸς κατὰ τοὺς διδασκάλους αὐτοῦ τῆς ποιήσεως καταχλευάζει τὸ θεῖον μυστήριον (Gregory of Nyssa, Antirrheticus adversus Apollinarium, vol. 3.1, p. 214) as well Gregory of Nyssa, De perfectione Christiana ad Olympium monachum, vol. 8.1, p. 178; In Canticum canticorum (homiliae 15), vol. 6, p. 289.

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often undifferentiated.20 In general, the exempla in imperial speeches can be distinguished in purely historical, purely mythical/mythological21 and in example where both historical and mythical/mythological events are presented together. In what follows I shall examine a few characteristic examples of the third category, from the viewpoint of their content, form and function. In the monody on Julian (Or. 17)22 Libanius offers a list of mythical and historical persons who met with a death similar to Julian’s (17.32): ἐδέξατο πληγὴν Ἀγαμέμνων, ἀλλὰ Μυκήνης βασιλεύς, Κϱεσφόντης, ἀλλὰ Μεσσήνης, Κόδϱος, ἀλλὰ χϱησμῷ πειθόμενος, Αἴας, ἀλλὰ μικϱόψυχος στϱατηγός, Ἀχιλλεύς, ἀλλ’ ἥττων ἀφϱοδισίων καὶ θυμοῦ καὶ ἄλλως ταϱαχώδης, Κῦϱος, ἀλλ’ ὄντων υἱέων, Καμβύσης, ἀλλὰ μαινόμενος. Ἀλέξανδρος ἔθνησκεν, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐχθροῦ χειρί, καὶ ἅμα ἄνθρωπος δοὺς ἂν ἀφορμὴν κατηγόροις. ὁ δὲ ἐξ ἑσπέρας μέχρις ἀνίσχοντος ἡλίου κρατῶν, ψυχὴν δὲ ἔχων μεστὴν ἀρετῆς, νέος δὲ καὶ οὐκ ὢν πατὴρ ὑπ’ Ἀχαιμενίδου τινὸς κατενήνεκται. The blow fell on Agamemnon, but he was king of Mycenae. Upon Cresphontes, but he was king of Messene. Upon Codrus, but he was acting in obedience to an oracle. Upon Ajax, but he was a weak-hearted general; and on Achilles, but he was ruled by love and anger, a turbulent character on the whole; and on Cyrus, but he had sons to succeed him, and on Cambyses, but he was mad. Alexander died, but by no enemy hand, and he was besides one who might have given grounds for criticism. Yet the emperor who ruled over all from west to the rising sun, whose soul was filled with virtue, still a young man and with no sons to follow him, he has been done away with by some Persian.23

This is a comparison ex minore (all these mythological or historical persons are lesser than Julian), where all exempla are given with a very short mention (just their names and the characteristics necessary for the establishment of the comparison).24 The manner of presentation is allusive, while the rhetorical function of the example is predominantly decorative, aiming to emphasize Julian’s superiority. His main differences with the personalities he is favourably compared to are the extent of his realm (from west to east), his virtuous soul and the fact that he died relatively young, at the hands of a Persian. Their common characteristic 20 See Arist., Rh. 1393a, 28–31 παραδειγμάτων δὲ εἴδη δύο · ἓν μὲν γάρ ἐστιν παραδείγματος εἶδος τὸ λέγειν πράγματα προγενομένα, ἓν δὲ τὸ αὐτὸν ποιεῖν. τούτου δὲ ἓν μὲν παραβολὴ ἓν δὲ λόγοι, οἷον οἱ Αἰσώπειοι καὶ Λιβυκοί. 21 It should be noted however that this distinction can only be made with reservations, on the part of modern research. Something which for a contemporary scholar is obviously mythical, may have been considered as a true historical event by the author and his fourth-century AD audience. A typical example is the Trojan War and the events narrated by the Iliad and the Odyssey. 22 This monody is dated to 364 AD according to Wiemer (1995) 247–255. 23 Transl. by Norman (1969). 24 The exemplum is discussed from a stylistic viewpoint in Karla (2017) 150–151.

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is that they all died a violent death. Ιt is important that apart from the smooth transition between myth and history, all examples come from Greek and Persian mythology/history. Another case with mixed historical and mythological exempla occurs in the Epitaphios (Funeral Speech) for Julian (Or. 18).25 Towards the end of the speech, in a framed discourse, the orator assumes the role of Julian himself, addressing the audience with words of consolation. The discourse ends with exempla: ἔτι τοίνυν μηδὲ τὸ ἐν πολέμῳ καὶ διὰ σιδήρου δεινὸν ὑμῖν δοκείτω. οὕτως ἀπῆλθε Λεωνίδας, οὕτως Ἐπαμινώνδας, οὕτω Σαρπηδών, οὕτω Μέμνων, οἱ τῶν θεῶν. εἰ δ’ ὁ χρόνος τῇ βραχύτητι λυπεῖ, φερέτω παραμυθίαν ὑμῖν Ἀλέξανδρος ὁ Διός.26 Moreover, let it not it trouble you, either, that I died in war and by the steel. So did Leonidas and Epaminondas, so Sarpedon and Memnon, sons of the gods. If the shortness of the time allotted me causes you grief, then let Alexander, son of Zeus, afford you consolation.27

The figures mentioned are both historical (Leonidas, Epameinondas) and mythological (Sarpedon, Memnon), and the comparison ends with Alexander the Great, in whose person myth and history merge, since he is presented as son of Zeus. As Norman correctly observed, these lines are “rhetorical reminiscences of Julian’s death-bed address (cf. Amm. Marc. 25.3.15 ff.), but with an implied progression from the heroes of history to mythical heroes of divine origin, and thence to a combination of the two in Alexander. He, after being hailed as son of Zeus by the priest of Zeus Ammon in Egypt, allowed increased currency to the story (cf. Quint. Curt. 4.7.8).”28 The function of the exempla is argumentative. Libanius compares Julian to heroes and demi-gods in order to demonstrate how important for the world his reign was.29 Although the orator made a clear distinction between the literary genre of encomium on the one hand and poetry and its techniques on the other (see above), in the epilogue of his speech on Julian (An Address to the Emperor Julian as Consul, Or. 12) he reaches a rhetorical culmination by imitating Sappho, as he clearly states (Or. 12.99):

25 The Epitaphios must be dated a few years after Julian’s death. On the date, see Felgentreu (2004); Wiemer (1995) 260–266; Wintjes (2005) 20 n. 24, gives an overview of the relevant bibliography. 26 Or. 18.297 (ed. Foerster). 27 Transl. by Norman (1969). 28 Norman (1969) 479. 29 Stenger (2009) 174–175.

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εἰ οὖν Σαπφὼ τὴν Λεσβίαν οὐδὲν ἐκώλυσεν εὔξασθαι νύκτα αὐτῇ γενέσθαι διπλασίαν, ἐξέστω κἀμοί τι παραπλήσιον αἰτῆσαι. So, if nothing stopped Sappho of Lesbos from praying for her night to be made twice as long, let me too make a similar prayer30

and he adds a framed prayer (in poetic or rather dramatic mode) addressed to Time (Or. 12.99): Χρόνε, πάτερ ἐνιαυτοῦ καὶ μηνῶν, ἔκτεινον ἡμῖν τουτὶ τὸ ἔτος ἐφ’ ὅσον οἷόν τε πλεῖστον, ὥσπερ ὅτε Ἡρακλῆς ἐσπείρετο, τὴν νύκτα ἐξέτεινας, καὶ δὴ καὶ ὅλως τῷ βασιλεῖ τὴν ζωὴν ὑπὲρ τὸν ὅρον τοῦ Σόλωνος ἕλκε σαυτοῦ νομίζων κόσμον ἀγαθοῦ βασιλέως γῆρας. Chronos, father of the year and the months, extend this year for us as far as you can, as once you extended the night when Hercules was begotten. And moreover, take our emperor’s life beyond the limits Solon set, and think the old age of a good emperor to be a credit to yourself.31

He expresses the wish for the king’s longevity by calling upon two exempla: 1) the extension of the night which allowed the union of Zeus and Alcmene to lead to the conception and birth of Hercules32 and 2) The limits set by Solon (Herodotus 1.32) for human happiness. The quotation of the two examples is made very briefly, the aim being rhetorical amplification. Perhaps the setting of Time-Zeus (divine) side by side with Solon (mortal) and their contrast is not accidental. Furthermore, the reminiscence of the Herodotean novel on man’s blissful end at the epilogue of a speech wishing long life to the honoured addressee seems to also have an educational function for the audience. Another telling instance is the quotation of examples in Libanius’ speech “To the Emperor Theodosius, for the temples” (Or. 30),33 used to strengthen his arguments in favour of the utility of sacrifices (Or. 30.31–32):34 Ἀγαμέμνονα δὲ τὸ πανταχοῦ τεθυκέναι πλέοντα ἐπ’ Ἴλιον αἰσχρῶς ἐπανήγαγεν ἢ νενικηκότα τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς αὐτῷ τὸ τέλος εὑρούσης; Ἡρακλέα δὲ τὸν πρὸ τούτου τὴν αὐτὴν καθελόντα πόλιν οὐ θυσίαις ἴσμεν τῶν θεῶν προσλαβόντα τὴν ῥοπήν; ἔτι τοίνυν λαμπρὸς μὲν ὁ Μαραθὼν οὐ διὰ τοὺς μυρίους μᾶλλον Ἀθηναίων ἢ διὰ τὸν Ἡρακλέα καὶ Πᾶνα, θεία δὲ ἡ Σαλαμὶς οὐ διὰ τὰς τῶν Ἑλλήνων μᾶλλον ναῦς ἢ τοὺς ἐξ Ἐλευσῖνος συμμάχους, οἳ μετ’

30 Transl. by Norman (1969). 31 Transl. by Norman (1969). 32 Here Norman (96) adduces the reference to Plautus (Plautus Amph.) as a parallel. 33 The speech is dated to the second half of 380 AD; see the literature quoted in Berry and Heath (1997) 419, n. 51. 34 An analysis of the argumentation can be found in Berry and Heath (1997) 415–419. See also Stenger (2009) 377–390.

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ᾠδῆς τῆς αὑτῶν ἐπὶ τὴν ναυμαχίαν ἧκον. μυρίους ἄν τις ἔχοι λέγειν πολέμους τῇ τῶν θεῶν εὐνοίᾳ κυβερνηθέντας καί, νὴ Δία γε, καὶ εἰρήνης καὶ ἡσυχίας χρόνους. Did Agamemnon’s far-flung sacrifices on his expedition to Troy ensure his return in disgrace or in triumph once Athena had devised the means to the end? Hercules before him sacked this same city, and do we not know that he gained the support of the gods by sacrifice? Moreover, the glory of Marathon is due not so much to the 10.000 Athenians as to Hercules and Pan, and the crowing mercy of Salamis not to the Greek fleet so much as to the helpers from Eleusis, who came to the battle to the accompaniment of their own sacred hymn. You could cite wars without number that have been directed by the favour of the gods, – yes, by Zeus, and times of peace and quiet, too.35

In these exempla, the conquest of Troy by Agamemnon and by Hercules, and the battles of Marathon and Salamins, i.e. the successful conclusion of two offensive and two defensive wars demonstrates the important role of the gods’ favour in the execution of difficult tasks or quests. The use of the exempla is purely argumentative and aims to defend the usefulness of pagan temples. “Libanius advances four arguments against the claim that the abolition of temples is beneficial: the rise of Rome, and other exempla from myth and classical history, show the efficacy of pagan religion.”36 The exempla are then enriched with a reference to Rome (33–34) and Alexandria (35–36). Their placement at the end of the arguments section, just before the epilogue, indicates the weight accorded to them by the orator for the effectiveness of his speech. In conclusion, it would appear that the exempla in Libanius’ imperial speeches derive mainly from the Trojan cycle, from the history of the classical period (Athens, Sparta, Thebes), from Hellenistic times (Philip-Alexander) and reach as far as Rome and Alexandria. There are also a few instances of Persian kings, those mentioned in Greek historiographers. There is no distinction between mythological and historical examples, as both (myth and history) constitute a common base for the past, which in turn is common to both the orator and his implied audience. In general, Libanius in his speeches capitalizes on the flexibility and dynamic of mythological and historical exempla in order to achieve his aims. These aims vary, and may be literary, political, religious, educational or communicative. Libanius seems to be employing in a masterly way, from a rhetorical point of view, the distinction or the merger between myth and history as a communicative tool. By building on the multi-functionality and the multiple communicative character of myth and history, he uses the past not only in order to provide moral teaching, but also in order to express his own approach to the solution of present crises.

35 Transl. by Norman (1977). 36 Berry and Heath (1997) 418.

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Bibliography Berry, D.H. and Heath, M. 1997. Oratory and Declamation. In Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period 330 B.C. – A.D. 400, ed. Porter, E.E., 393–420. Leiden. Callu, J.P. 1987. Un Miroir des Princes: Le ‚Basilikos‘ libanien de 348. Gerión 5: 133–152. Dodgeon, M.H. (transl.) 1996. Libanius, Oratio LIX (Royal Discourse upon Constantius and Constans). In From Constantine to Julian. Pagan and Byzantine Views, A Source History, eds. Lieu, S. and Montserrat, D., 164–205. London. Felgentreu, F. 2004. Zur Datierung der 18. Rede des Libanios. Klio 86: 206–217. Foerster, R. 1903–1927. Libanii Opera. vols. 1–12. Leipzig (repr. Hildesheim 1963, 1985, 1998). Karla, G. 2017. Die Macht des Exempels: Alexander der Grosse in den Reden des Libanios. Rhetorica 35: 137–160. Karla, G. 2020. Libanius’ Imperial Speech to Constantius II and Constans (Or. 59): Context, Tradition and Innovation. In Imperial Panegyric from Diocletian to Honorius, eds. Omissi, A. and Ross, A.J., 29–47. Liverpool. López Eire, A. 2003. El Mito, los Refranes y la Epistolografía: El ejemplo de las Cartas de Libanio. In Mitos en la literatura griega helenística e imperial, ed. López Férez, J.A., 261–298. Madrid. Malosse, P.-L. 2001. Enquête sur la date du discours 59 de Libanios. Antiquité Tardive 9: 297–306. Malosse, P.-L. 2003. Libanios. Discours LIX. Paris. Nesselrath, H.-G. 2012. Libanios: Zeuge einer schwindenden Welt. Stuttgart. Norman, A.F. 1969 (20033). Libanius, Selected Orations I. Cambridge, MA. Norman, A.F. 1977. Libanius, Selected Works II: Selected Orations. Cambridge, MA. Portmann, W. 2002. Rede für die Kaiser Constantius II und Constans (Or. 59). In Libanios. Kaiserreden, eds. Fatouros, G., Krischer, T., and Portmann, W., 19–120. Stuttgart. Ross, A.J. 2016. Libanius the Historian? Praise and the Presentation of the Past in Or. 59. GRBS 56: 293–320. Russell, D.A. and Wilson, N.G. 1981. Menander Rhetor. Oxford. Schouler, B. 1984. La tradition hellénique chez Libanios. 2 vols. Paris. Stenger, J. 2009. Hellenische Identität in der Spätantike. Pagane Autoren und ihr Unbehagen an der eigenen Zeit. Berlin. Thomas, R.F. 1999. Reading Virgil and his Texts. Studies in Intertextuality. Ann Arbor. Wiemer, H.-U. 1995. Libanios und Julian. Studien zum Verhältnis von Rhetorik und Politik im vierten Jahrhundert n.Chr. Munich. Wintjes, J. 2005. Das Leben des Libanios. Rahden.

George W. M. Harrison

Myth and Levels of Language in the Octavia Abstract: Characters in the anonymous Octavia are positioned through their use of myth. Octavia, her nurse, the male chorus and the female chorus, especially, show their status, education, gender and generation by attitudes towards myth and mytho-historical material. If language might argue the unifications of the chorus at the end of the play, lines 201–220 resist definitive assignation even by this formulation of analysis. The habit of mind of the Neronian court was to think in myth and mythologized history.1 The Octavia is a play once assigned to Seneca that relates the events surrounding Nero’s shunning of Octavia and her subsequent murder at his command. Only one character self-identifies with a figure from mythology: Octavia envisions herself as Electra (57–59), familiar from surviving plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, but known to a Roman audience as well from other Greek and Roman plays no longer extant: O mea nullis aequanda malis fortuna, licet repetam luctus, Electra, tuos . . . My travails in no misfortunes can find equivalents, even should I recount your griefs, Electra . . .2

Significantly Octavia sings her lines in self-absorbed self-pity to herself in the meter of laments; verse gravestones closely contemporary to the play survive in this meter. This is the meter assigned to her most often in her lines. Mythological reference and historical reference in this play mark the distances among the various characters. If Octavia had already defined herself in

1 On the notions of myth and history, their methodological approaches and their multileveled association, see the Preface to the present volume. 2 All texts cited from the Oxford Classical Texts; all translations are by the author. Note: I wish to record my thanks to Athina Papachrysostomou, Menelaos Christopoulos and Andreas P. Antonopoulos for including me in this conference. Thanks also are owed to Richard Seaford, who was generous of his insights and time. This work has been greatly facilitated by Anne Bowtell and Jenny Moody and, as always, Jane Francis. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-024

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the language of myth and tragedy, the nurse’s opening lines, the proper prologue to the play, reflect recent history other than conventional references to Dawn as Aurora and the rising sun as Titan. The mention of Alcyone3 and Procne and Philomela is Octavia’s first bid, like Hecuba in the opening of Seneca’s Trojan Women, to claim priority of suffering (vince, 7, 8) characterizing their complaints as ‘commonplaces’ (assuetos . . . questus). Although they are all birds of lament, they signify, as well, Octavia’s wish that she could ‘just fly away’, echoed by the chorus at the end of the play (hanc [Octaviam] quoque tristi procul a poena / portate, 976–977).4 Octavia expresses a wish to her mother (genetrix, 10) that she had died at the same time as her, using one of the three Fates, Clotho (15), by metonymy.5 Messalina leads inevitably to Agrippina, mother of Nero and wicked step-mother par excellence (saevae . . . novercae, 21).6 Agrippina is compared to the Erinys but since the Erinys harassed those guilty of murder within their family, Agrippina equally should have an avenging Fury in addition to being pursued by one. History convicts Agrippina of forcing a dynastic marriage on Octavia whose wedding torches Octavia compares with funereal torches (Stygios . . . ignes, 24). In Greek and Roman thought, marriage was symbolically the death of the bride as it was to be in actuality for Octavia. Agrippina segues naturally into Claudius (pater, 25), father of Octavia and victim of Agrippina’s ambitions, equating Octavia with Orestes and Electra. It is easy to see Britannicus, murder victim of Nero, lurking behind the reference to Claudius’ invasion of Britain. The tyrant (33) can only be Nero and his holding captive the family of the murdered ruler (prole . . . capta) is suggestive of Aegisthus at Mycenae. 3 Alcyone and Ceyx link this play to the Hercules Oetaeus since in myth they lived at Trachis, site of the death and apotheosis of Hercules. Hubris led Alcyone and Ceyx in their happiness to compare themselves to Zeus and Hera, a claim that the choruses, Hercules and Deianeira all also make for Hercules and Deianeira. Zeus’ destruction of Ceyx at sea led to their transformation into kingfishers. 4 Swallows and nightingales are topoi at least as far back as Aristophanes, Frogs 679–685, a mock invocation to the Muses lampooning Cleophon; see also Seneca, Agamemnon 665–667, sung by the chorus of captive Trojan women, who mention Cycnus and Ceyx as other birds of mourning. 5 Octavia’s anguish is indicated by the confusion of the request: she makes a wish now for an action in the past ending with the concessive clause si quis remanet sensus in umbris (13). The repeated illa (23) heightens her agitation. 6 Preserving the reading of the hyparchetype A (lux) against the emendation (nox) of Helm (1934) 287, n. 1, avoids whether nox should be treated as a deified abstraction. The comparison is between the light (lux) that Octavia hates and the night (nox) that is now equally despicable because of the possibility of disagreeable sex (thalamis, 24). Retaining the ms. readings instead of Zwierlein’s text maintains the progression from Dawn (2) to dark (Stygios, 24).

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The nurse enters and it is apparent that she is as unaware of Octavia as Octavia is of her.7 Her remarks seem directed to the audience; their substance on the ‘fickleness of fortune’ is reminiscent of choral odes of captive women, such as in the Hercules Oetaeus: fulgore primo captus et fragili bono fallacis aulae quisquis attonitus stupet, subito latentis ecce Fortunae impetus modo praeponentem cernat eversam domum . . . Whoever gawks captivated by ‘instant glitter’ and awestruck by the ‘fragile goodness’8 of of a fake9 palace should discern the home overturned, suddenly laid prostrate by the blows of Fortune . . .

35

35

Choruses lamenting their fates lament fates recent to them as does the nurse. Her reason for pointing to the palace and how others are taken in by the glitz is to indicate how far the mighty have fallen,10 a staple of tragic choruses, as opposed to philosophical tracts,11 on the fickleness of fortune.12 The nurse identifies herself with those who have fallen, dramatically potent since that will be Octavia’s fate. Her very first word, fulgore, shows she is not Octavia. To Octavia fulgor and tonans are symbols for Jupiter; for the nurse it is the surface sheen of fools’ gold. She then repeats most of what Octavia has just said: Claudius conquered the British channel, grandly styled the Ocean (40), forced to accept his fleet against its will, and conquered Britain (41) imposing the Roman yoke on them. She adds nothing to what Octavia has said other than hyperbole: their shores were unknown (ignota . . . freta, 42), his fleets were so large (tantis classibus, 42), the sea was covered (the

7 The nurse initially uses iambic trimeters (34–56); she does not shift to dimeters until she converses with Octavia (71–98). 8 By way of compliment to Martha Nussbaum. 9 An impossible word to translate in this context because the nurse is almost certainly pointing at the part of the stage representing the palace from whose battlements Poppaea views the riot and its suppression. A stage set by definition has to be fallacis. 10 A favourite trope of Seneca in his prose and plays and repeated by Seneca in his scene with Nero in the Octavia. 11 Significantly, when Dionysus chooses Aeschylus over Euripides in Aristophanes Frogs, the chorus of initiates concurs that writing tragedy is more important than Socrates (χαρίεν οὖν μὴ Σωκράτει / παρακαθήμενον λαλεῖν, / άποβαλόντα μουσικὴν / τά τε μέγιστα παραλιπόντα / τῆς τραγωιδικῆς τέχνης, 1491–1495). 12 Such as, for example, Seneca Oedipus 980–996 and Agamemnon 56–107; also Hercules Oetaeus 104–172.

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language is that of embroidery [texit, 42]), the Britons were barbarians (gentes barbaras, 43), the seas were savage (saevia maria, 44). He alone was safe (tutus, 43), that is, until his wife killed him (coniugis scelere occidit, 44). Then follows a spread sheet of palace murder: Nero kills Agrippina (45) in three words, a mere five syllables. His murder of Britannicus, however, is made ‘unmanly’ since he resorted to poison (cuius extinctus iacet / frater venenis, 45–46). The nurse, later put in positive light by the pro-Poppaea chorus, does not view the marriage of Octavia to Nero as a brother-sister hieros gamos but as unfortunate. The nurse is unaware of a divine parallel of the enmity of Zeus and Hera in the mutual hatred of Nero and Octavia: odio pari / ardens mariti mutua flagrat face (“she flames up with a hatred equal to her husband, burning with mutual fire,” 49–50) nor does the nurse reference the Stygian marital torches to the torch of hatred.13 Octavia continues where she left off: she is the new Electra (59) except Electra was able to do what is not possible for her: Electra could mourn (maerenti, 60) her father (parentem, 61). Electra was able to secure revenge (scelus ulcisci, 62) and with the help of her brother (vindica fratre, 62). She credits loyalty (pietas, 63, fides, 64)14 of the people around him as having saved Orestes, something not done for Britannicus.15 The instincts of the author of the Octavia to focus on Electra are good, maintaining a one-to-one correspondence.16 The first interchange between Octavia and the nurse does not have much mythological or historical content. Lines 72–98 are important because they make it clear that Octavia knows that her divorce will necessarily bring her death.17 To the nurse’s question what day will bring the end of her miseries (solvet curis, 77) Octavia answers the one that will send her to the Stygian shades (qui me Stygias mittet ad umbras, 79). The nurse then wishes that the ill-omened remark of Octavia

13 An interest in incest is one of the charges Aeschylus lays against Euripides in Aristophanes Frogs 1081. The number of verbal reminiscences between the Octavia and Seneca’s Oedipus (esp. 918–922, 929, 1038–1039) might suggest that Seneca had Claudius and Agrippina in mind. At a minimum, this seems to be what the author of the Octavia believed. Zeus / Jupiter – Hera / Juno brother-sister marriage is a staple in Seneca, for example, Agamemnon 340 and 805. The theme is repeated often in both halves of the Hercules Oetaeus. 14 The verbs are illustrative: Orestes was seized (rapuit 63) from his enemies, a word already used of the gods seizing (and transforming) women chased by their husbands. Tegit (64) is used in the sense of enclosing, sewing something into something else, presumably for safe keeping, and not how the nurse used it of Claudius’ fleet that embroidered the British Channel. 15 The chorus of magistrates later admits this failing. 16 Seneca in Trojan Women and Agamemnon has the chorus dispute with a character over priority of suffering. 17 See also l. 174: extinguat et me, ne manu nostra cadat.

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will not happen until some remote future (80) and she hopes for a gentle god (deus . . . mitis, 82–83), who will bring a kinder outcome (meliora . . . tempora, 82–83). The language shifts and for the only time in the play Octavia compares Nero unfavourably with wild animals: vincam saevos ante leones / tigres truces (“I should rather submit to savage lions or terrible tigers”), 86–87. The image comes from one gladiator submitting to another, remarkable since Octavia otherwise shows aristocratic restraint and so a clear sign of her extreme distress.18 The meter shifts to iambic trimeter and a pair of longer speeches by the nurse and Octavia and then stichomythia for almost all of the lines between 99–272. Myth and history largely disappear, but when they are mentioned, they are in the mouth of Octavia: Nero’s earlier mistress, Acte, is alluded to (famulae, 105)19 and is balanced by Poppaea (125–133). ‘Stygian’ is used twice in these lines, once for the murder of Agrippina which Octavia blames on Poppaea (127) and a second time for the murder of Octavia demanded of Nero by Poppaea (135). If the nurse lives only in her moment, her sense of ‘Realpolitik’ is better than Octavia’s. She places the blame of Octavia’s predicament squarely at the feet of Claudius: frustra parentis invocas manes tui (“useless, you summon the shades of your father,” 137. The indictment is detailed and is followed by Tacitus and Suetonius, both writing later than this play: he preferred Nero to his own son, Britannicus (139–140); he married his own niece, Agrippina (genitamque fratris coniugem . . . toris nefandis flebilis iunxit face, 141–142). This sets in motion Agrippina’s dynastic chess board: Lucius Junius Silanus Torquatus had been betrothed to Octavia but a whisper campaign brought about his death (145–146; 1 Jan AD 49 = day of marriage of Claudius to Agrippina). Octavia was married to Nero (147–154; married, 9 June AD 53). Pietas quits the Palace (160) and Erinys enters (161);20 the Stygian torch polluted the penates (163), one of the nurse’s few mythological associations.21 Agrippina poisons Claudius (164–165; 13 October AD 54) but is killed in turn by Nero (165; 23 March AD 59). If Octavia credits Poppaea, her rival, with the death of Agrippina, the nurse has a different version of events: Agrippina’s recognition of 18 Wild animal imagery, especially lions and tigers, always accompanied by adjectives is not unusual in Seneca and is always pejorative: Oedipus 918 (leo) and 929 (tigris); Medea 863 (tigris orba) and Thyestes 707–713 (tiger in Ganges). 19 On Acte, see also 193–197. Octavia as well indicates that her real fear is not death (non mortis metu, 106) but a fraudulent charge made as a pretext for her death (sed sceleris – absit crimen a fatis meis, 107). There follow details of a recurring dream of Octavia’s of Britannicus and Nero fighting one another which is a precursor to the appearance of the ghost of Agrippina (115–124). 20 Several times in the corpus of Seneca’s authentic works it is mentioned that Astraea was the last deity to desert the earth. 21 Although the nurse would have considered the reference ‘religious’ and not ‘mythological’.

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how cruel Nero was prepared her to become sympathetic to Britannicus, bringing about first his murder and then hers.22 In her sole, mythological allusion, the nurse counsels patience – as Nero’s attention wandered once already and returned soon, so he will do again – Cupid is a god without staying power. Octavia is unmoved. Sooner than reconcile with Nero, seas will join with stars (222), fire with waves (223), Tartarus with heaven (223) and other conventional opposites. She pins a baseless hope (utinam, 237; pro summe genitor, 245) that Jupiter (229) will destroy Nero. The northern stars (Bootes, 234) are mentioned in respect to a comet (232) that for Octavia could bear signs of his fall.23 Nero is then compared unfavourably to other, earlier monsters which have celestial associations: Typhon (238) born from mother earth (Tellus, 239) than whom Nero is proving more destructive. Yet Jupiter has not sent thunderbolts with his right hand (247) against Nero. Octavia refers to Nero (249) by his patronymic and not his adopted name. As son of a non-Julian, he fouls the name of Augustus (251). Venus (258) comes in for her share of blame for having provoked Messalina to adultery and then to bigamy (nupta demens nupsit incesta face, 260). This unleashed the Furies (262–264), allowing Octavia to divert the blame from Claudius to Messalina: illos solute crine, succincta anguibus ultrix Erinys venit ad Stygios toros raptasque thalamis sanguine extinxit faces with her hair, braided by snakes, let down, Erinys came as avenger to the hell-bound bed and staunched in blood the torches ripped from the bed.

What happens at lines 201–221, between the two interactions of Octavia and her nurse, remains problematic. The manuscripts detect a lacuna of 26 or 30 lines after line 173 and one suspects that had those lines survived one might have a better understanding of what is happening here.24 Risking circular argument, the mythological content and the level of word choice argues against the nurse,

22 This makes both dramatic sense for this play as well as historical sense: Agrippina in a rare moment of reflection and remorse contributes to her own death. 23 Haley’s comet did pass in AD 66, four years after the dramatic date of the Octavia but two years before the death of Nero and so before the earliest possible date of composition of the Octavia. 24 Cambridge Corpus Christi 406 (saec. xiii), followed by Scorialensis T III and Vaticanus Lat 2829, detect 30 missing lines while Parisinus Lat 8260 (saec. xiii) considers 26 lines missing.

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to whom Zwierlein assigns these lines, but cannot be sung by Octavia because of the direct address to her in line 219 (tu, quoque).25 passa est similes ipsa dolores regina deum, cum se formas vertit in omnes dominus caeli divumque pater et modo pennas sumpsit oloris modo Sidonii cornua tauri; aureus idem fluxit in imbri; fulgent caelo sidera Ledae, patrio residet Bacchus Olympo, deus Alcides possidet Heben nec Iunonis iam timet iras, cuius gene rest qui fuit hostis. vicit sapiens tamen obsequium coniugis altae pressusque dolor: sola Tonanetm tenet aetherio secura toro maxima Iuno, nec lortali captus forma deseerit altam Iuppiter aulam. tu, quoque, terris altera Iuno, soror Augusti coinunxque, graves vince dolores. The queen of heaven herself endured similar grief, when the master of heaven and father of gods turned himself into all sorts of shapes; one time he took on wings of a swan, another time the horns of a bull at Sidon; once gold rained in a shower stars of Leda shine in the sky, Bacchus ensconced in his father’s Olympus, Hercules, a god, has Hebe nor does Juno fear his anger, son-in-law once a foe. Wisdom, somewhat complaint, hurt swallowed by a high-born wife overcomes: Juno alone, mightiest, holds the Thunderer secure in their heavenly bed, nor has Jupiter distracted by some mortal

205

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215

220

205

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215

25 Self-reference of a character in tragedy to himself / herself in the second person singular does occur in Seneca in Medea and Atreus in the Thyestes. It is, however, uncharacteristic of the historical Octavia and Octavia in this play.

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forms deserted his palace on high. you, too, another Juno on earth, sister of Augustus, and wife, swallow burdensome grief.

220

The story hardly needs explanation and the only argument in favour of the nurse is that the choices are all the conventional, most popular stories of the amours of Zeus: Leda, Europa, Semele, Alcmene. It could hardly be calculated to win Octavia’s approval: weather out this mistress as you have others; he will quickly become bored.26 The instinct of recentiores has been to delete attribution to the nurse but the ode must be kept because of the inversion of the same material by the proPoppaea chorus.27 Canticum,28 sung lines among iambic tetrameter, follows Senecan practice: Cassandra in Seneca’s Agamemnon starts to have a vision at line 720. Initially of Troy, she soon sees Agamemnon’s coming murder (734–740). Her mantic gaze then sees the underworld starting at line 741 but shifts to dimeters at line 759. Although corrupt and with a lacuna, the Furies (sorores squalidae, 759) are followed by a festering giant body (ossa vasti corporis, 766), Tantalus (non caput oblitus sitim, 771), and then, paradoxically, by Dardanus radiant and dancing (exulat et ponit gradus / pater decoros Dardanus, 773–774).29 Medea makes a prayer to underworld deities on the point of poisoning the robe for Creusa (740–751) and then prepares herself physically for the act (solvens comam, 752; lustravi pede, 753) but turns to elegiac meter at 771 with a series of confused analogies,30 and

26 The language of 219–221 turns on the trope of brother-sister marriage / hieros gamos recurring in several points in this play and also a persistent motif in the Hercules Oetaeus. 27 See e.g. Oxoniensis Canon. Class. Lat. 93, c. 1400. Earlier mss. of the A family repeat an attribution to the nurse, which is problematic since at 196 she is the last attributed speaker. To assign lines 198–200 to Octavia could only be done as a rhetorical question delivered with a sarcasm not found in her other lines. Since its reminiscences come from a choral ode, these lines also want to be part of a choral ode. 28 On cantica in Seneca, see Paré-Rey (2014). 29 The scene concludes with Cassandra fainting on an altar (775–776); she is soon revived upon the appearance of Agamemnon (782). Thyestes 920–964 is slightly different: Atreus had been exulting to the audience over the meal he has just prepared (885–919). Thyestes, in an aside to himself, indicates his foreboding. The manuscripts are far from unanimous: some assigning all the lines to Thyestes, some assigning all the lines to the chorus, and others giving some lines to Thyestes and some to the chorus. Andromache, however, answers Ulysses with dimeters at Troas. 705–735 when asked to hand over Astyanax. 30 Typhoeus (773), Nessus (776), Mt. Oeta (777), Althaea (780), Harpies (782) and feathers from Stymphalian birds (783). Some were murderers of children; some were associated with poisonous garments.

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then to dimeters meant perhaps as an incantation.31 Calling herself a maenad (806), she dips the gown in poison (816) and asks Hecate to increase the strength of the poison (833), she makes a vow to Hecate, acknowledging the granting of her wish and then returns to trimeters at line 843. The structure of these two parallels, however, argues against assignation to Octavia or the nurse in this scene, or, perhaps more accurately they are different enough from Senecan convention to question to whom the author intended to assign these lines and how they contribute to the structure of the play. If contrast with the pro-Poppaea chorus is intended, then the pro-Octavia chorus of magistrates seems logical. That ode is not just an inversion of 201–221, but reverses in reminiscences the prologue delivered by Juno in Seneca’s Hercules furens. In terms of set design, the pro-Poppaea chorus must be gawking over the walls of the palace anticipating the wedding of Nero and Poppaea later that day (762–779): Si vera loquax fama Tonantis furta et gratos narrat amores (quem modo Ledae pressisse sinum tectum plumis pennisque ferunt, modo per flctus raptam Europen taurum tergo portasse trucem), quae regit et nunc deseret astra, petet amplexus, Poppaea, tuos, quos et Ledae praeferre potest et tibi, quondam cui miranti fulvo, Danaë, fluxit in auro. Formam Sparte iactet alumnae licet et Phrygius praemia pastor, vincet vultus haec Tyndaridos, qui moverunt horrida bella Phrygiaeque solo regna dedere. Sed quis gressu ruit attonito ut quid portat pectore anhelo? If the gossip is true, the talk is of stolen and satisfying sex-life of Jupiter (who they say, covered in quills and feathers, once pressed the ‘bay’ of Leda, once a randy bull carried Europa, snatched, on his back across the waves), what stars he rules he would now desert, he would seek your embraces, Poppaea, which he would prefer even to Leda

31 The incantation of the satyr chorus in Euripides’ Cyclops similarly shifts meter.

765

770

775

765

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and to you, Danaë, once on whom in awe he ‘flowed’ in flecks of gold. Sparta may brag the allure of its alumna so, too, the Trojan shepherd can brag his catch, this one [Poppaea] surpasses Helen’s beauty, which started a horrible war and brought the realm of Troy to dust. But who rushes – the foot falls are panicked – or, rather, what news does he carry out of breath?

775

Poppaea is not on stage to hear lines that would have doubtless pleased her. Like Atossa in the Persians, Clytemnestra in Sophocles’ Electra, and Deianeira in Hercules Oetaeus, her nightmare has caused her to make sacrifices and seek advice. The action flows from Agrippina > Octavia > Poppaea repeating her dream to her nurse > salacious chorus > the news of the riot > chorus’ (re)action. In terms of myth, this choral ode is a perfect doublet to 201–221. The order is the same and only Hercules is missing from the song of the courtiers of Poppaea: Leda, Europa, Danaë are all there. This chorus expects the greatest beauties to pale before the charms of Poppaea and so the substitution of Helen makes sense. Some of the words are hard to translate: iactet (773) in particular approximates what would now be sign boards in small towns indicating what they are famous for. It is not a stretch since Pausanias in the late second century records that he saw in a glass case the egg from which Helen was hatched of which the local Spartans were immensely proud. Some other words pick up parts of the first half of the play not in the Zeus ode. Trucem was used by Octavia to debase Nero to animal status – he was like a savage tiger (87); trucem (767) here is again animal form but as a symbol of sexual prowess and not belligerence. The language of the courtiers celebrates sex: Leda has a sinum (764) and the feathers (205, 765) have plumes, that is, preening. Europa is raptam (766). The advice of the earlier ode, 215–218, is to ignore infidelities because Jupiter / Nero will no longer be captivated by a pleasing shape (nec . . . captus forma) and will not deserit altam . . . aulam (218) but this is exactly what the courtiers suggest Jupiter will do, that is, Nero, for Poppaea in lines 768–769. After hearing about the pro-Octavia riot, which historically did happen, from the courier on his way to the palace to get Praetorians to quell it, the chorus defiantly picks up the challenge in the nurse’s lines to Octavia 198–200 that Cupid is all surface (levis), all about appearances (fallax), all about this moment (volucer): Et hanc levis fallaxque, destituet deus volucer Cupido; sit licet forma eminens, opibus superba; gaudium capiet breve.

200

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Also, flighty, false, flippant the god, Cupid, will not linger; concede her flesh [Poppaea’s] is fantastic, overloaded in charms; joy seized briefly.

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Octavia’s nurse speaks her heart and hopes; Poppaea’s confidants know more about sex and appreciate its manipulative and destructive side (806–819): Quid fera frustra bella moveris? Invicta gerit tela Cupido: flammis vestros obruet ignes quis extinxit fulmina saepe captumque Iovem caelo traxit. Laesi tristes dabitis poenas sanguine vestro; non est patiens fervidus irae facilisque regi: ille ferocem iussit Achillem pulsare lyram, fregit Danaos, fregit Atriden, regna evertit Priami, claras diruit urbes. Et nunc animus quid ferat horret vis immitis violenta dei. Why start a war you cannot win? Cupid carries unbeatable weapons: he back burns fires with flames by which he often puts out thunderbolts and drags Jupiter, captive, from heaven. Defeated, you will pay a stiff penalty with your own blood; frothing with anger, he is not long suffering. He is not easy to restrain: he ordered fierce Achilles to pluck the lyre, he broke the Trojans, he broke the Greeks,32 he turned over the kingdom of Priam, famous cities he destroyed. And now his core bristles at what enrages – force implacable, violence of the god.

810

815

810

815

32 Although properly ‘son of Atreus’ (Agamemnon), it includes the Greeks in general through the oath of the suitors of Helen.

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The very next words are those of Nero, enraged that his guard was not even more brutal in suppressing the riot, making it clear, if clarity were needed, who was intended by the chorus. It does establish contrasting views of Cupid: Cupid of the nurse is that of ‘happy hour’ and ‘hook ups’; that of the courtiers is mean and vicious, deliberate and patient in extracting revenge. Jupiter who had snatched Europa (766) is in turn captured himself (810); Achilles is made to look unseemly and unheroic brooding over Briseis (814); the fall of Troy, ten years in the making, is the fall of both Trojans and Greeks. The grip that Poppaea, Cupid’s proxy, has over Nero is the defining relationship in the play. It is the one the chorus of magistrates (273–376) never understands. The Roman genre of historical drama had the technical name of praetexta, which is the garment with broad stripe worn by a magistrate during his term of office. The few fragments of historical drama to survive from the Republic indicate that performances of historical drama were sponsored by a magistrate and / or that the characters and episodes in the play involve officials in office. None of the circumstances of the first production of the Octavia are known with precision: by definition of its genre, praetexta must be relevant to a group of military, religious and civilian officials who may well have been part of some now unknown imperial celebration that included a premiere of the Octavia. The A family manuscripts are unanimous in identifying this as a CHORUS ROMANORUM and so it is attractive, if not likely, that this was a chorus of officials.33 As old men and men of a certain dignity, they prattle on interminably, peppering their remarks with historical exempla no one really wants or needs to hear. Their first words express shock and horror in a rhetorical question: they hope the rumours are false that are being bandied about (totiens iactata, 275). Their response to Poppaea is old fashioned, tied to ritual. Octavia is Claudius’ child (Claudia proles, 278) and so she should have possession of the penates. For them, as for Vergil Georgics 3, the obvious cure is production of an heir (pignoris pacis, 279), suggested also by the nurse. Then they launch into an explanation based on myth and history: Juno was married to her brother (282–283), so there is no reason why Octavia, sister of [Nero] Augustus (284) should be driven from the palace of her father. The chorus initially blames itself: they were wrong not to stand up at the death of Claudius and so the present situation is a betrayal to Octavia. Exculpation follows by returning to mythical history: once upon a time Romans were real men (vera priorum virtus quondam / Romana fuit verumque genus / Martis, 292–294). They

33 There is the extra frisson since during the Empire sometimes officials volunteered or were compelled to act on stage.

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(illi) threw out kings (reges, 295).34 The suicide of Lucretia, after her rape by Tarquin, is recalled in archaistic alliteration, assonance and consonance (301–303): mactata tua, miseranda, manu, nata Lucreti stuprum saevi passa tyranni. hacked up, wretchedly, by your own hand, daughter of Lucretius, you endured the outrage of an odious tyrant.

Verginia’s death at her father’s hands starts the conflict of the orders (300, 296). Tullia was complicit in Tarquins assassination of her father so that he could become king and she his queen. Two paradigms of female virtue and then one notorious; Agrippina completes and balances the set. Nearly three quarters of their ode recalls Agrippina’s last hours: the broken boat, her escape, her realization that Nero was behind it, the assassin who finishes Agrippina, her famous last words: hic est, hic est fodiendus’ ait / ‘ferro, monstrum, qui tale tulit’ (“here is, here is where you must strike with the sword’, she said, ‘where such a monster came forth”).35 Yet the resolve of characters in this passage is of women. The long passage on Agrippina does nothing to absolve the male chorus of their cowardice in not supporting the Claudian family in the years between AD 48 up to the dramatic date of the play (AD 62). Agrippina poses a quandary: she should be monstrous, like Tullia. The chorus, however, admires her tenacious will to survive (327–349); the loyalty she excited in others (350–355); the defiance at her death (366–376). In the end the chorus must be viewed as anti-Tarquin, anti-Appius Claudius, and most resolutely anti-Nero. It is the perfect set up to the two following scenes, the discussion between Seneca and Nero and the appearance of the ghost of Agrippina. The chorus of magistrates gets a second chance. After Agrippina leaves,36 Octavia and the male chorus take centre stage.37 Octavia asks the audience and perhaps the chorus of magistrates, or her silent retinue, to spare their tears

34 Zwierlein detects significant transposition and defective lines 288–313 that make interpretation and line enumeration difficult. 35 Jocasta, in Seneca’s Oedipus 1038–1039, stabs herself in the womb. 36 Perhaps by a trap door / lift, for which see Seneca Ep. 88. 37 On the configuration of the Roman imperial stage, see Seneca Ep. 84. The much greater width of the Roman stage would have allowed for a stage set for the Octavia, and for the Hercules Oetaeus, with one side of the stage representing a two-storey palace and the other an open space. For the Octavia, Octavia and her supporters could have occupied an open space to the side of the palace on which Poppaea and her supporters would have appeared.

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(parcite lacrimis, 646). The obvious inference is to Agrippina (just disappeared from stage) or perhaps herself, but she explains that today, the wedding of Nero, is a festive day (urbis festo / laetoque die, 646–647) even though she knows she will pay the price of Nero’s happiness: dabit hic nostris finem curis / vel morte dies (“this day will give an end to cares, that is, by my death”), 653–654. That she will be ‘just the sister’ of the emperor (658), that is, the hieros gamos is dissolved, cuts against this sentiment but Octavia is distraught and one suspects the author found the sententia too good to resist.38 The male chorus echoes Octavia: the day long suspected in rumour has arrived; Octavia yields the imperial bed (en illuxit suspecta diu / fama totiens iactata dies / cessit thalamis, 669–670). Although they blame themselves for inaction (compressa metu segnisque dolor, 675) they ask instead where is the might of the Roman people that often broke wretched rulers (ubi Romani vis est populi / fregit diros quae saepe duce, 676–677). What seems to affront them most are the statues of Poppaea (iam Poppaeae fulget imago / iuncta Neroni, 684–685) that are already replacing those of Octavia. It does not end well. Historically, the Praetorians crush the riot. The strength of popular opinion favouring Octavia merely determines Nero to remove Octavia around whom opposition to him could coalesce (870b-876): NERO (to Prefect) Ut ne inexpugnabilis esset, sed aegras frangeret vires timor vel poena; quae iam sera damnatam premet diu nocentem. Tolle consilium ac preces et imperata perage: devectam rate procul in remotum litus interim iube, tandem ut residat pectoris nostril tumor.

870b

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CHORUS [PRO-OCTAVIA] O funestus multis populi dirusque favor . . . N. So that she might not be untouchable, but so that fear, or punishment, should snap her pitiful appeal; let what is already too long delayed quash this condemned woman so long guilty. Enough plans and prayers;

870

38 In between is a reference to not having to sleep in the same bed as Nero did with his slavemistress (famula, 657). Logically, this should be Acte but one wonders whether Poppaea is not meant. Poppaea has been the focus; to remember Acte at this point is odd but could again be a sign of distress.

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engage my commands: order her transported on a boat far away into some remote spot to be killed, finally, so that the burn in my heart should abate.

401

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Cho. O favour of the people Dreadful and deadly to many . . .

The chorus must have overheard Nero and they are beginning to get the first glimmer that their actions, unasked for by Octavia, have sealed her death. Rather than feel guilty and try to make amends, they search their memories for historical exempla. Yet, as with Verginia, Lucretia and Tullia streaming to Agrippina, their choices again are hardly appropriate to their point of comparison and could hardly have consoled Octavia: the mother of the Gracchi mourns her two sons; Livius Drusus, while tribune, was assassinated in his own house. They admit their own good intentions gone wrong (reddere cives / aulam . . . voluere, 892–893), but end with the tragic commonplace that poverty is better as Fortune overturns wealthy homes (896–898).39 Octavia’s questions at 899–900 indicate that a guard has come to remove her: quo me trahitis, quodve tyrannus / aut exilium regina iubet? (“Where are you taking me? What exile does the tyrant or the queen [Poppaea] order?”). The appearance of a boat makes Octavia wonder if it will break apart, as one did for Agrippina (hac est cuius vecta carina / quondam genetrix, 909–910) which reinforces in her mind that she will die (sed iam spes est nulla salutis, 906). The trope is repeated that Pietas has gone and Erinys fills the void (911–913). The nightingale, transformed Philomela, is recalled as a bird of mourning (914–916, 921–923) and wings of escape (917–920). Wings and feathers are not for Octavia plumes of desire in the form of a swan. Nero has over-played his hand. His slathering for annihilation has turned sentiment against him and at 899 when soldiers come to take Octavia, it attracts a crowd. Given the economy of the Roman stage, that crowd accomplishes the unification of the two choruses. Looming death for Octavia engages empathy among women, also prominent in the resolution of the Hercules Oetaeus. The reappearance of the magistrates on stage with their robes of state muddied, sullied and in tatters would have made a great visual impact on an audience recently too much inured to rough justice against elected officials and leaders.40 The language at the end of the play changes and the exempla are drawn from

39 It is especially frequent in Seneca, both verse and prose, and in the Hercules Oetaeus. 40 Tattered robes have a long stage history from Aeschylus’ Persians to Agamemnon in both Aeschylus and Seneca and Thyestes in Seneca.

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women of the imperial family – for the magistrates that means the family of Octavia; for the courtiers, that means the family Poppaea just joined. The author has the advantage of retrospect in that he knows that Poppaea was the wife of one emperor and one future emperor41 and that she equally became a victim of Nero. In the end the two choruses have much in common. Sympathy for Octavia is apparent: historically, she was popular in her lifetime and became more popular after death: Regitur fatis mortale genus nec sibi quidquam spondere potest firmum et stabile, quam42 per casus voluit varios semper nobis metuenda dies. Human race is ruled by fate nor can something firm and stable ever be pledged, how daylight, always to be feared by us, careens in outcomes.

925

925

Magistrates must comprise at least part of this chorus because they turn to exempla (animum firment exempla tuum, 929). The examples, however, are imperial women who fared badly: Agrippina the Elder, wife of Germanicus, mother of Caligula and Agrippina, heads the list (932–940). Her large family is mentioned but more prominently her frequent clashes with her brother-in-law, the emperor Tiberius. Livia, wife of Drusus, son of Tiberius and later suspected of poisoning Drusus once she became the mistress of Sejanus is next (941–943). Julia, daughter of Livia and Drusus, was put to death in the reign of Claudius without trial and without charge (944–946). Messalina, mother of Octavia, is next (947–951) whose power was her hold on Claudius but whose summary death was ordered by a freedman of Claudius (famulo, 950) and execution by a common soldier (militis, 951). The list would not be complete without Agrippina (952–957), recalling the earlier ode. What makes her death memorable here is rough treatment by the sailors (violate manu 954), a lingering death (ferro lacerata diu, 956) and her status as sacrificial victim of her son (saevi iacuit victima nati?, 957). Octavia’s farewell is a prayer to the denizens and deities of Hell (964–968) because gods of heaven hate her (962–964). It leaves the chorus little to say in

41 Poppaea was married to Otho at the time she began her affair with Nero. 42 I adopt quam of the recentiores as the adverb, since there can be no antecedent for quem without suspecting a lacuna at 926 for which there is no warrant.

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the exodus, but they make the appeal that Octavia might be an Iphigeneia spirited away to Taurus and not the Iphigeneia at Aulis, a status of sacrificial victim of Nero the chorus had just granted to Agrippina. Agrippina and Octavia share more in Nero’s enmity than in what separated them. The final line of the play is the sum of the mythological and historical exempla throughout the entire play: Rome is glad for citizen gore (civis gaudet Roma cruore). Two final observations that show the inter-connection of myth and history: first, the extended episode between Seneca and Nero (377–592) is a reevaluation of Augustus. Seneca in the play speaks like the Seneca known from his prose. The essays Seneca aimed at or dedicated to Nero, particularly De Clementia, not surprisingly, have a high per centage of the reminiscences in these lines. The content is historical revisionism introduced by Seneca on the ages of mankind (391–434), interrupted only at lines 435–436 by the appearance of Nero on stage. The third word said by Seneca is Fortuna (377) and he cannot resist mentioning his exile on Corsica (382), which reminds him of Nature (386), both of which are subjects of his essays. It is not accidental that his view of how this is the worst moment in all of the ages of man are spoken at the arrival of Nero with the Praetorian Prefect in tow. Second, in a very real sense this is Agrippina’s play. She is the nexus that holds together all of the characters in the play. Their relationship to her – positive, negative, wavering, changing – is the relationship that underpins all others. She is the character most often mentioned throughout the play. The only character in the play not to mention her is Seneca. Significantly, she is the only person in the play whose character is re-assessed,43 and it is reassessed positively. She starts with Octavia and her nurse as the root cause of all that has gone wrong during the last fifteen years. But the callousness and pitilessness of her death begins a reappraisal by the magistrates. She moves from the ledger side of Tullia to that of the victims of lust and depravity. By play’s end, that is exactly how she is described, and Octavia, the protagonist of the play, is described in terms that equate her with Agrippina as Poppaea cleans house in her ascendancy over Nero. The scenes of Agrippina’s appearance as a ghost and Poppaea recounting her nightmare mesh, but do not over-lap perfectly. In this they cannot and it would be bad theatre if they did. Agrippina’s concern is Claudius in the underworld seeking revenge for murdering him while Poppaea is haunted by her first husband, Crispinus, and her sons, put out of the way by Nero. Claudius in the underworld is no concern of Poppaea and equally one could not expect Agrippina to have a care for Crispinus. But, for both, the language of myth and the underworld is conventional.

43 Setting aside Augustus who is discussed only in one scene by two characters.

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The history they repeat is that which they experienced and to a large extent were prime movers. Given the norms of the imperial Roman stage, it is attractive and easy to see Poppaea writhing in her bed in the palace on the right of the stage after Agrippina had come up and disappeared from the stage for her scene; that is, the appearance of Agrippina is the dream of Poppaea. What increases the attractiveness of this suggestion is that in recounting the dream she tells her nurse that she saw her mother-in-law, that is, Agrippina, brandishing a torch: sparsam cruore coniugis genetrix mei / vultu minci saeva quatiebat facem (“my spouse’s mother, with a threatening, savage look was shaking a torch, splattered with gore”), 722–723. In her dream, she sees her own bed (thalamus, 718, toros . . . iugales, 726–727) surrounded by women in mourning (turba est maesta: resolutuis comis / matres Latinae, 720–721). She then sees her first husband and her son (727). Even though Crispinus (731) was dead, Nero came along and stabbed him in the throat (733). The earth also opens up for Agrippina (tellure rupta, 593) and she comes up from Tartarus (593). She bears the Stygian torch (594) that she waved at Poppaea, but it is her right hand that is bloody and not the torch. She hisses that the torch will be a funereal one for the marriage of Poppaea (nubat his flammis meo / Poppaea nato iuncta, 596). Not surprisingly, she has not forgotten or forgiven the break-away ship (601–602) or the murder of several of her retainers along with herself (606–609). Resentment over-flows over the damnatio memoriae arranged by Nero, including defacing of inscriptions and pulling down of statues (610–613), something that will happen to Poppaea in the riot. Furies and the four main denizens of Tartarus are mentioned (614–623). The rest of her monologue (624–645) is dedicated to the ephemeral prosperity of his palace and diplomacy which will dissolve into a reign of shame and terror.44 The characters in this play are distinguished by level of language which is a factor of level of learning and expresses itself, at least partially, in the use of myth and history. All characters are consistent within their roles. Intriguingly, if a date of AD 69 is accepted for the Octavia, the number of years between the death of Octavia and the play is very close to the number of years between Salamis and Aeschylus’ Persians. What emerges, however, is the level of care and artistry the author of the Octavia brought to his task. Finally, all the foregoing brings one back to the dimeters at 201–221. The care that the author has used in differentiating levels of language should make it easy

44 The debts paid to Cassandra’s scene in Seneca’s Agamemnon (741–774) have already been mentioned. The necromancy scene in Seneca’s Oedipus (530–658) is much longer and Lucan’s necromancy, Pharsalia 5, also has echoes.

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to determine to whom the lines should be assigned. Any argument, however, for or against any character, is risky. Tragic heroines do address themselves in both Greek and Latin but not ones with whom the author of the Octavia would wish to associate her. The author has already indicated that the touchstone for Octavia is Electra and nothing in any of the plays in which Electra is a main character look like this ode. Since the parallel to 201–221 is the ode sung by the chorus of female supporters of Poppaea, the natural choice would be the male chorus. Here there is some support in the play. Octavia’s nurse and Poppaea’s nurse are easily comparable and Seneca as paidagogos has an analogous role, that is, they all give advice that is instantly ignored. The few lines of Poppaea in the play problematize any attempt to understand the sentiments as the opposite leaf to Octavia in a diptych. The playwright, rather, saw Poppaea as the mirror to Agrippina. Even so, the level of mythological reference is not in keeping with the historical lens of the male chorus and so the logical choice for 201–221 is still not without problems.

Bibliography Harrison, G.W.M. forthcoming. Double Chorus in Roman Tragedy. In From Antiquity to Modernity: Performing Greek and Roman Drama, eds. Sarkissian, A. and Poláčková, E. Brill. Harrison, G.W.M. 2000. Semper ego auditor tantum?: Performance and Physical Setting of Seneca’s Plays. In Seneca in Performance, ed. Harrison, G.W.M., 137–149. Swansea. Paré-Rey, P. 2014. Les tragédies de Sénèque sont-elles spectaculaires? Réflexions sur quelques principes de composition. Pallas 95: 33–58. Zwierlein, O. 1986. L. Annaei Senecae: Tragoediae. Oxford.

Appendix

The Editors Menelaos Christopoulos is Professor of Ancient Greek Philology at the University of Patras. He has published on Homeric Poetry, Greek Drama and Greek Myth. He directs the Center for the Study of Myth and Religion (http://mythreligion.philology.upatras.gr) and is the President of the Centre for Odyssean Studies. Athina Papachrysostomou is Associate Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at the Department of Philology, University of Patras. She has published widely on Greek Drama, Athenian Democracy and Textual Criticism. She is a collaborator of the KomFrag project (https://www.altphil.uni-freiburg.de/komfrag) and an alumna of the Onassis Foundation and the Fulbright Foundation (Harvard and Boston Universities). Andreas P. Antonopoulos is Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at the University of Ioannina. He is also the principal investigator of the project ‘Greek Fragmentary Tragedians Online’ (http://fragtrag.upatras.gr), funded by the Hellenic Foundation for Research and Innovation (ELIDEK). His main research interests include Greek Drama, Textual Criticism, Papyrology and Digital Classics.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110780116-025

The Contributors Joel Allen is Professor of History and Classics at the City University of New York. He has published on Roman imperial culture and is the author of Hostages and Hostage-Taking in the Roman Empire (Cambridge University Press, 2006) and The Roman Republic and the Hellenistic Mediterranean: From Alexander to Caesar (Wiley-Blackwell, 2020). Constantine Antypas, PhD, is an independent researcher specialized on pre-Classical Greek History. He has published on Archaic Epic and Nautical History of Early Iron Age and Archaic Period. He is the author of Υγρά Κέλευθα. Πλοία και Ρότες στην Ομηρική Εποχή – 1000-500 π.Χ. (24 Γράμματα, 2019). Natasha Bershadsky is Lecturer on the Classics at Harvard University and a Fellow at the Center for Hellenic Studies. Her book in preparation explores ritual and mythological aspects of long-running border conflicts in Archaic Greece and their creative transformations by the democracies of the Classical period. Jorge J. Bravo III is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Maryland. He is the author of The Shrine of Opheltes (Excavations at Nemea IV, University of California Press, 2018) and has also published articles on hero cult, ancient magic and the iconography of ancient sexuality. Jonathan S. Burgess is Professor of Classics at the University of Toronto. He is the author of The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle, The Death and Afterlife of Achilles (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004) and Homer (Bloomsbury 2014), and of many articles on early epic, reception of Homer and travel literature. Paolo B. Cipolla is Associate Professor of Greek Language and Literature at the University of Catania. His main research fields are satyr drama (he has published a critical edition and commentary of the satyric fragments of minor tragedians) and late antiquity erudite literature (Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae). Chiara Di Serio obtained her PhD degree in History of Religions at the University of Rome La Sapienza in February 2020. Her research interests mainly concern the representation of India and the mythical geography of the East in antiquity, and in general the religions of the Classical world. George W. M. Harrison has a joint appointment in Greek and Roman Studies and Technology, Society and the Environment at Carleton University (Ottawa). He has split his career among the archaeology of Roman Crete, investigating satyr drama and putting Seneca back on stage. Efimia D. Karakantza is Associate Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at the University of Patras. Her numerous publications focus on political and metafeminist readings of the Homeric and dramatic poetry. Her latest book (2020): “Who Am I?” (Mis)Identity and the Polis in Oedipus Tyrannus (Hellenic Studies Series 86), Cambridge, MA.

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The Contributors

Grammatiki Karla is Associate Professor of Classical Studies at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. She has published on ancient Greek popular literature (mainly on Life of Aesop), as well as on rhetorical texts of Late Antique orators. Vasiliki Kousoulini is Postdoctoral Researcher (funded by the State Scholarships Foundation, IKY) at the Department of Philology of the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. She has published on Greek lyric poetry, Greek epic poetry and ancient Greek tragedy. Françoise Lecocq is Maître de Conférences at the University of Caen Normandie, France. She has published extensively on the myth of the phoenix bird and its transmission from Egypt to Greece and Rome. Olga Levaniouk is Professor of Classics at the University of Washington and author of Eve of the Festival: Making Myth in Odyssey 19 (Center for Hellenic Studies, Trustees for Harvard University, 2011). She specializes in Homer and early Greek poetry and myth, often using comparative evidence and approaches. Ephraim Lytle is Associate Professor in the Department of Classics at the University of Toronto. His research is primarily interested in the social and economic history of the ancient Mediterranean. Nanno Marinatos is Professor Emerita of Classics University of Illinois at Chicago. Her research focuses on the religion of Minoan Crete and Thera of the Bronze Age, and Thucydides. She is the author of nine books as well as twelve co-edited volumes on the subject of archaeology and religion. Marion Meyer is Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Vienna. One of her main research interests is ancient Athens. In 2017 she published the monograph Athena, Göttin von Athen. Kult und Mythos auf der Akropolis bis in klassische Zeit (Phoibos Verlag). Jordi Redondo is Professor of Ancient Greek Language and Literature at the Department of Classical Philology, University of Valencia. In 2020 he co-authored (with S. Sancho-Montes and R. Torne Teixido) the book Tècnica Retòrica a les Històries de Tucídides i Heròdot. Contribucions a l’estudi del discurs historiogràphic (Editorial Académica Española). Gesthimani Seferiadi, Ph.D., is an independent scholar, Greece. Her research focuses on classical texts, especially in Athenian tragedy, in relation to gender identities. She is the author of Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae (Bloomsbury, 2022). Christopher Trinacty is Associate Professor of Classics at Oberlin College (USA). He is the author of Senecan Tragedy and the Reception of Augustan Poetry as well as numerous articles about Seneca, Latin intertextuality and Augustan literature. His website (www.oberlinclassics. com) features a complete literary commentary to Seneca’s Quaestiones Naturales Book 3.

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Alexandros Velaoras is a PhD candidate at the University of Patras, Greece and a Pre-Doctoral Fellow in Sport and Society (Center for Hellenic Studies, Harvard University and International Olympic Academy, 2020–2021). The title of his dissertation is ‘The Arrival of the Xenos in Euripidean Tragedy’. Giuseppe Zanetto is Professor of Greek language and literature at the Department of Humanities of the University of Milan. He has published on archaic Greek Poetry (Homeric Hymns), Greek Drama, Greek Romance and Hellenistic Epigram (New Posidippus). He is currently President of the Italian Academic Association for Greek Studies.

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum abduction 57, 61, 64–70, 75, 200 Acarnania / Acarnanian(s) 221–222, 236–237, 242 Achaea / Achaeans 29–31, 36, 38, 43, 119–120, 123, 127, 236 Achelous 84, 233–238, 240–241, 243 Achilles 16, 25, 28–30, 32, 36, 127, 208, 297, 318, 344, 350, 381, 397–398, 409 Acropolis 95, 115, 242 Adrastus 279, 283–284 Aeacus 28, 36 Aegae 303, 305–307, 309, 314 Aegyptius 43 aetiology / aition 60, 66, 131, 138, 245, 249, 253, 255–256, 279–280, 282, 293, 367 Aetolia / Aetolians 17, 19, 22, 90, 92–93, 221–222, 233–236, 239–243 Aetos 292–294 Agamemnon 25, 28–29, 31–32, 34–35, 42, 119–121, 123–128, 186, 223, 318, 381, 384, 388–390, 394, 397, 401, 404 Agariste 147–165, 284 Agathon 304, 313 agora / agorē 43, 100, 104–106, 113, 116, 209, 226, 283–284, 314 Agrippina 388, 390–392, 396, 399–405 Ajax 28, 207–208, 218, 259, 381 Alcinous 39 Alcmene 234, 383, 394 Alexander I 310–312 Alexander III (Alexander the Great) 192, 270, 275, 313–314, 336, 350, 376, 378, 382 Alexandria 73, 292, 295–296, 353, 384 allegory 219, 221, 243, 267–268, 270, 292, 344, 347, 349, 353–354 Ammon 382 Amphiaraus 280 amplification 383 Amyntas 304, 311–312 anagnorisis 175, 247–248 anairesis (of the dead) 217 anax 37, 40, 44

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animal 14, 37, 46, 95, 147, 149, 152, 158, 163, 179, 199, 216, 224, 259, 291–296, 301, 333, 342, 344, 348, 350, 352, 356, 391, 396, 396 Antenor 100–101 Anticlea 45 Antigone 207, 209, 213, 215–220, 222, 244, 260 Antinous 41, 49 Antiphon 211–212 Antiphus 48 anti-tyranny decree 111 apolis / apolides 214–215 Apollo 7, 65, 67–68, 102, 107, 114, 176, 236, 294, 306, 343 apotheosis 245, 249–253, 255, 257–258, 260–261, 388 archaic (period / poetry) 6–8, 10, 13, 16–18, 25, 33–34, 38–39, 42, 44, 51–52, 59, 61, 69, 72–74, 77, 79–82, 85, 87–89, 91–92, 94–95, 102, 115–117, 144, 146, 148–149, 154, 164–165, 176, 183, 185, 196, 204, 250, 252, 259, 271, 279, 283, 285–287, 304, 318, 409, 411 Archelaus 303–317, 319–320 Archemorus 280–281, 285 Archeptolemus 211–212 Argead 303–304, 308–309, 311, 317, 319 Argive(s) 70, 128, 131–146, 213, 267–268, 279–283, 289, 298–299, 303–304, 307–308, 310–311, 326 Argos 8, 70, 75, 86, 127, 131–135, 138–146, 198, 208, 267, 279–280, 282–285, 287, 289, 291, 298–300, 306, 310–311 argumentation strategies 375 Aristogeiton 99–106, 109, 114–116 Aristophanes 16, 60, 72, 109, 111, 137, 142–146, 175, 251, 265, 270, 272–274, 303, 317, 341, 388–390 Arsiphone 8 Arrian 308, 314, 316 assembly (of citizens / people) 5, 29, 40, 43–44, 49, 121, 137, 143–144, 151, 209–211, 215, 238, 272, 298

416

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

Astyages 376 Athamas 285 Athena 32, 43, 50, 95, 105, 108, 115, 145, 178, 252, 384, 410 Athenian(s) 93, 99–100, 103–113, 122–125, 128, 141, 143, 148–150, 209–210, 212, 214–215, 218, 224–228, 230–231, 235, 237–240, 242, 249, 271, 282, 309, 316, 384 Athens 4, 8–9, 11, 35, 51–52, 65, 72, 88, 92–95, 99, 104–105, 107, 109–110, 113–117, 119, 121, 123–124, 126–129, 145–146, 149–151, 154, 163–165, 185, 191, 193–194, 202–204, 208–211, 215–216, 219–220, 231, 238–240, 242, 249–250, 252, 261, 265, 271, 273–275, 303–304, 307–308, 312–313, 315–320, 371, 374, 384, 410 Atossa 396 Atreidae 208 audience 20, 25–26, 28–29, 32, 39, 60, 69, 71, 140–141, 143, 154, 159, 161, 170, 189, 191–193, 195, 202, 213, 218, 221, 224, 238, 243, 246, 248–252, 254–256, 259, 264, 272, 304, 312, 315–316, 345, 363, 375, 378, 380–384, 387, 389, 394, 399, 401 authority 37, 39, 41, 43–45, 47, 49–51, 53, 61, 82, 87, 93, 132, 153, 197, 214–215, 222, 245–247, 249, 251, 253–255, 257, 259, 261, 282, 309, 318, 324, 364, 373 autochthony 204 Automedon of Phlius 280 Bacchylides 73, 280 barbarian 92–93, 95, 111, 196, 229, 238, 241, 307–310, 317, 319, 365, 390 basileus 37–40, 44, 49, 51, 164, 201 beards 102, 131, 133, 135–139, 141–143, 145, 234 Bellerophon 33–34, 178 Britannicus 388, 390–392 burial 16, 81, 89, 107–108, 207–209, 212–218, 220, 257–258, 281, 342, 348–349 Busiris 263, 266–268, 272 Byzantine 380, 385

Cadmus 27, 306 Callimachus (sculptor and architect) 304 Calydonian boar 32 Cambyses 381 campaign 28, 82, 92, 108, 119, 132, 192, 224, 226, 231, 237, 239, 242, 267, 391 captive 17, 224, 227, 388–389, 397 Caranus 309, 317 Celts 270–271, 273, 363, 365, 370 cenotaph 82, 89, 104–105, 108 Cephallenia / Cephallenian(s) 14, 18, 38 Chios 4, 7–8, 59 Choerilus of Samos 304 Chronos 383 Ciconians 47 Cimon 109 Circe 16, 19, 47, 177, 198 Cisseus 306–307 Claudius 388–392, 398–399, 402–403 Cleanax 6 Cleisthenes of Athens / Cleisthenic reforms 99–100, 105, 107, 113 Cleisthenes of Sicyon 147–150, 153–154, 156, 158, 160–165, 283–285, 287, 289 closure 16, 245–246, 256–257, 259–261 Codrus 381 Colonus, Hippios 210–211, 243, 260 Colophon 8, 34, 80 commemorative monuments 101, 105, 141 Comnenian (times) 380 competition 48, 59, 156–157, 231, 279, 284, 286, 315, 361 Constans 375–376, 385 Constantius II 375–376, 385 Corinth / Corinthian(s) 33–34, 36, 77–82, 90–93, 95, 110, 126–127, 236, 279, 285, 287, 304 coup, oligarchic of 411 BC 207, 210–211 Creon 213–217, 220 Creophylus 8 Cresphontes 381 Critheis 6 Ctimene 48 cult 14–15, 20, 23, 59–60, 63, 73–74, 101, 103–104, 108, 114–117, 141, 173, 189–191, 195–196, 200–201, 204, 249, 251, 254, 258–261, 279–280, 282–287,

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

289, 298–299, 340, 342–343, 348–349, 357, 362, 365, 409 cultural influence 196, 200 Cuma 4–6, 8, 193, 195, 197 Cupid 392, 396–398 curse tablet 313 Cyclops 18, 42–43, 47, 205, 318, 395 Cypria 7 Cyrus 376, 378, 381 Danaus 198, 306 Dark Age(s) 39, 51, 53 declamation 375, 385 Deceleia 210 Deianeira 223–230, 233–235, 238, 246–248, 253, 255, 257–259, 388, 396 Delphi 93, 107–108, 117, 139, 163, 165, 191, 255, 284, 289, 299, 301, 315 dēmios 43–44 demos 41–44, 106, 109, 196, 210 democracy / demokratia 80, 103, 105–106, 111, 114–116, 131, 133–135, 137–139, 141, 143, 145, 150, 193, 211, 218–220, 319, 407 Demosthenes (general) 239–240, 242 Demosthenes (orator) 216, 271–272 Deucalion 17, 42, 323, 328–330 deus ex machina 245, 253, 255, 259 Dexileos 105 Didymus 380 Dikaspolos 40 Diodorus Siculus 182, 189, 193–195, 267–268, 344, 351, 380 Diomedes 27, 31, 33 dishonouring of the dead 209 Dium 303, 314–315 domestic and political order 57, 59, 61, 69–71 Douris of Samos 159, 207, 212–213 dynamics 19, 57, 145, 164, 248, 253, 259, 263, 373 Echetlus 282 Egypt 163, 267–268, 339–340, 342, 344–346, 348–349, 351–353, 355–357, 365, 382, 410 Eiresione 4

417

Electra 186, 211, 219–220, 387–388, 390, 396, 405 Eleusis 384 Elis 18, 66, 287 Elpenor 48 encomium 378–380, 382 Epaminondas 382 Ephippus 263, 266–272 epigram 3–11, 77, 79, 82–83, 87–88, 94–95, 100, 107–108, 107, 113–116, 411 epistula 333, 375 Epitaphios 77–78, 104, 382 Erythraea 4 etai, etēs 46–47 Eteocles 216 eternal recurrence 323, 328, 331–336 ethic identity / ethnicity 24, 26, 72, 82, 84–85, 87, 95, 169–170, 189, 193–196, 199, 208, 305, 308–309, 315, 317–319, 359–365, 367, 369, 371, 373 Etruria 4 etymology 21, 41, 51–52, 172, 183, 190–191, 194, 198, 200, 205, 280, 343, 347, 354, 356 Euboea / Euboean(s) 24, 38, 52, 67, 196, 224–227, 243 Eumelus 33 Eunapius 380 Euripides 18, 68, 175, 205, 207–208, 222–223, 233, 238, 241, 243–244, 253–254, 258, 261, 303–308, 311–320, 367, 387, 389–390, 395 Eurydice 8 Eurylochus 37, 48 Eurymachus 21, 41–42 Eusebius 380 exempla 28, 375–376, 378, 380–384, 398, 401–403 exile 13–20, 22, 24, 256, 306–307, 311, 401, 403 exodus 245–249, 251, 253, 255–257, 259, 261, 403 Favorinus 371 festival 15, 72, 105, 107, 131–133, 138, 142, 164, 172, 200, 222, 231, 253, 274, 279, 281–287, 289, 291, 298, 310, 313–316, 410

418

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

fleet 47, 90, 109–110, 123, 125–126, 143, 210–211, 213, 224, 323, 384, 389–390 flood 323–326, 328–332, 334–337, 343, 351 formulae 37, 39, 87, 153 fortune 126, 174, 176, 227, 324, 332, 389, 401 foundation myth 57–61, 63, 65, 67, 69–71, 73–75, 167, 169, 171–173, 177, 179, 292, 299, 304–306, 310 ‘Four Hundred’ (400), the government of (see: coup, oligarchic of 411 BC) freedom 21–22, 104, 108, 111, 116, 127, 177, 193, 197, 245, 295, 325, 336 funeral games 103, 280, 285 genealogy 59, 169, 194–195, 199, 201, 256, 306, 308 genre 24, 49, 52, 57–60, 73, 75, 79, 95, 143, 167, 197, 245, 264, 272, 292–293, 303, 305, 311, 315, 325, 345–346, 361, 363, 372, 375, 377, 379, 382, 398 Geryon 73, 168, 174–175, 178, 263, 268–272 Glaucus 33–34 goat 107, 178, 306–308, 310–311 Greekness / Hellenicity 303–305, 308–310, 317, 371 Gregory of Nyssa, St. 381 Halitherses 48 Harmodios 102, 114, 116 Hecuba 388 Heliaia 209 Helios 47, 176, 340 Hellanicus 17, 19, 199, 305, 312 Heraclea (in Trachis) 224–226, 229–231, 239, 242–243 Heracles 28, 35, 62–64, 69, 102, 117, 168–169, 173–180, 184, 223–231, 233, 236–238, 240, 242–265, 267–268, 272, 303–304, 306, 308, 361–365, 367, 369–371, 383–384, 388–390, 393–396, 399, 401 hero / heroic 7, 9–10, 13, 16–18, 20, 22, 24–36, 39–40, 49, 59–63, 67, 69–71, 73–74, 99, 101, 103, 107, 109, 113–115, 117, 131, 138–139, 141, 144, 146, 153, 164, 173, 179–182, 189, 199, 201, 225, 229–230, 233, 238, 241, 245, 247,

249–253, 256–258, 259–261, 264, 279–287, 289, 291, 294, 299–301, 303–304, 306, 309, 336, 346, 361, 364, 368, 371, 382, 409 Herodes Atticus 107, 371, 373 Herodotus 3, 10, 23, 40, 72, 80, 103, 115–116, 129, 131–132, 139–140, 143–150, 152–165, 167–173, 175–180, 182–184, 186, 198–199, 283–285, 289, 299–300, 303–304, 307, 310–312, 315–319, 339–345, 347–351, 353–357, 362–363, 367, 369, 378, 383 Hesiod 3, 10, 26, 36, 52, 73, 75, 147, 149, 164–165, 175, 177–180, 183, 198, 225, 251, 260, 297–298, 301–302, 304, 308, 339–341, 343, 345, 347, 349–351, 353–355, 357 hetairos / hetairoi 42, 44, 46–48 Hieron I of Syracuse 189, 191–197, 199–203 Hipparchus 99, 101–102 Hippias 99–100, 105, 110, 117 Hippodameia 286 hippodrome 282 historiography 57, 69, 97, 167, 176, 179, 183, 291, 300–301, 303, 305, 315, 362, 369, 378–379, 384, 410 Homer 3–11, 14, 17–19, 22, 24, 26–30, 36, 51–53, 65, 79, 86, 123, 129, 164–165, 220, 244, 260–261, 301, 367, 372, 409–410 Homeridai 7 honorific statue 101, 106 honors 104–105, 141, 285, 294 hoplites 80, 109–111, 114, 121, 239–240, 242 house / household (see also “oikos”) 6, 14, 37–38, 40, 43, 45–50, 63, 67, 79, 149, 172, 178, 193, 212, 214, 225–226, 234, 303–304, 308, 310–311, 314, 316, 332, 401, 403 Hybristica 131–133, 138–139, 142–143 Hyginus 300, 305–306, 318 Hyllos 247 hypsipolis 214 Hypsipyle 280 iconography 61, 75, 110, 204, 252, 273, 286, 339–340, 343, 346, 363, 409

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

identity 6–7, 26, 33–34, 42, 57, 60, 71–74, 83, 86, 91, 95, 114, 116, 137, 165, 194, 196, 205, 211, 215, 219, 247–248, 258, 260, 279, 283–284, 287, 305, 309, 315, 317, 361–363, 368, 370, 373, 385, 409–410 idios 44 image(s) / imagery 6, 33, 51, 75, 79, 100–102, 105, 110–111, 113–117, 131, 133, 141–144, 216, 243, 252, 261, 299, 308, 325–326, 331, 339–340, 345, 348, 354, 356, 365, 391 imperialism 189, 194–195, 198, 202, 271 Indo-European 9–10, 41–42, 44, 46, 52, 175, 182, 190, 206 Indo-Iranian 175, 182, 185 Ino 285 intertextuality 260, 265, 325, 328, 331, 333, 338, 377, 385, 410 invasion 48, 65, 92–93, 99, 110, 226, 267, 342, 388 Ismenias 6 Isocrates 377, 380 isonomia / isonomoi 103, 105, 116 Isthmia 279, 289 Isthmus of Corinth 285, 287 Ithaca 4, 13–15, 18–24, 37, 39–41, 43–44, 48–50, 52, 115, 146, 164, 204 Josephus 371 Julian 375, 381–382, 385, 392 Juno 390, 393–395, 398 Jupiter 181, 183, 330–331, 389–390, 392–393, 395–398 keimēlia 46 kēlēthmos 39 Korinthiaka 33 Kourotrophos 9–10 Kritios 100, 113–114 Labdacids 207 Laertes 18–19, 40, 45 Laestrygonians 37, 39, 47 lāos 41–44

419

laws 7–8, 48, 103–104, 129, 135–138, 148, 156–157, 160–162, 197, 208, 210–212, 214–216, 219–220, 254, 284, 307, 336, 370, 393, 402, 404 Lefkandi 38, 51–52 Leonidas 228, 382 Lotus-eaters 47 Lucian 58, 359–365, 367–369, 371–374 Macedon / Macedonian(s) 84–85, 93, 95, 263, 270–271, 273–275, 303–319, 352 Mandane 376 Marathon 99–100, 104, 106–117, 163, 193, 238, 282, 384 Marathonomachoi 99, 101, 103, 105–111, 113, 115, 117 Mecisteus 284 Mediterranean 24, 37, 40, 49, 51–52, 74, 95, 173, 198, 205, 259, 300–301, 309, 359, 373, 409–410 Melanippus 241, 279, 284 Melanopos 6 Meleager 25, 32–33, 241, 243 Meles 4–8 Melesigenes 4, 6 Melicertes 279, 285 Memnon 373, 382 memory / commemoration 32–33, 73, 77, 79, 81–83, 85, 87, 89, 91, 93–95, 105, 108, 111, 115–116, 132, 141, 146, 163, 209, 235, 237, 239, 242, 256, 272, 292, 298, 300, 317, 401 Menander Rhetor 378, 385 Menelaus 31, 70 Mentor 43, 48 Mesopotamia 37, 40, 49 Messalina 388, 392, 402 Messene 196, 381 Midas 4 Middle Comedy 263, 265–266, 268, 270, 272, 274 ‘Middle ground’ theory 193, 203–204, 206 Miltiades 104, 108–109 mnēstēres 42, 263, 265–266, 268, 270, 272, 274 mnesterophonia 41

420

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

monster 50, 73, 178, 233, 238, 240, 243, 392, 399 Musaeus 7 Muses 6, 8, 10, 67, 145, 296–298, 302, 315, 325, 388 Mycenae / Mycenaean(s) 31, 33–34, 38, 51–53, 381, 388 myth / mythic / mythical 4, 25–26, 28–29, 31–34, 36–37, 49, 58–61, 63, 65, 68, 70, 77–78, 86, 88–89, 94, 110, 131, 138, 144, 147, 153, 155, 163, 167–168, 170, 173, 175–177, 179–180, 182, 198, 201–202, 228, 250, 263–269, 271–273, 275, 279–280, 283–284, 286–287, 291–300, 303, 305–306, 311, 314, 339, 375, 380–382, 398, 409 mythology / mythological 13, 21, 23, 26, 60, 72–73, 75, 131, 144, 146, 156, 168, 170–171, 175–177, 183, 185–186, 202, 221–222, 225, 243, 250, 253–254, 263, 265–268, 270, 272–274, 300–301, 342, 356–357, 359, 361, 365, 378–379, 381–382, 384, 387, 390–392, 403, 405, 409 Nausica 20, 43 naval battle 92–93 necropolitics / necropolitical 101, 207–209, 217–219 Nectanebo II 263, 265, 267–269, 271–273, 275 Nemea / Nemean (Games et al.) 178–179, 279–283, 285, 287–289, 409 Nero 323–324, 331, 334, 337, 387–392, 395–396, 398–404 Nesiotes 100, 113–114 Nestor 25, 29–30, 35 Nicias 121–126, 128, 224, 231 Nicostratus of Argos 267–268 Nikomedeia 380 nomos 253–255, 299 nurse 45, 141, 280, 387–392, 394–398, 403–405 oarsmen 110, 371 oath 68, 106, 116, 190–191, 253–254, 257, 260, 366–367, 372, 397 obscuritas 378–379

Octavia 387–405 Odysseus 4, 9, 13–24, 30, 37, 40–43, 45–51, 95, 177, 183, 198, 208 Oedipus 27, 217, 219, 223, 244, 250, 252, 260, 264, 389–391, 399, 404, 409 Oeniadae 235–238, 243 Oenomaus 286 Ogmios 363, 365, 369–370 oikos (see also“house/household”) 14, 40, 43–46, 49, 51–52, 228, 257–258 Olympia 88, 148, 279, 284, 286–287, 289, 314–315 Olympias 376 Olympic Games 226, 310 Olympus 39, 73, 86, 200, 250–252, 257, 294, 308–309, 314–316, 393 Onomacles 211 Opheltes 279–283, 285, 287–289, 409 oracle 7, 17, 22, 67–68, 70, 77–78, 89–90, 131, 139–144, 146, 248, 250, 255, 257, 267, 274, 282, 284, 289, 305–307, 312, 351, 365, 377, 381 oration 126, 216, 219, 229, 307, 375–376, 385 Orestes 17, 243, 265, 287, 289, 303, 361, 364, 388, 390 ornamenta 375 Orpheus 7 ostracism 100, 105 Ovid 68, 323, 325–326, 328, 330–332, 334, 336–337, 347, 349, 353 paideia 359–364, 368, 371–373 Palaemon 285 Palaeologan (times) 380 Palici 189–197, 199–206 Pamphyliacum 131, 133–135 Pan 384 Panathenaia 103–105, 116, 164 Pandora 26, 301 panegyric 377, 379, 385 partheneia 57–61, 63, 65–67, 69–71, 73, 75 Peisander 210–211 Peleus 17, 28, 30, 65, 297 Pella 313–314, 317, 319 Peloponnese / Peloponnesians / Pelopponnesian (war etc.) 313–314, 317, 319

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

Pelops 279, 286–287, 289 Penelope 16, 19–20, 40–41, 43, 45, 49 Perdiccas 303, 307, 309–311, 317, 319 Pericles 126–127, 148, 212–213, 224, 229, 236 perioikoi 131, 133–134, 137–138 Persia / Persians / Persian wars 80, 104, 106–108, 110–111, 115, 169, 180, 193, 197–198, 231, 243, 267–268, 270, 305, 309, 351, 381–382, 384, 396, 401, 404 Phaeacia / Phaeacians 15, 39, 43–44 Phemios 6–7 Philhellenism 304, 309, 316 Philip II 263, 265, 267, 269–275, 308, 310–311, 313, 317–318, 324, 376, 384 Phoenix 25, 32, 72–73, 184, 243, 339–357, 410 Phocaea 4 Phricon 5, 8 Phrynichus (one of the ‘Four Hundred’) 212 physics 324, 326, 329, 336 Pieria 314 Pindar 7, 17, 24, 36, 58–59, 64, 71–74, 165, 189, 192–194, 197, 201, 203–204, 213, 259, 284–286 Plataiai 80, 99, 107, 110, 112, 115, 197 Plato 112, 114, 219, 245, 270, 307, 317, 328, 350, 373–374 Plautus 383 Pleuron 233–235, 240, 242–243 Plutarch 13–16, 21, 23, 58, 64, 131–133, 136–138, 212–213, 229, 314, 369, 371, 374, 378, 380 polis 15–16, 24, 33, 37, 49–50, 52, 57, 59, 74, 77–78, 80–83, 94–95, 116, 133, 136, 146, 208, 214–216, 219–221, 226, 244, 258, 260, 274, 289, 409 politicizing 209, 217 Polybius 82, 380 Polybus 284 Polyneices 207–209, 213, 215–218 Polyphemus 42, 198 Poppaea 389–391, 394–405 Poseidon 59, 67, 198, 210, 285–286 prestige 29, 38, 40, 46, 164, 279, 283, 287, 328 probasis 46 Probouloi 210–211

421

Proclus 3, 15, 17–19 progymnasmata 375 ps.-Callisthenes 378 ps.-Herodotus 3–5, 7–9 ps.-Hesiod 225, 251 Pylades 361, 364 Pylian epos 35 Pylos / Pylians 8, 29–30, 35 pyre 213, 249–251, 258, 327, 350, 354 reception 4–5, 10, 13, 20–23, 74–75, 110, 167, 184, 204–205, 214, 221–222, 245, 303, 305, 359, 373, 409, 410 religion 23, 36, 74, 116, 146, 183–185, 200, 204, 216, 220, 243, 254, 259, 274, 300–302, 319, 343, 345–346, 348–349, 354, 356–357, 359, 384, 407, 409–410 ritual 8, 14–15, 24, 46, 59–60, 66, 70, 72–74, 108, 114, 136–137, 141, 145–146, 157, 173, 183, 196, 209, 216, 218–219, 244–245, 249–251, 255–261, 273, 281–282, 284, 287, 291–292, 298–300, 302, 314, 362, 365, 367, 398, 409 rivalry 279, 281, 283, 285, 287, 289, 316 role model 111, 258 Rome 36, 72, 74, 100, 102, 112, 114–116, 146, 181, 183, 203–204, 206, 289, 300–302, 319, 323, 332, 334, 337–338, 349–350, 354, 356, 372–374, 384, 403, 409–410 Romulus 378 Salamis 67, 71, 80, 108–111, 113, 193, 384, 404 Samian 207, 209, 212–213 Samos 4, 34, 207, 210–213, 304 Sappho 382–383 Sarpedon 28, 34, 123, 308, 382 Scylla and Charybdis, strait of 47 Scythian(s) 167–177, 179–186, 198–199, 271, 359–362, 364, 366–367, 369–373 Seneca 323–338, 387–391, 393–395, 399, 401, 403–405, 409–410 Sepeia 70, 73–74, 131–132, 134–135, 137–144 Seriphon 8 serpent / serpent-nymph 139, 142, 169–170, 174, 176–182, 234 servants 45, 50, 228, 241, 306

422

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

Seven Against Thebes 208, 279–280, 282 ‘shepherd of the people’ 30, 42 Sicyon 147–148, 150, 156, 161, 164–165, 279, 283–285, 287, 289 Sidon 39, 393 siege 82, 119–126, 128, 212, 236 Sikels 189–190, 194–196, 199–201 Smyrna 4–6, 8 snake 131, 140–144, 157, 174, 178, 280–281, 344, 346, 348, 376 Socrates 132, 304, 319, 328, 389 Solon 146, 383 Sophocles 83–84, 86, 207–211, 213–214, 216, 218–223, 225–227, 229, 231, 233, 235, 237–239, 241, 243–245, 247, 249, 251–261, 387, 396, 410 Spain 4 Sparta / Spartans 62–63, 65, 69–70, 72–75, 92, 99–100, 105, 126, 132–133, 135–136, 140, 142, 146, 169, 183–184, 210, 212, 222, 224–232, 238, 242–244, 252, 270, 287, 384, 396 speech act 246, 253, 261 stadium 282, 315 Stasinus 7 stasis 99, 105, 115, 255, 256 statue group 101–106, 108–109 Stoicism 323–328, 330, 332, 334–337 Strabo 66, 80, 83–86, 92, 168, 236, 243, 293, 344, 380 suavitas 379 suitors 13–16, 18–19, 21–22, 24, 37, 40–43, 48–50, 147–148, 152, 154, 162, 164–165, 233–234, 397 symposium / symposia 103, 150, 160, 313 Syracuse / Syracusan(s) 74, 119, 121, 123–126, 128, 189, 191–194, 196–197, 202, 205, 270 Tegea 145, 287 Teichos 4 Teiresias 213 Telamon 28 Telemachus 7, 14–15, 19, 21, 29, 40–41, 43, 45, 48 Telesilla 58, 65, 70, 73–74, 131–132, 139–140, 142, 144 Temenus 305, 309–310

Teucer 208 Thamyris 7 thanatopolitics 208–209 Thebes / Thebans / Theban war 27, 31–32, 59, 67, 71, 74, 208, 213, 235–236, 279–280, 282–284, 289, 293, 306, 384 Theodosius 375, 383 Theolaos 8 Thesprotians 39, 92 Thirty Tyrants 211 Thrace 305–307 Thrinakia 48 Thucydides 59, 80, 92–93, 95, 102, 115, 119–129, 145, 167, 183–184, 186, 196, 207, 209, 220, 224, 229–231, 236–237, 239–240, 242, 244, 303–304, 307–308, 310, 315, 318, 364, 379, 410 Timotheus of Miletus 304 tomb 51, 104, 108, 117, 152, 197, 256, 281, 345 tragedy 24, 36, 75, 101, 110, 116, 128, 138, 142, 178, 191–192, 195, 203–205, 214, 218–223, 225, 229–231, 233, 240–241, 243–246, 251–253, 255–261, 264, 303–305, 307, 311, 315–320, 338, 344, 349, 369, 388–389, 393, 399, 401, 405, 407, 409–411 traitor 123, 207–209, 212–213, 215–218, 369 tropaion 109 Troy / Trojans / Trojan war 24–25, 27–30, 34–35, 37, 40, 47–50, 65, 70, 119–123, 125–129, 178, 194, 196–197, 213, 258, 308, 323–325, 328–329, 331–332, 381, 384, 388, 390, 392, 394, 396–398, 409 Tydeus 25, 28, 31–32, 241, 284 Tyrannicides (tyrant-slayers) 99, 101, 103–109, 111, 113–117 tyrant / tyranny 99, 102–103, 105–106, 109, 111, 114–116, 148, 150–151, 154–155, 162, 193, 196–197, 211, 252, 261, 283–284, 307, 317, 319, 388, 399, 401 Tzetzes 8, 266 Vergil 323, 325, 331, 333–334, 336–337, 398 victory / victory monument 70, 88, 107–111, 116, 120–121, 123–124, 128, 133, 135, 139–141, 144, 148, 161, 266, 271

Index Rerum et Nominum Notabiliorum

violence 53, 57, 61, 64, 69, 82, 196, 207–209, 218, 235, 239, 243, 362, 397 war 5, 27–30, 35, 40, 47–50, 53, 62, 70, 73, 80–82, 89, 92–93, 103–104, 106–111, 113, 115–116, 119–120, 122–123, 129, 133, 144–145, 198, 208–210, 212–213, 216, 221–229, 231–233, 235, 237–241, 243–244, 280, 282, 284, 307–309, 328, 333, 370, 381–382, 384, 396–397, 409 warrior 10, 25, 31, 48, 51, 53, 62–63, 109, 111, 201 ‘wigwam argument’ 243

423

xeinodokos 46 xenia / xenos / xenoi 45–47, 110, 307, 411 Xerxes 100, 198, 267 Zeus 5–6, 24, 27, 32, 39, 59, 63, 67, 70, 89, 127, 142, 169, 171, 176, 178, 182, 190–191, 197–199, 201, 217, 224, 226–227, 229, 234–245, 248, 251, 254–255, 260, 279–282, 286, 288, 293–298, 301, 308, 315, 341, 366, 382–384, 388, 390, 394, 396 Zeuxis of Ephesus 304