Nonverbal Behaviour in Ancient Literature: Athenian Dialogues III (Trends in Classics - Supplementary Volumes, 155) [1 ed.] 3111338525, 9783111338521

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Nonverbal Behaviour in Ancient Literature

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Associate Editors Stavros Frangoulidis · Fausto Montana · Lara Pagani Serena Perrone · Evina Sistakou · Christos Tsagalis Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Kathleen Coleman · Jonas Grethlein Philip R. Hardie · Stephen J. Harrison · Stephen Hinds Richard Hunter · Giuseppe Mastromarco Gregory Nagy · Theodore D. Papanghelis Giusto Picone · Alessandro Schiesaro Tim Whitmarsh · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 155

Nonverbal Behaviour in Ancient Literature

Athenian Dialogues III Edited by Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou

ISBN 978-3-11-133852-1 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-133867-5 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-133888-0 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023947829 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2024 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Acknowledgements This volume arises from a conference at the Academy of Athens, “Nonverbal Communication and Cultural Performance in Ancient Literature” (06 October 2021). The conference allowed eminent scholars to discuss about how nonverbal communication is manifested in a wide range of texts and what this enables the researchers from within and outside the confines of Classical Studies to understand about cultural (ethnic/civic, socio-economic, religious, moral, aesthetic etc.) processes and outcomes in ancient Greece and Rome. The two editors owe sincere and heartfelt gratitude to all the conference delegates who have contributed a chapter to the volume and have worked with full professional conscience and warm scholarly zest for its successful and timely completion. The outcome of the admirably smooth cooperation between the editors and contributors, the volume at hand, reimburses us all for our labours and rewards the knowledge, the passion, and the personal drive shown during the days and the nights that were spent for the preparation of the volume. The editors would also like to thank the Academy of Athens, especially the Research Centre for Greek and Latin Literature and its supervisor, distinguished Professor Antonios Rengakos, for realising the value of the conference that allowed the idea of this volume to germinate and grow, believing in its importance, and supporting it wholeheartedly. Andreas Serafim would also like to thank Nicolaus Copernicus University in Toruń, especially the Department of Classical Studies, for providing excellent research facilities that contributed decisively towards the timely and successful completion of the volume, and Millie Gall for reading and commenting on parts of the final manuscript. Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou Toruń and Athens October 2023

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-202

Contents Acknowledgements V List of Figures  IX Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou Nonverbal Behaviour in the Ancient Texts and Contexts: Terms, Perspectives, and Themes  1

Part I: Performing Nonverbal Behaviour: Music, Vocalics, Masks, and Dance Armand D’ Angour The Movements of the Tragic Chorus: The Evidence of Euripides’ Orestes Fragment  17 Lucia Athanassaki Animal Imagery and Choral Self-Expression: Pindar 140b  31 Sophia Papaioannou Dramaturgy and Nonverbal Behaviour in Roman Comedy  45 Mali A. Skotheim Silence as a Form of Discourse: Rhetoric, Gesture, and the Mysticism of Dance in Greek Literature of the Roman Empire  63

Part II: The Art of Hiding in Ancient Literature: Deception and Enigma Christos Kremmydas Representations of Nonverbal Cues of Deception in Greek Literature  91 Ioannis M. Konstantakos The Enigmatic Image: Bilderrätsel, Performed Riddles, and Visual Communication in Greek and Roman Tradition  113

VIII  Contents

Part III: Nonverbal Behaviour in Oratory Michael Gagarin Nonverbal Communication in Athenian Forensic Oratory  139 Andreas Serafim The σχῆμα of Invective: Body, Interpersonal Attacks, and Identity Deconstruction in Attic Oratory  151

Part IV: Constructing Identities: Power Statuses, Social Norms, and Ethnicity Donald Lateiner Tactics of Nonverbal Persuasion and Rule Infractions in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika  179 Bartłomiej Bednarek How to be Sympotikos and what it Actually Means  207 Glenys Davies Body Language and Becoming Roman on Trajan’s Column  237

Part V: The Voice of Earth: Nonverbal Behaviour, Language, and Nature Anthony Corbeill Hearing the Earth Speak: Paralinguistic Mutterings in Cicero, De haruspicum responsis  267 Notes on Editors and Contributors  283 General Index  285 Index Locorum  289

List of Figures Fig. 1:

Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Chalcidian black-figure cup, Würzburg, Universität, Martin von Wagner Museum: L164, BAPD 18504. 228 Fig. 2: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic red-figure cup, Douris, Karlsruhe, Badisches Landesmuseum: 70.395, BAPD 4704.  228 Fig. 3: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic red-figure bell krater, Sozopol, Museum: D21484, BAPD 22727.  229 Fig. 4: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure oinochoe, private collection (?), Gela Painter, BAPD 14840.  229 Fig. 5: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure cup, Oxford, Ashmolean Museum: 1974.344, BAPD 396.  230 Fig. 6: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic red-figure/white ground cup, Euphronios Potter, Gotha, Schlossmuseum: 48, BAPD 200100.  230 Fig. 7: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic red-figure cup, Basel, Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig: BS489, BAPD 217401.  231 Fig. 8: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure Siana cup, Heidelberg Painter, Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale: 110339, BAPD 350189.  231 Fig. 9: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure belly amphora, Florence, Museo Archeologico Etrusco: 3812, BAPD 320326, side A.  232 Fig. 10: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure belly amphora, Florence, Museo Archeologico Etrusco: 3812, BAPD 320326, side B.  233 Fig. 11: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Neo-Assyrian relief, London, British Museum: 124920.  233 Fig. 12: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure neck amphora, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum: GR27.1864.48, BAPD 302249. 234 Fig. 13: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black figure stamnos, Beaune Painter, Malibu (CA), The J. Paul Getty Museum: 86.AE.106, BAPD 32053.  235 Fig. 14: Scenes 10 (adlocutio) and 11 (legionaries involved in building activity). K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 91.154  255 Fig. 15: Scene 75: The “Great Surrender” of the Dacians at the end of the first war. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.746  256 Fig. 16: Scenes 92 (Classiarii cutting down trees) and 93 (Dacians rush to enter their fortification). K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.563  256 Fig. 17: Scene 111: Dacians in disorder above, arguing below. F.W. Deichmann, Neg. D-DAIRom 41.1630  257 Fig. 18: Scene 44: Trajan rewards auxiliary soldiers. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.768  258 Fig. 19: Scene 123: Dacians plead for clemency during second Dacian war. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAIRom 89.618  258 Fig. 20: Scene 100: Trajan meets ambassadors from various local populations. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.576  259 Fig. 21: Scene 120: Mass Dacian suicide by poisoning (or sharing the last drop of water?). K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.608  259 Fig. 22: Scene 122: Dacians flee in disorder. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.651  260 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-204

X  List of Figures Fig. 23:

Fig. 24: Fig. 25: Fig. 26: Fig. 27: Fig. 28: Fig. 29: Fig. 30:

Scene 39: Dacian chiefs negotiate with Trajan on behalf of the families on the left; Roman legionaries carry on building activities below. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.760  260 Scene 80: Civilians await the arrival of the emperor at a harbour town. F.W. Deichmann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 41.1502  261 Scene 81: Civic dignitaries greet Trajan in a town with impressive Roman architecture. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.756  262 Scenes 82/83: After another sea voyage, the rear of the procession of civilians seeing Trajan on his way by land. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.757  262 Scenes 83/84: To the right of the arch, more people see Trajan and his entourage off. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.549  263 Scene 86: Trajan and his entourage arrive at a town where Trajan sacrifices, with a crowd of civilians in attendance on the right. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.553  263 Scene 90: Trajan, on horseback, encounters a group of Dacian men and children, who greet him with various gestures. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.558  264 Scene 91: Trajan sacrifices on the left; civilians in togas attend the sacrifice in the centre, and on the right women and children in local dress and Dacian men in the background. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.560  264

Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou

Nonverbal Behaviour in the Ancient Texts and Contexts: Terms, Perspectives, and Themes Nonverbal behaviour is “an elaborate and secret code that is written nowhere, known by none, and understood by all.” Edward Sapir1

This volume offers a fresh, up-to-date, interdisciplinary, “transhistorical”, and transcultural study of an intricate and intriguing research topic: nonverbal behaviour. The chapters this volume consists of focus on the examination of transmitted texts from Homer to the 4th century AD to understand and discuss a wide variety of unexamined or under-researched aspects of nonverbal behaviour, and how these are linked to and shed light on general cultural frameworks in ancient Greece and Rome. Material sources are also examined because they have the potential to enhance our knowledge and understanding of the texts. Although these are themselves as obscure and elliptic as texts are, and are, too, subject to subjective interpretations, their examination vis-à-vis the transmitted texts has the potential to reveal, confirm, or alter information about the cultural reading of the varied features and aspects of nonverbal behaviour in GrecoRoman antiquity. Nonverbal behaviour needs further conceptual clarification. As used in this volume, nonverbal behaviour is an overarching term that refers to both nonverbal communication, i.e. behaviour that is used for communicative and persuasive goals, and to body language. Nonverbal behaviour is taken as any communicative act (conscious, intentional, and voluntary or otherwise) that is expressed and carried out without the use of language.2 The notion is theorised to include four main categories: kinesics (bodily movements, including facial expressions, direction of gaze, and gesticulation), vocalics (non-linguistic vocal cues, e.g. volume and pitch), haptics (body contact, e.g. handshake or ritual touching in the case of supplication), and proxemics (spatial cues, e.g. doctor-

 1 Sapir 1927, 556. 2 The following condensed theoretical explanation of the notions of nonverbal communication and body language (pages 1–5) with the accompanying bibliographical sketch is based on the Introduction to Serafim (forthcoming). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-001

  Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou patient distance and body orientation).3 For L. Loveday nonverbal behaviour is an umbrella term for “the vocal, kinesic (gestural) and proxemic (spatial) channels, which accompany, interfuse, and partly synchronize the traditionally recognized ones”,4 while for M. Argyle it “takes place whenever one person influences another by means of facial expression, tone of voice”,5 gesticulation, human stature, voluntary or involuntary movements, other aspects of physicality and nonverbal vocalisation (e.g. laughter and weeping).6 R.P. Harrison includes in the notion of nonverbal behaviour four categories of codes: performance codes that are based on the actions of the human body; artifactual codes, those that refer to the use of artifacts such as clothing and jewelry; mediational codes that involve manipulation of the media; and contextual codes such as the employment of nonverbal signs in time and space.7 F. Poyatos focuses on sensory channels (i.e. acoustic, visual, olfactory, and tactile) and their value in sustaining a mixture of verbal and nonverbal communication.8 For D. Lateiner, who was among the pioneers who helped establish the examination of nonverbal behaviour as an important and fertile facet of research in classical scholarship, it includes “gesture, posture, body-talk, chronemics, and proxemics. Events include somatic, vocal (nonverbal), dermal, thermal, and olfactory messages and experiences”.9

 3 The main categories of nonverbal behaviour stimuli can further be broken down into several complicated patterns of subcategories. Hand movements, for example, are generally recognised as adapters (manipulative acts of a person or an object; Efron 1941/1972; Ekman and Friesen 1969; Ekman and Friesen 1972), symbolic or semiotic gestures (those that have conventionalised meanings; Ricci Bitti and Poggi 1991; and conversational gestures (accompaniments of a speech; Ekman and Friesen 1972; McNeill 1985; Hadar 1989; Feyereisen and deLannoy 1991). 4 Loveday 1982, 91. 5 Argyle 1988, 1–2. 6 Cf. Duncan 1969; Knapp 1972; Harper et al. 1978. On vocal aspects of nonverbal behaviour: Trager 1958, 1–12; 1960, 24–30; 1961, 17–21; Crystal 1963, 25–29; 1966, 93–108; 1974, 265–295; Abercrombie 1968, 55–59; Houston 1984, 185. 7 Harrison 1973. 8 Poyatos 1977, 295–338. On nonverbal behaviour and interpersonal communication: Harper, Wiens, and Matarazzo 1978. 9 Lateiner 1995, xix. Lateiner categorises the use of types of nonverbal behaviour in Homer: first, “ritualised and conventional gestures, postures and vocalics” (i.e. grasping sceptres, gestures during ceremonial instances such as oaths, invocations, and prayers to the gods); second, emotional signs that reveal the psychological situation of an individual (i.e. laughter, cringing, facial expressions that reveal emotions); third, “objects, tokens, clothes (external adaptors)”; fourth, “social manipulation of space and time”; and finally, gestures, vocal ploys, and posturing. Lateiner 1995, 10–16; also: Holoka 1992, 237–254; Boegehold 1999, 12–28.

Nonverbal Behaviour in the Ancient Texts and Contexts  

Body language is a part of the general category of nonverbal behaviour: it refers to the use mainly of the human body (but also, occasionally, of other living bodies) to send codified messages to target audiences, or to help the senders express themselves cognitively and emotionally. Body language may, therefore, refer to gestures, physical stature, movements, facial expressions, and physical appearance — any meaningful reaction of the human body, whether volitional, non-volitional, or semi-volitional. Spitting, for example, falls within the category of intentional and unintentional body language: it is generally considered volitional/intentional, in the sense that individuals use it as an expression of, mostly aggressive, thoughts and emotions towards others, relating bodily emission to their will, intention, and ēthos. But spitting can also be non-volitional/unintentional, as in the case of someone catching a cold and expelling phlegm whenever they cough, as the Hippocratic Epidemics 1.3.10–20 informs us. The approaches to and discussions of nonverbal behaviour that this volume includes in its twelve chapters are rooted in the pioneering research that has been conducted in the confines of ancient Greco-Roman literature. Works on nonverbal behaviour that the proposed book acknowledges and builds on include D. Lateiner’s Sardonic Smile (1995), where emphasis is placed on gesticulation (i.e. hand and bodily gestures, posturing, facial expressions) and the use of voice (i.e. regulation of vocal pitch, timbre, pace); A. Boegehold’s When a Gesture Was Expected (1999) and A. Corbeill’s Nature Embodied: Gesture in Ancient Rome (2004), both exploring the textual indicators of gesture, posture, and facial movements; A. Purves’ Homer and the Poetics of Gesture (2018), where Purves attends to gestures and movements like running, falling, and leaping, arguing for the relationship between kinetic and aesthetic interests in Homeric poetry. The studies of T. Foegen on ancient theory concerning nonverbal behaviour,10 those of G. Davies and L. Llewellyn-Jones on clothing, hands and gender,11 D. Levine and A. Corbeill on laughter,12 D. Cairns on the bodily expression of emotions in literary contexts,13 and H. van Wees on tears all shed useful light on the use of nonverbal behaviour in ancient literature.14 Two edited volumes, one by J. Porter and another by D. Cairns, on nonverbal behaviour in general

 10 Foegen 2001; 2005. 11 Davies 1985; 1994; 1997; 2002; Llewellyn-Jones 2003. 12 Levine 1982; 1983; 1984; Corbeill 1996. 13 Cairns 2001; 2003. 14 van Wees 1998.

  Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou and body language in particular, as found in varied ancient Greek and Roman texts, are also illuminating.15 With regard to oratory and rhetoric specifically, only a few works offer systematic analyses of nonverbal behaviour and hypocrisis, a term understood in ancient rhetorical theory as referring both to gestures (hand and bodily gestures, posturing, facial expressions) and vocality (regulation of vocal pitch, timbre, pace; cf. Aristotle, Rhetoric 1403b26–31; Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Demosthenes’ Diction 53; Rhetorica ad Herennium: voice quality in 3.20–24 and physical movement in 3.26–27; Quintilian, Inst. 11.3, on rhetorical body language;16 Longinus, Ars Rhetorica 567). Well-written commentaries usually devote some but limited space to the discussion of the textual indicators of gestural and vocal delivery: D. McDowell’s commentary on Demosthenes’ On the False Embassy and the commentaries of S. Usher and H. Yunis on On the Crown occasionally touch upon matters17 such as the use of figures of speech which point to moments where one would expect gestures to have been used. The books of A. Vatri and A. Serafim on performance in Attic oratory, and the latter’s recent articles on nonverbal communication and performance in oratory, offer insights into how descriptions of and information about aspects of individuals’ physicality are used by the speakers to support their arguments, defend themselves or attack their opponents and influence the verdict of those listening to and watching a forensic or political oration.18 N. Worman’s book, Abusive Mouths in Classical Athens (2008), is an important study that treats imagery about and references to the body, especially to the mouth. The book does not focus on the paralinguistic use of the mouth, but, in the words of its author, it mostly “charts abuse in classical Athenian literature that centres on the mouth and its activities, especially talking, eating, drinking and sexual practices”.19 The book is useful in exploring several genres (i.e. epic, lyric, tragedy, comedy, oratory) to discover and interpret instances of abuse in the cultural context of Greek antiquity, usually treating the references to the mouth figuratively, i.e. the mouth as vehicle for abusive attacks rather than as a part of the human body that needs to be discussed in a specific context. Three years after the publication of Abusive Mouths, R. Osborne came up with his book The History Written on the Classical Greek Body. This is more rele-

 15 Porter 2000; Cairns 2005. 16 See most recently Demetriou 2021. 17 Usher 1993; Yunis 2001. 18 Serafim 2017; 2020, 114–143; 2023, 9–34; Vatri 2017. 19 Worman 2008, 1.

Nonverbal Behaviour in the Ancient Texts and Contexts  

vant to the examination of nonverbal behaviour. The book provides an introduction to various areas of Athenian social, cultural, or political history to which the study of the body can contribute (e.g. athletics, medicine, sculpture, pottery, and more abstract matters of thought, such as identity formation and the citizen body). A new book, Body Language and Identity Construction in Ancient Greek and Roman Literature, is currently in preparation by A. Serafim. This is the fullest, most updated, and most thorough interdisciplinary examination, in classical scholarship, of semi-volitional body language: sneezing, spitting, coughing, hiccoughing, burping, vomiting, farting, defecating, and urinating. The book’s central argument is that the ways in which these aspects of body language are presented in a wide variety of ancient Greek and Roman texts reflect upon matters of individual and collective identity, i.e. how the ancients thought and wrote about their bodies, selves, and lives, and those of others, in specific periods and cultural contexts. Discussions focus, specifically, on the following four aspects of the interplay between semi-volitional body language and identity construction: first, sexuality and gender; second, information about ethnic/civic and collective cultural identities; third, references to ēthos and emotions in dramatic and other poetic texts and in those about public speaking; and fourth, aspects of the biological/corporeal self, i.e. the body as such and body-related actions, i.e. dieting and medical treatment.20 Despite the significant advances that have been made in classical scholarship in exploring nonverbal behaviour in ancient texts and cultural contexts, the fertility and complexity of the topic leaves much scope for further research, with an updated bibliography and a multi-disciplinary approach. No book can credibly pretend that it is the last word on the topic. The highest aspiration any work (on nonverbal behaviour in ancient literature) should have is to ignite further interest in the topic and provide researchers with the necessary methodological tools and knowledge to allow further discussion. The five thematic parts of the present volume, which accommodate original research on a wide spectrum of issues and that aim to ignite further interest in nonverbal behaviour in Greek and Roman antiquity, are as follows: Part I. Performing nonverbal behaviour: Music, vocalics, masks, and dance; Part II. The art of hiding in ancient literature: Deception and enigma; Part III. Nonverbal behaviour in oratory; Part IV. Constructing identities: Power statuses, social norms, and ethnicity; and, finally, Part V. The voice of earth: Nonverbal behaviour, language, and nature.

 20 Serafim (forthcoming).

  Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou Part I consists of four chapters, the first of which, by Armand D’ Angour, is entitled “The movements of the tragic chorus: The evidence of Euripides’ Orestes fragment”. Evidence for the actions and movements made by dramatic choruses is frustratingly hard to come by. Inferences may be made from terms such as strophē and antistrophē, and vase paintings can offer some suggestions about the movement of bodies and feet in dance. But while the names of many types of dances are known and there are mentions in ancient writings of hand gestures (cheironomia), nothing specific or detailed exists regarding dance movements or routines. However, a fragment of a chorus of Euripides’ Orestes (produced in 408 BC) that survives with musical notation, and that can be argued to represent the music of the dramatist himself, arguably gives a clue to one aspect of ancient choral dance. The stigmai (dots or marks) on the papyrus placed above certain syllables, which were said to indicate arsis — a term that means “rise”, and that has generally been interpreted as applying to the shape or ictus of the metrical unit, or more recently to the rise and fall of the melody — might indeed be read as relating the incidence of the rise and fall of dancer’s feet during the choral dance. If so, there are important implications for the dancing of complex rhythms such as that represented by the irregular dochmiac metre in which the Orestes fragment is composed. The indications of the stigmai on the papyrus may be understood as showing that there could be expected to be (at least in this case) two regular footfalls in the course of the five-element metrical unit of the dochmiac unit. The fact that the putative footfalls (theseis) do not entirely fall on the long elements directly, which has sometimes been assumed by metricians, has implications for the dancing of lyric choruses in general. The second chapter, by Lucia Athanassaki, is about “Animal imagery and choral self-expression”. In a fragment, partly preserved on a papyrus (P.Oxy. 408 vol. iii, 1903) and partly in Plutarch’s Quaestiones convivales (7.5.2), the performer(s) compare themselves to a dolphin at sea which the lovely melody of auloi has set in motion (fr. 140b). The Pindaric quotation is one of Plutarch’s examples of the uncontrollable power of music over men and animals alike. Plutarch’s other examples include horses and deer, animals to which lyric and dramatic choruses also liken either themselves in self-referential statements or other choreuts and dancers. In Alcman’s Louvre partheneion, for instance (fr. 1 PMGF), the chorus imagine a competition in which their leaders, Hagesichora and Agido, are said to compete like a Colaxaian against an Ibenian horse. Since horses, deer, and dolphins are all very graceful animals, it is not surprising that they are often found in choral imagery. This chapter goes beyond the nature and quality of orchestic movement to explore the communicative aspect of animal imagery, specifically how it enhances choral self-expression and presentation.

Nonverbal Behaviour in the Ancient Texts and Contexts  

In “Dramaturgy and nonverbal behaviour in Roman comedy”, Sophia Papaioannou takes on body language as an essential aspect of comic characterisation in the fabula palliata, a genre featuring characters that build on roles emanating from a tradition of character stereotyping. Even though slaves have their own unique character features, tailored to the expectations and the plot of specific comic works, all adhere to a common model of a cunning character entrusted with the task to facilitate the resolution of the plot, and all wear the same mask and dress similarly. These characters invest considerably in nonverbal means of communication such as gesticulation, body movement, or clothing, to express ideas and emotions, to emphasise arguments during the conversation, and, through all these, to declare their individuality. Body language on the palliata stage follows a code, and each movement has specific interpretation and is linked to specific character-type/role. Thus, despite the relative fixity of the facial expression of the stage agents, masked acting can be considerably expressive when accompanied by skilled gesturing and body movement. This acting is further annotated and individualised by the synchronous commentary of another character-intradramatic observer. Distinct case studies from Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus and Amphitruo show how the characters break out of the limitations imposed on their role by the mask through nonverbal conduct, specifically dance or dress. The chapter further elaborates on how the staging of twins, characters who wear identical masks and are mistaken for one another, underscores the ways in which nonverbal communication undermines the stereotypical conduct of a comic character, which is imprinted on the comic mask and the typology of the costume. The fourth chapter is titled “Comparing the rhetoric of gesture in Lucian, Libanius, and Bharata Muni’s Natyashastra”. In this chapter, Mali Skotheim, compares the nonverbal communication strategies that are described in the Natyashastra to their effects in Lucian, On the Dance, and Libanius, In Defense of the Dancers. Skotheim argues that it was possible to put into writing the practicalities of such a system, but that Greek writers of the Roman period intentionally avoid doing so, in order to heighten the sense of awe (thauma) directed at pantomime dancers as part of a larger aesthetic of thauma which encompassed paradoxography and mystical philosophy, along with the art of pantomimes. Part II contains chapters that examine features and aspects of the act of concealment, specifically, riddles and the method of hiding meaning or presenting it in a paradoxical and cryptic verbal and/or visual way. In the first chapter, “Representations of nonverbal cues of deception in Greek literature”, Christos Kremmydas explores the ways in which the awareness of different nonverbal cues of deception is articulated in Greek literature, from epic to the novel, from

  Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou Homer to Chariton. He also examines the ways in which such indicators are used to anticipate and frame various contexts in which verbal deception is represented as taking place. In their immediate literary context, the inclusion of bodily cues of deception makes passages more vivid and, therefore, more plausible, and thus contributes to the characterisation of key individuals. However, the representation of such cues also suggests an understanding of the complex nature and dynamic operation of deception in Greek antiquity. It almost certainly reflects more widely-held beliefs about deceptive practices and provides interesting insights into aspects of ancient folk psychology. It also points to interfaces between ancient and modern thinking about the practice of deception and raises intriguing questions about the ways in which skilled practitioners of the art of persuasion might have adapted their oratorical practice in deliberative and forensic fora to forestall potential detection of their deceptive rhetoric. The second chapter of this part of the volume has the title “The enigmatic image: Bilderrätsel, performed riddles, and visual communication from Herodotus to Plutarch”. In that chapter Ioannis M. Konstantakos tells us about the so-called Bilderrätsel (“riddle of pictures”) or “iconogriph” (εἰκονόγριφος), a form of visual conundrum which does not employ verbal means (like the conventional riddle) but consists of material items or live actions invested with a secret, underlying meaning. Like the intricate expressions, verbal metaphors, and obscure words of the classic conundrum, the visual items of the Bilderrätsel refer to a different order of reality, which the recipient of the riddle must decode. The most common modern form of this game is the rebus, in which the images of various beings or objects are used as logograms. In Greco-Roman literature the only related example is contained in the dream of Alexander the Great before the conquest of Tyre (Plut. Alex. 24; Artemid. Onir. 4.24). Otherwise, two types of Bilderrätsel are common in ancient Greek lore. On the one hand, the visual puzzle may consist only of symbolic objects which transmit an encrypted message by means of metaphor or metonymy (e.g. Hdt. 2.172, 4.131‒132; Alexander Romance 1.36‒38; Plut. Mor. 458a). Most of these examples are associated with foreign peoples, sages, or rulers, who represent marginal or alien wisdom. The other type of visual riddle is made up of live movements and actions carried out by the proposer (e.g. Arist. Ath. Pol. 14; Plut. Sol. 30, Alex. 65, Sert. 16, Mor. 511b‒c; Sext. Emp. Math. 2.21‒23). In this way, the secret message is turned into a symbolic performance; the wise showman handles objects as props and organises them into a coherent and meaningful spectacle by means of his own carefully planned gestures and programmatic acts. This kind of performed enigma is the foremost Greek version of nonverbal wisdom and combines two emblematic features of the spirit of Archaic Hellenism: enigma and performativity.

Nonverbal Behaviour in the Ancient Texts and Contexts  

Part III is dedicated to oratory and consists of two chapters. The first, by Michael Gagarin, is entitled “Nonverbal communication in Athenian forensic oratory”. After distinguishing between two general means of nonverbal communication, physical (e.g. gestures) and vocal (e.g. voice modulation), the author argues that litigants pleading in court in classical Athens made much more use of the latter than they did of the former. That is, they used their voices rather than moving other parts of their body. Gagarin takes a position against work on nonverbal communication, which primarily explores gestures and other physical movement, such as, for example, Alan Boegehold’s ground-breaking book, When a Gesture Was Expected (Princeton 1999) and Ian Worthington’s analysis of Lysias 1.30 (in The Theatre of Justice, Brill 2017). Gagarin also examines several anecdotes about Demosthenes’ efforts to improve the effectiveness of his speaking in court to support the main argument of the chapter about the preponderance that is attributed to vocal ploys rather than the use of bodily movements. The second chapter, by Andreas Serafim, “The σχῆμα of invective: Body, interpersonal attacks, and identity deconstruction in Attic oratory”, discusses texts in which the word σχῆμα is mentioned when descriptions of the damning behaviour of rivals are made. His aim is to examine how “embodied invective”, i.e. the attacks against a target’s physicality, is articulated, what features it has, what relations it sustains, how they become “triangulate”, relating to the speaker, his rivals, and the audience, and what purposes invective serves in relation to the rhetorical, communicative, and persuasive purposes of the speaker. The word σχῆμα is part of the general category of nonverbal behaviour. The actual meaning of the term is ambiguous: tailored to the context it is placed in and to the argumentative and rhetorical/persuasive purposes a speaker has in there, the term may refer to stature, gesticulation, nodding, other bodily movements (including inclination), general physical bearing, even dress. Part IV is about how nonverbal behaviour constructs identities, or, actually, how the presentation of aspects of nonverbal behaviour enables the researchers to understand the formation of individual and collective identities in periods, geographical places, and cultural contexts in Greco-Roman antiquity. Identity is “a sort of predicate that is attached to individuals or collectives by themselves and others, and describes their nature, traits, and actions”.21 What the references to

 21 Serafim 2021, 122. Interdisciplinary work, including attempts to define the notion of identity, includes, among others, Weinreich 1986, 14; Hogg and Abrams 1988, 2; Clifford 1988, 344; Hall 1989; Wendt 1992, 397; Deng 1995, 1; Jenkins 1996, 4; Gee 2000, 99–125. There is only scant current work in classical scholarship on the interrelation between nonverbal behaviour and identity, or, in fact, about the construction of the former because of the use of the latter. Ser-

  Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou nonverbal behaviour in the ancient texts have the potential to denote may refer to a wide span of issues including, but not limited to, ethnic/civic, socio-economic, sexual and gender-related, moral, aesthetic, and religious. The three chapters of this section examine, specifically, power statuses that are attributed to individuals, social norms, and matters of ethnicity. Donald Lateiner, in his chapter “Tactics of nonverbal persuasion and rule infractions in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika”, refers to Heliodorus’ technique to disempower characters compensate for inferior strength, numbers, and authority by superior powers of expression and, thus, persuasion. Charikleia, for example, evades suitors, seducers, and rapists. Her threatening gestures of suicide on the shore and in the herdsmen’s (boukoloi) swamp hide-out outwit opponents. Her near-death, love-sickness charade in Delphi; her alluring scams played on sailor and pirate captors; and her martyr artifices when Arsake’s prisoner deceives antagonists. Her behaviours stupefy even her lover and parents. The mendacious teenager invites everyone to misread her. In Book X, the Meroitic audience comprehends the dramatic scenes as nonverbal mimes — gestures and postures. They perceive the palms signifying victory, the brazier-leap proof, the Andromeda painting, the maternal embrace, the rodeo stunt, Charikles’ arrest of Theagenes, and the jubilant hug (10.38). Lateiner explores characters’ devious nonverbal miscommunications, “looks”, body language, paralinguistics, and proxemics, and how Heliodorus represents exceptionally the multi-channel performance of human micro-relations. In his chapter, “How to be sympotikos and what it actually means?”, Bartłomiej Bednarek examines some of the fundamental distinctions between groups of images concerning the sympotic etiquette that were designed for an audience whose assumptions, based on their everyday life, could have been radically different from those postulated by scholars. The Greeks were not always expected to drink in company. Sometimes they drank alone, which did not necessarily break the general rules of conduct. Sometimes they drank with one friend only. Drinking in larger groups did not necessarily take place in the sympotic space of an andrōn. On occasion, women who accompanied drinking men could be members of their families rather than prostitutes and professional entertainers. Each of these situations required a different variant of nonverbal language, such as the position of the body, gestures, dress, hairstyle, etc. It also seems that some bodily functions that are closely related to drinking, such as

 afim (forthcoming) aims to enhance the knowledge and understanding of the complicated ways in which body language, as manifested in the entire corpus of ancient Greek and Latin literature, comes to determine how people in antiquity see themselves or are seen by others.

Nonverbal Behaviour in the Ancient Texts and Contexts  

vomiting and urinating, were deemed acceptable at several types of parties and banned from others. Glenys Davies, in her chapter entitled “Body language and becoming Roman on Trajan’s column”, focuses on the construction of ethnic/civic identities. The scenes carved in relief on Trajan’s column in Rome present a wide variety of people and activities: dress is used to indicate and differentiate between the ethnic and social identities of the figures represented, while their body language (gestures and posture), it is argued, is used not only to tell the story of the Dacian wars but also to suggest the typical behaviour to be expected of these various ethnic and social groups, and the relationships between them, and to condition the reaction of the viewers of the column to them. Body language is used to underline the differences between Romans and the ‘barbarian’ enemy (in the case of Trajan’s column mainly, but not solely, Dacians), but dress and bodily behaviour are also used to distinguish between different classes, within both Roman and Dacian society. “Roman” and “barbarian”, however, are not merely opposite poles, but fall at either end of a sliding scale, with many of the social groups represented on the column falling somewhere in between. Of particular interest, therefore, is the body language of those figures identified by dress and geographical situation as not fully Roman or barbarian, including auxiliary soldiers fighting for Rome and civilians in the towns of frontier provinces which experienced the presence of the emperor on his journeys towards the war zone. Both groups were in the process of becoming more Roman: this chapter examines the changes in body language which accompanied changes in costume as illustrations of the process of Romanisation, as erstwhile barbarians became inhabitants, and eventually citizens, of the Roman Empire. The volume closes with a chapter by Anthony Corbeill, entitled “Hearing the earth speak: Paralinguistic mutterings in Cicero, De haruspicum responsis”. During the Roman Republic, prodigies provided a means for extralinguistic communication between the human and divine realms: hermaphroditic births, weeping statues, or showers of stones were regularly debated in the Roman senate to determine what, if anything, such phenomena may connote. In 56 BC, rumblings in the north of Latium prompted the Roman senate to elicit a written response from the Etruscan haruspices in order to explain what these particular noises were saying. This response in turn provides the occasion for Cicero’s De haruspicum responsis. In this speech, Cicero provides a close reading of the response in its Latin translation. Corbeill analyses what appears to be the opening of the response to show how various aspects of its verbal manifestation — homoioteleuton, hiatus, cacophonous combinations of consonants — replicate the seismic activity being described. And yet this is not simply a literary trick.

  Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou By describing these unnatural tremors with unnatural Latin sounds, the translator of the Etruscan response, perhaps the Pythagorean Nigidius Figulus, underscores the relationship upon which the system of Roman prodigies depends: the intersection and interaction of language, nature, and morality. In further support of this claim, Corbeill discusses other extralinguistic means, such as prose rhythm and grammatical gender, through which Cicero conveys meaning to his audience of senators.

Bibliography Abercrombie, D. (1968), ‘Paralanguage’, in: International Journal of Language & Communication Disorders 3, 55–59. Argyle, M. (19882), Bodily Communication, New York. Boegehold, A.L. (1999), When a Gesture was Expected, Princeton. Cairns, D. (2005), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Swansea. Cairns, D.L. (2001), ‘Anger and the Veil in Ancient Greek Culture’, in: Greece and Rome 48, 18–32. Cairns, D.L. (2003), ‘The Meaning of the Veil in Ancient Greek Culture’, in: L. Llewellyn Jones (ed.), Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, London/Swansea, 73–93. Clifford, J. (1988), The Predicament of Culture, Cambridge, MA. Corbeill, A. (1996), Controlling Laughter: Political Humour in the Late Roman Republic, Princeton. Crystal, D. (1963), ‘A Perspective for Paralanguage’, in: Le Maître Phonétique 120, 25–29. Crystal, D. (1966), ‘The Linguistic Status of Prosodic and Paralinguistic Features’, in: Proceedings of the University of Newcastle-upon Tyne Philosophical Society 1, 93–108. Crystal, D. (1974), ‘Paralinguistics’, in: T. Sebeok (ed.), Current Trends in Linguistics, vol. 12, The Hague, 265–295. Davies, G.M. (1985), ‘The Significance of the Handshake Motif in Classical Funerary Art’, in: American Journal of Archaeology 89, 627–640. Davies, G.M. (1994), ‘The Language of Gesture in Greek Art: Gender and Status on Grave Stelai’, in: Apollo 140, 6–11. Davies, G.M. (1997), ‘Gender and Body Language in Roman Art’, in: T. Cornell/K. Lomas (eds.), Gender and Ethnicity in Ancient Italy, London, 97–107. Davies, G.M. (2002), ‘Clothes as Sign: The Case of the Large and Small Herculaneum Women’, in: L. Llewellyn-Jones (ed.), Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, London/Swansea, 227–242. Demetriou, C. (2021), ‘The Reception of Quintilian’s Theory of Gesture: Rhetorical Elements on Pantomime Acting’, in: S. Papaioannou/A. Serafim/M. Edwards (eds.), The Brill’s Companion to the Reception of Ancient Rhetoric, Leiden, 269–288. Deng, F.M. (1995), War of Visions: Conflict of Identities in the Sudan, Washington, DC. Duncan, S.D. Jr. (1969), ‘Nonverbal Communication’, in: Psychological Bulletin 72, 118. Efron, D. (1941/1972), Gesture, Race and Culture, The Hague. Ekman, P./Friesen, W.V. (1969), ‘The Repertoire of Nonverbal Behaviour: Categories, Origins, Usage, and Coding’, in: Semiotica 1, 49–86.

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Feyereisen, P./de Lannoy, J.-D. (1991), Gestures and Speech: Psychological Investigations, Cambridge. Fögen, T. (2001), ‘Ancient Theorizing on Nonverbal Communication’, in: R.M. Brend/A.K. Melby/ A.R. Lommel (eds.), LACUS Forum XXVII: Speaking and Comprehending, Fullerton, CA, 203–216. Fögen, T. (2005), ‘The Role of Verbal and Non-verbal Communication in Ancient Medical Discourse’, in: S. Kiss/L. Mondin/G. Salvi (eds.), Latin et Langues Romanes. Études de linguistique offertes à József Herman à l’occasion de son 80ème anniversaire, Tübingen, 287–300. Gee, J.P. (2000), ‘Identity as an Analytic Lens for Research in Education’, in: Review of Research in Education 25, 99–125. Hadar, U. (1989), ‘Two Types of Gesture and Their Role in Speech Production’, in: Journal of Language and Social Psychology 8, 221–228. Hall, S. (1989), ‘Cultural Identity and Cinematic Representation Framework’, in: The Journal of Cinema and Media 36, 68–81. Harper, R.G./Wiens, A.N./Matarazzo, J.D. (1978), Nonverbal Communication: The State of the Art, New York. Harrison, R.P. (1973), ‘Nonverbal Communication’, in: I. de S. Pool/W. Schramm/N. Maccoby/ F. Fry/E. Parker/J.L. Fein (eds.), Handbook of Communication, Chicago, IL, 46–76. Hogg, M.A./Abrams, D. (1988), Social Identifications: A Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations and Group Processes, London/New York. Holoka, J.P. (1992), Advances in Nonverbal Communication, Amsterdam. Houston, J.E. (ed.) (198410), Thesaurus of ERIC Descriptors, Phoenix. Jenkins, R. (1996), Social Identity, London. Knapp, M.L. (1972), ‘The Feld of Nonverbal Communication: An Overview’, in: C.J. Stewart/ B. Kendall (eds.), On Speech Communication: An Anthology of Contemporary Writings and Messages, New York, NY, 57–72. Lateiner, D. (1995), Sardonic Smile: Nonverbal Behaviour in Homeric Epic, Ann Arbor. Levine, D.B. (1982), ‘Homeric Laughter and the Unsmiling Suitors’, in: Classical Journal 78, 97–104. Levine, D.B. (1983), ‘Penelope’s Laugh: Odyssey 18.158–168’, in: American Journal of Philology 104, 172–178. Levine, D.B. (1984), ‘Odysseus Smiles: Odyssey 20.301, 22.371, 23.111’, in: Transactions of the American Philological Association 114, 1–9. Llewellyn-Jones, L. (2003), Aphrodite’s Tortoise: The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece, Swansea. Loveday, L. (1982), The Sociolinguistics of Learning and Using a Non-native Language, Oxford. McNeill, D. (1985), ‘So You Think Gestures are Nonverbal?’ in: Psychological Review 92, 350–371. Porter, J.I. (ed.) (2000), Constructions of the Classical Body, Ann Arbor. Poyatos, F. (1977), ‘Forms and Functions of Nonverbal Communication in the Novel: A New Perspective of the Author-Character-Reader Relationship’, in: Semiotica 21, 295–338. Ricci-Bitti, P.E./Poggi, I. (1991), ‘Symbolic Non-verbal Behavior: Talking through Gestures’, in: R.S. Feldman/B. Rimé (eds.), Fundamentals of Nonverbal Behavior, New York, 433–457. Sapir, E. (1927), ‘The Unconscious Patterning of Behavior in Society’, in: D.G. Mandelbaum (ed.), Selected Writings of Edward Sapir, Berkley, 544–559. Serafim, A. (2017), Attic Oratory and Performance, London/New York. Serafim, A. (2020), ‘Paralinguistics, Community and the Rhetoric of Division in Attic Oratory’, in: Roda da Fortuna: Electronic Journal about Antiquity and Middle Ages 22, 114–143.

  Andreas Serafim and Sophia Papaioannou Serafim, A. (2021), Religious Discourse in Attic Oratory and Politics, London/New York. Serafim, A. (2023), ‘Revisiting the Hill of Pnyx: The Physical, Rhetorical, and Socio-cultural Contexts’, in: Annals of the Faculty of Law in Belgrade 71, 1–63. Serafim, A. (Forthcoming), Body Language and Identity Construction in Ancient Greek and Roman Literature, London/New York. Trager, G.L. (1958), ‘Paralanguage’, in: Studies in Linguistics 13, 1–12. Trager, G.L. (1960), ‘Taos III, Paralanguage’, in: Anthropological Linguistics 2, 24–30. Trager, G.L. (1961), ‘The Typology of Paralanguage’, in: Anthropological Linguistics 3, 17–21. Usher, S. (1993), Greek Orators–V: Demosthenes, On the Crown, Warminster. Van Wees, H. (1998), ‘A Brief History of Tears: Gender Differentiation in Archaic Greece’, in: L. Foxhall/J. Salmon (eds.), When Men were Men: Masculinity, Power and Identity in Classical Antiquity, London, 10–53. Vatri, A. (2017), Orality and Performance in Classical Attic Prose. A Linguistic Approach, Oxford. Weinreich, P. (1986), Manual for Identity Exploration using Personal Constructs, Coventry. Wendt, A. (1992), ‘Anarchy is what States Make of It’, in: International Organization 46, 391– 426. Worman, N. (2008), Abusive Mouths in Classical Athens, Cambridge/New York. Yunis, H. (ed.) (2001), Demosthenes, On the Crown, Cambridge.



Part I: Performing Nonverbal Behaviour:

Music, Vocalics, Masks, and Dance

Armand D’ Angour

The Movements of the Tragic Chorus: The Evidence of Euripides’ Orestes Fragment Abstract: Evidence for the bodily movements of dancers in dramatic choruses is hard to come by. Inferences may be made from terms such as strophē and antistrophē, and iconography offers some helpful clues about the movement of bodies and feet in dance. While the names of many types of dances are known, however, and there are mentions in ancient writings of hand gestures (cheironomia), nothing detailed exists regarding dance movements or routines. However, a fragment of a chorus of Euripides’ Orestes that survives with musical notation arguably gives a clue to one aspect of ancient choral dance. The stigmai (dots) on the papyrus placed above certain syllables can reasonably be interpreted as relating to rise and fall of dancer’s feet during the choral dance. If so, this suggests implications for the dancing of complex rhythms such as that represented by the irregular dochmiac metre in which the Orestes fragment is composed.

 Introduction “We do not know how the ancient Greeks danced. Of the 95,140 combined body movements which have been laboriously calculated to have existed in their dances, we still haven’t the vaguest idea how they looked in action. But we do know some of the reasons why the Greeks danced…”.1 So asserts the author of a history of dance; but since we are not told how this laborious exercise was conducted or how the implausibly specific figure was arrived at, a degree of scepticism is reasonable. Moreover, the conclusion that we have not “the vaguest idea how they looked in action” fails to acknowledge the productive scholarly investigations of vase painting and other artistic depictions, which have thrown considerable light on how ancient Greek dancers from Mycenean times through to late antiquity used their heads, bodies, legs, feet, and hands.2  1 Highwater 1996, 42. The striking statement has been quoted as an epigraph by Smith 2016, 145 and, more recently, by Steiner 2021, 1. 2 The classic work on ancient Greek dance is Lawler 1964. More recent studies include Mullen 1982; Delavaud-Roux 1993–1995; Naerebout 1997; Bundrick 2005; Csapo 2008; Smith 2010; 2014; Hedreen 2011; and Olsen 2021. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-002

  Armand D’ Angour The fact remains, however, that it is impossible to reconstruct the precise bodily movements of the dancers of, say, a chorus in ancient Greek tragedy. No thorough visual record or sufficiently detailed written discussions of dance movements and routines, such as would have been performed in different parts of the Greek world over many centuries, survive. In this respect, the faithful reconstruction of an ancient Greek dance may be thought a yet more remote prospect than is the case with ancient music. In the latter case, in addition to the substantial range of technical, philosophical, and historical texts, both the metres of poetry and some dozens of fragments of notated melody survive, allowing for the creation of realisations that offer credible approximations to the rhythmic, harmonic, and melodic idioms that would have been familiar to Greek (and in time Roman) ears across various periods and geographical locations from archaic times to late antiquity.3 Dance was included in the domain of the Muses, goddesses of mousikē;4 and over the course of these centuries, women as well as men dancing both solo and in choruses are widely attested.5 In the classical period, however, the choruses of Attic tragedy, comedy, dithyrambs, and satyr play consisted of organised and highly trained troupes comprising solely of men or boys. Performances of dithyrambs, instituted in Athens as annual polis-wide competitive events in the late sixth century, required the participation of fifty men or fifty boys from each of the newly-constituted ten tribes.6 Comic drama, established some decades later, employed choruses of twenty-four dancers, while the chorus in tragedy eventually arrived at a standard number of fifteen singer-dancers.7 The choral participants in these different genres danced and sang, generally to the accompaniment of the aulos (double pipe), words composed in metre (so-called “lyric poetry” despite the lyre being little in evidence in the theatre), the composers of which commonly served as choral directors (chorodidaskaloi) for such performances.8

 3 West 1982; Pöhlmann and West 2001; D’Angour 2018. Examples of realisations of music are available on Youtube, including “Rediscovering Ancient Greek Music 2017”. 4 Terpsichore is named by Hesiod (Theog. 79) and was (later) assigned the specific area of dance: Murray 2004. 5 Calame 1997; Stehle 1997. 6 Pickard-Cambridge 1988, 66. 7 Pickard-Cambridge 1988, 234–245. The suggestion that the number of fifty choreuts was reduced by Aeschylus to twelve and then raised by Sophocles to fifteen is unduly schematic; however, the size of the chorus was undoubtedly variable in the earlier fifth century BC. 8 Pickard-Cambridge 1988, 91.

The Movements of the Tragic Chorus  

Despite the thousands of verses, however, that survive in lyric metres in both dramatic and non-dramatic texts, evidence for the bodily actions and movements made by participants in dramatic choruses to accompany their words and songs has appeared elusive. In addition to the iconographic evidence mentioned, inferences about the structure of dramatic dance have been made from terms such as strophē and antistrophē;9 from the names and alleged character of various types of dance such as the martial pyrrhichē and the vulgar kordax;10 and from brief — in fact, frustratingly scant — mentions in ancient writings of hand gestures, cheironomia.11 But although little detail survives about particular dance movements or routines in drama, there remains a source of evidence that, while its interpretation must remain speculative, has been underused as a resource for recovering something of the movement of the body in dance: the metres of Greek lyric.12 Ancient Greek metre has largely survived as the technical study of quantitative systems consisting of metrical units or cola comprising sequences of long and short syllables.13 The creation of metrical terminology from the fifth century BC onwards will have constituted a means of identifying and recording the perceived conventional movements of words and bodies familiar from dance and song.14 The absence of a clear indication of rhythmical beat (“ictus”) in metrical analyses has led to a denial of the significance, or even existence, of such a feature in ancient music.15 Yet the movement of the body, and in particular the occurrence of footfalls in dance, presupposes the existence of some element of “beat”, even if this was thought to operate in a manner parallel to rather than intrinsic to the salient quantitative aspect of metrical expression.16

 9 Mullen 1982, 225–230. 10 Ceccarelli 1998; Csapo/Slater 1994, 364–365. 11 Pickard-Cambridge 1988, 248–249. 12 The lengthy discussions of tragic metre by Scott 1984 and 1996 barely touch on dance. 13 The standard treatment is West 1982. 14 There may have been an element of mnemonicisation in the adoption, allegedly first by Damon of Oa in the 5th century BC of terms descriptive of metrical shapes: the terms δάκτυλος, ἰαμβικόν, and ἀνάπαιστον all neatly represent the metrical shapes they describe (the first both in visual and aural terms). On Damon see Wallace 2015 and my review in Gnomon 2017. 15 West 1982, 22–24 summarises the issue. 16 In a similar way, the use of barlines in Western classical music gives a suggestion of ictus, even though the musical notes alone indicate precise relative durations. West 1982, 22 n. 40 gives references to support the statement that “the ancients were well acquainted with the practice of beating time to music or to recited verse by clapping, snapping the fingers, or tapping the foot”.

  Armand D’ Angour In this chapter I propose to consider first how two specific metres found in tragedy and conveying a simple rhythmical motivity, anapaests and ionics, can give us an indication of bodily movements of the tragic chorus, specifically in relation to the likely timing of the rise and fall of the dancer’s foot or body. Dancing in the context of tragedy might have been no less a function of the hands and arms (cheironomia), or of the upper part of the body as a whole, than about the actions of feet and legs. Indeed, the story told by Herodotus (6.129) about the suitor Hippocleides “dancing away his marriage” by standing on his head and waving his feet in the air suggests that dancing in general might often have been considered largely to involve the movement visible in the upper part of the dancing figure.17 The metrical terms arsis and thesis, indicating a “raising” and “placing down”, most obviously relate to the action of the foot (pous), which was from the earliest times a key term in metrical theory. The proposition that metre might offer insight into the action of the feet or bodily movement acquires further support, however, from an unexpected source: the markings indicating arsis on an ancient papyrus with musical notation, which may be interpreted as indicating that arsis and thesis, at least within a notoriously variable and asymmetrical system of dochmiac metre, occurred at regular intervals.18 It may be possible to extrapolate from this finding to argue the case for regular dance steps being used generally in the choreography of ancient dance-forms with asymmetrical patterns of long and short syllables.

 Metre and movement We are not directly informed about how particular metres were danced in tragic drama. Inferences about movement, however, may be made in some cases from the contexts in which metrical systems are used in extant tragedies. A straightforward example is the use of “marching anapaests”, the metre used in the opening lyric passage or parodos (entry of the chorus) of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon of 458 BC. The basic form of the anapaestic metron (measure) is short-shortlong-short-short-long (⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – as represented by, say, “in the dark of the  17 Olsen 2021, 180–181. 18 The terms arsis and thesis, though their application is somewhat vexed in metrical scholarship, undoubtedly arose from the “raising” and “placing down” of the feet in the practical realisation of a metrical unit. The less common term basis (cognate with βαίνω), found in Pindar Pythian 1.3, is technically interchangeable with thesis.

The Movements of the Tragic Chorus  

night”). This duple colon (it involves the repetition of ⏑ ⏑ –) indubitably suggests a dual footfall, with the step of each foot being made to coincide with the long elements of the metron that fall in the centre and at the end. This makes the double-short element serve as a “rising” (i.e. less emphatic) opening to each half-metron, coinciding with the dancer lifting one or other of his feet.19 The alternate foot would then be set down (thesis) on the ground in time with the long elements of the metron.20 The ictus placed on the delayed long element is preserved even when variant rhythms of the anapaest are introduced. Thus, the basic rhythm ⏑ ⏑ – is occasionally “contracted” as – – or “inverted” as – ⏑ ⏑. Despite its appearance, the latter shapes were not considered species of dactyl, evidently because the beat of the inverted anapaestic half-metron does not shift to the opening long element but continues to fall at the start of the second half, thus preserving the characteristic thesis of anapaestic rhythm. The result is a metre that is well suited to accompanying the solemn marching entry of a massed chorus. In Agamemnon the chorus, moreover, represents the Elders of Argos, who may be supposed to have dressed in long robes of the kind that one may see portrayed on vases such as the Kleophon Krater.21 This form of dress itself tells against the likelihood of vigorous movement of feet or legs, which would be hardly visible beneath long robes.22 The text of the beginning of the parodos is here translated into roughly isorhythmic English, with the location of the evident alternating footfalls (theseis) indicated with underlining: δέκατον μὲν ἔτος τόδ᾽ ἐπεὶ Πριάμου μέγας ἀντίδικος, Μενέλαος ἄναξ ἠδ᾽ Ἀγαμέμνων,

40

 19 It is standard in military marching formations to begin “by the left”, a practice associated with the holding of the spear with the right hand and the shield on the left arm: the defence must first be established for the spear-throw to follow. By contrast, modern choreographic routines often start on the right foot; and the grammarian Diomedes (Gramm. Lat. 1, p. 504) notes that the anapaest began with the right foot. 20 West 1982, 53–54. 21 The bell krater in the Copenhagen National Museum (13817) has generally been thought to represent men performing a dithyramb; however, Csapo 2022 makes a compelling argument that it represents a processional event preceding the Dionysiac festival. 22 Dithyrambic dance is likely to have demonstrated greater agility and exuberance, as Csapo 2022 observes, suggesting a less restrictive form of dress; however, there is some evidence that at least in its early form the dithyramb was processional, and might have featured robed dancers: Hedreen 2013.

  Armand D’ Angour διθρόνου Διόθεν καὶ δισκήπτρου τιμῆς ὀχυρὸν ζεῦγος Ἀτρειδᾶν στόλον Ἀργείων χιλιοναύτην, τῆσδ᾽ ἀπὸ χώρας ἦραν, στρατιῶτιν ἀρωγὰν. Now the year is the tenth since the great Menelaus Priam’s rival in arms – since the lord Menelaus, and Agamemnon, jointly holding the throne and power from Zeus, Atreides the twain, both rulers conjoint with a legion of men, thousands aboard ships, set forth from this land conducting an army from Argos.

45

40

45

“Lyric” anapaests such as these were evidently not sung to a discrete melodic line, but declaimed by the chorus, probably using a similar manner of enunciation to that of the iambic trimeters (the spoken and dialogical elements) of the drama.23 Unlike the latter, however, the words were accompanied by the aulos (double pipe), as were the melodically composed choral odes (stasima) that were performed between spoken dramatic episodes (epeisodia). The instrumental accompaniment will have served to guide and emphasise the regular marching beat. Meanwhile, the variant forms of the anapaestic unit (– – or – ⏑ ⏑) and the varying pitch inflections of enunciated words, whose high pitches would only occasionally coincide with the long elements of the metre, would have added expressive variety. The aulos was considered the instrument of Dionysus and would have provided a suitably Dionysiac accompaniment to a more complex rhythm of parodos, composed in ionic metre to mark the entry of the chorus in Euripides’ Bacchae of 405 BC. The rhythm of ionics was associated with the piping and exotic drumbeat of oriental worshippers of Dionysus and Cybele: ⏑ ⏑ – – | ⏑ ⏑ – – (as in “not at daybreak, not at nighttime”).24 As with anapaests, ionics are a ‘rising’ metre, with the two initial shorts (“not at”) leading the ear towards the long element or elements (“nighttime”). In this case, however, what is found is not a single metron in duple form like the anapaest, but two metrical cola joined together, each consisting of a triple time-unit. The individual ionic metron effectively takes the time of three long elements (– – – as in “now day breaks”), with the first long regularly resolved into two shorts (⏑ ⏑ – –) leaving the two following  23 Pickard-Cambridge 1988, 156–164. 24 On the associations of ionics, see D’ Angour 2020, 409.

The Movements of the Tragic Chorus  

long syllables to act as theseis, either singly or in combination. Either or both latter long elements, therefore, might have been accompanied by the dancer’s footfalls. Further variety is introduced by the snappy “anaclastic” version of the ionic dimeter, where a long and short syllable are swapped around in two conjoined ionic metra: ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ | – ⏑ – – (the rhythm of Longfellow’s ‘Hiawatha’: “By the shores of Gitche-Gumee”).25 In contrast, then, to the equally paced anapaests that could readily represent the marching steps of alternating feet, ionics were an unequal rhythm. As the metre to which the frenzied devotees of Dionysus, the bacchants, sing and dance as they enter the orchestra, we might indeed expect ionics to be less solemn and dignified, as well as more rapid, than the sober anapaests declaimed by the Argive Elders as they march forward solemnly at the start of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. The indication of a rapid tempo for ionics is supported by the bacchants’ description of themselves as “rushing” (θοάζω, 65) in the opening stanza of the first choral section (the underlining again indicates the location of theseis): Ἀσίας ἀπὸ γαίας ἱερὸν Τμῶλον ἀμείψασα θοάζω Βρομίῳ πόνον ἡδὺν κάματόν τ ̓ εὐκάματον, Βάκχιον εὐαζομένα. τίς ὁδῷ τίς ὁδῷ; τίς; μελάθροις ἔκτοπος ἔστω, στόμα τ᾽ εὔφημον ἅπας ἐξοσιούσθω. τὰ νομισθέντα γὰρ αἰεὶ Διόνυσον ὑμνήσω. Out of Asia’s open spaces having passed by sacred Tmolus, now I hasten to revere Dionysus! Happy labour, not a hardship, celebrating Bromios! Who is there? Who is waiting? Let him leave us, go indoors now, let our words all keep it holy, keep it sacred. With the custom that’s eternal I will sing to Lord Bacchus!

65

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 25 The resulting form of the ionic dimeter comes to be known as anacreontic, after the characteristic use of the metre by Anacreon: West 1982, 31.

  Armand D’ Angour The regular two long elements of the ionic colon accompanied by footfalls would provide for an effective underlining of the rhythm. They would also allow for the occasional “syncope” (missing beat, as in the first word Ἀσίας and Βρομίῳ, 66, both to be interpreted as ⏑ ⏑ – [ – ]) and for “catalexis” (where the final element is cut away or prolonged, as in line 68). In these instances, the gap left by the apparent shortening of the colon in the text would probably be filled by the continuous beating of the dancers’ feet in ionic metre. The syncopated ‘anacreontic’, as found here in the final line of the stanza (Διόνυσον ὑμνήσω ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ | – ^ – – where the ὑμν- is prolonged to take the time of one and a half elements), suggests the further possibility of a triple beating of the feet on the ground to signal the emphatic closure of the verse.

 The dochmiacs of Euripides’ Orestes Further insight into choral movement is provided by a fragmentary papyrus containing part of a chorus from Euripides’ Orestes (produced in 408 BC), which survives with ancient musical notation.26 In the preserved passage (lines 338–344) the chorus is voicing sympathy for Orestes for being maddened by the Erinyes, the avenging Furies of his mother whom he has killed at the god Apollo’s command. The melody of the fragment may be thought to reflect the authorship of Euripides himself (even if the papyrus was not directly transmitted from his hand).27 The latter’s understanding of how the words and music were to be danced may also be indicated, since in addition to what the fragment reveals about ancient melodisation, it appears to give a clue to the movements that were intended to accompany the dochmiac metre it represents. “Dochmiacs” are named from a Greek word δόχμιος meaning “aslant”, characterising the jerky sequence of short and long syllables that may be represented in English as di DUM DUM di DUM. A mnemonic for dochmiacs “the wise kangaroos” (⏑ – – ⏑ –, the basic form of the colon) was humorously devised by Gilbert Murray, one-time Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford. “The wise kangaroos / prefer boots to shoes” might illustrate two dochmiac cola conjoined as a dimeter, as often found in Greek drama. Passages in dochmiac metre are found in the lyric choruses of every extant Greek tragedy, and are associated with agitation or distress, suggesting that that they were sung and danced at a lively

 26 Pöhlmann and West 2001, 12–17. 27 D’ Angour 2021, 177 n. 5.

The Movements of the Tragic Chorus  

tempo.28 Murray’s mnemonic is misleading, however, since an English-speaker would typically utter it using a regular 4-beat rhythm stressed as follows: “The wíse kángaróos ( ˊ ) / prefér bóots to shóes ( ˊ )”. As shown here, the fourth and eighth stress-marks fall on a silent beat (which would be marked by a rest in a musical score), but there is no evidence that conjoined sequences of Greek dochmiac cola admitted silent beats of this kind.29 The dochmiac colon also offers exceptional variability in allowing two short elements of the basic sequence to be lengthened, and all the long elements to be “resolved” (split) into two shorts. Thus, all three long elements of the basic colon may be resolved into two shorts, and either of its short elements may be replaced by a long (“dragged”) syllable, which can in turn be resolved. With the second long of the basic dochmiac colon resolved, for instance, one gets the rhythm ⏑ ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – as in, e.g., “not any kangaroo” and Greek κατολοφύρομαι (“I lament”), the insistent rhythm found in the Orestes passage in question. Where our natural tendency might be to stress this rhythm in the same threefold manner as the basic dochmiac (i.e. “not any kangaroo”), this accentuation appears to be contradicted by the papyrus evidence which suggests only two stresses on each colon.30 The reason for this supposition is that stigmai (dots) placed at regular intervals above the musical notes appear on the lacunose papyrus, two per colon, and these are confirmed by an ancient source to have indicated arsis.31 This implies that the non-marked syllables should be considered theseis, suggesting a duple beat of alternating rise and fall.32 This need not be the only way of interpreting the stigmai, however. It is true that the connotation of arsis as “raising” is generally applied to the shape or ictus of the metrical unit;33 but given that the papyrus appears to preserve what seems to have been a performing score, here the stigmai may be better under-

 28 The passage in question from Orestes also uses the word θοάζω, “rush” (line 335), as in the parodos of Bacchae. Greek metres generally have no particular emotional or “ethical” associations, but the ionic metre discussed above (with its exotic Asian feel) and dochmiacs such as found here are the two noted exceptions: Dale 1969, 256–257. 29 D’ Angour 2022, 138. 30 West 1982, 114–115. 31 West 1992, 268, citing the musical document Anonymus Bellermanni. 32 West 1982, 115. 33 That arsis/thesis might relate to the rise and fall of the melodic line, as argued by Lynch 2016, would seem to create an unnecessary duplication of actual melodic notation. The purpose of the stigmai on the Seikilos Column (Pöhlmann/West 2001, no. 23, p. 88) is clearly to distinguish the desired rhythmical movement of the song, with its trochaic impetus, from its iambic metre.

  Armand D’ Angour stood as relating to the raising and placing of dancer’s feet or bodies during the choral dance.34 I present the passage on the papyrus here in the form of a column of dochmiac cola followed by an isorhythmic English translation, underlining the theseis as identified by the absence of arsis-marks, so as to give a sense of the regular footfall that complements or competes with the irregular rhythms of the cola:35 ματέρος αἷμα σᾶς, ὅ σ᾽ ἀναβακχεύει; κατολοφύρομαι κατολοφύρομαι. ὁ μέγας ὄλβος οὐ μόνιμος ἐν βροτοῖς. ἀνὰ δὲ λαῖφος ὥς τις ἀκάτου θοᾶς τινάξας δαίμων κατέκλυσεν δεινῶν πόνων ὡς πόντου λάβροις ὀλεθρίοισιν ἐν κύμασιν. to quench your mother’s blood by driving you insane. For you my tears are shed, for you my tears are shed. Good fortune does not last for mortals on this earth: Like sails on some swift ship that cuts the ocean waves God buffets us about and sinks us in a sea of troubles like the ocean’s death-dealing billows that sweep ’oer the main!

 34 The fact that the arsis-mark rests on a single syllable that might be short, while the putative theseis fall on one or more long syllables, suggests that the raising of the foot was of swifter duration than the placing of the foot on the ground, for which more time might be allowed. The exiguous arsis-marks on the other sole surviving musical document from the classical period (Pöhlmann and West 2001, no. 4, from Euripides’ Iphigeneia in Aulis) are compatible with both a metrical and choreographic interpretation. 35 I print the usual order of verses, since the papyrus has a verse transposed (line 341), probably thanks to an understandable scribal error, to an earlier position than where it stands in the received text: D’ Angour 2021, 180.

The Movements of the Tragic Chorus  

If the stigmai are indeed to be interpreted choreographically rather than metrically, the implications for the dancing of complex rhythms, such as that represented here by the irregular and rapid dochmiac metre in which the Orestes fragment is composed, are evident. The stigmai on the papyrus suggest that two regular footfalls could be expected to be used in the course of the five or (depending on resolution) more syllables of the dochmiac colon. The fact that the theseis do not fall directly on the long elements (principes) of the colon, as is often unthinkingly assumed for most metrical cola and verses, may have wider implications for the dancing of lyric choruses in general. In the case of ionics, it was argued that its asymmetrical rhythms might allow for the use of emphatic footfalls or theseis on either or both of the long elements. Here the theseis fall on both long and short elements, or an admixture of both, creating rhythmically symmetrical beats made by the dancers’ legs or body while the song continues to present syllabic sequences of asymmetrical form. There is no reason to suppose that the asymmetricality of the metre, in this case or in others, was necessarily reflected by unequal or jerky movements of dancers’ feet in the rhythms of dance.

 Conclusions The interpretation of dochmiac movement on the Orestes papyrus shows that dancers might be expected to move regularly and steadily even while singing a notoriously irregular and agitated rhythm. In the context of ancient tragedy, such a practice makes sense when we recognise the multiple factors that would make lively dancing difficult to sustain. It can be recognised that dancing in tragic drama need not require the extravagant or energetic movement of the feet or legs by the chorus. Formally robed choruses might indeed be expected to have used a more sober style of movement, even when singing an ode in rapid tempo, than the kind of dances that require legs to be lifted high or bodies to jump in the air. The movements of the upper body, moreover, including meaningful hand and arm gestures (cheironomia), were likely to be more salient and observable by spectators in the theatre than were the movements of legs and feet. What is abundantly clear is that Greek choruses moved their bodies to rhythms in characteristic ways, and the notion that we do not have “the vaguest idea of how they looked in action” need not be entertained. Some styles of bodily movement can be derived from iconographic and textual evidence; but given the variability of individual performances — over centuries, indeed, and in different regions of Greece — what investigators may productively seek to understand is not

  Armand D’ Angour so much the precise movements of specific dances but the idiom of Greek dance in general. The interpretation presented of the stigmai on the Orestes papyrus suggests that a relevant part of that idiom will have been the likely independence of bodily movements, at least when accompanying complex rhythms of choral dance, from the supposed dictates of metrical features of rhythm.

Bibliography Bundrick, S. (2005), Music and Image in Classical Athens, Cambridge. Calame, C. (1997), Choruses of Young Women in Ancient Greece (tr. Derek Collins), Lanham, MD. Ceccarelli, P. (1998), La pirrica nell’antichità Greco Romana: Studi sulla danza armata, Pisa. Csapo, E. (2008), ‘Star Choruses: Eleusis, Orphism, and New Musical Imagery and Dance’, in: M. Revermann/P. Wilson (eds.), Performance, Iconography, Reception: Studies in Honour of Oliver Taplin, Oxford, 262–290. Csapo, E. (2022), ‘Is the Kleophon Painter’s Krater in Copenhagen Evidence for Dithyrambic Dance?’, in: A. Gostoli/B. Zimmermann (eds.), Nuove volute di versi: Pesia e musica nella commedia Greca di V e IV sec. A.C., Baden-Württemberg, 83–102. Csapo, E./Slater, W. (1994), The Context of Ancient Drama, Ann Arbor. Dale, A.J. (1969), Collected Papers, Cambridge. D’Angour, A.J. (2017), ‘Review of Wallace (2015)’, in: Gnomon 89.8, 748–750. D’Angour, A.J. (2018), ‘The Musical Setting of Ancient Greek Texts’, in: T. Phillips/A. D’ Angour (eds.), Music, Texts, and Culture in Ancient Greece, Oxford, 47–72. D’Angour, A.J. (2020), ‘“Old” and “New” Music: The Ideology of Mousikē’, in: T. Lynch/E. Rocconi (eds.), A Companion to Ancient Greek and Roman Music, Hoboken, 409–420. D’Angour, A.J. (2021), ‘Recreating the Music of Euripides’ Orestes’, in: Greek and Roman Musical Studies 9, 175–190. D’Angour, A.J. (2022), ‘Metre and Music’, in: L. Swift (ed.), A Companion to Greek Lyric, Hoboken, 132–141. Delavaud-Roux, M.H. (1993), Les dances armées en Grèce antique, Aix-en-Provence. Delavaud-Roux, M.H. (1994), Les dances pacifiques en Grèce antique, Aix-en-Provence. Delavaud-Roux, M.H. (1995), Les dances dionysiaques en Grèce antique, Aix-en-Provence. Hedreen, G. (2011), ‘Bild, Mythos and Ritual: Choral Dance in Theseus’s Cretan Adventure on the Francois Vase’, in: Hesperia 80, 491–510. Hedreen, G. (2013), ‘The Semantics of Processional Dithyramb: Pindar’s Second Dithyramb and Archaic Athenian Vase-painting’, in: B. Kowalzig/P. Wilson, Dithyramb in Context, Oxford, 171–197. Highwater, J. (1996), Dance: Rituals of Experience, Oxford. Lawler, L. (1964), The Dance in Ancient Greece, Middletown, CT. Lynch, T. (2016), ‘Arsis and Thesis in Ancient Rhythmics and Metrics: A New Approach’, in: Classical Quarterly 66.2, 491–513. Mullen, W. (1982), Choreia: Pindar and Dance, Princeton. Murray, P. (2004), ‘The Muses and their Arts’, in: P. Murray/P. Wilson (eds.), Music and the Muses: The Culture of “Mousikē” in the Classical Athenian City, Oxford, 365–389.

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Naerebout, F.G. (1997), Attractive Performances: Ancient Greek Dance: Three Preliminary Studies, Amsterdam. Olsen, S. (2021), Solo Dance in Archaic and Classical Greek Literature, Cambridge. Pöhlmann, E./West, M.L. (2001), Documents of Ancient Greek Music, Oxford. Pickard-Cambridge, A. (1988), The Dramatic Festivals of Athens, 2nd ed. rev. by J. Gould/ D.M. Lewis, Oxford. Scott, W.C. (1984), Musical Design in Aeschylean Theater, Hanover, NH. Scott, W.C. (1996), Musical Design in Sophoclean Theater, Hanover, NH. Smith, T.J. (2010), Komast Dancers in Archaic Greek Art, Oxford. Smith, T.J. (2014), ‘Revel Without a Cause? Dance, Performance, and Greek Vase Painting’, in: K. Soar/C. Aamodt (eds.), Archaeological Approaches to Dance Performance, Oxford, 85–94. Smith, T.J. (2016), ‘Instant Messaging: Dance, Text, and Visual Communication on Archaic Corinthian and Athenian Vases’, in: D. Yatromanolakis (ed.), Epigraphy of Art: Ancient Greek Vase-Inscriptions and Vase-Paintings, Oxford. Stehle, E. (1997), Performance and Gender in Ancient Greece, Princeton. Steiner, D. (2021), Choral Constructions in Greek Culture: The Idea of the Chorus in the Poetry, Art and Social Practices of the Archaic and Early Classical Period, Cambridge. Wallace, R.W. (2015), Reconstructing Damon, Oxford. West, M.L. (1982), Ancient Greek Metre, Oxford. West, M.L. (1992), Ancient Greek Music, Oxford.

Lucia Athanassaki

Animal Imagery and Choral Self-Expression: Pindar 140b Abstract: This chapter investigates the associations of the dolphin imagery in Pindar 140b. Taking into account (a) the chorus’ comparison of themselves to the dolphin’s response to the music of the auloi; and (b) Apolline and Dionysiac transformations in the Homeric Hymns to Apollo and Dionysus respectively, it argues that the dolphin imagery invites the audience to think of music’s transformative power regardless of any specific spectacle. In this respect Apolline transformations in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo are illuminating: Apollo appears first as a dolphin which later transforms itself into a sparkling star in broad daylight, then into a youth and finally into the chorus-leader of the prototypical paean. Accordingly, the persona cantans of 140 b encourages their audience to imagine a similar range of choral transformations. This interpretation leads to the proposition of a different supplement in line 12, namely μελ[ι]ζόμεν[ος καὐλόν. Choral song-dance, a complex audio-spectacle, is simultaneously a verbal and nonverbal communicative medium. Xenophon puts it in a nutshell in the following assessment: There is nothing, wife, so convenient or so good for human beings as order. For instance, a chorus is a combination of people (χορὸς ἐξ ἀνθρώπων συγκείμενός ἐστιν); but when its members do as they please, it becomes mere confusion, and there is no pleasure in watching it; but when they move and sing in an orderly fashion, then those same people at once seem worth watching (ἀξιοθέατοι) and worth hearing (ἀξιάκουστοι).1 Xenophon, Oeconomicus 8.3  This chapter is an offshoot of a talk on animals in Pindar, presented at a meeting of the coregroup of the Network of the Study of Archaic and Classical Song, organised in Nanterre by Nadine Le Meur-Weissman, in 2019. The present version, focussing on dolphins, was developed and presented first at a conference on nonverbal communication, organised at the Academy of Athens in October 2021 by Sophia Papaioannou, Antonios Rengakos, Andreas Serafim, and Athanasios Stefanis. Subsequently, it was presented at the Network core-group meeting in 2022, which was organised in Venice by Ettore Cingano. I owe warmest thanks to the organisers and audiences in Paris, Athens, and Venice for the stimulating discussions we had and useful comments they made, and to Ewen Bowie for his feedback on this version.  1 The English translation and the Greek quotations are taken from Marchant and Todd’s Loeb edition, revised by Henderson (Marchant/Todd/Henderson 2013). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-003

  Lucia Athanassaki Ischomachus, who is the speaker here, makes a clear distinction between singing and acting, verbal and nonverbal communication, and argues for the coordination of sound and motion. Although Ischomachus does not elaborate on the nature of confusion an uncoordinated chorus causes in its audience, Xenophon’s considerations must have been both aesthetic and intellectual. Like all performance genres, choral dance appeals both to the eye and the mind and enables its audiences to go beyond what they see. The constant interplay between ocular perception and imagination is an integral element of communication in general, but ancient chorality poses additional challenges for us, because our main source for reconstructing a complex audio-spectacle are the surviving texts, often fragmentary. Moreover, the choreography and the nexus of associations it was meant to trigger are largely irrecoverable.2 Luckily, however, these insurmountable difficulties have not diminished the fascination that choreia exercises on its students. Pindar’s fragment 140b exemplifies these difficulties. The best-preserved part of this lacunose ode features a chorus who state that they are provoked to a loud shout in the manner of a dolphin whom the lovely melody of auloi has set in motion on a waveless sea (11–17). Beyond this beautiful and familiar image there is uncertainty about the content of the missing parts, the genre, the occasion, etc.3 In what follows I shall revisit the dolphin imagery as an example of nonverbal communication, exploring some of the associations it was meant to trigger and their significance. As a rule, choruses liken themselves to graceful and fast animals, namely horses, dogs, deer, and dolphins.4 The common denominator is obviously graceful movement. The question I shall ask is if we can go beyond this obvious similarity and explore how such animal imagery enhances choral self-presentation. Fragment 140b is partially preserved in a papyrus, P.Oxy. 408 (3, 1903), and partially in Plutarch’s Quaestiones convivales (7.5.2):

 2 Visual representations are certainly helpful, but they capture one single posture, which is moreover stylised. 3 In the light of the complementarity of Apollo and Dionysus both in song and cult, neither the references to paeans (l. 9) and to auloi (ll. 3 and 17) nor the dolphin exemplum can determine either the genre or the occasion. See also Rutherford 2001, 387, who suggests that it could be a hyporchēma. 4 See, for example, Pindar 107a and the discussion below on pp. 40–41. In Alcman’s Louvre partheneion the chorus likens only the choragoi, Agido and Hagesichora, to horses.

Animal Imagery and Choral Self-Expression: Pindar 140b  

⊗Ἰων[ ἀοιδ[ὰν κ]α̣ὶ ἁρμονίαν αὐλ̣[οῖς ἐ]πεφράσ[ατο τῶ[ν τε Λο]κρῶν τις, ⸤οἵ τ’ ἀργίλοφον⸥ π⸤ὰρ Ζεφυρί⸥ου κολώ⸤ναν⸥ ν[... ὑπὲ]ρ Αὐσονία[ς ἁλός λι[......]ις ἀνθ.[ οἷον [ὄ]χημα λιγ[υ κες ὀ[.]όν παιηο̣ [ν Ἀπόλλωνί τε καὶ [ ἄρμενον. ἐγὼ μ[ παῦρα μελ[ι]ζόμεν[ος καὐλόν [γλώ]σσαργον ἀμφέπω[ν ⸤ἐρε– θίζ⸥ομαι πρὸς ἀϋτά̣[ν ⸤ἁλίο⸥υ δελφῖνος ὑπ⸤όκρισιν⸥, ⸤τὸν μὲν ἀκύμονος ἐν πόντου πελάγει αὐλῶν ἐκίνησ’ ἐρατὸν μέλος.⸥

5

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line 12: supplevi e.g. μελ[ι]ζομέν[ου τέχναν Grenfell and Hunt line 14: suppl. Lobel Ion(ian)? and one of the Locrians, who (live) near the white-topped hill of Zephyrion above the Ausonian sea, devised song and harmony for the auloi… such a vehicle clearsounding… paean(s ) fitting both for Apollo and… I, singing a few words and honouring the lively-tongued aulos, am being provoked to a loud cry… in the manner of the seadolphin, whom the lovely melody of the auloi has set in motion on the waveless expanse of the sea.5

My translation takes account of the supplement ]ος καὐλόν I propose at l. 12.6 Before discussing the considerations that led to this proposal, I wish to cite two different interpretations of the fragment. In an article published in 1992 W.J. Henderson assessed the advantages of the dolphin simile as follows: now, certain associations surrounding the dolphin-image are unavoidable: speed, beauty, vitality, freedom, graceful movement, a special relationship with man, and, at least for Pindar and other Greeks, a love of music.7

More recently scholars have drawn attention to the Dionysiac associations of dolphins, and Deborah Steiner has suggested that this song is an example of generic fusion in terms of content, instrumentation, and choreography:  5 The Greek quotation is taken from Snell/Maehler’s Teubner edition (Snell/Maehler 1975). 6 See below n. 23. 7 Henderson 1992, 155.

  Lucia Athanassaki Like Bacchylides 16, the work begins with the suggestion that the choristers are, in keeping with the Xenocritean performers before them, executing a paean on behalf of Apollo, only then to upend expectation with the Dionysus-inflected second half and, perhaps, a corresponding change in instrumentation, rhythm and choreography.8

Since dolphins are associated both with Dionysus and Apollo, in what follows I shall explore the dolphin imagery not only in relation to Dionysus, but to Apollo as well, especially since the Apolline element is dominant in the preserved part.

 Apolline transformations The best place to start is the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, an important intertext both for Pindar and his audience. The significance for the paean of Apollo’s representation as a dolphin in the Homeric Hymn has already been noted.9 I wish to look at it afresh, however, with an eye to the remarkable difference of the epic scene from other literary descriptions of dolphins that stress their gracefulness. The Homeric Hymn to Apollo narrates the inauguration of Apollo’s cult in Delphi. At line 388 we are told that Apollo spots the ship carrying the Cretans, leaps into the sea, and transforms himself into a dolphin: […] αὐτὰρ ὃ τοῖσι συνήνετο Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλων, ἐν πόντωι δ᾿ ἐπόρουσε δέμας δελφῖνι ἐοικώς 400 νηῒ θοῆι, καὶ κεῖτο πέλωρ μέγα τε δεινόν τε· τῶν δ᾿ ὅς τις κατὰ θυμὸν ἐπιφράσσαιτο †νοῆσαι, πάντοσ᾿ ἀνασσείσασκε, τίνασσε δὲ νήϊα δοῦρα. οἳ δ᾿ ἀκέων ἐνὶ νηῒ καθείατο δειμαίνοντες, οὐδ᾿ οἵ γ᾿ ὅπλ᾿ ἔλυον κοίλην ἀνὰ νῆα μέλαιναν, 405 οὐδ᾿ ἔλυον λαῖφος νηὸς κυανοπρώιροιο, Homeric Hymn to Apollo 400–406 But he, Phoibos Apollo, intercepted them, and out at sea he leaped onto the swift ship in the likeness of a dolphin, and lay there, a huge and fearsome beast. If any of them took it in mind to (touch him?), he would toss him off in any direction, shaking the ship’s timbers. So they sat quiet in the ship in terror; they did not slacken the sheets along the hollow ship…10

 8 Steiner 2016, 148. 9 Rutherford 2001, 386–387; Csapo 2003. 10 The Greek quotations and the English translations of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo are taken from West 2003.

Animal Imagery and Choral Self-Expression: Pindar 140b  

From our point of view, it is worth noting that Apollo as dolphin hijacks the ship, therefore acting as a pirate. It is also remarkable that, from the narrator’s and the sailors’ vantage point, the dolphin-pirate looks huge and fearful (πέλωρ μέγα τε δεινόν τε, 401). In other words, this narrative is not interested in the dolphin’s agility and gracefulness, but in its awe-inspiring, enormous presence. This is an important difference from the ordinary representations of dolphins as dancers, to which I shall come back. Once the dolphin guides the ship to Crisa, Apollo transforms himself again, first into a star, and then into a young man, and reveals to the Cretan sailors his identity and their new mission, no longer to be sailors, but to be his priests. It is in his anthropomorphic form that he will lead the chorus of the Cretans to his Pythian temple, singing and dancing the paean. First, however, they are instructed to set up his worship as Apollo Delphinios, because he appeared to them as a dolphin: ἔνθ᾽ ἐκ νηὸς ὄρουσε ἄναξ ἑκάεργος Ἀπόλλων, 440 ἀστέρι εἰδόμενος μέσῳ ἤματι: τοῦ δ᾽ ἀπὸ πολλαὶ σπινθαρίδες πωτῶντο, σέλας δ᾽ εἰς οὐρανὸν ἷκεν: […] ἔνθεν δ᾽ αὖτ᾽ ἐπὶ νῆα νόημ᾽ ὣς ἆλτο πέτεσθαι, ἀνέρι εἰδόμενος αἰζηῷ τε κρατερῷ τε, πρωθήβῃ, χαίτῃς εἰλυμένος εὐρέας ὤμους: 450 ἔνθ᾿ ἐκ νηὸς ὄρουσεν ἄναξ ἑκάεργος Ἀπόλλων ἀστέρι εἰδόμενος μέσωι ἤματι· τοῦ δ᾿ ἀπὸ πολλαί σπινθαρίδες πωτῶντο, σέλας δ᾿ εἰς οὐρανὸν ἷκεν· […] ἔνθεν δ᾿ αὖτ᾿ ἐπὶ νῆα νόημ᾿ ὣς ἄλτο πέτεσθαι, ἀνέρι εἰδόμενος αἰζηῶι τε κρατερῶι τε πρωθήβηι, χαίτηις εἰλυμένος εὐρέας ὤμους, 450 […] βάν ῥ᾿ ἴμεν· ἦρχε δ᾿ ἄρά σφιν ἄναξ Διὸς υἱὸς Ἀπόλλων φόρμιγγ᾿ ἐν χείρεσσιν ἔχων, ἐρατὸν κιθαρίζων, καλὰ καὶ ὕψι βιβάς· οἳ δὲ ῥήσσοντες ἕποντο Κρῆτες πρὸς Πυθὼ καὶ ἰηπαιήον᾿ ἄειδον, οἷοί τε Κρητῶν παιήονες, οἷσί τε Μοῦσα ἐν στήθεσσιν ἔθηκε θεὰ μελίγηρυν ἀοιδήν. Homeric Hymn to Apollo 440–442, 448–450, 514–519 There the far-shooting lord Apollo darted off the ship, looking like a star in broad daylight, with countless sparks flying off him, and the brilliance was heave-high. […] From there again he flew back to the ship, fast as thought, in the likeness of a sturdy yeoman in his first prime, his hair falling over his broad shoulders, and he addressed them in winged words […] they set off, and Zeus’ son, lord Apollo, led the way with his lyre in his hands, playing delightfully, stepping fine and high, while the Cretans followed to Pytho, dancing

  Lucia Athanassaki in time, and singing Ie Paieon — like the paeans of the Cretans in whose breasts the Muse has placed honey-voiced singing.

Apollo’s successive transformations elicit different emotions, ranging from initial dread and awe to the pleasure which the Cretans enjoy as choreuts and prospective priests.11

 Dionysiac transformations In a seminal study on the Dionysiac associations of dolphins, Eric Csapo discussed the similarities between the Hymn to Apollo and the Hymn to Dionysus, where we find the same ingredients but in a different configuration.12 In the Hymn to Dionysus it is Dionysus who is taken hostage by pirates who wish to rob him of his riches, thinking he is the son of a mortal king. On board, however, all sorts of miraculous events happen. Wine flows, vines and ivy spread along the masts, while Dionysus transforms into a bear and then into a lion: […]. οἳ δὲ ἰδόντες νῆ᾿ ἤδη τότ’ ἔπειτα κυβερνήτην ἐκέλευον γῆι πελάαν· ὃ δ᾿ ἄρα σφι λέων γένετ᾿ ἔνδοθι νηός δεινὸς ἐπ᾿ ἀκροτάτης, μέγα δ᾿ ἔβραχεν· ἐν δ᾿ ἄρα μέσσηι 45 ἄρκτον ἐποίησεν λασιαύχενα, σήματα φαίνων· ἂν δ᾿ ἔστη μεμαυῖα, λέων δ᾿ ἐπὶ σέλματος ἄκρου δεινὸν ὑπόδρα ἰδών· οἳ δ᾿ ἐς πρύμνην ἐφόβηθεν, ἀμφὶ κυβερνήτην δὲ σαόφρονα θυμὸν ἔχοντα ἔσταν ἄρ᾿ ἐκπληγέντες. ὃ δ᾿ ἐξαπίνης ἐπορούσας 50 ἀρχὸν ἕλ᾿· οἳ δὲ θύραζε κακὸν μόρον ἐξαλύοντες πάντες ὁμῶς πήδησαν, ἐπεὶ ἴδον, εἰς ἅλα δῖαν, δελφῖνες δ᾿ ἐγένοντο. κυβερνήτην δ᾿ ἐλεήσας ἔσχεθε καί μιν ἔθηκε πανόλβιον, εἶπέ τε μῦθον· ‘θάρσει, †δῖ᾿ ἑκάτωρ†, τὠμῶι κεχαρισμένε θυμῶι· 55 εἶμι δ᾿ ἐγὼ Διόνυσος ἐρίβρομος, ὃν τέκε μήτηρ Καδμηῒς Σεμέλη Διὸς ἐν φιλότητι μιγεῖσα.’ Homeric Hymn to Dionysus 42–5713

 11 See Clay 1989, 79–86. 12 Csapo 2003. 13 The Greek quotation and the English translation of the Homeric Hymn to Dionysus are taken from West 2003.

Animal Imagery and Choral Self-Expression: Pindar 140b  

When they saw this, then they did start calling on the helmsman to take the ship to land. But the god became a lion in the ship, a terrible lion in the bows, and he roared loud; and amidships he made a shaggy-maned bear, to signal his power. Up it reared in fury, while the lion at the top of the deck stood glaring fearsomely. They fled to the stern, and about the prudent-hearted helmsman they halted in terror. Without warning the lion sprang forward and seized the captain. The others all leapt out into the sea when they saw it, to avoid ill doom, and they turned into dolphins. But as for the helmsman, the god took pity on him and held him back, and gave him the highest blessings, saying: “Be not afraid, good mariner(?), lief to my heart. I am Dionysus the mighty roarer, born to Cadmus’ daughter Semele in union of love with Zeus”.

The hymnic representations of Apollo and Dionysus have important similarities and differences. I would like to draw attention to a similarity that has not been explored, namely the centrality and range of transformations in the two accounts.14 In the Hymn to Dionysus, pirates are transformed into dolphins, whereas Dionysus takes the shape of a bear and a lion and eludes his captors in a scene that has a remarkable parallel in Euripides’ Bacchae. In the Hymn to Apollo, Apollo transforms himself into a dolphin, and acts as a pirate in his guise as a dolphin. With regard to the theme of transformation it is worth noting that it persists in the visual representations too. Some representations feature dolphins with some human properties such as feet, whereas others feature men with dolphin properties such as fins.15 Piracy on the other hand is the act of appropriating something that is not one’s own.16 Apollo, the god of music, hijacks a ship, because he wants to turn the Cretan sailors into his priests. Dionysus, the god of theatre, successfully resists capture by transforming himself into different animals, and by turning his captors into his devotees too. Apollo, on the other hand, transforms himself into a dolphin, but once the boat has reached Crisa, he transforms himself into a shining star, and then into a man who will reveal himself to be a god, and will  14 Csapo 2003 is an exception, but he focusses on the nucleus of transformation in each story: “In the tale of Dionysus and the pirates it is the dolphins which become the chorus, first gathering around the helmsman, and then circling around the ship. In the tale of Apollo Delphinios it is the god himself who becomes the dolphin, usurping the role of the helmsman, leading the ship to Crisa and then himself leading the dancers (as exarchon) to the sanctuary” (ibid. 90). To my reading Apollo’s intervening transformations into a sparkling star and into a youth are very important. 15 See Csapo 2003, 79–90. Cf. Beaulieu 2015, 167–187 who, unlike Csapo, focusses exclusively on Dionysus. See also Kowalzig’s stimulating discussion: Kowalzig 2013. 16 Lightfoot 2019 argues plausibly that Pindar told the story of Dionysus and the pirates in fr. 236 Snell/Maehler.

  Lucia Athanassaki lead the Cretans to sing and dance the archetypal paean. As priests of Apollo the Cretans sing and dance paeans, as devotees of Dionysus dolphins lend their shape to padded dancers and dithyramb performers. The common denominator of these changing roles and identities is the choral worship of Apollo and Dionysus, both gods associated with music.

 Imagining transformation How are we to interpret the centrality of transformation both in the Hymn to Apollo and in the Hymn to Dionysus? In musical and theatrical terms, the different guises Apollo and Dionysus adopt constitute divine paradigms for the roles their worshippers play in the musical and theatrical performances in their honour.17 In what follows I shall discuss a few representative examples, indicating the range of different shapes worshippers are imagined taking. Before exploring the transformative power of music in fr. 140b, a few words on mimēsis and the complementarity of the two gods in song and cult are in order. The various melic genres entail different degrees of mimēsis, but Bacchylides’ surviving dithyrambs show that there are various degrees of mimēsis within one and the same genre. Bacchylides 18 (Dith. 4), for instance, is purely mimetic; the chorus, or two semi-choruses, or the coryphaeus and the chorus, play the roles of the king of Athens Aegeus and of Athenian youths.18 Bacchylides’ other dithyrambs display a mixture of narration and dramatised speeches. Bacchylides 17, for instance, was classified as a dithyramb, but designates itself as a song-dance for Apollo Delius. This and similar examples reflect the complementarity of Apollo and Dionysus on the cultic level, a complementarity that bears on the song-dances composed in their honour.19 Regardless of the varying degree of mimēsis, all song-dances appeal to the imagination of their audiences, even when they appeal to their sight through ocular deixis (οὐχ ὁρᾷς, ἰδέ, etc.).20 I shall therefore explore the possibility that the dolphin simile in 140b is not necessarily a mimetic cue but appeals to the audience’s imagination. It is time to go back to the Pindaric fragment, starting with what we can tease out from the lacunose text with relative certainty. In the opening the refer 17 Cf. Lavecchia 2013, who considers the dithyramb as the transformative genre par excellence. 18 Kenyon 1897, 175. 19 See Tsagalis 2009; Calame 2009; Athanassaki 2016. 20 See Peponi 2004; 2015; 2016.

Animal Imagery and Choral Self-Expression: Pindar 140b  

ence is to a Locrian, probably Xenocritus, to whom the speaker attributes the invention of a new harmony for the aulos. Then the speaker refers to a clearsounding vehicle and to a paean suitable for Apollo. William Race takes μελ[ι]ζομεν[ as a participle dependent on the first person. Maria Grazia Fileni, on the other hand, supplements κλύων (with Wilamowitz) in l. 11 and ]oυ τέχναν (with Grenfell and Hunt) in l. 12: ἐγὼ μ[ὰν κλύων/ παῦρα μελ[ι]ζoμέν[ου τέχναν/[γλώ]σσαργον ἀμφέπω[ν ⸤ἐρε–/θίζ⸥ομαι πρὸς ἀυτά̣[/⸤ἁλίο⸥υ δελφῖνος ὑπ⸤όκρισιν⸥. In Fileni’s reading the first person, i.e. Pindar, listens ([κλύων]) to Xenocritus’ scant melodies and feels compelled to sing or find a new melody in the manner of dolphins that leap in the sea.21 In contrast to Xenocritus’ melodies, Pindar’s art is sonorous and vivacious ([γλώ]σσαργον [τέχναν]). The merit of this reconstruction is that it establishes a thematic relation between the performance underway and Xenocritus’ paeans; but, as Fileni admits, the point of a comparison between Pindar and his chorus on the one hand with a dolphin chorus on the other, is unclear, despite the obvious analogies between the human and the animal chorus.22 I propose a different supplement exempli gratia in line 12 and I construe as follows: παῦρα μελ[ι]ζόμεν[ος καὐλόν [γλώ]σσαργον ἀμφέπων. Ιf the referent of the adjective [γλώ]σσαργον in l. 13 was a musical instrument, for instance a lyre or an aulos, the comparison between the performing chorus and the dolphin chorus becomes clearer.23 The rare adjective [γλώ]σσαργος can have both a positive and negative meaning.24 I propose a positive meaning here and I translate “lively-tongued”.25 On this reading, the choreuts’ stated response to the lively 21 Fileni 1987, 45 ad 10 ff: “ascoltando il mélos di Senocrito, Pindaro si sentirebbe spinto a cantare o a cercare una nuova melodia al pari dei delfini che balzaono nel mare udendo la musica”. 22 Fileni 1987, 45–46. Cf. Rutherford 2001, 383, who also adopts Grenfell and Hunt’s supplement and takes this to be a reference to Xenocritus, but with some hesitation, as is evident from his discussion, where he points out that Pindar’ references to the poetry of others serve to contrast his poetry with theirs, ibid. 386. As is evident from the discussion that follows, I share Rutherford’s reservations. 23 At the previous presentations of this paper in Athens and in Venice I had proposed ]ος λύραν in l. 12. Although I still think of λύραν as a plausible variant, it seems that aulos is a more appropriate referent for [γλώ]σσαργος. Pindar frequently thinks of the aulos and the phorminx or the lyre being played together in one and the same performance. See e.g. Olympian 3.8, Olympian 7.12, Pythian 10.39, Nemean 9.8. Isthmian 9.27. 24 Slater 1969, followed by Race 1997, translates [γλώ]σσαργον as “garrulous”, but the context requires a positive meaning. See next note. 25 I take the cue for the translation “lively tongued” from Dio Chrysostom 47.16, who makes reference both to the negative and positive meanings and illustrates the latter with reference to the nightingale (τὴν ἀηδόνα γλώσσαργόν φασιν οἱ ποιηταί). See also Fileni 1987, 49 who, citing

  Lucia Athanassaki tongued aulos is compared with the imagined response of the dolphins to the same instrument on a calm day. Are we to imagine that the choreuts engage in a mimetic act, enacting for instance the movement of the dolphin at the sound of the aulos? The possibility cannot be excluded, but I would like to offer a different interpretation, taking as my starting point A.-E. Peponi’s interpretation of the animal imagery in Pindar fragment 107a: Πελασγὸν ἵππον ἢ κύνα Ἀμυκλᾰίαν ἀγωνίῳ ἐλελιζόμενος ποδὶ μιμέο καμπύλον μέλος διώκων, οἷ᾿ ἀνὰ Δώτιον ἀνθεμόεν πεδίον πέταται θάνατον κεροέσσᾳ εὑρέμεν ματεῖσ᾿ ἐλάφῳ· τὰν δ᾿ ἐπ᾿ αὐχένι στρέφοι –σαν [ἕτερον] κάρα πάντ᾿ ἐπ᾿ οἶμον...

5

Imitate the Pelasgian horse or dog(a)from Amyclae as you shake with your foot in the contest and drive forward the curved song, even as it flies over the flowery Dotian plain, seeking to find death for the horned deer; and as she turns her head on her neck (the dog pursues?) her along every path.26

Peponi argues convincingly, in my view, that the speaker’s instruction to imitate either a horse or a dog is a meta-mimetic rather than a mimetic statement:27 They do not just describe verbally the dance mimēsis that is supposedly taking place corporeally. On the contrary, they use language in order to briefly reflect on the multiple possibilities of the dancing act. They meditate on the richness of a mimetic potential.

If the cue is meta-mimetic in fr. 140b too, we do not need to imagine the chorus enacting dolphins, imitating their leap, etc. The tertium comparationis is not a dance posture, but the enchantment music exercises on human and animal dancers and enables their hypocrisis, which entails a wide range of orchestic postures and ethopoetic acts.28

 Chantraine, suggests that the second compound (ἀργός) conveys the meaning of vivacity, vitality, and movement. 26 The Greek quotation and the English translation are taken from Race 1997. 27 Peponi 2015, 215. 28 For the meaning of hypocrisis in the early 5th century see Page 1956, with references to earlier scholarship.

Animal Imagery and Choral Self-Expression: Pindar 140b  

The foregoing discussion has shown that the dolphin is closely associated with transformation and role-playing in its relation both to Apollo and to Dionysus. In addition to the transformations and roles already discussed, i.e. Apollo as dolphin, Apollo the dolphin as pirate, pirates turned into dolphins by Dionysus, there is a rich tradition of role-playing representing dolphins as rescuers of humans, including famous poets such as Arion, as escorts and carriers of mortals and immortals, and even as spies!29 The reception of the dolphin’s movement and its impression on the viewer is equally rich. In a hymn, attributed by Aelian to Arion, but composed probably in the late 5th century,30 the poet paints a remarkable picture: βραγχίοις δὲ περί σε πλωτοὶ θῆρες χορεύουσι κύκλωι κούφοισι ποδῶν ῥίμμασιν ἐλάφρ’ ἀναπαλλόμενοι, σιμοὶ φριξαύχενες ὠκύδρομοι σκύλακες, φιλόμουσοι δελφῖνες, ἔναλα θρέμματα κουρᾶν Νηρεΐδων θεᾶν,

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10

Around thee the finny monsters in a ring swim and dance, with nimble flingings of their feet leaping lightly, snub-nosed hounds with bristling neck, swift runners, music-loving dolphins, sea-nurslings of the Nereid maids divine.31

This complex image offers a blend of theriomorphic and anthropomorphic characteristics. The dolphins’ bestial nature (θῆρες, σκύλακες) is balanced by the emphasis on their light step and elegant leap (κούφοισι ποδῶν ῥίμμασιν, ἐλάφρ’ ἀναπαλλόμενοι).32 Comparison of this description with that of Apollo as a huge and terrifying dolphin leaping onto the Cretan ship in the Homeric Hymn shows how different perceptions of leaping dolphins can be. Another vivid description of frightening dolphins is found in Oppian who, unlike the poet of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, is not bothered by their bulkiness, but likens their flight above the sea to an arrow:

 29 Bacchylides 17.17–100 (dolphins carrying Theseus to the palace of Poseidon and Amphitrite); Herodotus 1.24 (dolphins rescuing Arion and carrying him to Taenarum, see also below); Plutarch, The Banquet of the Seven Sages 162ad (dolphins delivering the body of Hesiod); Eratosthenes, Catasterismoi 1.31 (dolphins spying on Amphitrite and revealing her abode to lovestruck Poseidon, who honours them greatly). For some of these tales see Beaulieu 2015, 119–144. 30 For the date see Csapo 2003, 75 with the references in n. 12. 31 The Greek quotation and the English translation are taken from Scholfield 1959. 32 See Bowra 1963; Csapo 2003, 74–77 with references.

  Lucia Athanassaki Δελφῖνες δ᾿ ἀγέλῃσιν ἁλὸς μέγα κοιρανέουσιν, ἔξοχον ἠνορέῃ τε καὶ ἀγλαΐῃ κομόωντες ῥιπῇ τ᾿ ὠκυάλῳ· διὰ γὰρ βέλος ὥστε θάλασσαν 535 ἵπτανται· φλογόεν δὲ σέλας πέμπουσιν ὀπωπαῖς ὀξύτατον· Halieutica 2.533–537 The Dolphins lord it greatly among the herds of the sea, pluming themselves eminently on their valiance and beauty and their swift speed in the water; for like an arrow they fly through the sea, and fiery and keen is the light which they flash from their eyes 33

An Orphic Hymn to the Nereids, composed probably late in the Graeco-Roman period, focussing on the peaceful activities of the dolphins at sea, adds yet another touch, the shining dark blue appearance of dolphins in motion: ὑδρόδομοι, σκιρτηταί, ἑλισσόμενοι περὶ κῦμα, ποντοπλάνοι δελφῖνες, ἁλιρρόθιοι, κυαναυγεῖς. Orphic Hymn 24.7–8 Sea-dwellers, leapers, wheeling around the surge, sea-wanderers, dolphins, sea-beaten, dark blue-gleaming.34

Dolphins swift and light on their feet, dolphins as arrows, dark blue-gleaming dolphins represent, of course, the impression that dolphins in fast motion make on viewers.

 Dolphin imagery and choral self-expression This highly selective presentation of perceptions of dolphins in motion gives an idea of the wide range of images that the chorus’ comparison of their own response with the dolphin’s response to music could trigger. If our text had not been so badly damaged, we might be in a better position to establish more analogies between the human and the dolphin chorus, but I would not be surprised if the image conjured up did not change significantly. As things stand, all the chorus tell us about themselves is they are provoked to a loud shout in the manner of

 33 The Greek quotations and the English translations are taken from Mair 1928. For the Homeric intertext of the dolphin’s aggressiveness, see Kneebone 2020, 218–220. 34 The Greek quotation is taken from Quandt 1962; the English translation is mine. Csapo 2003, 93 translates κυαναυγεῖς as “blue flashing”.

Animal Imagery and Choral Self-Expression: Pindar 140b  

dolphins’ response to auloi. The wide range of the dolphin’s orchestic variations and role-playing suggests that the choral statement could elicit different images in the minds of different people. In this sense, the resonances of the dolphin imagery are an invitation to the audience to think of music’s transformative power and range regardless of the specific spectacle before their eyes. In this connection, the Homeric Hymn to Apollo offers a precious insight: the Cretan sailors first see a dolphin, which later transforms itself into a sparkling star in broad daylight, then into a youth who reveals himself to be a god, and finally into the chorus-leader of the prototypical paean. The close association of dolphins both with Apollo and Dionysus and the widespread belief that they started life as men makes the knockon effect of the dolphin imagery rich and powerful.

Bibliography Athanassaki, L. (2016), ‘Dramatic and Political Perspectives on Archaic Sculptures. Bacchylides’ Fourth Dithyramb (c. 18) and the Athenian Treasury in Delphi’, in: V. Cazzato/A. Lardinois (eds.), The Look of Lyric: Greek Song and the Visual, Leiden, 16–49. Beaulieu, M.-C. (2015), The Sea in the Greek Imagination, Philadelphia. Bowra, C.M. (1963), ‘Arion and the Dolphin’, in: Museum Helveticum 20, 121–134. Calame, C. (2009), ‘Apollo in Delphi and in Delos: Poetic Performances between Paean and Dithyramb’, in: L. Athanassaki/R.P. Martin/J.F. Miller (eds.), Apolline Politics and Poetic, Athens, 169–197. Clay, J.S. (1989), The Politics of Olympus. Form and Meaning in the Major Homeric Hymns, Princeton. Csapo, E. (2003), ‘The Dolphins of Dionysus’, in: E. Csapo/M.C. Miller (eds.), Poetry, Theory, Praxis, Oxford, 69–98. Fileni, M.G. (1987), Senocrito di Locri e Pindaro (Fr. 140b Sn.-Maehl.), Rome. Henderson, W.J. (1992), ‘Pindar Fr. 140B Snell-Maehler: The Chariot and the Dolphin’, in: Hermes 120.2, 148–158. Kenyon, F.G. (1897), The Poems of Bacchylides, London. Kneebone, E. (2020), Oppian’s Halieutica. Charting a Didactic Epic, Cambridge. Kowalzig, B. (2013), ‘Dolphins on the Wine-Dark Sea: Dithyramb and Social Change in the Archaic Mediterranean’, in: B. Kowalzig/P. Wilson (eds.), Dithyramb in Context, Oxford, 31–58. Lavecchia. S. (2013), ‘Becoming Like Dionysos: Dithyramb and Dionysian Initiation’, in: B. Kowalzig/P. Wilson (eds.), Dithyramb in Context, Oxford, 59–75. Lightfoot, J. (2019), ‘Something to Do with Dionysus? Dolphins and Dithyramb in Pindar Fragment 236 SM’, in: Classical Philology 114.3, 481–492. Mair, A.W. (1928), Colluthus, and Tryphiodorus. Edited and Translated, Cambridge, MA. Marchant, E.C./Todd, O.J./Henderson, J. (2013), Xenophon. Memorabilia. Oeconomicus. Symposium. Apology, edited and translated by E.C.M and O.J.T; Revised by J.H, Cambridge, MA. Page, D.L. (1956), ‘ὑποκριτής’, in: The Classical Review 6, 191–192.

  Lucia Athanassaki Peponi, A.-E. (2004), ‘Initiating the Viewer: Deixis and Visual Perception in Alcman’s Lyric Drama’, in: Arethusa 37.3, 295–316. Peponi, A.-E. (2015), ‘Dance and Aesthetic Perception’, in: P. Destrée/P. Murray (eds.), Blackwell Companion to Ancient Aesthetics, Chichester/West Sussex, 204–217. Peponi, A.-E. (2016), ‘Lyric Vision: an Introduction’, in: V. Cazzato/A. Lardinois (eds.), The Look of Lyric: Greek Song and the Visual, Leiden, 1–15. Quandt, W. (1962), Orphei hymni, Berlin. Race, W.H. (1997), Pindar. Nemean Odes. Isthmian Odes. Fragments, edited and translated, Cambridge, MA. Rutherford, I. (2001), Pindar’s Paeans. A Reading of the Fragments with a Survey of the Genre, Oxford. Scholfield, F. (1959), Aelian. On Animals, Volume III: Books 12–17. Edited and Translated, Cambridge, MA. Slater, W.J. (1969), Lexicon to Pindar, Berlin. Snell, B./Maehler, H. (eds.) (1975), Pindari carmina cum fragmentis, Pars 2, Leipzig. Steiner, D. (2016), ‘Harmonic Divergence: Pindar’s Fr. 140b and Early Fifth-Century Choral Polemics’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 136, 132–151. Tsagalis, C.C. (2009), ‘Blurring the Boundaries: Dionysus, Apollo and Bacchylides 17’, in: L. Athanassaki/R.P. Martin/J.F. Miller (eds.), Apolline Politics and Poetic, Athens, 199–215. West, M.L. (2003), Homeric Hymns. Homeric Apocrypha. Lives of Homer, edited and translated, Cambridge, MA.

Sophia Papaioannou

Dramaturgy and Nonverbal Behaviour in Roman Comedy Abstract: This chapter discusses the contribution of body language and nonverbal behaviour in general to the physiognomic distinctiveness of character masks in the performance tradition of the fabula palliata. Body language on the comic stage observes a code, and each movement has a specific interpretation and is linked to specific character-type/role. Even though the facial expression of the stage agents is relatively unchanged, masked acting can be considerably expressive when accompanied by skilled gesturing and body movement, as proven by modern forms of masked performance. The staging of twins, further, is particularly apt to study the ways in which nonverbal communication imprinted in the character expectations are tied to a comic mask and the typology of the costume. Accessories such as clothing or various props are solicited to experiment with the complexity of body language and enhance comic effect. Finally, the pretended animation of the mask prepares the audience for the ensuing change in behaviour of the character wearing the mask in question.

 Pantomime eloquence Per. Quaere: ego hinc abscessero aps te huc interim. illuc sis vide, 200 quem ad modum adstitit, severo fronte curans cogitans. pectus digitis pultat, cor credo evocaturust foras; ecce avortit: nixus laevo in femine habet laevam manum, dextera digitis rationem computat, ferit femur dexterum. ita vehementer icit: quod agat aegre suppetit. 205 concrepuit digitis: laborat; crebro commutat status, eccere autem capite nutat: non placet quod repperit. quidquid est, incoctum non expromet, bene coctum dabit. ecce autem aedificat: columnam mento suffigit suo. apage, non placet profecto mi illaec aedificatio; 210 nam os columnatum poetae esse indaudivi barbaro, cui bini custodes semper totis horis occubant. euge, euscheme hercle astitit et dulice et comoedice; numquam hodie quiescet prius quam id quod petit perfecerit. habet opinor. Mil. 200–215

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-004

  Sophia Papaioannou Look you, how he stands, thinking and taking care with a serious look on his face. He drums on his breast with his fingers: I think he’s going to call his heart out of doors! Look! He turns; he places his left hand on his left thigh, reckons up accounts with the fingers on his right hand, then raps his left thigh. His right-hand flies, and with difficulty suggests what he should do. He snaps his fingers; he labours; he changes his stance quickly but look now! He shakes his head: he doesn’t like what he’s come up with. Whatever it is, he won’t bring it out half baked, he’ll present it properly cooked. Look: he puts together something! He makes his arm into a pillar for his chin. Get away — I don’t like this construction of his: for I have heard this is how a barbaric poet’s face was supported by a pillar, over whom two guards used to watch every hour of the day. Well done, how beautifully, by Hercules, he poses, and like a proper slave, and a palliata character on top! He will never find peace today before he has perfected what he is engaged with. He got it, I think!1

The passage above records the transformation of a slave character into to a cunning slave in-performance. The slave Palaestrio, the cunning slave of the play, so-introduced already by himself, at the concluding section of his informative, in part metaliterary, prologue (esp. ll. 150–155), is about to assume his “callidus” persona and devise a plan by which to deceive the naïve slave Sceledrus into believing that he has not seen what he has already seen. The transformation is realised through a pantomime act,2 which Periplectomenus, another character in the play, who watches Palaestrio’s act, describes in detail, offering a typology of movements that directs or rather instructs the audience on how to read nonverbal speech.3 According to Periplectomenus, Palaestrio’s becoming a callidus servus involves hard mental work, comparable to the work of the poet: Quintilian’s advice to writers in Institutio Oratoria 10 seems to echo Palaestrio’s acting: Tum illa quae altiorem animi motum sequuntur quaeque ipsa animum quodam modo concitant, quorum est iactare manum, torquere vultum, frontem et latus interim

 1 Translations of Plautus throughout follow De Melo 2011–2013; translations from Terence follow Barsby 2001, with minor adaptations; the occasional directing commentary on body behaviour and facial expression is mine. 2 On the pantomime elements of the scene see, recently, Zimmerman 2016, 317–319, who similarly sets his discussion at the opening of his chapter and uses Palaestrio’s self-conscious act as springboard for his argument. 3 On the typology of actors’ body language, see Graf 1991, 49–50: “Conventionality is what we would expect from the gestures of comic stock characters; as to gestures, the little evidence that there is confirms it...” [subsequently Graf talks about oratorical gestures and compares them to comic gesturing, before he concludes by noting that both systems are teachable] “Such a conventional system is teachable, in fact it has to be taught: there are teachers of stagecraft, as there are teachers of rhetoric”.

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obiurgare, quaeque Persius notat, cum leviter dicendi genus significant… etiam ridicula sunt, nisi cum soli sumus. Inst. 10.3.21 Moreover, the gestures which accompany strong feeling, and sometimes even serve to stimulate the mind, the waving of the hand, the contraction of the brow, the occasional striking of forehead or side, and those which Persius notes when he describes a trivial style as one that… all these become ridiculous, unless we are alone. (tr. Butler 1922)

Applied to the theatrical experience, the passage above may also offer a tacit acknowledgement of the tremendous importance of nonverbal communication in comic characterisation, individuality, and stage conduct, given the limitation in displaying emotion posed by the mask, and the fact that the plays of Plautus and Terence were intended for live performances, not as scripted compositions to be read or recited.4 The lack of visual representation of Roman drama in the Republican era, including of the masks used, inhibits our ability to form a complete picture of the details of ancient performance, especially since already by Cicero’s times the use of the mask for performances of palliatae is seriously debated.5 Modern critics generally agree that the actors of the palliata used stereotypical masks, as also had been the norm with the actors of Greek New Comedy and the Atellan farce, so that the audience could immediately identify an entering charactertype. In recent years this view has evolved, and insightful readings of comic characterisation drawing on Aristotelian physiognomics have convincingly shown that each character-type, at least in Greek New Comedy, the focus of Petrides’ work,6 but likely also in the palliata, as discussed by Marshall,7 could use more than one mask (the considerably more extant corpus of Roman palliatae offer distinct such cases; e.g., there must have been more than one comic mask for the meretrix, so as to depict more effectively situations that feature two courtesans onstage, such as in the opening of Terence’s Hecyra, where the an 4 The application of pragmatics to the study of dramatic language, including language that acquires meaning through nonverbal behaviour or body language (and conversely, gestures and various physical movements that are regularly verbalised), comprises another important recent trend in the study of performative literature. On the interplay of language and gestures on the Greco-Roman stage, alike tragic and comic, see especially the chapters in Part 3 of Martin, Iurescia, Hof, and Sorrentino 2020, 319–445; on Roman comedy, see the chapters by Ricottilli and Raccanelli. 5 The debate on whether performances of palliatae in Cicero’s times were masked events, and the available evidence, is discussed in Taladoire 1951, 73–85; see also Kinsey 1980. 6 Petrides 2014. 7 Marshall 2006, chapter 3.

  Sophia Papaioannou tithesis in the characters of the two discoursing courtesans is amplified by the difference in their ages — the young Philotis believes that some men may truly love their courtesans, while the older Syra is a pragmatist and rejects any emotional attachment to a client), even though the differentiation would not be as radical as to mistake one character-type for another. Particularly detailed on this is Petrides, who characteristically calls the multiple alternatives of a common type of mask “arguably, the single most important semiotic component of performance”,8 and argues that this diversity reflects the ēthos of the agent in the particular situation. In so many words, not all adulescentes (the character favoured in the examples analysed in Petrides’ book)9 act in the same manner, and their peculiar conduct is communicated (or anticipated) by the mask. The physiognomic distinctiveness of character masks is expressly illustrated in Palaestrio’s in-performance transformation from a “clever slave” to THE “clever slave” of the Miles Gloriosus. Body language on the stage observes a code, and each movement has specific interpretation and is linked to specific character-type/role. Thus, despite the relative fixity of the facial expression of the stage agents, masked acting can be considerably expressive when accompanied by skilled gesturing and body movement, as proven by modern forms of masked performance. Still, the audience appreciates Palaestrio’s activation of the “callidus servus” part, and understands the codified significance of body language, only because this pantomime is accompanied by Periplectomenus’ annotation. On several occasions, in fact, verbal communication is essential for the activation of the comic invested in the imagery of the mask, since it would be logical to assume that part of the audience — those standing at the back — would not be able to discern physiognomic characteristics.10 Bibliography on the ancient comic mask has stressed the importance of body language and theatrical technology (e.g. lighting) in bringing the mask to life and making it an important part of characterisation. Moreover, an audience familiar with masked drama is trained to appreciate and qualify the slightest body movement. Not least, the audience expectations about performances featuring character-types are a source for comic effect, which the actors exploit by convention when they behave contrary to the norm imposed by their mask and type-character, and the

 8 Petrides 2014, 153. 9 Marshall undertakes a similar analysis which focuses on the diversification of the type-mask of the pimp. In his own words, “the problem of Plautus’ pimps” is assessed by assuming that they were depicted by “individualized comic masks”; Marshall 2006, 138. 10 As Panayotakis 2005, 183 correctly notes, “why assume that Plautus composed his plays only for the sake of those who sat in the front rows?”

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audience routinely anticipates and has the skill to assess. This play on audience expectations suggests that character-type acting is accompanied by body language, which a skilled actor or director may exploit in inventive ways.11 The contrast between the conduct and the looks of the senex Periplectomenus in the Miles Gloriosus offers a typical such case study. Periplectomenus, who is a kindhearted old gentleman, and as such an exception to the typical agelast old men of comedy (characters who bring obstacles to the happy union of the play’s young couple in love), becomes the centre of a very entertaining episode not least because his conduct, repeatedly described by the play’s other characters as unconventional and fitting for a young man (and underscored as such by his unorthodox answers to the questions addressed to him by the adulescens Pleusicles, which carefully target core Roman mores and beliefs such as marriage and offspring), is deployed against the mask of the agelast — even if we accept some variety for the mask for the palliata senex, an assumption that must remain unproven given the complete lack of evidence on republican masks, including their association to the masks of the Greek New Comedy and their incorporation of elements from the masks of the Atellana.12 “Character”, in the palliata, “derives from the persona of the mask first, the words of the script second”, notes most recently Franko, who further explains that “while readers will appraise a character by examining words in the script, spectators in the theatre will form their initial appraisal through visual more than audible signals”.13 Humour that is generated from the incongruity between characterisation as dictated by the mask and actual stage conduct that runs contrary to expectations is very common in Plautine comedy. And the dancing act of the young-atheart Periplectomenus as he describes to the amazed Pleusicles his unconventional character of the semi-senex, an old man in opsis, but youthful in body (627), erotically attractive (639–640), discrete and well-mannered at dinner parties (651–655), is comic because the audience is invited to laugh at the verbally-communicated incongruity of a senex in sympotic merriment. The comicality of the scene is considerably enhanced by the nonverbally communicated  11 In Duckworth’s words, “the characters [on the Roman stage] are differentiated, rather than individualized”; Duckworth 1952, 270. 12 Few students of Roman Comedy nowadays believe that the palliatae were originally performed by maskless actors; Gratwick 1982, 83–84 is particularly convincing against such views. 13 Franko 2022, 60; a couple of pages later, he notes that “human talents animated the masks, and the scripts do provide opportunities for actors to create memorable individuals in performance” (p. 62). Similarly, Marshall 2006, 131: “a mask is a tool, and however much information it might convey to an audience, it will always be dependent on how the mask is animated by its performer”.

  Sophia Papaioannou information: through body language Periplectomenus underscores the theatricality and identity-shifting essence of the comic character he embodies, the senex lepidus (“charming old man”). Periplectomenus’ speech at 661–668, in particular, presupposes elaborate dancing and acting skills displayed through body movements, which are executed simultaneously with the senex’s selfportrayal as an actor able to take on a considerable variety of characters and identities: a fierce advocate or a gentle one, a chumming dinner companion, a parasite, a caterer, even a pantomime dancer.14 tute me ut fateare faciam esse adulescentem moribus, ita apud omnis comparebo tibi res benefactis frequens. opusne leni? leniorem dices quam mutum est mare liquidiusculusque ero quam ventus est favonius vel hilarissumum convivam hinc indidem expromam tibi vel primarium parasitum atque opsonatorem optumum; tum ad saltandum non cinaedus malacus aeque est atque ego.

665

Mil. 661–668

I’ll make you yourself admit that I am a youngster in character, so overflowing with kind acts will I appear in all things. Do you need a grim, angry advocate? Here I am! Do you need a mild one? You’ll call me milder that the silent sea and I’ll be gentler that the zephyr. From the very same place I’ll produce for you the most joyful guest or a first-rank hangeron and perfect caterer. Next, when it comes to dancing, a catamite isn’t as soft as I am.

 The eloquence of errors The staging of twins, characters who wear identical masks and are mistaken for one another, is most successful in capitalising nonverbal communication imprinted in the character expectations that are tied to a comic mask and the typology of the costume. Plautus, fond of doppelganger comedies, has composed an intriguing series of identical-twin stage acts, which, interestingly, carefully avoid replicating one another. Their individual study illustrates diverse examples and several layers of metatheatrical awareness. The first scene of Amphitruo’s Act I stages the longest simultaneous acting of identically looking characters. Mercury and Jupiter have assumed, respectively, the looks of the slave Sosia and his master Amphitruo, so that the latter may seduce Am 14 Periplectomenus’ act is accompanied by music and delivered through dance further complicating the ever-shifting combination of body language; on music as an organic part of characterisation and complementary to gesturing see Moore 1999.

Dramaturgy and Nonverbal Behaviour in Roman Comedy  

phitruo’s wife, Alcumena, without hindrance. The informative prologue at the opening of the play, however, delivered by Mercury, wishes to clarify that the comedy of errors about to unravel onstage applies only to the mortal agents of the plot. Eager to protect his audience from confusion, Mercury informs them that he and Jupiter will be wearing a marker in order to distinguish themselves from their identical doubles: a pair of pinions for Mercury, a golden tassel for Jupiter — these are valuable marks of nonverbal communication the other characters onstage will not be able to see: nunc internosse ut nos possitis facilius, ego has habebo usque in petaso pinnulas; tum meo patri autem torulus inerit aureus sub petaso: id signum Amphitruoni non erit. ea signa nemo horum familiarium videre poterit: verum vos videbitis. Amph. 142–147

145

Now, to make it easier for you to tell us apart I shall always wear these pinions on my hat: and as for my father he will have a little golden tassel hanging from his: Amphitryon will not have this mark. They are marks that none of the household here will be able to see, but you will.

The audience members are told they are offered privileged knowledge which allows them to feel superior to the mortal characters onstage, especially the slave Sosia, who under different circumstances would enact the part of the architectus doli, but now sees his privileged role usurped by a deity. The signa aside, what is not communicated verbally is the need that the actor playing the Mercury part should adjust his body language as well, in order to pose as Socia convincingly, primarily to the mortal characters of the play, foremost the real Sosia, and then Amphitruo and Alcumena. It seems that no such adjustment has taken place because, for the most part of his long first encounter with Mercury, Sosia does not comprehend that he is speaking to his double. Mercury convinces him that Mercury himself is Sosia through a series of logical arguments and disclosure of information that only Sosia could know (more specifically, what Sosia did while alone in the tent at the time the army of his master was at war). Only at the very end of their long encounter Sosia comments on Mercury’s physiognomic resemblance to him: SOS. Certe edepol, quom illum contemplo et formam cognosco meam, quem ad modum ego sum—saepe in speculum inspexi—nimis similest mei; itidem habet petasum ac vestitum: tam consimilest atque ego; sura, pes, statura, tonsus, oculi, nasum vel labra,

  Sophia Papaioannou malae, mentum, barba, collus: totus. quid verbis opust? si tergum cicatricosum, nihil hoc similist similius. sed quom cogito, equidem certo idem sum qui semper fui. novi erum, novi aedis nostras; sane sapio et sentio. non ego illi obtempero quod loquitur.

445

Amph. 441–449

SOS. Yes, definitely, when I look at him and consider my own looks, what I’m like (I’ve often looked into the mirror), he’s extremely similar to me: he has hat and clothes just like me. He’s as similar to me as I am. Leg, foot, height, haircut, eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, chin, beard, neck: the whole lot. What need is there for words? If his back is full of scars, there is nothing more similar than this similarity. (Sosia pauses) But when I think about it, I’m certainly the same I’ve always been. I know my master; I know our house. I’m clearly in my right senses. I’m not following what he says.

Sosia first describes the similar dress of his interlocutor and then offers a detailed account of the mask, by pointing out one by one all the physiognomic details depicted thereon. Mercury’s identical opsis convinces Sosia that he has a double, but it does not seem to convince him to renounce his identity. By means of the detailed physiognomic vignette of pseudo-Sosia that the actor playing Sosia offers near the end of a long scene, the audience is enabled to assess subconsciously the stage confrontation of two look-alike characters, whose identities nonetheless are consistently distinct. Even though Mercury imitates Sosia’s body language and discloses knowledge of the slave’s private activities, the signum of the pinions helps the audience never mistake him for the slave lookalike. On his part, Sosia is conscious of his sanity and as a result he does not consider it incongruous to accept the possibility that his double may actually exist.15 Mercury humorously duplicates the movement of pseudo-Sosia’s body as he tries to confuse his interlocutor, while Sosia seems to downplay the significance of this body language communication by stressing his determination to move on with his mission to deliver Amphitruo’s message to his wife. The pinions and the golden tassel are stage properties or “props”, items that attract attention and facilitate the progression of the plot or denote characterisation. Of particular interest for triggering nonverbal language are the props that designate transformation of identity. The eye-patch worn by the parasite Curcu 15 Sosia is the only agent in the play who believes that there are two Sosias; cf. also the line of rhetorical questions at 456–458, expressing confusion: ubi ego perii? ubi immutatus sum? ubi ego formam perdidi? / an egomet me illic reliqui, si forte oblitus fui? / nam hic quidem omnem imaginem meam, quae antehac fuerat, possidet. (“Where have I perished? Where did I change? Where did I lose my form? Or did I leave myself somewhere, if by chance I have forgotten? For this man here has taken my entire image, which was mine before”).

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lio in the homonymous play is a typical such case.16 Curculio, scheming to deceive Lyco, the banker, and take possession of a girl his young master is infatuated with, transforms himself into an army veteran by simply wearing an eyepatch over one of his eyes, all the while maintaining his parasite identity: he poses as the parasite of the soldier Therapontigonus. Interestingly, Lyco has never seen Curculio before, meaning that the disguise is unnecessary as a deception mechanism. Its significance is primarily metatheatrical, as the eyepatch in this case becomes the means to externalise for the audience the identity change of the character wearing it.17 A more complex and particularly entertaining example of communication based on the immutability of the opsis concerns the staging of the supposed twin sisters Philocomasion and “Dicaea”, once again in the Miles Gloriosus.18 In this play, the cunning slave Palaestrio, following deep contemplation described in detail in the scene at the opening of this chapter, comes up with a device that allows the courtesan Philocomasion, who cheats on the soldier owning her services with a young man whom she truly loves and has been caught in the act by the soldier’s slave Sceledrus, to pretend innocence convincingly. Philocomasium pretends to have an identical twin sister and enacts onstage both herself and her identical twin, “Dicea”, in the same scene and before Sceledrus’ eyes (the plan is originally reported at Mil. 383–392). To pull her act through, Philocomasium takes advantage of the hole in the common wall between the houses of Periplectomenus and Pyrgopolinices — a hole whose existence Sceledrus ignores (Mil. 142–144; 339). And to appear persuasive to her intradramatic audience, Sceledrus, she appears before him alternatively as Philocomasium and “Dicea”: first, she enters the stage from Pyrcopolinices’ house, as her actual self, Philocomasium, to attack Sceledrus for spreading lies and  16 Curculio is arguably the play that builds more than any other palliata on the extensive use of stage properties or props. The special significance of props in the plot and characterisation therein is discussed in Sharrock 2008. 17 Similarly functions the eye-patch (this time accompanied by a cloak) in the Miles Gloriosus, in the disguise of the adulescens Pleusicles into a sea-captain (Mil. 1183: exornatus, “dressed up”; 1282: ornatu...thalassico, “in a maritime costume”; 1286: hoc ornatu, “in this costume”), who will accompany the courtesan of the soldier Pyrgopolinices from the soldier’s house to a boat waiting to carry her away. Pleusicles, in truth the lover of the courtesan, does not need to wear the eye-patch, since the soldier has never seen him before, but as the eye-patch catches the soldier’s attention, Plautus silently invites the audience to dissociate it from its role as identity prop, and reflect though it on a leading theme of the entire play, clear vision vs. blindness more broadly. 18 On the portrayal of “Dicaea”, including mask, see Demetriou 2018. On the ornatus (costume), schēma (gait), and imago (mask) of a comic meretrix, see Dutsch 2015, 19.

  Sophia Papaioannou smearing her reputation, as well as to announce that she allegedly dreamt of her twin sister arriving at Ephesus (Mil. 354–396). Then, she exits the stage through the same door, only to appear again a few lines later, making her entrance this time as “Dicea” and through the door of Periplectomenus’ house, to inform the surprised and inquiring Sceledrus that she is not Philocomasium but her identical twin sister (Mil. 411–466). To enhance comic effect by toying with Sceledrus’ confusion, Plautus may have directed the same actor to play both sister parts, wearing the same mask and the same cloak. In this way, acting fully and precisely reflects the plot. Still, comic effectiveness may be accomplished through different planning of opsis. Plautus may have wished to embrace a more experimental identity-splitting for Philocomasium: he might have opted to dress “Dicea” with a garment of different color or style compared to that of Philocomasium, and he might even have instructed the actor playing the role of Philocomasium and “Dicea” to use a different voice. If the actor playing the twin sisters wears the same cloak and the same mask, Sceledrus’ surprise and perplexity is engrossed because, 1) he does not see the difference (for, none exists), hence he does not believe that Philocomasium and “Dicea” are not the same person, but 2) he does not know of the hole in the wall that enables communication between the two houses, hence he cannot explain the exit of the same person from two different houses. As a result, the slave who has repeatedly stated that he trusts only what he sees with his own eyes (e.g. Mil. 290: profecto vidi, “I most certainly saw [her]”; 299: Quid fuat me, nescio: haec me vidisse ego certo scio, “what may happen to me, I do not know; I know for certain that I did see this!”; also 337–338; and esp. 345–348: Agendum ergo face. volo scire, utrum egon id quod vidi viderim / an illic faciat, quod facturum dicit, ut ea sit domi. / nam ego quidem meos oculos habeo nec rogo utendos foris, “I want to know whether I have seen what I have seen or whether he brings about what he said he would, that she is at home. Well, I for one have my own eyes and needn’t borrow them from outside”), eventually has to admit, through logic rather than opsis, that there are indeed two women that look alike. Sceledrus’ confusion would diminish only momentarily if the actor playing Philocomasium and “Dicaea” changed robes inside the scaena as he crossed from one house to the other and then appeared through the neighboring house’s door in different dress. At the same time, Plautus advances authorial self-consciousness by stressing more broadly the comic potential of the mask and stereotyping in appearance: he deceives Sceledrus by making him believe that he watches a twocharacter role out of one character, and so, he projects Seledrus’ experience to the general/external audience as a likely one, in the case the spectators have

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not happened to partake of the knowledge Palaestrio offered earlier about the “twin sisters” plot. Plautus, in other words, suggests that the limitations of ancient theatre due to technical conventions are not insurmountable; that an audience who may have been trained to follow verbal communication may be deceived by an act that places opsis and movement over speech. A second statement of poetic self-consciousness that is based on the joint deceptive power of the mask and body movement is the performance of Acroteleutium in the second half of the Miles Gloriosus. Acroteleutium is a meretrix, hence when she first appears onstage to discuss her role with the auctores Palaestrio and Periplectomenus, she wears the mask and the dress that are typical for the courtesan. When she enacts her role as the wife of Periplectomenus, she wears the mask of the matrona (with the distinctive hairstyle) and the dress of a married lady. Her opsis deceives Pyrgopolinices as much as her words, and the audience enjoys a performer who plays the role of a matrona while pretending that ‘she’ is truly a meretrix in disguise: the type-character of the matrona, in short, is projected as a role to be performed by the actor/type-character meretrix. The identities of the actor and the type-character meretrix interfuse. When the audience sees the disguised matrona onstage, they envision the face/mask of the meretrix, and they laugh in part because they follow the effort of the meretrix to flesh out the part of the love-struck and adulterous matrona. In its absence, the mask of the type-character of the meretrix directs the plot and the pace of the entertainment, and perhaps the gaze of the audience, who may try to detect (or, more correctly, given the unsolved question of the distance that separated the wooden stage from the spectators’ seats, may believe that they detect) on the matrona mask physical proximity with the meretrix mask.

 “Masked” emotions The double performance identity of Acroteleutium articulates a characteristic case of the use of the mask as means of metatheatricality, even poetic selfconsciousness, in the fabula palliata tradition. On other occasions plot agents consciously experiment with the limitations of the mask and stress its fixity, hence the impossibility of showing expression or any sign that may feed communication. By pretending the opposite, namely that the mask does show emotion like an actual face and as such is subject to changes of expression — changes that supposedly happen in performance —, the plot agents prepare the audience for the ensuing change in behaviour of the character wearing the mask in question.

  Sophia Papaioannou Verbally delivered descriptions here are necessary to underscore how character transformation is imprinted on the fixed mask. The mask obviously does not change, but the audience is invited to visualise the change mentally. Two different expressions of metatheatrical understanding of the theoretically changing mask are the following: the first concerns the showing of tears in performance,19 the second, the expression of anger. In the opening scene of Terence’s Heautontimorumenos, the senex Menedemus, who is very anxious about the future of his son, Clinia, bursts into tears before his neighbour, senex Chremes. Chremes begs him to stop crying and confide in him, promising to stand by his side. Men. Eheu! Chr. ne lacruma atque istuc quidquid est fac me ut sciam. ne retice, ne verere; crede, inquam, mihi. aut consolando aut consilio aut re iuvero. Heaut. 83–86 Me. (crying) Oh dear, o dear! Chr. Don’t weep. Whatever your trouble is, tell me all about it; don’t keep it to yourself. Don’t be afraid; trust me, I say. I’ll help you whether you need consolation or counsel or money.

The audience members can discern the emotional distress of Menedemus but cannot possibly discern the tears on his face because the facial expression on the mask does not change. Besides, the distance from the stage does not allow the spectators to identify details such as tears. Clearly, the dramatist invites them to imagine Menedemus’ tearful face and empathise with his distress. The situation of a senex shedding tears onstage is markedly different in Plautus’ Aulularia, where the old miser Euclio sheds tears over the loss of his pot of gold. On both occasions tears are performing emotions — that is, communicating a character’s experience of grief or anticipation of grief — and are expressed through some gesture. Each occasion is different, hence the gesture Menedemus employs to express his grief, which generates sympathy and a sense of trust, should be different from the gesture by which Euclio externalises his own grief, which may generate quite the opposite reaction on the part of the audience — Euclio is not a sympathetic character, and his ‘punishment’ may be cathartic for the audience. Different from both these gestures must be the way distress, expressed through the tears of Alcumena, is externalised nonverbally. Alcumena,  19 On a recent reading of tears in Roman drama (Seneca’s tragedies) from the perspective of pragmatics see Calabrese 2020.

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in Plautus’ Amphitruo, is unhappy to see her “husband”, Jupiter (in the form of Amphitruo), depart: Iup. Nunc, ne legio persentiscat, clam illuc redeundum est mihi, ne me uxorem praevertisse dicant prae re publica. Alc. Lacrimantem ex abitu concinnas tu tuam uxorem. Iup. Tace, ne corrumpe oculos, redibo actutum. Amph. 527–530 Iup. Now I have to get back there secretly so that the army doesn’t realise; they shouldn’t say I put my wife ahead of our country. Alc. You are making your wife cry because you’re going away (starts sobbing). Iup. Do be quit, stop spoiling your eyes. I’ll return immediately.

Alcumena’s tears are not caused by actual grief. She knows that “Amphitruo” has returned safe from the war, and it is only a matter of time before he returns home for good. The tears, rather, are part of a metatheatrical performance: Alcumena is acting the part of the left-behind wife of the departing war hero, a part modeled on the Homeric Andromache of Iliad 6.20 In light of this realisation, the audience may laugh at the parodic imitation of the model rather than sympathise with Alcumena’s alleged loss. Alcumena’s sorrowful reaction, in other words, does not disclose genuine emotion, which means that her ‘tears’ should be visualised by a different gesture or act of body language. Metatheatricality aside, Alcumena’s tears seem comparable to the tears employed in the Roman court cases to arouse sympathy.21 The performative as well as diversified expression of emotion is systematised in Cicero’s rhetorical thought. In book 3 of De oratore, Cicero through Crassus distinguishes between genuine and not genuine emotion as he discusses how to externalise visually the former:22 haec eo dico pluribus, quod genus hoc totum oratores, qui sunt veritatis ipsius actores, reliquerunt, imitatores autem veritatis histriones occupaverunt. ac sine dubio in omni re vincit imitationem veritas; sed ea si satis in actione efficeret ipsa per sese, arte profecto non egeremus. verum quia animi permotio, quae maxime aut declaranda aut imitanda est

 20 Cf. Christenson 2000, 228–229; and 236 ad 529: “cf. Andromache’s tears in the vastly different departure scene in Homer (Il. 6.405, 484)”. 21 See Hall (2014, 98–128); MacMullen (1980) on the use of tears by Roman rhetoricians and aristocrats to arouse pity, gain sympathy, and/or demonstrate sincere concern, with further Greek and Latin examples. 22 I am following here the discussion in Westerhold 2019, 390–392 on the oratorical performance of genuine vs. false emotion through body language.

  Sophia Papaioannou actione, perturbata saepe ita est ut obscuretur ac paene obruatur, discutienda sunt ea, quae obscurant, et ea, quae sunt eminentia et prompta sumenda. omnis enim motus animi suum quendam a natura habet voltum et sonum et gestum. De or. 3.214–216 I dwell the longer on these particulars because the orators, who are the deliverers of truth itself, have neglected this whole department, and the players, who are only the imitators of truth, have taken possession of it. In everything, without doubt, truth has the advantage over imitation; and if truth were efficient enough in delivery of itself, we should certainly have no need for the aid of art. But as that emotion of mind, which ought to be chiefly expressed or imitated in delivery, is often so confused as to be obscured and almost overwhelmed, the peculiarities which throw that veil over it are to be set aside, and such as are eminent and conspicuous to be selected. For every emotion of the mind has from nature its own peculiar look, tone, and gesture. (tr. Watson 1986)

Cicero calls the orators “performers of truth itself” (actores veritatis ipsius) and juxtaposes them to the actors (histriones) who merely imitate the truth (imitatores… veritatis). He additionally affirms the performativity of emotions through distinctive, unique expressions communicated through body language (Cicero’s sermo corporis; e.g. De or. 3.59, 222) and sound. It may be argued that on the Roman comic stage actors embrace oratorical techniques that apply to gesture and movement in order to externalise facial expressions.23 Since gestures, sounds, and various other nonverbal expressions of emotion are diverse and may be divided to genuine and fake,24 it is tempting to imagine the spectators of a palliata trying to determine whether the gestures employed each time by a character shedding tears onstage are consistent with the comic type of the given character and the situation at hand.25

 23 Gunderson 2000, 111–148 discusses acting techniques in expressing emotion in court, especially when the situation calls for the performance of emotion. In Roman rhetoric facial expression (oculi) was perceived as a means of communicating emotion in conjunction with voice (vox) and body language (gestus), but the latter was considered the most important aspect of rhetorical performance (Cic. De or. 3.213). The close interrelation between oratorical body language and theatrical performance has been amply discussed in the previous decades: important works include, among others, Taladoire 1951; Aldrete 1999; Fantham 2002, 362–376; Corbeill 2004. 24 In the same treatise, M. Antonius, one of Cicero’s speakers, maintains that tears can be effective at court only when they are genuine, but the speaker will fail to convince if he does not feel himself genuinely the sorrow he externalises (De or. 3.189–194). 25 The transcription of a scene through body language corresponds to the iconographic description of a performance, which, according to Green (2002, 93), “is not the process of performance but what the audience was persuaded to see”.

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The three cases above describe expressions of emotion articulated through gesture and movement, which presume the fixity of the mask and remove the focus away from it as a result. The Roman playwrights, however, may become on occasion particularly inventive with their self-consciousness about the limitation of the expressionless mask. In Terence’s Phormio, at the end of the first Act, the slave Geta instructs his young master Antipho on how to confront his angry father about to come up to them. The latter has been informed that Antipho was “forced” by court into marriage with a penniless girl of unknown parentage. In reality, this ploy (consilium) had been engineered by the parasite Phormio who sues Antipho as allegedly (adsimulabo, “I’ll pretend”, 128) Phanium’s closest relative. This scheme of a trial is, at the same time, a play-withinthe-play, urging the various characters involved to assume new roles and also redraft the conventional plotline of the palliata, as the wedding of Antipho to his beloved, typically the conclusion to a romantic new comedy, has taken place before the play commences, and in fact becomes the trigger for the plot about to unravel onstage. Thus, when the play begins, Antipho relapses to the role of the adulescens amans and is dominated by fear and anxiety because he believes that his father will terminate his marriage. Geta tries subconsciously to convince him that he is not the adulescens amans anymore but a married man, who even usurped the place of his father by posing as the next of kin to the orphaned girl, and that as such he should revise his opsis to harmonise with the one expected of his new “adult” identity. Each comic character is paired to a distinct mask or opsis. Since, however, the transformation of a typical character so drastically as to claim two different masks does not belong to the conventions of ancient drama, Antipho’s transformation of identity will be realised through body language, including gait and facial expression: Ant. non sum apud me. Get. atqui opus est nunc quom maxume ut sis, Antipho; nam si senserit te timidum pater esse, arbitrabitur 205 commeruisse culpam. Phae. hoc verumst. An. non possum inmutarier. Get. quid faceres si aliud quid graviu’ tibi nunc faciundum foret? Ant. quom hoc non possum, illud minu’ possem. Get. hoc nil est, Phaedria: ilicet. quid hic conterimus operam frustra? quin abeo? Phae. et quidem ego? Ant. obsecro, quid si adsimulo? satinest? Get. garris. Ant. voltum contemplamini: em 210 satine sic est? Get. non. Ant. quid si sic? Get. propemodum. Ant. quid sic? Get. sat est: em istuc serva: et verbum verbo, par pari ut respondeas, ne te iratu’ ss saevidicis dictis protelet. Phorm. 204–213 Ant: I am beside myself. Get: But you mustn’t be, now of all times, Antipho. If your father sees that you are apprehensive, he’ll think you’ve a guilty conscience.

  Sophia Papaioannou Phae: That’s true. Ant: I cannot change myself. Get: What would you do now if you had to face some greater challenge? Ant: Since I can’t cope with this, I’d be even less able to cope with that. Get: (to Phaedria in mock despair). It is no good, Phaedria; it’s all over. Why are we wasting our efforts here? I am off. Ph: (to Geta) So am I. An: (in alarm) Please don’t go. Suppose I pretend. Would that do? Ge: (scornfully) You are joking! An: Look at my countenance—there you are (pretending that he has assumed a different, brave facial expression). Is this all right? Ge: No. An: (pretending to assume a different face) Well, how about this? Ge: You are getting there. An: (pretending a third time) How about this? Ge: Very well, keep that one. And make sure you answer him word for word, tit for tat, or he’ll rout you with raging words. He is in an angry mood.

From a metatheatrical point of view,26 Geta suggests that changes on the face (even the creation of the impression that the face does change) reflect a change in the conduct of the character-type. Antipho originally rules such a change as a matter out of the question (206), but once Geta (and his friend Phaedria, who is standing by) threaten to give up and leave him to his wits, he changes his mind and appears all too eager to collaborate and do as he is told: to change his identity (adsimulo, 210; cf. above for Geta’s use of the very term, on l. 128, for his own role-shifting). The transformation will be effected through the proper expression of the right emotion: anger. Antipho should appear angry, both to stand up to his father and to show his character transformation — his becoming himself an iratus now, after he has made a matrona out of the penniless girl. In the dialogue above we attend Antipho’s triple effort to assume the proper angry countenance. Naturally, the expressionless mask cannot display change on Antipho’s face, hence Geta’s verbal commentary is the necessary means to create the illusion that the mask communicates change. From a different perspective, and on the model of Palaestrio’s pantomime, at the beginning of this chapter, that transcribes his transformation into a servus callidus, the actor playing Antipho may create the illusion of changing face expression by means of body language (gestures and movement) — even recourse to the pantomime tradition  26 On Geta as reflection of the comic poet in his direction of Antipho’s proper performance in the Phormio episode at hand, see Frangoulidis 2013, 284–285, who additionally views Antipho’s effort to change his facial expression in the context of the medical metaphoric language that distinguishes the exchange between young master and slave.

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of displaying anger onstage. In this respect, Geta’s reactions reflect onstage the reactions of the audience witnessing the adulescens Antipho’s transformation in-performance into an iratus.

 Conclusion Roman Comedy, as every form of ancient dramatic performance, developed an elaborate code of body language to overcome the limitations of the mask and complement verbal expression. Moreover, in the theatre of Plautus and Terence gestures, sometimes voice intonation, and all kinds of body movements are more effective than speech at producing the desired expression. Through masterly use of vocal, gestural, and body behaviour the palliata actors experiment with characterisation, deliver metatheatrically complex acts, participate themselves dynamically in the development of the play, and, above all, entertain their audience and make them communicants of the stage action. The scant evidence on body language offered by the texts themselves bespeak of the actors’ and the directors’ creativity as much as free the audience’s (and the critics’) imaginations. The latter are called not only to identify the signified (emotion or act) behind a gesture, but to judge the success of its performance in terms of entertainment value, appropriate characterisation, or witty plot-making.

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  Sophia Papaioannou Duckworth, G.E. (1952), The Nature of Roman Comedy. A Study in Popular Entertainment, Princeton (2nd ed., Bristol, 1994). Dutsch, D. (2015), “Feats of Flesh: The Female Body on the Plautine Stage”, in: D. Dutsch/ S.L. James/D. Konstan (eds.), Women in Roman Republican Drama, Madison, WI, 17–36. Fantham, E. (2002), “Orator and/et Actor”, in: P. Easterling/E. Hall (eds.), Greek and Roman Actors. Aspects of an Ancient Profession, Cambridge, 362–376. Frangoulidis, S. (2013), “Phormio”, in: A. Augoustakis/A. Traill (eds.), A Companion to Terence, Chichester/Malden, MA, 281–294. Franko, G. (2022), Plautus. Mostellaria, London. Graf, F. (1991), “Gestures and Conventions: The Gestures of the Roman Actors and Orators”, in: J. Bremmer/H. Roodenburg (eds.), A Cultural History of Gesture. From Antiquity to the Present Day, Cambridge, 36–58. Gratwick, A.S. (1982), “Drama”, in: E.J. Kenney/W.V. Clausen (eds.), The Cambridge History of Classical Literature, vol. II, Cambridge, 77–137. Green, R. (2002), “Towards a Reconstruction of Performance Style”, in: P. Easterling/E. Hall (eds.), Greek and Roman Actors: Aspects of an Ancient Profession, Cambridge, 93–126. Gunderson, E. (2000), Staging Masculinity: The Rhetoric of Performance in the Roman World, Ann Arbor, MI. Martin, G./Iurescia, F./Hof, S./Sorrentino, G. (eds.) (2020), Pragmatic Approaches to Drama: Studies in Communication on the Ancient Stage, Leiden. Open access text at: https:// library.oapen.org/handle/20.500.12657/48297 Kinsey, T. (1980), “Masks on the Roman Stage”, in: Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 58, 53–55. Moore, T.J. (1999), “Facing the Music: Character and Musical Accompaniment in Roman Comedy”, in: J. Porter/E. Csapo/C.W. Marshall/R.C. Ketterer (eds.), Crossing the Stages: The Production, Performance and Reception of Ancient Theater, Iowa City, 130–153 [= Syllecta Classica 10]. Panayotakis, C. (2005), “Non-verbal Behaviour on the Roman Comic Stage”, in: D.L. Cairns (ed.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman World, Swansea, 175–193. Petrides, A.K. (2014), Menander, New Comedy and the Visual, Cambridge. Sharrock, A. (2008), “The Theatrical Life of Things: Plautus and the Physical”, in: Dictynna [online], 5 | 2008, uploaded on 25 November 2010, consulted on 23 May 2022. Accessible at: https://doi.org/10.4000/dictynna.419 Taladoire, B.-A. (1951), Commentaires sur la mimique et l’expression corporelle du comédien romain, Montpellier. Westerhold, J. (2019), “Tereus’ Tears: The Performance and Performativity of Crying in Met. 6.412–674”, in: P. Martins/A. Pinheiro Hasegawa/J.A. Oliva Neto (eds.), Augustan Poetry New Trends and Revaluations, São Paulo, 385–415. Watson, J.S. (1986), Cicero: On Oratory and Orators. Translated/edited by J.S. Watson; introduction by R.A. Micken; foreword by D. Potter; preface by R.L. Enos. Carbondale, IL. Zimmermann, B. (2016), “Elements of Pantomime in Plautus’ Comedies” [transl. from the German by K. Epstein], in: S. Frangoulidis/S.J. Harrison/G. Manuwald (eds.), Roman Drama and its Contexts, Berlin/Boston, 317–328.

Mali A. Skotheim

Silence as a Form of Discourse: Rhetoric, Gesture, and the Mysticism of Dance in Greek Literature of the Roman Empire Abstract: Pantomime dance was strongly associated with nonverbal communication in the Roman imperial period. This chapter considers the role of pantomime in Lucian’s On the Dance, Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana, and Libanius’ Oration 64 (In Defense of Dancers). Lucian portrays pantomime as a philosophical dance, imbued with mysticism and the power to amaze, by refraining from description of the movements and gestures of the dance. Philostratus extends this association between pantomime and philosophy, comparing Apollonius’ nonverbal communicative and interpretive abilities to those of pantomimes. Libanius, replying to Aelius Aristides, seeks to diminish the power of theatrical spectacle by suggesting that the gestures of pantomimes do not have the ability to transform spectators, either for positive or negative ends. It is argued that the powers attributed to dancers in these three literary works are related to the extent to which the authors describe or refrain from description of the practicalities of nonverbal communication.

 Introduction A new form of tragic dance, pantomime, became vastly popular on the Roman imperial stage, emerging in the first century BC and continuing into Late Antiquity.1 Bathyllus of Alexandria and Pylades of Cilicia were said to have brought this new style of mimetic dance to Rome under Augustus.2 The practitioners of  1 The research for this paper was supported by the Institute for Research in the Humanities at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the Warburg Institute in London. I thank the organisers and participants of the conference in Athens for their feedback. 2 Ath. 1.20d-f. According to Athenaeus, Pylades’ style was tragic, while Bathyllus’ was more comical. In Plutarch’s Table Talk, Diogenianus mentions that tragedy and Pylades’ style of dance are not appropriate for a dinner party, unlike comedy and Bathyllus’ style of dance, Plut. Quaest. conv. 7.3 (Mor. 711e-f). Pantomime competitions may have been part of the Sebastea in Naples as early as 2 BC. Luc. Salt. 32 mentions competitions for pantomimes at the Sebastea in Naples as a unique phenomenon, suggesting that pantomime was integrated into festival competitions in the Greek East after the composition of the dialogue in the 160s AD. Apart from https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-005

  Mali A. Skotheim the art of pantomime were represented in literary and epigraphical sources as having a miraculous ability to communicate through the body, and even across linguistic and cultural barriers. Names of many of the dancers survive in Greek and Latin inscriptions, several ancient literary texts engage with the dance, and surviving artworks in mosaic, ivory, and terracotta depict dancers with varying degrees of specificity.3 In this chapter, I focus on the representation of pantomime in three works of Greek literature of the Roman imperial period, Lucian’s On the Dance (ca. 160s AD), Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana (220s–230s AD), and Libanius’ Oration 64 (In Defense of Dancers, 361 AD). While these sources have allowed scholars to reconstruct many aspects of ancient pantomime, precisely how this dance was performed, with what specific movements, remains elusive. Slaney finds thirteen references to specific motions and gestures of pantomime in the ancient sources: leaping, spinning, bending back, bending the spine, falling down, squatting and rising, moving the leg forward, moving the leg to the side, contorting, suddenly being still, twisting, shaking, and yoking the feet together.4 Of these movements, only three (leaping, spinning, and bending back), as well as the turn (strophē) occur in Lucian’s On the Dance, all in the same passage.5 By contrast, Quintilian describes the gestures of orators at length, covering movements of the head, expressions of the face, including the eyes, a great variety of hand gestures, bodily stances, and positions of the feet.6 We have no such explicit description of the gestures of pantomime. I argue that Greek writers of the Roman period intentionally avoid describing the practicalities of the dance, in order to heighten the sense of awe (θαῦμα) directed at pantomime dancers, part of a larger aesthetic

 prize-winning competitions, pantomime was performed in the Greek East as hired festival entertainment throughout the Roman imperial period: Webb 2012, 230-234. The earliest datable, epigraphically attested festival victory for a pantomime is from 176–180 AD: I. Magnesia 192; Slater 1996, 195–204. 3 For scholarship on the mechanics of pantomime dance, see Gerolemou 2019; Slaney 2017; Hall 2013; Webb 2008, 58–71; Lada-Richards 2007, 38–55; Beacham 1992, 116–153. For the epigraphical sources for pantomime, see Slater 1995; 1994a; 1993; 1990; Robert 1930. Dunbabin 2016, 85–113, Lada-Richards 2004, and Jory 1996 cover the iconography of pantomime, and the relationship between pantomime and the visual arts. 4 Slaney 2017, 163–164. 5 Luc. Salt. 71; Slaney 2017, 174, nn. 17–19, 27. 6 Quint. Inst. 11.3.65–136. He also mentions that “a dance too is often understood and emotionally effective without the voice” (et saltatio frequenter sine voce intelligitur atque adficit), Quint. Inst. 11.3.66. On the attention paid to the gestures of the hands by Quintilian, see Kendon 2004, 102.

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of thauma which encompassed paradoxography, mystical religion, and philosophy, along with the art of pantomimes. The avoidance of gestural description is a rhetorical strategy, evident in different ways in Lucian and Libanius.7 Schlapbach argues that ekphrastic description privileges the impact on the viewer over the form of what is being described, whether a work of visual art or a dance.8 However, it is also worth considering why some descriptions of dance would avoid formal description more than others. In On the Dance, Lucian’s interlocutor Lycinus, who covers many types of dance in his dialogue, is more reticent to describe the gestures of pantomimes than other types of dancers, and repeatedly calls attention to this gap between the perception of the spectator and the descriptive potential of the text by referring to the marvelous ability of the pantomimes to communicate with gesture alone.9 Lycinus avoids gestural description of pantomime in order to heighten its miraculous qualities, focusing instead on the effect of pantomime on the spectator and the intellectual qualities of the dance. In the Life of Apollonius of Tyana, Philostratus builds on the associations between pantomime and philosophy, which Lucian had earlier explored. He casts Apollonius, a Neo-Pythagorean philosopher, as a pseudo-pantomime, suggesting that Apollonius acquires miraculous abilities such as the interpretation of human and animal speech, and body language, by communicating with his own body during his vow of silence. Like Lycinus discussing the art of pantomime, Philostratus refers to the communicative power of Apollonius’ gestures and his interpretive abilities without ever fully explaining what the gestures are, or how one might replicate them. Libanius also avoids gestural description of pantomime, but for different reasons. Oration 64, In Defense of Dancers, is a response to a speech of Aelius Aristides which criticised pantomime two centuries prior. Libanius’ rhetorical strategy is to weaken Aristides’ argument that pantomime corrupts spectators by minimising its impact. While he does not describe the gestures of pantomime, he does discuss the training of dancers, demystifying the dance. A replicable action is not miraculous.

 7 On the rhetorical nature of ancient writings on pantomime, see Webb 2008; Lada-Richards 2007. 8 Schlapbach 2018, 13. 9 E.g. Luc. Salt. 36, 62, 64.

  Mali A. Skotheim

 Pantomime and nonverbal communication Pantomime, more than any other dance form in the ancient Mediterranean, was associated with the nonverbal communication of mythical narrative, although the dancer was also accompanied by instrumental music and song.10 The dance was associated with silence because the dancers themselves did not sing.11 The silence of the dancers was indicated visually by the mask of the pantomime having a closed mouth, instead of the wide open mouths of tragic and comic masks.12 The expressive power of pantomime dancers seems to have been located significantly in their hand gestures, as well as in their feet.13 For example, in a curse tablet from Apheca in Syria from the third century AD, written in order to curse a “bewigged pantomime”, Huperechios, the curser binds the hands, feet, sinews, ankles, steps, and the bottoms of the feet of the dancer, but the mouths, jaws, and tongues of the spectators.14 The curser targets the expressive extremities of the dancer, reserving the binding of the tongue for the audience members, who expressed their approval with the noises of their mouths. The language of thauma, “amazement”, dominates descriptions of pantomime, in literary and epigraphic sources, and often centres around the paradox of nonverbal communication. An epitaph for the pantomime Crispus from Heraclea on the Black Sea, for example, from the late second or early third century AD, describes “the whole world marveling at him and esteeming him gesturing with his hands” (τὸν χειρονομοῦντα θαυμάσας καὶ δοξάσας ὁ κόσμος).15 Another epitaph for a pantomime, Vincentius, from Timgad in North Africa, describes the deceased as “very eloquent in his movement” (gestu erat facundior).16 The communicative strategies of pantomimes may have encompassed mimetic as well as deictic gestures. Plutarch identifies the three elements of dancing as “phrase, pose, and pointing” (φορὰ καὶ σχῆμα καὶ δεῖξις).17 The speaker at

 10 On music and song in pantomime: Lada-Richards 2007, 41–43; Jory 2008; Hunt 2008; Hall 2008. 11 Luc. Salt. 30. 12 On pantomime masks: Jory 1996; 2001; 2004. 13 On the “corporeal eloquence” of pantomimes, see Lada-Richards 2007, 44–48. 14 Gager 1992, 51–53 (no. 4). 15 SEG 31.1072. 16 Bayet 1967, 441. Shlapbach 2018, 93 provides several other examples of pantomimes said to speak with their hands. 17 Plut. Quaest. conv. 9.15 (Mor. 747a). Translations of Plutarch’s Table Talk are from E. Minar/ F.H. Sandbach/W.C. Helmbold 1961. Bocksberger 2021, 64–65 interprets these schēmata as

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this point in Table Talk is Ammonius, Plutarch’s teacher. A phrase refers to the movement between rests, while the poses are representational or mimetic. Pointing is not mimetic, according to Ammonius: “The third element, pointing, is something that does not copy the subject-matter, but actually shows it to us” (τὸ δὲ τρίτον, ἡ δεῖξις, οὐ μιμητικόν ἐστιν, ἀλλὰ δηλωτικὸν ἀληθῶς τῶν ὑποκειμένων).18 He clarifies, “by pointing, they literally indicate objects: the earth, the sky, themselves, or bystanders” (ταῖς δὲ δείξεσι κυρίως αὐτὰ δηλοῦσι τὰ πράγματα, τὴν γῆν, τὸν οὐρανόν, αὑτούς, τοὺς πλησίον).19 This pointing is repeatedly associated with clarity of expression, with the phrases δηλωτικὸν ἀληθῶς and κυρίως αὐτὰ δηλοῦσι. Ammonius compares well-timed pointing to the use of proper names in poetry, and concludes that Simonides’ saying about painting being silent poetry can be applied to dancing, “rightly calling dance silent poetry and poetry articulate dance” (ταύτην γὰρ ὀρθῶς ἔστι λέγειν ποίησιν σιωπῶσαν, καὶ φθεγγομένην ὄρχησιν πάλιν τὴν ποίησιν).20 Ammonius’ claims about the role of pointing in pantomime are somewhat distinct from Quintilian’s consideration of gesture, since Quintilian understands the gestures of the orator as deictic, and the gestures of pantomimes as pictorial, while Ammonius includes both mimetic elements (schēmata) and non-mimetic pointing (deixis) in the art of pantomime.21 In imperial Greek sources, pantomime is associated with the ability to communicate to a universal audience. Lucian tells a story about the emperor Nero providing pantomime entertainment for a foreign king from Pontus on the Black Sea. This king does not speak Greek well, and so cannot interpret the song which accompanies the dancer, but nevertheless is able to understand everything, since it is danced out so clearly (σαφῶς ὀρχούμενον).22 The king asks Nero for a dancer to take home with him, saying, “I have barbarian neighbours who do not speak the same language, and it is not easy to keep supplied with interpreters for them. If I am in want of one, therefore, this man will interpret everything for me by signs” (‘προσοίκους’, ἔφη, ‘βαρβάρους ἔχω, οὐχ ὁμογλώττους, καὶ ἑρμηνέων οὐ ῥᾴδιον εὐπορεῖν πρὸς αὐτούς. ἢν οὖν τινος δέωμαι, διανεύων

 states or arrangements, which capture an emotion, rather than fixed poses. Schlapbach 2018, 25–73 discusses this passage at length. 18 Plut. Quaest. conv. 9.15 (Mor. 747c). 19 Plut. Quaest. conv. 9.15 (Mor. 747e). 20 Plut. Quaest. conv. 9.15 (Mor. 748a). 21 Quint. Inst. 11.3.89–90; Schlapbach 2018, 53; Dutsch 2013, 410–411; Kendon 2004, 18; Graf 1991, 43. 22 Luc. Salt. 64.

  Mali A. Skotheim οὗτος ἕκαστά μοι ἑρμηνεύσει’).23 The Pontic king believes that nonverbal communication is a solution to multilingualism. The story may also imply that pantomime bound together spectators in another multi-lingual empire, the one which Nero ruled. Lucian’s story of the Pontic king is a fiction. Most audience members would not in fact be watching the stories on stage with no knowledge of the plot. Pantomimes danced well-known mythical tales, using gestures, changing masks to represent different characters, and perhaps with some use of some props, they would have been able to lead the audience through the myth. Even the gestures may have been culturally specific and unintelligible to people who had not been conditioned to interpret their meaning.24 Furthermore, most audience members would have been Greek or Latin speakers, and would have been able to follow the story through the accompanying song. Nevertheless, the conceit which runs through epigraphic and literary sources is that pantomimes communicated silently, with gesture, and across cultural and linguistic barriers. Somewhat similarly, in On the Teacher, Augustine gives his son two examples of nonverbal communication, first, the deaf communicating with gestures, and second, dancers who act out stories without using words.25 His son doubts whether a dancer could indicate a preposition like ex, but Augustine argues that he could, because a gesture is a sign just like a word. In both cases, the association is between nonverbal gestures and clarity of communication. The paradox of nonverbal communication also had a philosophical dimension. Despite the strong association between philosophy and verbal reasoning (λόγος), several imperial Greek authors triangulate between pantomime, silence, and Pythagoreanism. In On the Dance, Lucian’s interlocutor Lycinus says that he has heard someone say that the silence of the dancers “was symbolic of a Pythagorean tenet”.26 In a discussion of various philosopher-dancers (including the dancing Socrates) Athenaeus mentions a contemporary pantomime dancer, Memphis, who “demonstrates what Pythagorean philosophy is, and  23 Luc. Salt. 64. Translations of Lucian’s On the Dance are by A.M. Harmon 1936, with some modifications. 24 For example, the epitaph of Vincentius in Timgad describes the dancer as one who “always danced well-known tales” (qui semper cum / saltaret fabulas), Bayet 1967, 441. On the gestures of pantomime as an idiolect, see Lada-Richards 2007, 50. Bocksberger 2021, 72 suggests that pantomime included both codified gesture, which tells something to those who share an understanding of the gestures, and mimetic dance, which shows that which is represented to anyone. 25 August. De Magistro 3.5; discussed by Schlapbach 2018, 67. 26 Luc. Salt. 70.

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although he remains silent, he makes it all clearer to us than professional teachers of oratory can” (οὗτος τὴν Πυθαγόρειον φιλοσοφίαν ἐπιδείκνυσιν ἥτις ἐστί, μετὰ σιωπῆς πάνθ’ ἡμῖν ἐμφανίζων σαφέστερον ἢ οἱ τὰς τῶν λόγων τέχνας ἐπαγγελλόμενοι διδάσκειν).27 Memphis’ dance is remarkable not just because it engages with philosophy, but leads spectators towards understanding, here perhaps of mathematical explanations of the motions of the heavenly bodies. The vocabulary of showing by pointing (ἐπιδείκνυσιν) may be an allusion to the role of gesture in Memphis’ dance. In the Life of Apollonius of Tyana, Philostratus responds to this association between Pythagorean silence and the silence of pantomimes by portraying the neo-Pythagorean philosopher Apollonius as a pseudo-pantomime in his ability to communicate miraculously through gesture and bodily signs with speakers of many languages, and even animals.

 Nonverbal communication in Lucian’s On the Dance Lucian’s On the Dance (Περὶ Ὀρχησέως/De Saltatione) begins with Crato voicing his criticisms of pantomime, which he views as excessively effeminate, erotic, and therefore unsuitable for freeborn men to watch.28 Lycinus responds by defending the dance, claiming that the theatre has made him wiser.29 After a brief back and forth, Lycinus launches into long monologue arguing for the benefits of dance, beginning with the origin of dance in the motions of the heavenly spheres, and extending to the dominant dance form of his own time, pantomime. Throughout, Lycinus characterises pantomime not as a form of bodily pleasure but as an intellectual and philosophical benefit to society. LadaRichards argues that Lycinus portrays the gaze of the spectator as self-reflective, such that the pantomime performance allows “the viewer to ‘dissect’ himself until he ultimately exposes to his own gaze his hidden, innermost core, the ever-elusive object of the Delphic admonition”.30 Schlapbach makes a similar point, suggesting that the dancer in Lucian’s dialogue is represented as omnis-

 27 Ath. 1.20d. Translation from Olson 2007. 28 Luc. Salt. 2; on the role of gender in critiques of pantomime, see Lada-Richards 2003. Crato’s criticisms of the femininity of pantomime bear some similarity to those of Aelius Aristides, quoted by Libanius in Or. 64. 29 Luc. Salt. 4. 30 Lada-Richards 2007, 88.

  Mali A. Skotheim cient, and leading the spectator towards revelation of truth about the self.31 There are clues throughout the dialogue that this self-revelation is both philosophical and mystical, and that there is some tension between what can and cannot be revealed to the reader. For example, when Lycinus mentions Orpheus and Musaeus as the best dancers of their time, he stops himself from revealing too much about their dances, saying that it is best “to observe silence about the rites on account of the uninitiate” (τὰ μὲν ὄργια σιωπᾶν ἄξιον τῶν ἀμυήτων ἕνεκα).32 The association between silence and initiation is reminiscent not only of mystery cults but also of the Pythagoreans. Lycinus creates a similar air of secrecy around pantomime dance by not revealing its gestures, even though any contemporary reader of the dialogue could go to the theatre and see them. Lycinus provides far more detail regarding the mythological content of pantomime than he does the movements of the dancers.33 This is somewhat distinct from other descriptions of dance in the dialogue. For instance, describing the Spartan “String of Beads” dance, he says that boys and girls move together in a row, with the boy preceding, dancing youthfully, with those motions which will later be used in war, and the girl following, “showing how to do the women’s dance with propriety; hence the string is beaded with modesty and with manliness” (κοσμίως τὸ θῆλυ χορεύειν διδάσκουσα, ὡς εἶναι τὸν ὅρμον ἐκ σωφροσύνης καὶ ἀνδρείας πλεκόμενον).34 As elsewhere in the dialogue, Lycinus’ primary focus is on the effect of the dance rather than on its practicalities. Here, the effect of the boy’s dance is youthful vigour and manliness, and the effect of the girl’s dance is order (kosmos) and modesty (sophrosynē). These are also philosophical ideals. However, the “Dance of Beads” is not represented as mystical, and the basic arrangement (girl following boy) is clear. The difference in the quality of description is perhaps most obvious in Lycinus’ comparison between tragedy and pantomime. Lycinus proposes to understand tragedy from its form (ἀπὸ τοῦ σχήματος).35 He critiques the lack of proportion in the body of the tragic actor, as he distorts himself with buskins, an oversize mask, and stomach padding. The actor’s movements are similarly inelegant, as he bends back and forth (ἀνακλῶν καὶ κατακλῶν).36 Lycinus treats the form or appearance (σχῆμα) of the dancer very differently, saying, “it is not

 31 Schlapbach 2008, 318. 32 Luc. Salt. 15. 33 Luc. Salt. 37–61. 34 Luc. Salt. 12. 35 Luc. Salt. 27. On the performance of tragedy in this period, see Kelly 1979; Roueché 1993, 25. 36 Luc. Salt. 27.

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necessary for me to state that the appearance of the dancer is orderly and seemly, for these things are clear to those who are not blind” (τὸ δὲ τοῦ ὀρχηστοῦ σχῆμα ὡς μὲν κόσμιον καὶ εὐπρεπὲς οὐκ ἐμὲ χρὴ λέγειν, δῆλα γὰρ τοῖς μὴ τυφλοῖς ταῦτα).37 In other words, the schēma of the dancer does not need to be explained to those who are educated enough to understand what is wellordered, because they would recognise it. “Those who are not blind” refers both to most people (i.e. anyone who can see) and also to those who can see in a philosophical sense, i.e. recognise the truth. Lycinus focuses instead on the description of the closed-mouth pantomime mask, and then turns quickly to the themes of the dances and their incorporation into the games.38 When he discusses myths narrated in the dance, he does not connect them to particular gestures.39 After his mythological excursus, in a passage on the athleticism of the dance, Lycinus does reveal several pantomime movements (energetic movement, twists, turns, leaps, and back-flung poses), but he does not tie them to any particular emotion or character.40 According to Lycinus, the intelligibility or clearness of the postures of the dancer relies on interior thought, not external appearance. Intelligibility will be achieved if the dancer has a mental understanding of all myth and history. Lycinus says that Thucydides’ praise of Pericles would also be praise for a dancer, “‘to know what is necessary and to express it’, and by expressing, I mean the intelligibility of his postures” (γνῶναί τε τὰ δέοντα καὶ ἑρμηνεῦσαι αὐτά: ἑρμηνείαν δὲ νῦν τὴν σαφήνειαν τῶν σχημάτων λέγω).41 His description of the training of the dancer is entirely devoted to the intellectual requirements of pantomime. The narrative dance of pantomime is a representation of what is in the mind of the dancer. This is how pantomime achieves its communicative potential. It is not a dance that begins with learning poses, but one which begins with studying the liberal arts, drawing on the dialectics of philosophy, the character and emotion of rhetoric, and the rhythm of painting and sculpture.42 In order to represent all things in dance, the dancer must know everything from the origin of the universe to the story of Cleopatra.43 This casts the dancer as one who possesses paideia (education) and true understanding.44  37 Luc. Salt. 29. 38 Luc. Salt. 31. 39 Luc. Salt. 37–61. 40 Luc. Salt. 71. 41 Luc. Salt. 37. 42 Luc. Salt. 35. 43 Luc. Salt. 36–37. 44 Lada-Richards 2007, 80, 98–112.

  Mali A. Skotheim After elaborating on the myths that the dancer must learn, Lucian reiterates that the dancer must cultivate clearness and intelligibility (σαφήνεια), such that no interpreter is required. ἐπεὶ δὲ μιμητικός ἐστι καὶ κινήμασι τὰ ᾀδόμενα δείξειν ὑπισχνεῖται, ἀναγκαῖον αὐτῷ, ὅπερ καὶ τοῖς ῥήτορσι, σαφήνειαν ἀσκεῖν, ὡς ἕκαστον τῶν δεικνυμένων ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ δηλοῦσθαι μηδενὸς ἐξηγητοῦ δεόμενον, ἀλλ᾽ ὅπερ ἔφη ὁ Πυθικὸς χρησμός, δεῖ τὸν θεώμενον ὄρχησιν καὶ κωφοῦ συνιέναι καὶ μὴ λαλέοντος τοῦ ὀρχηστοῦ ἀκούειν. Since he is imitative and undertakes to present by means of movements all that is being sung, it is essential for him, as for the orators, to cultivate clearness, so that everything which he presents will be intelligible, requiring no interpreter. No, in the words of the Delphic oracle, whosoever beholds dancing must be able “to understand the mute and hear the silent” dancer.45

Lycinus supports this claim with the story about the Pontic king, who believes that with the help of pantomime dancers, he will no longer require interpreters.46 The repeated claims to the clearness and intelligibility of the dance raise the question of why Lucian would write at such length about pantomime without ever fully describing it. This avoidance of description of the gestures of the dancer is in contrast to rhetorical handbooks such as Quintilian, where we do find specific descriptions of the gestures of the orator.47 Schlapbach also points out that in the Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition, gesture was viewed as conventional rather than natural, and thus the idea that pantomime gestures were universally intelligible was distinct from theories of gesture present in Quintilian and Cicero.48 Quintilian’s position regarding the universality of gesture is somewhat mixed, however, as he refers both to highly specific gestures, particularly of the hands, which are conventional, while also claiming that, “amid all the linguistic diversity of the peoples and nations of the world, this, it seems to me, is the common language of all humans” (ut in tanta per omnis gentes nationesque linguae diversitate hic mihi omnium hominum communis sermo videatur).49 Were there or were there not standard, communicative hand gestures in pantomime dance, as there were in oratory? Were they so well known as not to require description? Graf’s observation about Quintilian’s preference for deictic over pictorial gesture in oratory is relevant for understanding the rhetoric of  45 Luc. Salt. 62. 46 Luc. Salt. 64. 47 Quint. Inst. 11.3.65–136. 48 Shlapbach 2008, 329; Graf 1993, 47. 49 Quint. Inst. 11.3.87.

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avoiding gestural description. Graf writes, that “rhetorical psychagogia is more effective when the orator only signals general emotional and logical contents instead of freezing attention on single actions by displaying them mimetically”.50 This is what Lucian is doing, through words rather than gestures. Instead of focusing on the individual actions of the dancer (the gestures, poses, movements, etc.), he focuses on the emotional impact of the dance, its marvelous nature. I would argue, in addition, that Lycinus’ representation of this dance as a thauma or marvel involves not describing the practicalities, suggesting that there is something mysterious and inaccessible about the skill of the dancers. Furthermore, this is part of his characterisation of pantomime as a dance of philosophy, one which leads the spectator towards self-betterment and wisdom.51 Pantomime, like philosophy, has a mystical component.

 Apollonius the pantomime: Silence and dance in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana In his Life of Apollonius of Tyana, written a little more than half a century after Lucian’s On the Dance, Philostratus also explores the connections between dance and philosophy, focusing on silence as foundational not just to Pythagorean knowledge but to Apollonius’ ability to communicate. Apollonius, who lived in the first century AD, inhabits a world dominated by thauma: he travels to India, Ethiopia, Arabia, and to the West, encountering marvelous animals, peoples, customs, geography, and natural phenomena. Apollonius himself often reacts with thauma, and the people he meets react to him and his deeds with even greater thauma. He also encounters various “marvel-makers” (θαυματοποιοί). This term refers to various types of performers, such as mimes, trickmagicians, puppeteers, acrobats, makers of automata, jugglers, jokesters, and pantomimes, but it is the pantomimes who Philostratus employs most consistently in the VA in association with Apollonius.52 Philostratus sets Apollonius next to thaumatopoioi to make it clear that Apollonius causes thauma not by trickery or performance, but by true mystical knowledge. Philostratus begins his Life of Apollonius of Tyana not with the birth of Apollonius but with Pythagoras of Samos, who, as it turns out, is not really Samian  50 Graf 1993, 43. 51 Luc. Salt. 4. 52 On these thaumatopoioi, see Skotheim 2021, 95–96.

  Mali A. Skotheim or Ionian, but the reincarnation of Euphorbus of Troy. It is not until the fourth chapter that we learn anything about the birth and parentage of Apollonius of Tyana, who is not born in any straightforward manner either. Proteus sends a vision to Apollonius’ mother telling her that she is pregnant with the god himself. This is the first clue as to the connection between Apollonius and pantomime, as Lycinus claims that Proteus was a dancer because he imitated all things, and that the dancers of his own time (pantomimes) were imitating Proteus.53 This Protean child grows up to become a neo-Pythagorean philosopher, a sage figure who causes amazement (thauma) wherever he goes, as he performs miracles which often reveal some true nature unobservable to others around him. Apollonius is able to interpret bird language, understand all human languages without studying them, know of natural and human events before they have occurred, and recognise supernatural beings such as phantoms, demons, and vampires, who disguise themselves as humans.54 In various ways, all of these miraculous abilities may be categorised under Apollonius’ ability to know the interior truth of the matter. He knows what people or animals are saying or thinking, regardless of what linguistic signs or sounds they use to express meaning, or even if they are silent; and he knows the true nature of those he encounters, even if they are externally disguised. Philostratus defends Apollonius from accusations that he is an imposter or a magician, claiming that “people do not know him for the genuine wisdom which he practiced philosophically and sincerely” (οὔπω οἱ ἄνθρωποι γιγνώσκουσιν ἀπὸ τῆς ἀληθινῆς σοφίας, ἣν φιλοσόφως τε καὶ ὑγιῶς ἐπήσκησεν).55 How Apollonius came to have these miraculous abilities is somewhat mysterious. He is more divinely inspired (θειότερον) than Pythagoras in his wisdom, and his birth is attended by a thunderbolt, a divine omen.56 But Apollonius’ abilities also have to do with his practices in life. He adopts a Pythagorean lifestyle, practicing self-control and restraint by becoming a vegetarian, abstaining from wine, controlling his sexual desires, not cutting his hair, and wearing simple linen clothes. This is the distinction between Apollonius and his philosophy teacher Euxinus, who knows Pythagorean doctrine but does not practice the Pythagorean way of life, being himself a glutton and sexually promiscuous, and  53 Luc. Salt. 19. 54 On Apollonius as interpreter, see Miles 2009. Anderson 1986, 135–153 discusses Apollonius’ miracles, and Flinterman 2014, 353 suggests that these miraculous abilities, including interpreting animal speech, are reminiscent of legends about Pythagoras. 55 Philostr. VA 1.2. Translations of Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana are from C.P. Jones 2005. 56 Philostr. VA 1.2. On Pythagoreanism in the VA, see Flinterman 2009.

Silence as a Form of Discourse  

is hence limited in his understanding. Apollonius also takes a five-year vow of silence, a practice for which Pythagoreans were famous. For Pythagoras’ followers, this five-year vow of silence was both a way to practice self-control, by restraining speech, and a method of learning Pythagorean doctrine. In his Life of Pythagoras, written a century after Philostratus’ VA, Iamblichus’ description of Pythagoras’ knowledge of other people also relies heavily on nonverbal signs.57 Pythagoras observes his students’ verbal and nonverbal signs, paying attention to their “unseasonable laughter, their silence, and their speaking when it was not proper” (τούς τε γέλωτας τοὺς ἀκαίρους καὶ τὴν σιωπὴν καὶ τὴν λαλιὰν παρὰ τὸ δέον).58 He also observes their form (τὸ εἶδος), the way they walk, and the motions of the body. From such observations of external physical signs, Pythagoras is able to understand the interior truth of his students: “Physiognomically also considering the natural indications of their frame, he made them to be manifest signs of the unapparent manners of the soul” (τοῖς τε τῆς φύσεως γνωρίσμασι φυσιογνωμονῶν αὐτοὺς σημεῖα τὰ φανερὰ ἐποιεῖτο τῶν ἀφανῶν ἠθῶν ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ).59 The Pythagorean educational system, as imagined by Iamblichus, also involves various rituals of initiation. Once selected, based on these physiognomical signs, followers are neglected for three years, and then take a five-year vow of silence. μετὰ δὲ τοῦτο τοῖς προσιοῦσι προσέταττε σιωπὴν πενταετῆ, ἀποπειρώμενος πῶς ἐγκρατείας ἔχουσιν, ὡς χαλεπώτερον τῶν ἄλλων ἐγκρατευμάτων τοῦτο, τὸ γλώσσης κρατεῖν, καθὰ καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν τὰ μυστήρια νομοθετησάντων ἐμφαίνεται ἡμῖν. After this, he ordered those who came to him to observe a quinquennial silence, in order that he might experimentally know how they were affected as to continence of speech, the subjugation of the tongue being the most difficult of all victories; as those have unfolded to us who instituted the mysteries.60

During this time, they sat and listened to Pythagoras speaking his doctrine from behind a curtain. Diogenes Laertius also says that the followers of Pythagoras were silent for five years (πενταετίαν θ’ ἡσύχαζον) while listening to but not seeing Pythagoras.61 One of the goals of the deprivation of sight was to lead students to true understanding of difficult mathematical concepts, as they were  57 Iambl. VP 17. 58 Iambl. VP 17. Translations of Iamblichus’ Life of Pythagoras are from Taylor 1818. 59 Iambl. VP 17. 60 Iambl. VP 17. 61 Diog. Laert. 8.1.10.

  Mali A. Skotheim learning without visual aids such as diagrams. This added to the mysteriousness of the sect. After five years of silence, they became Esoterics and were allowed to see Pythagoras, and learn secrets which they were in turn to keep silent about. Initiation was also associated with Pythagoras himself. Diogenes Laertius says that Pythagoras left home eager for knowledge (φιλομαθής) and was initiated into all the mysteries, Greek and non-Greek.62 Proclus relates that Pythagoras was initiated into the Orphic mysteries, where he learned the secret discourses of Orpheus.63 Philostratus alludes to the practice of initiation when he says, in his first chapter, “hence they practiced silence on celestial subjects, having heard many sacred secrets which it would have been difficult to keep, except that they had learned first that even silence is a form of discourse” (... καὶ ἡ σιωπὴ δὲ ὑπὲρ τοῦ θείου σφίσιν ἐπήσκητο· πολλὰ γὰρ θεῖά τε καὶ ἀπόρρητα ἤκουον, ὧν κρατεῖν χαλεπὸν ἦν μὴ πρῶτον μαθοῦσιν, ὅτι καὶ τὸ σιωπᾶν λόγος).64 Philostratus’ comment that “even silence is a form of discourse” refers, on one level, to the idea that Pythagoreans learned through silence, but also to Apollonius’ interpretation of Pythagorean silence, and, I argue, to the pantomimical nonverbal communication practiced by the philosopher. Apollonius listens to no doctrines during his period of silence, nor does he stay in one fixed place, as Iamblichus’ Pythagoreans do. Instead, like Pythagoras himself, he travels, communicating silently with many people.65 Iamblichus’ Pythagoreans are closed off from society, as they do not communicate with one another, or directly with Pythagoras. Control factors largely into Iamblichus’ understanding of Pythagorean silence as well, evident in Pythagoras’ observations of when students laugh or speak at improper moments.66 The vow of silence is figured as a victory over the tongue. When Apollonius explains Pythagoreanism to the Ethiopians, he personifies Pythagoreanism as a woman standing apart from the rest of the personifications of philosophical schools in silence, and attributes to her a binding of the tongue (δεσμὰ γλώττης) of her followers.67 For Apollonius, Pythagorean silence is about control, and specifically about controlling when to speak and when not to.  62 Diog. Laert. 8.1.2. 63 Proclus In Ti. 3.168.8, quoted by Betegh 2014, 149. Bernabé 2013 also explores the connections between Pythagoreanism and Orphism. 64 Philostr. VA 1.1. 65 On Pythagoras’ travels, which also involved learning foreign languages such as Egyptian, see Diog. Laert. 8.1.3. 66 Iambl. VP 17. 67 Philostr. VA 6.11.

Silence as a Form of Discourse  

Early in the Life, Apollonius is asked why he does not write down his ideas. He responds, “because I have not yet fallen silent”.68 Philostratus then writes about Apollonius’ behaviour during his period of silence, connecting his silence to control, memory, and communication with other people through gesture. When people speak to him, he responds with bodily signs, using his eyes, hands, and head motions. οὐ μὴν ἄχαρις τά γε ἐς ξυνουσίας ἦν παρ’ ὃν ἐσιώπα χρόνον, ἀλλὰ πρὸς τὰ λεγόμενα καὶ οἱ ὀφθαλμοί τι ἐπεσήμαινον καὶ ἡ χεὶρ καὶ τὸ τῆς κεφαλῆς νεῦμα, οὐδὲ ἀμειδὴς ἢ σκυθρωπὸς ἐφαίνετο, τὸ γὰρ φιλέταιρόν τε καὶ τὸ εὐμενὲς εἶχε. τοῦτον ἐπιπονώτατον αὑτῷ φησι γενέσθαι τὸν βίον ὅλων πέντε ἐτῶν ἀσκηθέντα, πολλὰ μὲν γὰρ εἰπεῖν ἔχοντα μὴ εἰπεῖν, πολλὰ δὲ πρὸς ὀργὴν ἀκούσαντα μὴ ἀκοῦσαι, πολλοῖς δ’ ἐπιπλῆξαι προαχθέντα τέτλαθι δὴ κραδίη τε καὶ γλῶττα πρὸς ἑαυτὸν φάναι, λόγων τε προσκρουσάντων αὐτῷ παρεῖναι τὰς ἐλέγξεις τότε. He was not however socially unattractive during the time of his silence, but when spoken to he replied with his hands, his eyes, or by motions of his head; and he did not seem unsmiling or gloomy, but retained his love of society and his kindness. He says that this way of life, which he practiced for five whole years, was extremely difficult. He could not speak when he had much to say and could not hear when he heard much to make him angry. He was impelled to correct many people, but said to himself, ‘Bear up, my heart, and my tongue too’, and when remarks offended him, he deferred refuting them for a time.69

Being able to control what to say and what not to say persists long after his period of silence. Later in the Life, Apollonius tells the Spartans that Palamedes discovered writing not only so that men should write, but also so that they should know what not to write.70 Apollonian silence is closely associated with style, in both writing and speech, which Philostratus especially praises Apollonius for. Philostratus characterises the style of Apollonius’ speech as moderately Attic, and full of short, pithy, often difficult to interpret aphorisms.71 Like a pantomime, Apollonius communicates with his audiences with silent gestures, often conveying surprisingly complex thoughts. At one point, he asks about a lawsuit with a gesture of his hand: “So Apollonius went to the magistrate and by means of a gesture asked him the matter” (προσελθὼν οὖν τῷ ἄρχοντι ἤρετο αὐτὸν τῇ χειρί, ὅ τι εἴη τοῦτο).72 The complexity of the thought  68 Philostr. VA 1.14. 69 Philostr. VA 1.14. 70 Philostr. VA 4.33. One might compare Montiglio’s observation that silence was a prerequisite to religious speech (prayer), Montiglio 2000, 13–17. 71 Philostr. VA 1.17. 72 Philostr. VA 1.15.

  Mali A. Skotheim communicated by a single gesture is an early indication of the kind of miraculous cross-linguistic communication that he is capable of later in the Life. He also quells pantomime riots in the cities he visits in Pamphylia and Cilicia with a silent glance and hand gesture, exhibiting an ability to control others with nonverbal bodily cues. διέτριψέ τε τοὺς τῆς σιωπῆς χρόνους τὸν μὲν ἐν Παμφύλοις, τὸν δὲ ἐν Κιλικίᾳ, καὶ βαδίζων δι’ οὕτω τρυφώντων ἐθνῶν οὐδαμοῦ ἐφθέγξατο, οὐδ’ ὑπήχθη γρύξαι. Ὁπότε μὴν στασιαζούσῃ πόλει ἐντύχοι, πολλαὶ δὲ ἐστασίαζον ὑπὲρ θεαμάτων οὐ σπουδαίων, παρελθὼν ἂν καὶ δείξας ἑαυτὸν καί τι καὶ μελλούσης ἐπιπλήξεως τῇ χειρὶ καὶ τῷ προσώπῳ ἐνδειξάμενος ἐξῄρητ’ ἂν ἀταξία πᾶσα καὶ ὥσπερ ἐν μυστηρίοις ἐσιώπων. καὶ τὸ μὲν τοὺς ὀρχηστῶν τε καὶ ἵππων ἕνεκα στασιάζειν ὡρμηκότας ἀνασχεῖν οὔπω μέγα, οἱ γὰρ ὑπὲρ τοιούτων ἀτακτοῦντες, ἂν πρὸς ἄνδρα ἴδωσιν, ἐρυθριῶσί τε καὶ αὑτῶν ἐπιλαμβάνονται καὶ ῥᾷστα δὴ ἐς νοῦν ἥκουσι. He spent the time of his silence partly in Pamphylia and partly in Cilicia, and though he traveled among such pleasure-loving regions he never uttered a sound or was induced even to murmur. Whenever a city he visited was in turmoil, as many were because of their worthless amusements, he would enter, show himself, and give some hint of his intended rebuke by his hand and his expression. That would end all disturbance, and silence fell as if at the Mysteries. But there is nothing wonderful about restraining people beginning to fight over dancers or horses, since those misbehaving over such matters will blush, recover themselves, and return to their senses at the sight of a true man.73

Whereas the pantomimes instigate riots because of their silent gestures, Apollonius stops the riots, causing silence with his silent gesture. Pantomimes were associated with the factions of the charioteers (the Greens, Blues, Whites, and Reds). Inscriptional evidence from Aphrodisias suggests that each charioteer faction may have had its own pantomime.74 Crowd allegiances to one faction or another could result in violent conflict.75 Like the pantomimes, Apollonius controls the crowds. They both have an attractive power over their spectators. Apollonius is not just similar to a pantomime, in his gestures. He is better because he causes silence and self-control in others. The crowd quiets down because they see a man (πρὸς ἄνδρα ἴδωσιν); in other words, because they see a real man, and not the sort of men who imitate women in dance. Similarly, he amazes the citizens of Ephesus with his ability to interpret the language of birds, distracting

 73 Philostr. VA 1.15. On silence and the blocking of the senses at the Eleusinian mysteries, see Montiglio 2000, 23–32. 74 Roueché 1993, 29. 75 Slater 1994b.

Silence as a Form of Discourse  

them from their obsession with pantomimes, Pyrrhic dancers, pipers, and castanets, often used to accompany mimes.76 Philostratus portrays Apollonius as like a pantomime in the sense that he is able to communicate with silent gesture and in that he causes thauma, whereas in his character and way of life, he is controlled and manly, unlike dancers, who imitate women. The theme of betterment by sight of a true man is extended later in the Life to include ethnicity as well. During his stay in India, the Indian sage Iarchas tells Apollonius that the boorish king will be better if he sees a real Greek man (ἄνδρα Ἕλληνα).77 This suggests a connection between the spectatorship and internal character. Spectators are internally affected by Apollonius, just as they are at the sight of a pantomime. By learning to communicate with gestures and other body language, Apollonius learns to control his own movements as well as to interpret physical signs in the bodies of others. When he encounters a beautiful young man in prison, prevented from speaking because of his modesty, Apollonius nevertheless is able to read everything the man wants to say (about his affair with the emperor) from his body language.78 Apollonius shares this physiognomic knowledge with the Indian wise men, who select their students by observation of their physical characteristics.79 Iarchas is one of the few characters in the Life who shares Apollonius’ ability to communicate with gesture. In the same scene, he points to Apollonius, “indicating with a gesture that he was virtuous and godly” (τῇ χειρὶ προσημαίνων, ὅτι γενναῖός τε εἴη καὶ θεῖος).80 Like Apollonius, Iarchas is able to communicate complex thoughts with movement of his hand. As at other points in the Life, Philostratus does not describe what gesture Iarchas uses, other than to say that it involves pointing and the hand. The ambiguity in the text leaves open the question of whether the reader is in the know about these gestures of silent communication. Apollonius’ blundering sidekick Damis, by contrast, is unable to interpret silent gestures. While the Indians tell Apollonius about their philosophy, which is similar to Pythagoreanism in many respects (in addition to privileging physiognomy, they are vegetarians, wear simple clothing, worship Memory, and believe in the transmigration of souls), Apollonius “kept glancing” (θαμὰ ἑώρα) at Damis.81 The repetition of this action suggests that Damis

 76 Philostr. VA 4.3. 77 Philostr. VA 3.23. 78 Philostr. VA 7.42. 79 Philostr. VA 2.30. 80 Philostr. VA 3.28. 81 Philostr. VA 2.26.

  Mali A. Skotheim does not understand what Apollonius is trying to tell him, as he does not have the advanced knowledge of communicative gestures that Apollonius and Iarchas do.82 Apollonius retains this ability to understand gesture throughout his life. In Rome, on trial for sorcery, he recognises that Domitian wants him to defend himself in a charge involving a sacrifice, “as you signify by your gesture” (τῇ χειρὶ ἐνδείκνυσαι).83 Philostratus repeatedly returns to the idea that performance was a part of Pythagorean philosophy, not only in the demonstration of its precepts, but in the absorption of physiognomic knowledge through the practice of nonverbal communication. Pythagorean philosophy had always been centrally concerned with performance through its preoccupation with music and the harmony of the universe.84 Philostratus’ innovation in the VA is to interpret Pythagoreanism through the performance traditions of his own time, namely pantomime. He uses the perceived universality of pantomime dance to talk about universal, gestural communication, rooted in readings of the body, and accessible only to the highly educated, those initiated into the secrets of Pythagorean philosophy.

 Nonverbal communication in Libanius’ Oration 64 (In Defense of Dancers) Libanius wrote Oration 64 in response to a speech of Aelius Aristides, which was critical of dance, two centuries prior.85 As a pagan living in the largely Christian city of Antioch in the fourth century AD, Libanius’ works were indebted to the Greek literary and rhetorical tradition of the earlier Roman Empire.86 Unlike Philostratus’ interest in the idea that spectators could be changed by the sight of a pantomime, or the sight of a philosopher, Libanius’ concept of character or the nature of an individual resists the influence of sight or spectacle. Although the oration purports to be in defense of dancers, it also undercuts the power of the theatre, a position in line with criticisms he makes of theatrical spectacle  82 On the role of Damis in the VA, see Anderson 1986, 155–173. 83 Philostr. VA 8.30. 84 Mota 2013, 108–109 has also argued that Pythagoras adopted certain performance techniques when instructing his students which can be compared to oral poetic traditions, particularly Homeric recitation. 85 On Libanius’ engagement with Aristides throughout his corpus: Nesselrath 2014, 251; Cribiore 2008. 86 On Libanius’ rhetoric and the “Third Sophistic”: Cribiore 2013, 36.

Silence as a Form of Discourse  

elsewhere in his works.87 For example, in Oration 35, Libanius criticises his students for being silent, not speaking out in counsel, not making speeches in the agora, and thus not making use of their rhetorical education, by not participating in the political life of the city. A part of this critique is that they are wasting their time watching charioteers and dancers, or in other words, passively sitting in silence in the theatre rather than speaking themselves.88 One of Aristides’ claims, according to Libanius, was that the dance of the Roman Empire (i.e. pantomime) had changed from earlier forms of dancing. He says that dancers of his own time move more than those of the past.89 These Roman-era dancers wear their hair long, which Libanius defends from accusations of a lack of manliness, by drawing on examples of long-haired warriors, such as the Thessalians, the “long-haired Achaeans” of the Iliad, and the Spartans at Thermopylae.90 He also responds to Aristides’ critiques of the costume of the dancers, by comparing their gold-embroidered tunics to those of priests, and refuting the idea that long garments indicate effeminacy and prostitution.91 Clothing, Libanius claims, does not change a person’s life-style or social status; a slave wearing the tunic of his master is still a slave.92 Libanius associates certain bodily cues (taking long steps and wearing too much fragrance) with feminine behaviour.93 But he also rejects the idea that such bodily cues can be taken as an indication of true character. According to Libanius, a man behaving as a woman, dressing as a woman, is still a man. By extension, a dancer dressed in feminine clothing, or playing a female part, does not therefore become feminine. He gives the example of Achilles, who dressed as a girl on Skyros, “hiding his nature by his clothing” (τοῖς σχήμασιν ἀφανίσαντα τὴν φύσιν), without this outward appearance (schēma) affecting his mind or his moral character.94 Libanius’ rhetorical strategy is different from Lucian’s Lycinus. Whereas Lycinus seeks to amplify the marvelous nature of pantomime, by obscuring its gestures and thereby making it appear mystical, Libanius ridicules Aristides’ claim that the gestures of pantomime have such power. Aristides had claimed  87 Cribiore 2013, 120. On pantomime in Late Antiquity: Webb 2008. On critiques of the theatre in Late Antique Christian sources, particularly John Chrysostom, who studied under Libanius: Leyerle 2001. 88 Lib. Or. 35.17. 89 Lib. Or. 64.28. Translations of Libanius’ Oration 64 are from Molloy 1996. 90 Lib. Or. 64.50. 91 Lib. Or. 64.52. On pantomime costumes, see Wyles 2008. 92 Lib. Or. 64.53. 93 Lib. Or. 64.54. 94 Lib. Or. 64.55.

  Mali A. Skotheim that corruption results from the dance “because a gesture made by these people contributes more to corruption than the schemes of others to influence a city” (ὅτι νεῦμα τούτων πλέον εἰς διαφθορὰν ἢ ἑτέρων μηχανήματα εἰς τὸ παραστήσασθαι πόλιν).95 Libanius’ argument is not that the nod (νεῦμα) of the dancers would lead a spectator away from corruption, but that it would be ineffectual. He returns to the point he made earlier about the relationship between the dance and character, arguing that spectators are not fundamentally changed by watching a performance, whether of athletics or dance. Bad behaviour is caused by nature, not by a corruption of the soul due to watching dance.96 Libanius takes Aristides’ claim that gestures (νεύματα) are harmful to refer to the gestures of women.97 This cannot be, however, because men see women’s gestures daily. πᾶσα γοῦν οἰκία γυναικῶν πλήρης, εἰ δὲ γυναικῶν, καὶ νευμάτων. τοῖς γὰρ ἔργοις, οἶμαι, καὶ τὸ νεύειν ἀναμέμικται. καὶ γὰρ προστάττουσα καὶ δεομένη καὶ ὑπισχνουμένη καὶ φοβουμένη καὶ λοιδοροῦσα καὶ διὰ πάντων ἰοῦσα νῦν μὲν μετὰ νευμάτων φθέγξεται, νῦν δὲ καὶ χωρὶς λόγων νεύσει. τοῖς δὲ ἀνδράσιν οὐκ ἔστι μὴ ταῦτα ὁρᾶν οἷς ἀνάγκη συνεῖναι. ἀλλ’ ὅσοις ὀφθαλμοί, πάντως καὶ θέα γυναικείων νευμάτων. At least, every house is full of women, and if full of women, also full of gestures. For gesturing, I think, is intermingled with actions. When a woman is ordering and asking and promising and being alarmed and reproaching and rushing around everywhere, at one moment she will speak along with gestures and at another she will gesture without speech. And for men, it is not possible to avoid seeing these things with which they have to live. All those who have eyes assuredly have, too, the sight of female gestures.98

Libanius pokes fun at the idea that men would avert their eyes at the gestures of women. If they will not be corrupted by the sight of the gestures of women, they will not be corrupted by the sight of those who imitate them, the pantomimes.99 Additionally, he points out that pantomimes imitate the gestures of men as well as women, and so gestures which benefit the audience (those which imitate men) balance out harmful ones (those which imitate women).100 Libanius next compares dancers to actors, asking why actors, “who portray women in both ways, in words and movement” (οἳ διχόθεν μιμοῦνται τὰς γυ-

 95 Lib. Or. 64.59–60. 96 Lib. Or. 64.61. 97 “‘Gestures’, he [i.e. Aristides] says, ‘are harmful’” (Βλαβερά, φησί, τὰ νεύματα), Lib. Or. 64.62. 98 Lib. Or. 64.62. 99 Lib. Or. 64.63. 100 Lib. Or. 64.71.

Silence as a Form of Discourse  

ναῖκας, τῷ τε λόγῳ καὶ τοῖς σχήμασιν), are allowed to perform in theatres.101 Those who are skilled at making gestures can make up for deficiencies in their voices, suggesting that gestures are a great part of the pleasure or displeasure of seeing a tragedy. Libanius again ridicules the notion that “if a dancer should move his hand” (ἐὰν δὲ ὀρχηστὴς μετενέγκῃ τὴν χεῖρα) he would be able to cause spectators to become effeminate, given that actors do not cause this effect with their gestures.102 For Lycinus, the actor and the dancer both had the power to influence the spectator, one to harm, through disorder, and the other to benefit, through order. Libanius’ defense of the dancer is that he is as impotent as the actor. Neither one causes internal change in the spectator. Unlike Lucian, Libanius does describe the physical training of a dancer. Whereas Lucian’s Lycinus focuses on the dancer’s intellectual development, Libanius focuses on his physical characteristics and gymnastic training. Boys who will be of moderate height should be chosen for training in the dance, and additionally require a straight neck, “a look which is not furtive” (βλέμματος οὐχ ὑπτίου) and well-formed fingers.103 These physical characteristics anticipate the communicative needs of the dancer, who will rely on his head movements, glances, and hand gestures. The training involves great attention to suppleness. παραλαβὼν δὲ αὐτὸν ὁ παιδοτρίβης εἰς πλείους καὶ θαυμασιωτέρας καμπὰς ἢ τὸν παλαιστὴν περιάξει ἐπὶ τὴν κεφαλὴν ἀνάγων ὑπὲρ τῶν νώτων τὼ πόδε καὶ πρός γε ἔτι προκύπτειν τοῦ προσώπου καταναγκάζων, ὥστε τὰς πτέρνας τοῖς ἀγκῶσι πελάζειν. ἐπειδὰν δὲ ἐργάσηται τὸ σῶμα κύκλον, ὥσπερ τινὰ λύγον, κινεῖ πρὸς δρόμον οἷα τροχόν, τὸ δὲ θεῖ. καὶ τοῖς μέλεσιν ὁ δρόμος οὐ γίνεται βλάβη. πάλαι γὰρ δὴ πεπαίδευται τούτων ἕκαστον ὑγρὸν εἶναι μικροῦ διοικίζοντος ἀπ’ ἀλλήλων τοῦ παιδοτρίβου τὰ μέλη καὶ τὰς συμβολὰς τηροῦντός τε αὐτοῖς ὁμοῦ καὶ διιστάντος, ὥστε καὶ χεῖρας καὶ πόδας ὅποι τις ἂν ἄγῃ τοῦ λοιποῦ σώματος ἀκολουθεῖν, ὥσπερ, οἶμαι, κηροῦ φύσιν. And when he has taken him on, the gymnastic trainer will twist him round into more numerous and more remarkable bends than a wrestler, bringing up both his feet over the back onto his head and in addition even forcing them back to project further past the face so that his heels approach his elbows. And when he has made the body into a circle, like some willow cane, he sets it into motion for running like a hoop, and it runs. And the running does no harm to the limbs. for each of them has long been trained to be supple, with the trainer almost separating the limbs from each other, both keeping an eye on the joints

 101 Lib. Or. 64.74. 102 Lib. Or. 64.74. 103 Lib. Or. 64.103.

  Mali A. Skotheim and at the same time drawing them apart, so that hands and feet follow whatever point of the rest of the body one brings them, just like, I imagine, the property of wax.104

From the gymnastic trainer, the dancer-in-training goes to the dancing teacher, who teaches boys to imitate each figure of the dance.105 The trainees learn their figures by practicing and reflecting on their practice. This description of gymnastic training demystifies the abilities of the dancers. Their ability to perform such feats may be remarkable, but such an ability is rooted in long training of the body.

 Conclusions Greek literary authors of the Roman era repeatedly return to the idea that pantomime was, paradoxically, a highly visible and popularly accessible art, and yet also mysterious in its methods. This paradox was also bound up in the gender dynamics of Greek culture in the Roman era. Logos was the bedrock of elite male Greek culture. The ability to speak in court, in the council, to persuade one’s fellow citizens by means of oratory, to appreciate the verbal arts of literature, song, and drama, to reason and argue about philosophy, were all part of elite, male, Greek culture of the Roman era. To be silent, on the other hand, was to be unable to speak publicly, and therefore to be oppressed, unfree, or uneducated.106 Defenses of the silence of pantomime had to contend with these associations of logos and its opposite. By making pantomime into a philosophical dance, one which leads the spectator to self-realisation and personal betterment, Lucian challenges these negative associations with silence. For Philostratus, the philosophical concern with silent communication is centred on gender, ethnicity, and temporality. Apollonius takes on the communicative and interpretive attributes of a pantomime dancer not just because Pythagoreans took a vow of silence and were concerned with physiognomy, but because he lives in a world in which communication is contested. The ability of the subjects of the Roman Empire to speak freely is called into question by Apollonius’ trial in Rome, while simultaneously, the ability of the inhabitants of the oikoumenē (both within and beyond the Roman Empire) to speak to one another relies on  104 Lib. Or. 64.104. 105 Lib. Or. 64.105. 106 Montiglio 2000, 116 discusses the connection between silence and social exclusion in Athenian oratory.

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shared linguistic and cultural codes, which they do not all have. Libanius turns these literary explorations of the communicative power of pantomime upside down, suggesting instead that pantomimes never did have such mystical abilities to transform the inner worlds of their audiences.

Bibliography Anderson, G. (1986), Philostratus: Biography and Belles Lettres in the Third Century A.D., London/ Sydney/Dover, NH. Bayet, J. (1967), Mélanges de littérature latine, Rome. Beacham, R. (1992), The Roman Theatre and its Audience, Cambridge, MA. Bernabé, A. (2014), ‘Orphics and Pythagoreans: The Greek Perspective’, in: G. Cornelli/R. McKirahan/C. Macris (eds.), On Pythagoreanism, Berlin, 117–152. Betegh, G. (2014), ‘Pythagoreans, Orphism and Greek Religion’, in: C. Huffman (ed.), A History of Pythagoreanism, Cambridge, 149–166. Bocksberger, S.M. (2021), ‘Narrative Dance: Imitating Ēthos and Pathos through Schēmata’, in: K. Schlapbach/L. Gianvittorio-Ungar (eds.), Choreonarratives: Dancing Stories in Greek and Roman Antiquity and Beyond, Leiden/Berlin, 57–81. Cribiore, R. (2013), Libanius the Sophist: Rhetoric, Reality, and Religion in the Fourth Century, Ithaca, NY. Cribiore, R. (2008), ‘Vying with Aristides in the Fourth Century: Libanius and his Friends’, in: W.V. Harris/B. Holmes (eds.), Aelius Aristides: Between Greece, Rome, and the Gods, Leiden. Dunbabin, K.M.D. (2016), Theater and Spectacle in the Art of the Roman Empire, Ithaca, NY. Dutsch, D. (2013), ‘Towards a Roman Theory of Theatrical Gesture’, in: G.W.M. Harrison/ V. Liapis (eds.), Performance in Greek and Roman Theatre, Leiden, 409–431. Flinterman, J.-J. (2009), ‘“The Ancestor of my Wisdom”: Pythagoras and Pythagoreanism in the Life of Apollonius’, in: E. Bowie/J. Elsner (eds.), Philostratus, Cambridge, 155–175. Flinterman, J.-J. (2014), ‘Pythagoreans in Rome and Asia Minor around the Turn of the Common Era’, in: C. Huffman (ed.), A History of Pythagoreanism, Cambridge, 341–359. Gager, J. (1992), Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World, New York/Oxford. Gerolemou, M. (2019), ‘Some Thoughts on the Mechanical Features of Pantomime Dancers’, in: Araucaria. Revista Iberoamericana de Filosofia, Politica, Humanidades y Relaciones Internacionales 21, 273–287. Graf, F. (1993), ‘Gestures and Conventions: The Gestures of Roman Actors’, in: J. Bremmer/ H. Roodenburg (eds.), A Cultural History of Gesture, Cambridge, 36–58. Hall, E. (2013), ‘Pantomime: Visualising Myth in the Roman Empire’, in: G.W.M. Harrison/V. Liapis (eds.), Performance in Greek and Roman Theatre, Leiden, 451–473. Hall, E. (2008), ‘Is the “Barcelona Alcestis” a Latin Pantomime Libretto?’ in: E. Hall/R. Wyles (eds.), New Directions in Ancient Pantomime, Oxford, 258–282. Harmon, A.M. (ed./ transl.) (1936), Lucian. The Passing of Peregrinus. The Runaways. Toxaris or Friendship. The Dance. Lexiphanes. The Eunuch. Astrology. The Mistaken Critic. The Parliament of the Gods. The Tyrannicide. Disowned, Loeb Classical Library 302, Cambridge, MA.

  Mali A. Skotheim Jones, C.P. (ed./transl.) (2005), Philostratus. Apollonius of Tyana, Loeb Classical Library 16–17, Cambridge, MA. Jory, J. (1981), ‘The Literary Evidence for the Beginning of Imperial Pantomime’, in: Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 28, 147–161. Jory, J. (1996), ‘The Drama of the Dance: Prolegomena to an Iconography of Imperial Pantomime’, in: W. Slater (ed.), Roman Theater and Society, Ann Arbor, 1–27. Jory, J. (2001), ‘Some Cases of Mistaken Identity? Pantomime Masks and their Context’, in: Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 45, 1–20. Jory, J. (2004), ‘Pylades, Pantomime, and the Preservation of Tragedy’, in: Mediterranean Archaeology 17, 147–156. Jory, J. (2008), ‘The Pantomime Dancer and his Libretto’, in: E. Hall/R. Wyles (eds.), New Directions in Ancient Pantomime, Oxford, 157–168. Hunt, Y. (2008), ‘Roman Pantomime Libretti and their Greek Themes: The Role of Augustus in the Romanization of the Greek Classics’, in: E. Hall/R. Wyles (eds.), New Directions in Ancient Pantomime, Oxford, 169–184. Kelly, H.A. (1979), ‘Tragedy and the Performance of Tragedy in Late Roman Antiquity’, in: Traditio 35, 21–44. Kendon, A. (2004), Gesture: Visible Action as Utterance, Cambridge. Lada-Richards, I. (2003), ‘“A worthless feminine thing?” Lucian and the “Optic Intoxication” of Pantomime Dancing’, in: Helios 30, 21–75. Lada-Richards, I. (2004), ‘Μύθων Εἰκών: Pantomime Dancing and the Figurative Arts in Imperial and Late Antiquity’, in: Arion 12 (2), 17–46. Lada-Richards, I. (2007), Silent Eloquence: Lucian and Pantomime Dancing, Bristol. Lada-Richards, I. (2010), ‘“Corporeal Technologies” in Graeco-Roman Pantomime Dancing’, in: M.H. Garelli/V. Visa-Ondarçuhu (eds.), Corps En Jeu: De l’Antiquité à Nos Jours, Rennes, 251–269. Leyerle, B. (2001), Theatrical Shows and Ascetic Lives: John Chrysostom’s Attack on Spritual Marriage, Berkeley, CA. Miles, G. (2009), ‘Reforming the Eyes: Interpreters and Interpretation in the Vita Apollonii’, in: K. Demoen/D. Praet (2009), Theios Sophistes: Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii, Leiden, 129–160. Minar, E.L./Sandbach, F.H./Helmbold, W.C. (eds./transl.) (1961), Plutarch. Moralia, Volume IX: Table-Talk, Books 7-9. Dialogue on Love, Loeb Classical Library 425, Cambridge, MA. Molloy, M. (1996), Libanius and the Dancers, Hildesheim/Zurich/New York. Montiglio, S. (2000), Silence in the Land of Logos, Princeton. Mota, M. (2013), ‘Pythagoras Homericus: Performance as Hermeneutic Horizon to Interpret Pythagorean Tradition’, in: G. Cornelli/R. McKirahan/C. Macris (eds.), On Pythagoreanism, Berlin, 103–116. Nesselrath, H.-G. (2014), ‘Libanius and the Literary Tradition’, in: L. van Hoof (ed.), Libanius: A Critical Introduction, Cambridge. Olson, D. (ed./transl.) (2007), Athenaeus. The Learned Banqueters, Volume I: Books 1-3.106e, Loeb Classical Library 204, Cambridge, MA. Robert, L. (1930), ‘Pantomimen im griechischen Orient’, in: Hermes 65, 106–122. Roueché, C. (1993), Performers and Partisans at Aphrodisias in the Roman and Late Roman Periods: A Study Based on Inscriptions from the Current Excavations at Aphrodisias in Caria, London.

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Schlapbach, K. (2008), ‘Lucian’s On Dancing and the Models for a Discourse on Pantomime’, in: E. Hall/R. Wyles (eds.), New Directions in Ancient Pantomime, Oxford, 314–337. Schlapbach, K. (2018), The Anatomy of Dance Discourse: Literary and Philosophical Approaches to Dance in the later Graeco-Roman World, Oxford/New York. Skotheim, M. (2021), ‘Defining Paratheatre, from Grotowski to Antiquity’, in: E. Paillard/S. Milanezi (eds.), Greek Theatre and Metatheatre: Definitions, Problems, Limits, Berlin, 89–101. Slaney, H. (2017), ‘Motion Sensors: Perceiving Movement in Roman Pantomime’, in: E. Betts (ed.), Senses of the Empire, Milton Park, 159–175. Slater, W. (1990), ‘Orchestopala’, in: Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 84, 215–220. Slater, W. (1993), ‘Three Problems in the History of Drama’, in: Phoenix 47, 205–212. Slater, W. (1994a), ‘Beyond Spoken Drama: Pantomimes’, in: Didaskalia 1.2. Slater, W. (1994b), ‘Pantomime Riots’, in: Classical Antiquity 13, 120–144. Slater, W. (1995), ‘The Pantomime Tiberius Iulius Apolaustus’, in: Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 36, 263–292. Slater, W. (1996), ‘Inschriften von Magnesia 192 Revisited’, in: Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 37, 195–204. Taylor, T. (1818), Iamblichus’ Life of Pythagoras, London. Webb, R. (2008), Demons and Dancers: Theatrical Performance in Late Antiquity, Cambridge, MA. Webb, R. (2012), ‘The Nature and Representation of Competition in Pantomime and Mime’, in: K. Coleman/J. Nelis-Clément (eds.), L’Organisation Des Spectacles Dans Le Monde Romain, Vandœuvres-Geneva, 221–256. Wyles, R. (2008), ‘The Symbolism of Costume in Ancient Pantomime’, in: E. Hall/R. Wyles (eds.), New Directions in Ancient Pantomime, Oxford, 61–86.



Part II: The Art of Hiding in Ancient Literature: Deception and Enigma

Christos Kremmydas

Representations of Nonverbal Cues of Deception in Greek Literature Abstract: In this chapter, Kremmydas examines case-studies from three different Greek literary genres spanning eight centuries (the Odyssey, the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, and Chariton’s Callirhoe). They all dramatise the operation of deception in highly tense contexts, show how verbal and nonverbal means of deception operate in tandem in the process of deception and demonstrate an awareness of the function of different nonverbal cues of rhetorical deception on the part of authors who “direct” the individual “scenes” and audiences who recognise the operation of deception in the context of different literary works. They also show that the authors wished to problematise the operation and complexity of deception. Finally, they suggest that a phenomenon as complex as deception might only be uncovered through a multi-pronged approach that evaluates the ēthos and the range of techniques, verbal and nonverbal, deployed by skilled deceivers, and the cues that they give out through their words and bodily movements and expressions.

The possibility of identifying nonverbal “cues”, tell-tale signs of deception “written in the body”, has long been explored by lay and professional liedetectors: sweating, gaze aversion, lack of emotional display, touching one’s nose, and other such physical responses on the part of a lying individual to a tense situation involving the possibility of detection were also seen as potential “signs”, cues that might also help lead to an uncovering of the truth and exposure of untruths. In Ancient China, rice was used as a tool of lie-detection. Individuals suspected of lying were made to put rice in their mouths during the investigation after which they had to spit it out; if it came out dry, then the suspect was guilty, whereas if the rice was wet, they were innocent.1 In the Greek world, basanos was the practice of using torture to extract the truth about an event from slaves.2 The idea was that the progressively growing bodily pain would  1 Trovillo 1939, 852–854 (links the rice-chewing “ordeal” to India); Ford 2006, 165–166; Cook and Mitschow 2019, 316; McGlone and Knapp 2019, 4. 2 Bushala 1968; MacDowell 1978, 245–247; Carey 1988; Du Bois 1991; Todd 1993, 96, 187; Gagarin 1996. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-006

  Christos Kremmydas make a slave disclose the truth in order to put an end to their torture. Such evidence extracted through torture would prove that an opponent or a witness were lying.3 As Du Bois points out, “it is in the slave’s body that the master’s truth lies and it is in torture that his truth is revealed”.4 However even contemporaries had realised the limited diagnostic value of the basanos; it was thought that the slave under torture would be ultimately forced to say whatever the torturer might want them to say in order to ensure the swift termination of the basanos procedure.5 In the Hellenistic period, Erasistratus of Ceos is said to have monitored key bodily functions and succeeded in detecting unusual patterns that revealed the truth in a rather controversial and delicate situation.6 Whilst lay techniques of detecting deception have generally been proven to lack scientific basis, interest in technical means of identifying lying and verbal deception has not gone away. Polygraph and other technical diagnostic tools seeking to identify lies have focused on cues and signals emitted by the body.7 However, they are not always uncontroversial, and their reliability is a matter of scientific debate.8 The question of potential connections between what takes place in the cognitive realm, where lies and deception are being woven together, and what is manifested by the body is still exercising forensic scientists to this day. One explanation for the connection between bodily cues and the uncovering of truth is that liars and deceivers cannot exercise full control over their body due to their consciousness of wrongdoing, thus “leaking” (some or

 3 Isae. 8.12; Dem. 30.37. 4 Du Bois 1991, 66. 5 Rhet. 1376b–1377a οn the rhetorical possibilities it affords, but also its problematic aspects (note in particular: οὐδὲν γὰρ ἧττον ἀναγκαζόμενοι τὰ ψευδῆ λέγουσιν ἢ τἀληθῆ, καὶ διακαρτεροῦντες μὴ λέγειν τἀληθῆ, καὶ ῥᾳδίως καταψευδόμενοι ὡς παυσόμενοι θᾶττον: “for, those finding themselves under compulsion, are as likely to lie as to tell the truth, some are likely to hold out as long as they can and not tell the truth, and others are likely to lie as quickly as possible to stop the torture more quickly”); see also similar reservations expressed in Antiph. 5.31–32. 6 Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius 38 relates that Erasistratus was able to tell the truth about the real object of Antiochus I Soter’s (son of Seleucus I Nicator) desire by observing physical symptoms, namely “stammering speech, fiery flushes, darkened vision, sudden sweats, irregular palpitations of the heart, and finally, as his soul was taken by storm, helplessness, stupor, and pallor” (φωνῆς ἐπίσχεσις, ἐρύθημα πυρῶδες, ὄψεων ὑπολείψεις, ἱδρῶτες ὀξεῖς, ἀταξία καὶ θόρυβος ἐν τοῖς σφυγμοῖς… ἀπορία καὶ θάμβος καὶ ὠχρίασις,). For an overview of diachronic, crosscultural attempts at deception detection see Segrave 2004, 3–9; McGlone and Knapp 2019; and Solbu and Frank 2019. 7 Ganis 2015; Vrij 2018; Meijer and Verschuere 2018. 8 On the concerns around the use of the polygraph see Meijer and Verschuere 2015.

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combinations of) the aforementioned cues. There would thus seem to be a connection between the consciousness, cognitive control, and elements of the autonomic nervous system.9 However, recent scholarship in the area of forensic psychology has demonstrated that humans are generally bad lie detectors, and such nonverbal, bodily cues of deception alone cannot conclusively or reliably uncover a deceiver.10 Nevertheless, they cannot be discounted altogether especially in some settings. Alongside nonverbal cues of lying and deception, scholars also look for verbal cues in the discourse of an individual suspected of lying and deception and suggest that a combination of verbal and nonverbal cues might prove more effective in the arduous task of identifying and uncovering deception.11 In this chapter, I examine case-studies from three different Greek literary genres spanning eight centuries. They all dramatise the operation of deception in highly tense contexts and show how verbal and nonverbal means of deception operate in tandem in the process of deception. Whilst verbal strategies of deception have been represented in different literary contexts, these casestudies stand out by also demonstrating an awareness of the function of different nonverbal cues of rhetorical deception. Such an awareness is not restricted to the authors who “direct” the individual “scenes” and move the plot forward, but also to audiences who recognise the operation of deception in its different manifestations and in the context of each literary work. It thus reflects more widely held, lay beliefs about deceptive practices and provides interesting insights into aspects of ancient folk psychology and physiognomy.12 It also points to interfaces between ancient and modern thinking about the practice of deception and raises intriguing questions about the ways in which skilled practitioners of the art of persuasion might have adapted their oratorical practice in de 9 See the recent paper by Cook and Mitschow 2019 who expressed reservations as to the accuracy of certain technologies deployed in interrogation and screening of employees in US enforcement agencies, especially in cases where diseases or medication affect the autonomic nervous system. 10 Vrij 2018, 175–176. 11 E.g. Vrij and Mann 2004. 12 According to Zucker 2016, 602 psysiognomy is “a partly intuitive, partly technical method of deducing the moral character of a person from the observation of physical appearance”. A popular treatise in antiquity, [Arist.] Physiognomica, offers “a complete list — of the sources from which physiognomic signs are drawn. They are these: movements, gestures of the body, color, characteristic facial expressions, the growth of the hair, the smoothness of the skin, the voice, condition of the flesh, the parts of the body, and the build of the body as a whole. Such is the list that physiognomists always give of the sources in which they find their signs” (Phgn. i 806a 22–33).

  Christos Kremmydas liberative and forensic fora in order to forestall potential detection of their deceptive rhetoric, but also about the limitations of detection of such a complex phenomenon. I shall also examine the ways in which the authors used such indicators of deception to anticipate and frame various contexts in which verbal deception is represented as taking place. In their immediate literary context, the inclusion of bodily cues of deception makes passages more vivid and, therefore, more plausible, and thus contributes to the characterisation of key individuals.13 The first case-study comes from Odyssey Book 19 and focuses on the representation of Odysseus’ deceptive skill, and more specifically on the way in which bodily cues flag up and accentuate his complex deceptive schemes. The second is drawn from the Homeric Hymn to Hermes and examines the precocious deceptive skill of baby Hermes. As in the Odyssey, the deceiver is deploying verbal and nonverbal means of deception at the same time. The final casestudy is taken from Chariton’s novel Callirhoe and echoes nonverbal cues of deception highlighted in the Odyssey and the Homeric Hymn to Hermes. All three case-studies point towards the congruity of bodily cues, verbal indications, and character when it comes to the operation and identification of deception.

 Odysseus, the archetypal deceiver The representation of Odysseus in Homeric epic as “wily” and “crafty” (πολύτροπος) is well-known.14 After all, he is introduced in the Odyssey (19.203) as someone who “knew how to tell many lies that were like the truth” (ἴσκε ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγων ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα). His deceptive skill is multifarious: on the one hand, he is represented as orchestrating complex deceptive schemes, but we are also presented with his rhetorical deception at work and observe the way he deploys clothing and gestures especially in the Odyssey. Nancy Worman has discussed the ways in which Odysseus has been cast as the stereotype of the deceiver across different literary genres and, more recently, Elizabeth Minchin

 13 The operation of deception is being presented in different ways in different literary genres: in poetry and fiction, authors appear to be directing a script, effectively, in which other people’s lives (those of the dramatis personae) are at stake. Their description of deceptive activity may or may not include nonverbal cues (alongside verbal ones). By contrast, in forensic oratory, although verbal deception might be taking place in real-time and individual’s lives be at stake, nonverbal cues are not “visible” to the indirect audiences of these speeches (ancient and modern readers). 14 Pratt 1993, 55–94; Grossart 1998, esp. 143–168; Montiglio 2011, 1–19.

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has shown how the representation of Odyssean deception helps drive the plot forward and demonstrates the epic poet’s control of truth.15 Since Odysseus’ ēthos as a deceiver is well-established in Greek literature, it is worth noting that his ēthos and deceptive practices especially in the Odyssey are reflected not only in his words and actions, but also in his body: movements, gestures, facial expressions, and eye-movements accompany and accentuate his deceptive discourse. Although, in general, as a master-deceiver he is in full control of the narratives he is telling and the schemes he is putting into practice, there are rare occasions when he can be caught “leaking”, that is, giving out cues that give away and confirm his deception to the audience. A key moment in Book 19, relating to the representation of Odysseus’ character, is the latter’s encounter with two key women in his life, Eurykleia and Penelope.16 Once again, his deceptive skill is at work and the audience has an opportunity to see the ambiguities of his deceptive discourse in his conversations with these female figures. At the same time, the poem places increased emphasis on Odysseus’ physical appearance and highlights the congruity between verbal and physical manifestations of deception. The presentation of the nonverbal aspects of a deceiver’s behaviour in a high-stakes context is not just a means of enhancing enargeia (“vividness”) of an epic scene but also demonstrates the poet’s intention to show Odysseus’ deceptive skill in action and in all its manifestations.

 Verbal and nonverbal cues of Odysseus’ deception in Book 19 . Odysseus and Penelope The dialogue between Penelope and Odysseus takes up centre-stage in Book 19 (ll. 104–360) and deception is a theme running in the background. It manifests itself in schemes, stories, and individual untruths and half-truths. There is also a great deal of ambiguity, equivocation, and tension between different contours of truth and untruth as the narrative progresses and emotional tension builds

 15 Worman 1999; Minchin 2018. 16 Other deceptive speeches by Odysseus in Book 19 include his scathing response to Melantho at 19.71–88 (with the not unusual description of his menacing stare, ὑπόδρα ἰδών) and to his wife Penelope at 19.107–122, 165–202, 221–245 and 262–307.

  Christos Kremmydas up. It is worth noting that when the narrative reaches climactic moments, the narrator flags up bodily cues of deception. In this episode, Odysseus’ faithful wife, Penelope, expresses her longing for her absent husband and goes on to relate her own deception of the suitors through the web she was weaving during the day only to undo it at night (l. 137: ἐγὼ δὲ δόλους τολυπεύω;17 “I weave my own wiles” [tr. Lattimore 1965]; cf. l. 151–152: ὣς τρίετες μὲν ἔληθον ἐγὼ καὶ ἔπειθον Ἀχαιούς… “three whole years I deceived them blind, seduced them with this scheme…” [tr. Fagles 1996]; / “so for three years I was secret in my designs, convincing/the Achaians” [tr. Lattimore 1965]). Here she tells him the truth, but one cannot help wondering why she is being so open about the details of her deception to Odysseus, a mere stranger until that point, given her deceptive skill (although her scheme was uncovered by her maids, and she had to complete the web). Her truth-telling might be explained through the instinctive trust developing between two deceivers and is clearly used by the poet to pave the way for the revelation of Odysseus’ own truth. Penelope repeatedly asks about Odysseus’ origins and identity (105, 162–163). However, the latter is not yet ready to divulge the truth. Odysseus seeks to avoid responding directly, although he eventually pretends to relent and relates a fictional story (167: ἀλλ᾽ ἐκ τοι ἐρέω; “then, I will tell you” [tr. Lattimore 1965]) about his Cretan noble origins.18 His verbal deception takes the form of a story,  17 This expression, too, echoes deceptive skill in a very poetically striking way. Not only Odysseus, but his wife, too, is skilled in deception. The expression denotes literally to “accomplish” the “bait” that catches the fish (LSJ s.v. τολυπεύω); here the shroud that Penelope is weaving is itself the device, the “bait” she has been using to deceive her suitors. Her ability to deceive does not make her an exact match for Odysseus, but demonstrates her intelligence and echoes the deceptive skill of her long-gone husband whom she is still waiting for. When they finally meet one another a little later, the audience will probably be able to recognise that not only husband and wife, but also two highly effective deceivers are meeting up after more than two decades of war and wandering. The audience’s awareness of their deceptive traits probably helps build up suspense in the narrative. Rutherford 2008, 150–151 ad loc. comments that the verb is normally used with πόλεμον as its object; here its unusual combination with δόλους, if noticed by the audience, might have stressed the need for guile in the Odyssey (especially necessary for Penelope as a female who has to deal with male suitors in the absence of her husband Odysseus). Russo 1992, 81 notes that the plural δόλους points both to her weaving of the web and the dealings she has had with the suitors. 18 The story bears similarities to the one he had told Eumaeus in Book 14.199–359 ff. Note a disclaimer of deception that echoes Achilles (its emotional vehemence renders it potentially more persuasive) 14.156–157: “For as I detest the doorways of Death I detest that man who/under constraint of poverty babbles beguiling falsehoods” (Lattimore). Cf. Achilles in Iliad 9.312–313: “For as I detest the doorways of Death, I detest that man, who/hides one thing in the depths of his heart, and speaks forth another” (Lattimore).

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but at the same time he feigns emotional distress in order to pre-empt further questioning on the part of Penelope that might help uncover the truth. His fake grief even anticipates Penelope’s own grief (cf. 117–122, 167–168 to 129). Odysseus suggests that even relating his story will cause him pain (167–168: ἦ μέν μ᾽ ἀχέεσί γε δώσεις πλείοσιν ἢ ἔχομαι “but you will give me over to sorrows even more than I have”; [tr. Lattimore 1965]), but his apparent discomfort is not matched by any show of emotion; in fact in the rest of the episode (and in Book 19 more generally), he demonstrates full control of his emotions.19 It is well-known that manipulation of emotional display for persuasive purposes is a key deceptive technique,20 because it simulates an emotive reaction likely to evoke pity in an audience. However, at this stage, Odysseus’ words do not match his actual emotional display; it is very likely that even talking about the potential emotional impact on him might have had an effect on his interlocutor, disposing her positively towards him. Odysseus’ story of Aithon, the Cretan noble (178–202), is a variation of the longer deceptive story he had related to Eumaeus in 14.199–359. That this is an untrue story is affirmed by the famous “capping statement” that throws into relief not only Odysseus’ ēthos, but also his mastery of rhetorical deception (203: ἴσκε ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγων ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα “He knew how to say many false things that were like true sayings” [tr. Lattimore 1965]). His story exemplifies deceptive verisimilitude, as it contains realistic-sounding and true elements that he adapts from his own experience but projects on to someone else. Because the story is realistic and sounds plausible, Odysseus succeeds in “persuading” Penelope in so far as he evokes a powerful emotional response from her (204: τῆς δ᾽ ἄρ’ ἀκουούσης ῥέε δάκρυα, τήκετο δὲ χρώς; “as she listened her tears ran, and her body was melted…”).21 Although the poet has prepared us for a tense and emotive moment, and Odysseus’ words suggest that he is fighting hard to control his emotions (209– 212), an emotional outburst that would have given him away is being avoided for the time being. Odysseus continues being successful as a deceptive storyteller, even though it is his own faithful wife he is lying to and, deep inside, he is  19 Contrast 16.190–192 where Odysseus cannot hold back his emotions during his meeting with his son, Telemachus, and his emotional outburst is clearly genuine (note 192 about his ability to control his emotions until that moment). 20 This was recognised by the orators: e.g. Dem. 21.204 (cf. 184): δεῖ τοίνυν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, καὶ ὑμᾶς οὕτω νῦν, ὅταν ἐξαπατῶν καὶ φενακίζων ὀδύρηται καὶ κλάῃ καὶ δέηται, ταῦθ᾽ ὑποβάλλειν αὐτῶ· cf. also Dem. 19.310. 21 Cf. the emotional outburst of Telemachus and Odysseus after the latter’s disclosure of the truth in Book 16.215–220.

  Christos Kremmydas having pity for her. His successful emotional control is manifested by the control of his eyes: αὐτὰρ Ὀδυσσεὺς θυμῷ μὲν γοόωσαν ἐὴν ἐλέαιρε γυναῖκα, ὀφθαλμοὶ δ᾽ ὠς κέρα ἔστασαν ἠὲ σίδηρος ἀτρέμας ἐν βλεφάροισι· δόλῳ δ᾽ ὁ γε δάκρυα κεῦθεν. (ll. 210–212) But Odysseus | in his heart had pity for his wife as she mourned him, | but his eyes stayed, as if they were made of horn or iron, | steady under his lids. He hid his tears and deceived her. (tr. Lattimore 1965)

Eyes are central to human emotional expression and social interaction. However, on this occasion, the stability and durability of the eyes and the fixedness of the eyelids appear to be preternatural in such a tense emotional context; they are so unnatural that to a knowing audience they appear to be symptomatic of a skilled deceiver.22 That these facial features relate to his deceptive intent and tactics is confirmed by the addition of the (instrumental) dative δόλῳ.23 The poet leaves us in no doubt that we are witnessing a masterclass of deceptive performance on the part of Odysseus that combines verbal and nonverbal deception through part-true/part-false stories and manipulation of emotional expression. Penelope seeks to test the veracity of what he is relating and subjects him to πεῖρα (“trial”) in order to test the truth of his story (215–217):24 νῦν μὲν δή σευ, ξεῖνέ γ᾽, ὀΐω πειρήσεσθαι, εἰ ἐτεὸν δὴ κεῖθι σὺν ἀντιθέοις ἑτάροισι ξείνισας ἐν μεγάροισιν ἐμὸν πόσιν, ὡς ἀγορεύεις. “Now, my friend, I think I will give you a test, to see if it is true that there, and with his godlike companions, you entertained my husband, as you say you did, in your palace”. (tr. Lattimore 1965)

 22 Rutherford 2008, 164–165 contrasts the snow and iron similes deployed to characterise Penelope and Odysseus’ emotional reactions, attributes the latter’s ability to suppress his emotions to “his hard-won self-discipline”, and notes that any rare occurrences of weeping appear at “climactic moments in the narrative”. 23 This is the only attestation of δόλῳ in the context of verbal deception in the Odyssey. Note what Athena has to say about Odysseus’ character as a deceiver at 13.292–295; cf also his selfpresentation at 9.19–20 and how Antinoos describes Penelope’s deceptions at 2.92–102. 24 LSJ sv. “trial”, “attempt”. According to Rutherford 2008, 167–168 the theme of testing is tied to the theme of hospitality in the poem and so far Odysseus has been the subject of testing by gods and human beings.

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Despite Pelenope’s attempt to establish the veracity of Odysseus’ story, she fails to trip him up; he remains in charge of the “story”. Although he feigns inability to remember due to the passage of time (221–223: ὦ γύναι, ἀργαλέον τόσσον χρόνον ἀμφὶς ἐόντα / εἰπέμεν⋅ ἤδη γάρ οἱ ἐεικοστὸν ἔτος ἐστὶν / ἐξ οὗ κεῖθεν ἔβη καὶ ἐμῆς ἀπελήλυθε πάτρης), he provides a long and impressively detailed ekphrasis of his clothes. He deploys a “distancing device” in his attempt to delay anagnōrisis: he suggests that the clothes he (as the stranger) had seen Odysseus wearing and had just described in detail may have been the gift of some other Greek leader (237–240). And although Penelope had asked him to describe Odysseus’ external appearance and that of his companions, he evades that question as self-description would have given him away prematurely. He only describes the herald, Eurybates (244–248). The “signs” he offers (250: σήματ᾽) are gladly believed by Penelope, yet she does not recognise him yet. Odysseus’ recognition is postponed. The moment comes for Odysseus to tell the truth, or at least to purport to tell the truth (269–270: “for I say to you without deception, without concealment, | that I have heard of the present homecoming of Odysseus”: νημερτέως γάρ τοι μυθήσομαι οὐδ᾽ ἐπικεύσω / ὡς ἤδη Ὀδυσῆος ἐγὼ περὶ νόστου ἄκουσα [tr. Lattimore 1965]). This form of affirmation of truth-telling usually accompanies deceptive statements in forensic oratory.25 His statements are once again a mixture of truths, untruths, and half-truths: Odysseus, he claims, is alive and near, was in Thesprotia and went off to the oracle at Dodona as he planned his return to Ithaka (298–299). But the audience know that all this is untrue: he is right there standing in front of Penelope. The oath he swears at ll. 302–307 to confirm what he has just said is ultimately truthful, albeit misleading under the current circumstances. The placement of the oath at the end of Odysseus’ speech creates a “powerful and emotive climax”.26 So far Odysseus’ first encounter with Penelope showed the combination of verbal and nonverbal cues of deception in his communication with his wife. Verbal cues included disclaimers of deception, distancing devices, and combination of truthful and untruthful statements to create a plausible-sounding story and, finally, the offering of solemn oaths to affirm the veracity of a story. Nonverbal cues focused mainly on facial characteristics of the deceiver and tended to combine with verbal cues and strategies of deception. Already before Penelope’s departure, the focus had started shifting from more external “proofs” towards Odys 25 For a list of truth-telling topoi and disclaimers of deception, see Kremmydas 2013, 73–74, with Appendix 1. 26 Rutherford 2008, 175 ad loc.

  Christos Kremmydas seus’ body, as his wife ordered her maidens to look after him by offering him a bath and prepare him for his nocturnal rest. This shift towards his body will ultimately lead towards his first recognition by his nurse, Eurykleia.

. Odysseus and Eurykleia Whilst the recognition scene between Odysseus and Penelope is being delayed further, Eurykleia has come very close to recognising her master from his bodily features and voice (“… I have never seen one as like as you are/to Odysseus, both as to your feet, and voice and appearance”: ll. 280–281). However, Odysseus must lie again to avoid premature detection; he qua beggar suggests that he looks like the Odysseus whose external appearance the nurse has referred to; and the beggar confirms the likeness, but anagnōrisis is being delayed further: ὦ γρηῦ, οὕτω φασίν ὅσοι ἴδον ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἡμέας ἀμφοτέρους, μάλα εἰκέλω ἀλλήλοιϊν ἐμμεναι, ὡς συ περ αὐτὴ ἐπιφρονέουσ᾽ ἀγορεύεις.

385

“Old woman, that much they say those who see with their own eyes, that we two are very similar each to each, as you yourself have noticed and tell me”. (tr. Lattimore 1965)

Αt that moment, Odysseus’ body appears to react instinctively, urged perhaps by his unconscious realisation that the truth will out. Ι believe that this is an involuntary body movement that inadvertently moves the plot forward towards recognition. We are told that Odysseus ποτὶ δὲ σκότον ἐτράπετ᾽ αἶψα: αὐτίκα γὰρ κατὰ θυμὸν ὀΐσατο, μὴ ἑ λαβοῦσα 390 οὐλὴν ἀμφράσσαιτο καὶ ἀμφαδὰ ἔργα γένοιτο (ll. 389–391). “… suddenly turned to the dark side;/ for presently he thought in his heart that, as she handled him,/ she might be aware of his scar and all his story might come out”. (tr. Lattimore 1965)

Eurykleia does indeed recognise him through the scar on his lower leg, but the epic poet goes on to relate at length the story of Odysseus’ deceptive ancestor, Autolycus, and how Odysseus’ scar was “acquired”. The recognition of Odysseus by Eurykleia is delayed further through this long flashback, a digression that slows down the narrative and builds up suspense. Thus, whilst Penelope’s peira (“trial”), her attempt to have Odysseus’ prove the veracity of his story, is ultimately futile because he was still totally in control

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of the “story”, the nurse succeeds in uncovering an incontrovertible sign on Odysseus’ body that discloses the truth, his true identity.27 Master of verbal deception Odysseus might be, yet he is unable to stop his body from “talking”: it was not only the “scar” that his old wet-nurse recognised, but also his (involuntary) last minute, jerky movement to the “dark” side to avoid the revelation of his identity. The two adverbs αἶψα and αὐτίκα suggest the suddenness of the movement and possibly also point to the fact that the deceiver was finally losing control (note that αὐτίκα is also used of Eurykleia’s recognition of him). This unmistakeable sign on the body helps uncover Odysseus’ deception thus far, reveals the truth, and eventually leads to his recognition first by Eurykleia and later by his faithful wife, Penelope. Thus, Odysseus’ body “speaks”. However, he seeks to conceal it again “beneath his beggar’s rags” (507), so that it would not lead to his premature recognition by his wife. At this most suspenseful point in the poem, we witness the climax of Odysseus’ deceptive skill. We see it at work, in terms of realistic-sounding, plausible albeit deceptive story-telling, and effective emotional manipulation; and whilst the epic poet toys with the knowledge of truth and untruth on different levels (internal and external audiences), he ultimately points at Odysseus’ body as providing cues to uncover his deception: the lack of emotional response that accompanies feigned emotional distress and the bodily movements that give the lie to the story he had maintained for too long.

 Hermes, the deceiving baby god (Homeric Hymn to Hermes) The whole of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes could be seen as a case-study in verbal and nonverbal deception. 28 The mischievous baby-god, Hermes, steals Apollo’s cattle, is being chased around Greece, and is eventually tracked down by Apollo. The latter confronts little Hermes before their dispute is eventually referred to Zeus and a trial takes place. There is little doubt that the presentation of Hermes’ character is modelled on that of Odysseus: Hermes is introduced as

 27 This is a giveaway rather than a deception cue in the sense that this is not a repeatable and recognisable feature that might help one identify deception. 28 Thomas 2020, 1–23, esp. 22–3 proposes a date in the 450’s. Vergados 2013, 130–147 supports an earlier date in the second half of the sixth century; pace Richardson 2010, 24–25 who argues for a date before 500 BC.

  Christos Kremmydas παῖδα πολύτροπον, αἱμυλομῆτιν… ἠγήτορ’ ὀνείρων, νυκτός ὀπωπητῆρα (“a versatile child of coaxing counsels… the guide of dreams, who is on the lookout at night”; ll. 13, 15–16 [tr. Thomas 2020]). Not only was the author familiar with stylised/formal rhetoric of the 5th century rhetoric,29 but he was also very much interested in the theme of rhetorical deception. This is evident especially in the episode of the confrontation between Hermes and Apollo (184–312): I shall focus here on one passage that throws the physicality of Hermes’ deception into relief and more specifically highlights cues that echo some of the ones seen in Odyssey Book 19. The passage in question is placed right in the middle of the confrontation between baby Hermes and Apollo; Hermes has just sworn a great oath to the effect that he denies having stolen Apollo’s cattle: εἰ δ᾽ ἐθέλεις, πατρὸς κεφαλὴν μέγαν ὅρκον ὀμοῦμαι⋅ μὴ μὲν ἐγὼ μήτ᾽ αὐτὸς ὑπίσχομαι αἴτιος εἶναι, μήτε τίν᾽ ἄλλον ὄπωπα βοῶν κλοπὸν ὑμετεράων, αἵ τινες αἱ βόες εἰσί⋅ τὸ δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούω. ὡς ἄρ᾽ ἔφη καὶ πυκνὸν ἀπὸ βλεφάρων ἀμαρύσσων ὀφρῦς ῥιπτάζεσκεν ὁρώμενος ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα, μάκρ᾽ ἀποσυρίζων, ἅλιον τὸν μῦθον ἀκούων. τὸν δ᾽ ἀπαλὸν γελάσας προσέφη ἑκάεργος Ἀπόλλων⋅ ὦ πέπον, ἠπεροπευτά, δολοφραδές…30

275

280

“Yet by my father’s head I’ll swear, if you wish a great oath: I neither declare myself to be guilty, nor have I seen Anyone else who stole your cattle, whatever it is These ‘cattle’ may be about them this rumour is all that I hear”. In this way he spoke, and had in his eyes a knowing gleam, As he tossed about with his brows while gazing now here, now there, Giving long whistles, paying the other’s words no heed.

 29 See Thomas 2020, 7–8, who also suggests that the affinities between the Hymn to Hermes and rhetorical theory support a fifth-century date for the poem (23). 30 Tr. Thomas 2020: “If you want, I shall swear a great oath on my father’s head: (275) neither, I say, do I profess to be guilty myself, nor have I seen any other thief of your cows (whatever these cows are), but have only heard the report”. So he spoke, and glinted a quick series of glances from his eyelids, and from round his eyes he cast them in a whirl as he looked this way and that, (280) whistling out loudly as if the speech he had heard was empty. Breaking into a gentle laugh, far-working Apollo addressed him: “My dear tricky-minded deceiver…”

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To him with gentle laughter Apollo the Far-worker said: “My fine deceitful schemer…” (tr. Crudden 2008)

There are a number of verbal cues flagging (to the audience) the fact that this baby-god is lying (as in the episodes from Odyssey 19 discussed above, the audience is in a privileged position of knowledge): the offer of a great oath although we know that Hermes is lying;31 the three successive negations that are now recognised as a potential cue or verbal deception;32 not only does he state that he is not guilty, but also claims not to have seen anyone stealing the cattle; his statement is strictly speaking true, but at the same time refutes any suggestions that he might have been an eye-witness of the theft. Finally, a distancing device, in the form of an allegedly vague statement of feigned ignorance αἵτινες αἱ βόες εἰσίν (“whatever it is | these “cattle” may be”).33 This needless addition does not add much to the argument but exposes him to the audience as a deceiver. Is Hermes not in full control and thus unwittingly gives away a deception cue? However, immediately after Hermes’ attempts to deny the charge and distance himself from it, the poet turns the readers’ attention to a nonverbal cue suggesting that little Hermes might in fact be seeking to deceive his opponent, Apollo. The focus shifts to the eyes again that stress the impression created by Hermes’ deceptive words (278–279: ὡς ἄρ᾽ ἔφη καὶ πυκνὸν ἀπὸ βλεφάρων ἀμαρύσσων / ὀφρῦς ῥιπτάζεσκεν ὁρώμενος ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα…). There is some scholarly controversy regarding the meaning of ἀπὸ βλεφάρων ἀμαρύσσων… and the interpretation of 278–279. Thomas suggests that Hermes does three things with his eyes: i) he produces ἀμαρύγματα (LSJ s.v. “sparkle, twinkle”); ii) these are dispatched by his rapidly moving eyelids; and iii) he glances in different directions.34

 31 Note that through his cunning wording, Hermes manages to avoid perjuring himself, whilst also creating the impression that he is truthful and would therefore be happy to swear an oath. See Thomas 2020 and Richardson 2010 ad loc. 32 Thomas 2020, 300 notes the deceptive character of the statement μὴ μὲν ἐγὼ μήτ᾽ αὐτὸς ὑπίσχομαι αἴτιος εἶναι which he takes to mean “I certainly do not profess to be guilty myself”; this might easily be confused with “I certainly profess not to be guilty myself”. 33 Vergados 2013, 431 ad loc. suggests that this expression adds a “touch of humour” to this scene. 34 Thomas 2020, 303. Vergados 2013, 433 ad loc. argues that this expression looks forward to the εἴρων described by Aristotle in HA 491b14–18. Whilst a deceiver might, when overconfident, mock the person(s) he is deceiving, I am not persuaded that there is any mockery of Apollo in this scene.

  Christos Kremmydas The verb ἀμαρύσσω has been interpreted as having a seductive, “flirty” quality.35 However, in this context, and amplified by πυκνόν, it is more likely to denote the deceptive blinking that is traditionally associated with lying and deception (across different cultures). Some modern research does confirm the lay understanding of this nonverbal cue of deception.36 Blinking is caused by stress, which, in turn, is produced by awareness of guilt.37 This probably has a parallel in Aristophanes’ Knights where deception is associated with blinking: Cleon dares the Sausage-Seller to look at him without blinking (292: βλέψον ἔς μ᾽ ἀσκαρδάμυκτος) and in the rest of the conversation Cleon offers to admit “being a thief”, whilst the Sausage-seller suggests that if caught red-handed in the marketplace he would perjure himself. Thus, in this context, I argue that the glint in his eye has a deceptive rather than a seductive quality. This is confirmed by other cues that amplify the physicality of his precocious deceptive skill: his rapidly blinking eyes and the glances in different directions. The latter might echo what psychologists call “gaze aversion”,38 a means of creating “distance” between the deceiver and those they are seeking to deceive. The avoidance of direct eyecontact has diachronically been understood as a sign of dishonesty and untruthfulness.39 A final nonverbal cue that is incongruous with the seriousness of the situation, the grilling that baby Hermes is subjected to by Apollo, and his seemingly earnest attempts to deny any involvement in the stealing of cattle, is his “whistling away” (μάκρ᾽ ἀποσυρίζων). Whistling is associated with being happy and care-free, but what it seeks to achieve here is to create a false impression of Hermes’ insouciance.40 However, Apollo has none of it; he cracks a smile that demonstrates that Hermes has not been able to evade detection and addresses

 35 Thomas 2020, 303–304 ad loc. Although he proposes the seductive effect of the eye and eyebrow movements as the prevalent one in this passage, he also notes the possibility of a combination of effects, namely that glinting eyes give away scheming and blinks and shifting eye-movements betray guilt. He thus stops short of identifying deception as the key phenomenon in this context. 36 Leal, Vrij, Fisher, and Van Hooff 2008; Marchak 2013. 37 On blinking see Eckman 2001, 142–143, 160, 286–287. 38 Gazing down indicates sadness, dazing down and away suggests shame or guilt: Eckman 2001, 141–142. 39 Cairns 2005, 134–135. 40 Thomas 2020, 305; Vergados 2013, 433 suggests that Hermes’ whistling may be “a means of bolstering his confidence and feigning indifference”. Both scholars’ interpretations are consistent with Hermes’ deceptive performance.

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him as ὦ πέπον, ἠπεροπευτά, δολοφραδές, the two latter adjectives stressing his true nature as a deceiver. This key moment in the Hymn is illuminating as to the operation of deceptive communication in interpersonal relationships. Alongside awareness of rhetorical rules and forms, the poet shows a remarkable awareness of verbal and nonverbal manifestations of deceptive discourse. Like Odysseus (in the episodes discussed above), little Hermes embodies the accomplished deceiver in the words he speaks, but also in the ways in which his body “speaks” whilst he engages in deceptive discourse.

 Case-study three: Deceit in Chariton’s Callirhoe Book One The third case-study is taken from “the oldest extant novel in European literary tradition” and confirms the pervasiveness of lay ideas about deception.41 Here, too, the means by which deception manifests itself in tense narrative settings in Chariton’s Callirhoe demonstrate congruity between verbal, nonverbal cues, and the representation of character.42 Truth, lying, and deception play a role in the development of the characters43 and the plot of Callirhoe especially, but not exclusively, in forensic contexts, when the stakes for key characters are high and their very lives appear to be in danger. The narrator often sets the scene by flagging up to the readers that a scheme is being plotted by one of the characters and, at times, also highlights their ēthos as deceivers (e.g. at 1.4.4) before proceeding to relate how a particular scheme unfolds. However, as in the casestudies discussed earlier in this chapter, the presentation of deception in action is not just a device to enhance the vividness of the narrative, to advance the plot, or to complement the presentation of key characters; it also demonstrates the author’s and the audience’s familiarity with the operation of deception both verbal and nonverbal and suggests that any descriptions of cues of deception reflect upon contemporary lay perceptions regarding the function of different kinds of deception. I shall now discuss one episode from this novel that high-

 41 See De Temmermann 2012, 483 who proposes a date “within two decades either side of AD 50” (2009, 243 n. 4), whilst Whitmarsh 2005, 86 accepts the “conventional dating” of first century AD. 42 On Chariton’s interest in rhetoric see Tilg 2010, 199, but also see de Temmerman 2009, 262. 43 See de Temmermann 2009, 251–252 on the role of rhetoric in the development of Chaereas’ character.

  Christos Kremmydas lights the ways in which nonverbal deception is projected on and reflected through the body.

. The deceptive scheme of a suitor from Acragas and his acolytes This episode is situated within the longer narrative of the elaborate scheme by Callirhoe’s suitors to drive her and her new husband, Chaereas, apart (starting at 1.2). The scheme is devised and implemented by the suitor from Acragas (1.4.1: Ἀκραγαντῖνος; cf. 1.24: ὁ Ἀκραγαντίνων τύραννος). The first plan failed and the Acragantine suitor moves to Plan B, a more complex scheme to deceive Chaereas. He enlists the help of another individual who is identified as a parasite (παράσιτος), eloquent and charming (στωμύλος καὶ πάσης χάριτος ὁμιλητικῆς ἔμπλεως). This individual was tasked with carrying away Callirhoe’s servant, while a second assistant was enlisted by the Acragantine suitor; this second acolyte is being described as “cunning” (πανοῦργον) and “persuasive/plausible” (ἀξιόπιστον) but is also left anonymous.44 Both acolytes of the suitor from Acragas are identified as “actors” (ὑποκριταί), while the Acragantine is referred to as the “producer of the drama” (δημιουργὸν τοῦ δράματος) who “teaches” the second individual how to play the role (προδιδάξας). The narrator is thus presenting us with successive stages of verbal and nonverbal deception, which culminate in Chaereas’ deception. The unnamed rogue approaches him, wins his confidence, and leads him to a quiet place supposedly to share an important secret with him (1.4.5–6). His earlier insistence on silence outside the gymnasium (1.4.3) and the quiet place where he took Chaereas stress the anonymous deceiver’s apparent seriousness, all rouse Chaereas’ emotions and make him more prone to deception. At the point when verbal deception is about to reach a climax (the revelation of Callirhoe’s alleged infidelity at 1.4.6), the deceiver is displaying physical traits that make his deceptive message even more plausible and credible. Specific bodily cues seem to assert his seriousness and confirm his words, although the audience is aware of his deceptive intent and scheme: 1.4.5: ἐνέκειτο μᾶλλον ὁ Χαιρέας, ἤδη τι προσδοκῶν βαρύτερον· ὁ δὲ ἐμβαλὼν αὐτῷ τὴν δεξιὰν ἀπῆγεν εἴς τι χωρίον ἠρεμαῖον, εἶτα συναγαγὼν τὰς ὀφρῦς καὶ ὅμοιος γενόμενος λυπουμένῳ, μικρὸν δέ τι καὶ δακρύσας, “ἀηδῶς μὲν” εἶπεν, “ὦ Χαιρέα, σκυθρωπόν σοι πρᾶγμα μηνύω καὶ πάλαι βουλόμενος εἰπεῖν ὤκνουν· ἐπεὶ δὲ ἤδη φανερῶς ὑβρίζῃ καὶ  44 Cf. his characterisation later as ὁ κακοήθης ἐκεῖνος καὶ ὁ διάβολος (“the wicked villain”: 1.4.8).

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θρυλλεῖται πανταχοῦ τὸ δεινόν, οὐχ ὑπομένω σιωπᾶν· φύσει τε γὰρ μισοπόνηρός εἰμι καὶ σοὶ μάλιστα εὔνους. γίνωσκε τοίνυν μοιχευομένην σου τὴν γυναῖκα, καὶ ἵνα τούτῳ πιστεύσῃς, ἕτοιμος ἐπ᾿ αὐτοφώρῳ τὸν μοιχὸν δεικνύειν”. Chaereas insisted all the more, by now expecting something unpleasant. The other took his arm and led him off to a quiet spot. Then, knitting his brow, assuming a sad expression, and shedding a tear or two, he said, “Chaereas, I am sorry to have to tell you of a shocking matter. I have long been wanting to speak but have hesitated. But now that you are being publicly reviled and the scandal is being discussed everywhere, I cannot keep quiet. It’s my nature to hate wrong, and I have a special sympathy for you. So, I have to tell you that your wife is unfaithful and, to convince you, am ready to show you the adulterer in the act. (tr. Goold 1996)

The feigned consistency between words, emotions, and body micro-movements and gestures helps increase the anonymous deceiver’s plausibility. The knitting of the brow (συναγαγὼν τὰς ὀφρῦς) suggests the seriousness of what the anonymous deceiver is about to tell Chaereas. Ιn an apt demonstration of deception qua verisimilitude, his sad countenance (ὅμοιος γενόμενος λυπουμένῳ) imitates that of someone who is truly sorry and is further confirmed by the shedding of a few tears (μικρὸν δέ τι καὶ δακρύσας), whilst the words he utters are also emotionally loaded (ἀηδῶς, σκυθρωπόν… πρᾶγμα).45 After all, this individual had already been introduced to us as an expert in deception (“cunning” [πανοῦργον] and “persuasive” [ἀξιόπιστον]). The use of the body as part of a more complex, concerted effort to deceive someone is demonstrated very aptly in this episode but also helps confirm the impression of Chaereas as a rather gullible character who has not yet himself harnessed the power of rhetoric.46 The fact that the deceiver’s emotional display is only restricted to frowning, a sad expression, and a couple of tears probably indicates that Chaereas was prone to be taken in and that, therefore, this level of emotional display was sufficient on this occasion?47 The anonymous deceiver’s deception is being presented as acting in this episode, as part of a play (δρᾶμα): nothing is true and the audience know it, although the verisimilitude he effects is so plausible that his “play-acting” is successful. It is ironic that this deceptive individual pretends to be willing to reveal the truth to Chaereas when, in fact, readers know he is ensnaring him into his deceptive

 45 Whereas in this episode we witness a bogus, albeit limited emotional display, Odysseus is in control of his emotions, even when acknowledging the emotional burden he is under. 46 On Chaereas’ developing rhetorical skill, see de Temmerman 2009, 250–260. 47 Factors that might have facilitated Chaereas’ deception by the anonymous deceiver include the fact that they were not previously acquainted to one another and that he was full of “hope, fear, and curiosity” (ἐλπίδος, καὶ φόβου καὶ πολυπραγμοσύνης: 1.4.4).

  Christos Kremmydas scheme. Although he does not deploy any explicit disclaimers of deception, his deployment of expressions of knowledge (γίνωσκε) and proof (ἐπ᾿ αὐτοφώρῳ… δεικνύειν) generate a fake sense of reliability. The whole staging of the episode (the “drama”), the manipulation of Chaereas’ emotions, the display of fake emotions and facial expressions on the part of the second “actor”/deceiver, his suggestion that proof would be deployed too (ἵνα τούτῳ πιστεύσῃς ἔτοιμος ἐπ᾽ αὐτοφόρῳ τὸν μοιχὸν δεικνύειν) constitute a multipronged and potentially effective deceptive scheme. The episode also demonstrates the strategic deployment of different types of verbal and nonverbal deception in a suspenseful setting. Chaereas is devastated and eventually taken in before becoming complicit in the anonymous schemer’s deception by agreeing to send a deceptive message to Callirhoe (1.4.8). The first “actor” takes the next step his physical transformation as a lover ready for a secret, nocturnal tryst. As in Odyssey 19, external appearance, clothing, and the use of perfume all confirm the impression that this is a lover. The two layers of deception thus collapse into one and Chaereas is ready to kill his (ostensibly unfaithful) wife. As in the case-studies from the Odyssey and the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, the episode discussed here is one of several instances of deception in Chariton’s Callirhoe. Here, too, the narrator shows vividly the interplay between verbal and nonverbal strategies of deception at the start of Book One of Chariton’s novel. And, although nonverbal cues of deception do not lead to the revelation of the truth in this instance,48 the narrator flags them up to the reader and demonstrates his ultimate mastery of truth. He also seems to show that persuasive words alone may not necessarily succeed in deceiving an individual. Congruity of words and bodily movements and micro-expressions is vital to the operation of rhetorical deception.

 Conclusion In this chapter, I have looked at case-studies from three literary genres, all of which demonstrating an understanding of the operation of rhetorical deception from early on in the history of Greek literature until the first century AD. Deception plays an important role in the advancement of the plot and helps character-

 48 The deceiver from Crete, Theron (identified as a πανοῦργος at 1.7), does eventually tell the truth through torture at 3.4.12–13.

Representations of Nonverbal Cues of Deception in Greek Literature  

ise key figures, advances the plot, and heightens narrative suspense in the selected episodes from Odyssey 19, the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, and Book One of Chariton’s Callirhoe. The bodies of these characters are shown to “speak” in intentional or unintentional ways that flag up deception, which manifest its allconsuming, all-encompassing character. However, the awareness of the physicality of deception and the operation of deceptive discourse did not make detection of rhetorical deception easier in the forensic settings where this was of critical importance. Even today, detecting deception is a complex task that requires multi-pronged approaches and training in forensic psychology. These case-studies also show that the authors wished to problematise the operation of deception and show its complexity. They suggest that a phenomenon as complex and multifarious as deception is might only be recognised and uncovered through a multi-pronged approach that evaluates the ēthos of an individual as a skilled deceiver and pays attention to the techniques, verbal and nonverbal which are deployed by skilled deceivers, and the cues that they give out through their words, bodily movements, and expressions.

Bibliography Boys-Stones, G. (2007), ‘Physiognomy and Ancient Psychological Theory’, in: S. Swain (ed.), Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul. Polemon’s Physiognomy from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam, Oxford, 19–124. Bushala, E.W. (1968), ‘Torture of Non-citizens in Homicide Investigations’, in: Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 9, 61–68. Cairns, D. (2005), ‘Bullish Looks and Sidelong Glances: Social Interaction and the Eyes in Ancient Greek Culture’, in: D. Cairns (ed.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Swansea, 123–155. Cairns, D. (2011), ‘Looks of Love and Loathing: Cultural Models of Vision and Emotion in Ancient Greek Culture’, in: Métis 9, 37–50. Carey, C. (1988), ‘A Note on Torture in Athenian Homicide Investigations’, in: Historia 37, 241–246. Cook, L.G./Mitschow, L.C. (2019), ‘Beyond the Polygraph: Deception Detection and the Autonomic Nervous System’, in: Federal Practitioner 36, 316–321. Crudden, M. (transl.) (2008), The Homeric Hymns. A New Translation by M.C., Oxford. De Temmerman, K. (2009), ‘Chaereas Revisited. Rhetorical Control in Chariton’s “Ideal” Novel Callirhoe’, in: Classical Quarterly 59, 247–262. De Temmerman, K. (2012), ‘Chariton’, in: I.J.F. de Jong (ed.), Space in Ancient Greek Literature, Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, vol. 3, Leiden, 483–501. DuBois, P. (1991), Torture and Truth, New York/London. Eckman, P. (2001), Telling Lies: Clues to Deceit in the Marketplace, Politics and Marriage, New York/London.

  Christos Kremmydas Fagles, R. (transl.) (1996), Homer: The Odyssey, New York. Ford, E.B. (2006), ‘Lie Detection: Historical, Neuropsychiatric, and Legal Dimensions’, in: International Journal of Law and Psychiatry 29, 159–177. Gagarin, M. (1996), ‘The Torture of Slaves in Athenian Law’, in: Classical Philology 91, 1–18. Ganis, G. (2015), ‘Deception Detection using Neuroimaging’, in: P.A. Granhag/A. Vrij/ B. Verschuere (eds.), Detecting Deception: Current Challenges and Cognitive Approaches, Chichester, 105–121. Goold, G.P (ed.; transl.) (1996), Chariton: Callirhoe, Cambridge, MA. Grossart, P. (1998), Die Trugreden in der Odyssee und ihre Rezeption in der antiken Literatur, Bern. Kremmydas, C. (2013), ‘The Discourse of Deception and Characterization in Attic Oratory’, in: Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 53, 51–89. Lattimore, R. (transl.) (1965), The Odyssey of Homer, New York/London. Leal, S./Vrij, A./Fisher, R.P./Van Hooff, V. (2008), ‘The Time of the Crime: Cognitively Induced Tonic Arousal Suppression When Lying in a Free Recall Context’, in: Acta Psychologica 129, 1–7. MacDowell, D.M. (1978), Law in Classical Athens, London. Marchak, F.M. (2013), ‘Detecting False Intent Using Eye Blink Measures’, in: Frontiers in Psychology 4, article 736. McGlone, M.S./Knapp, M.L. (2019), ‘Historical Perspectives on the Study of Lying and Deception’, in: T. Docan-Morgan (ed.), The Palgrave Handbook of Deceptive Communication, Basingstoke, 3–28. Meijer, E.H./Verschuere, B. (2018), ‘Detection Deception Using Psychophysiological and Neural Measures’, in: H. Otgaar/M.L. Howe (eds.), Finding the Truth in the Courtroom: Dealing with Deception, Lies, and Memories, Oxford, 209–224. Meijer, E.H./Verschuere, B. (2015), ‘The Polygraph: Current Practice and New Approaches’ in: P.A. Granhag/A. Vrij/B. Verschuere (eds.), Detecting Deception: Current Challenges and Cognitive Approaches, Chichester, 59–80. Minchin, E. (2018), ‘The Cognition of Deception: Falsehoods in Homer’s Odyssey and their Audiences’, in: P. Meineck/W.M. Short/J. Devereaux (eds.), The Routledge Handbook of Classics and Cognitive Theory, Oxford/New York, 109–121. Montiglio, S. (2011), From Villain to Hero: Odysseus in Ancient Thought, Ann Arbor. Pratt, L.H. (1993), Lying and Poetry from Homer to Pindar: Falsehood and Deception in Archaic Greek Poetics, Ann Arbor. Richardson, N. (2010), Three Homeric Hymns: To Apollo, Hermes and Aphrodite, Cambridge. Russo, J./Fernández-Galiano, M./Heubeck, A. (1992), A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. III, Books XVII-XXIV, Oxford. Rutherford, R.B. (2008), Homer Odyssey Books XIX and XX, Cambridge. Sassi, M.M. (2001), The Science of Man in Ancient Greece, Chicago/London. Segrave, K. (2004), Lie Detectors: A Social History, Jefferson, NC/London. Solbu, A./Frank, M.G. (2019), ‘Lie Catchers: Evolution and Development of Deception in Modern Times’, in: T. Docan-Morgan (ed.), The Palgrave Handbook of Deceptive Communication, Basingstoke, 41–66. Swain, S. (ed.) (2007), Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul. Polemon’s Physiognomy from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam, Oxford. Thomas, O. (2020), The Homeric Hymn to Hermes. Edited with Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Cambridge.

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Tilg, S. (2010), Chariton of Aphrodisias and the Invention of the Greek Love Novel, Oxford. Todd, S.C. (1993), The Shape of Athenian Law, Oxford. Trovillo, P.V. (1939), ‘A History of Lie Detection’, in: Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology (1931-1951) 29, 848–881. Vergados, A. (2013), The ‘Homeric Hymn to Hermes’. Introduction, Text and Commentary, Berlin/Boston. Vrij, A./Mann, S. (2004), ‘Detecting Deception: The Benefit of Looking at a Combination of Behavioural, Auditory and Speech Content Related Cues in a Systematic Manner’, in: Group Decision and Negotiation 13, 61–79. Vrij, A. (2018), ‘Nonverbal Detection of Deception’, in: H. Otgaar/M.L. Howe (eds.), Finding the Truth in the Courtroom: Dealing with Deception, Lies, and Memories, Oxford, 163–185. Whitmarsh, T. (2005), The Second Sophistic, Oxford. Worman, N.B. (1999), ‘Odysseus Panourgos: The Liar’s Style in Tragedy and Oratory’, in: Helios 26.1. Zucker, A. (2016), ‘Psychology and Physiognomics’, in: G.L. Irby (ed.), A Companion to Science, Technology, and Medicine in Ancient Greece and Rome, Hoboken, NJ, 590–608.

Ioannis M. Konstantakos

The Enigmatic Image: Bilderrätsel, Performed Riddles, and Visual Communication in Greek and Roman Tradition Abstract: A peculiar variety of nonverbal communication, widely attested in ancient sources, is the so-called Bilderrätsel or “iconogriph”, a form of visual conundrum which does not employ verbal means but consists in material items or live actions invested with a cryptic meaning. The commonest modern form of this game, the rebus, in which the images of objects are used as phonograms, is rare in Graeco-Roman tradition, but two other forms are more usual. On one hand, the visual puzzle may consist only of symbolic objects, which transmit an encrypted message by means of metaphor or metonymy. The other type of visual riddle is made up of live actions carried out by the proposer. In this way, the secret message is turned into a symbolic performance; the wise showman handles the objects as props and organises them into a meaningful spectacle by means of his carefully planned gestures and programmatic acts.

 Bilderrätsel and rebus As is well known, the Sphinx lay in wait at the outskirts of Thebes and posed her obscure riddle to incoming wayfarers. When Oedipus arrived before her, the Sphinx repeated the same routine which she had displayed to many previous visitors. As usual, she did not speak a word, but first lay down on all four paws and wildly crawled around. Then she stood up erect on her two hind legs, keeping her front paws up in the air and grinning ominously. Finally, while remaining in that erect position, she lowered her long tail between her hind legs, until the tail touched the ground and looked like a third, auxiliary paw which had suddenly grown between the other two. After this performance, the Sphinx stared at the hero and expected to see the expression of bewilderment and fear on his face. Oedipus, however, was not daunted, because he had perceptively guessed the answer to the monster’s enigmatic gestures. Following the Sphinx’s example, he also did not pronounce a word but simply pointed his forefinger towards himself, to indicate the solution. The monster had represented a creature with successively four, two, and three legs; Oedipus showed that this creahttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-007

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos ture is the human being, which crawls on all fours as a baby, walks on his two legs in maturity, and uses a stick as an auxiliary “limb” in old age. The Sphinx was thus beaten and fell to her death from the walls of the city, while Oedipus, the king of charades, was awarded the throne of Thebes. It will be noticed that the storyline narrated above is not the standard version of the myth, as given in classical sources.1 As a matter of fact, this specific variant is not transmitted by any Greek or Roman author; I have made it up ad hoc, for the purposes of the introduction to the present chapter. Nevertheless, such is the form that the myth would have taken, if the Sphinx had chosen to propound not a proper enigma couched in paradoxical phrases, as she does in all the texts known from antiquity, but rather a riddle of the special variety which constitutes the focus of this essay: a nonverbal, visual conundrum, in which the solution is not hidden behind ambiguous words and intricate formulations but under images of metaphorical or symbolic value. This kind of riddle game affords a peculiar type of nonverbal communication, by means of which a cryptic message is codified in a picture or a spectacle and is transmitted without the aid of speech. In historical and theoretical studies of intellectual games, this kind of double-sensed imagery used in lieu of a conundrum or an enigmatic question is given a particular name: Bilderrätsel, a German term which literally means “riddle of pictures”.2 In some of my publications in Modern Greek I have introduced for the same concept the word εἰκονόγριφος, “iconogriph”, a faithful Greek translation of the German composite noun.3 For the sake of stylistic variation, these terms will be used interchangeably in the rest of this chapter. In general, the Bilderrätsel or iconogriph is a riddle which employs not verbal but purely optical means of expression. It consists of material items or specific actions, which are invested with a secret, underlying level of meaning. These material things or live acts take the place of language and operate in a way analogous to the intricate expressions, verbal metaphors, obscure words, or baffling paradoxes of the classic enigma. Like these latter verbal elements in the case of proper textual conundrums, the visual ingredients of the Bilderrätsel refer to a different order of affairs, to a particular object or state of ordinary reality. The

 1 The ancient sources and versions of the myth of the Sphinx and her riddle are surveyed in Edmunds 1985, 11‒13, 32‒36, 47‒57; Gantz 1993, 494‒498; see also Edmunds 1981. 2 On this kind of riddle, with specific reference to the ancient tradition, see Ohlert 1912, 116‒ 122, 134‒135; Schultz 1914, 106‒108; Karadagli 1981, 2‒3, 72‒96; Merkelbach 1996, 461‒468; Konstantakos 2004, 91; 2008, 99‒100, 195‒196; Beta 2016, 290‒303, 313‒314, 318. 3 See Konstantakos 2008, 99‒100, 195‒196.

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recipient of the visual riddle must understand the hidden sense of the suggestive spectacle which he sees before him, and hence find the object or situation implied by the image and decode the message of the riddle. In present-day ludic contexts, the commonest form of Bilderrätsel is the socalled rebus, a popular type of intellectual pastime, frequently encountered nowadays in puzzle magazines and game books. In the rebus, the images of various beings or objects are used as phonograms: that is, every image represents not its semantic value (the thing or creature which is pictured) but the phonetic value of the corresponding word, the sound of its name as a succession of phonemes. Thus, several such phonogram images may be placed in a sequence, one after the other, so that their sound values are combined and collectively produce a larger word or an entire phrase. For example, an image of a bee followed by that of a leaf jointly imply the word “belief”. A ball, a cup of tea, the letter ‘m’ and an oar, placed in this order, make up the name “Baltimore”. Of course, as any reader of puzzle literature and entertainment magazines may testify, the game is often extended to far greater length and developed to extreme complexity: many tens of successive images, interspersed with letters of the alphabet or whole words, may be accumulated, so as to produce quite long sentences.4 In the ancient world, a system of phonograms of this kind, based on the principles of the rebus, underlay the use and function of the Egyptian hieroglyphic script. The hieroglyphic writing may conceivably have developed from simple painting and pictorial art. In their primordial form, now lost in the depths of time, hieroglyphs possibly started as a kind of primitive pictographic or iconographic script (even though such a stage cannot be documented from existing Egyptian monuments). Stylised and standardised drawings of living creatures, objects, or parts of them signified the corresponding things themselves; a bird was sketched to convey the meaning “bird”, an eye to convey the idea of “eye”, and so on. Such a rudimentary method of writing presents, of course, obvious limitations, since it is impossible to illustrate in a purely pictographic manner abstract or complex ideas, theoretical constructs, verbal actions, or adverbial relations. To render these more complicated concepts, the Egyptian scribes developed and put to practice the rebus technique. In rough terms, the images of the various represented objects were taken to stand not for their semantic meaning, i.e. the thing that was pictured per se, but for their phonetic value, for the name of the corresponding thing as a succession of  4 On the popular game of the rebus, see Bens 1967, 145‒148; Bryant 1990, 7, 136‒137, 140, 181‒ 183, 191, 196‒197, 201, 211, 233‒234, 321, with many examples.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos sounds. Thus, every image became a standardised phonogram, a conventional linguistic sign which represented a given sequence of phonemes. By extension, every one of these phonograms might be combined with others, so as to make up new words. In this way, complex abstract concepts and other terms not liable to pictorial illustration could be split up into smaller units, each one of them identical to an existing phonogram of the hieroglyphic script; and the corresponding word could then be noted down as a conjunction of imagistic phonograms, more or less like the linguistic product of a playful pictorial rebus in a modern magazine.5 Ancient Egyptian scribes would have been in great demand in today’s popular entertainment press. By contrast to the Egyptian scriptural culture, in which the rebus lies at the core of the experience of writing and the scribe’s wisdom, the ancient Greek and Roman world used a very different and much simpler type of script. No riddles of this kind are inherent in the alphabetic writing, in which the correspondence between graphemes and language sounds is straightforward and virtually univocal. As a result, the presence of the rebus is far rarer in Graeco-Roman culture. In the surviving classical literature, the only clear example of this type of visual enigma is contained in the famous prophetic dream, which Alexander the Great is reported to have had before his conquest of the Phoenician city of Tyre. The episode is related in Plutarch’s Life of Alexander (24.8‒9) and later in Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica (4.24), the foremost manual of dream interpretation that survives from the ancient world. As the story goes, Alexander had been besieging Tyre for several months and with large forces; but the city resisted, the siege was prolonged, and Alexander was aggrieved with the waste of time. Finally, one night the Macedonian king had the following ominous dream: he saw a satyr who stood at some distance from him and mocked him; whenever Alexander made an attempt to catch this creature, the satyr eluded his grasp. In the end, after much chasing and coaxing, the king managed to lay hands on the creature.6 The seers of Alexan 5 On the principles and techniques of hieroglyphic writing, see most conveniently Davies 1987, 30‒36; Loprieno 1995, 11‒19; Allen 2010, 2‒5, 25‒33. 6 This is Plutarch’s more developed and detailed version of the episode (σάτυρος αὐτῷ φανεὶς ἐδόκει προσπαίζειν πόρρωθεν, εἶτα βουλομένου λαβεῖν, ὑπεξέφευγε· τέλος δὲ πολλὰ λιπαρήσαντος καὶ περιδραμόντος, ἦλθεν εἰς χεῖρας). Artemidorus only writes that Alexander saw the satyr “playfully dancing on his shield” (δόξαντι ὄναρ ἐπὶ τῆς ἀσπίδος Σάτυρον παίζοντα ἰδεῖν). The image of the shield provides an additional symbolic value, signifying apparently that the ominous dream must be connected with the domain of war and Alexander’s military operations. A different, more intriguing version is found in the Alexander Romance 1.35.7‒8: Alexander dreams of a satyr giving him a truckle of cheese (τυρός), which Alexander stamps down

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der’s staff (or Aristander in particular, according to Artemidorus’ version) interpreted the satyr’s image as a phonogram: the Greek word σάτυρος could be divided into two parts and be read as σὰ Τύρος, “Tyre (will be) yours”. Alexander’s dream was in essence a rebus, a riddle made of pictures, which signified the Macedonian conqueror’s eventual victory over the Phoenician city.7 In modern psychological terms, it might be said that Alexander’s intense hope of capturing Tyre took the form of an iconogriph in the oneiric imagery of his subconscious mind. Artemidorus comes close to such a psychological reading by pointing out that the elucidation of the symbolic dream encouraged Alexander in his war effort: when he was told that his vision predicted the conquest of Tyre, the Macedonian king became more eager to wage war, until he finally captured the city.8

 Symbolic objects and alien wisdom Two other types of Bilderrätsel are much more commonly encountered in ancient Greek and Roman lore. One of them is the visual puzzle which consists only of symbolic objects; these transmit an encrypted message, usually by means of metaphor or metonymy. The emblematic example of this type of iconogriph is found in Herodotus’ tale about the enigmatic gifts which the Scythian chieftains sent to the Persian king Darius, during the latter’s invasion of the Scythian land (4.131‒132).9 The Persian army had been pursuing the Scythians for some time but was unable to engage them in open battle; Darius was at a loss with the guerilla tactics of his nomadic enemies. At that juncture, the chieftains of the Scythians sent Darius a messenger carrying the following gifts: a bird, a mouse, a frog, and five arrows. The messenger refused to say a  with his feet. The interpreter tells the king that he will conquer Tyre because he trampled the τυρός underfoot. Although the satyr is again a figure in the dream, no exploitation is made of his name in this case. Instead of a proper rebus, this version relies on a play of homonymy with the identically sounding words τυρός (cheese) and Τύρος (the name of the city). 7 Cf. Brenk 1977, 227; Beta 2016, 313‒314, 318. 8 Artemidorus 4.24: τὸ γὰρ “Σάτυρος” ὄνομα εἰς τὸ “σὰ Τύρος” διαλαβὼν προθυμότερον τὸν βασιλέα πολεμεῖν ἐποίησεν, ὥστε καὶ εἷλε τὴν πόλιν. Cf. Hughes 1984, 175‒179; King 2013, 95, 99‒100. The psychological explanation of Alexander’s dream was taken up by Freud in his Traumdeutung (Freud 1953, 99, 614). 9 On this story and its variant versions in ancient tradition, see most notably De Sanctis 1983, 281‒283; Mazzarino 1974, 143‒146; Merkelbach 1975; Lateiner 1987, 99‒100; West 1988; Schubert 2010, 93‒116; Konstantakos 2015, 138‒141; Beta 2016, 291‒293.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos single word of explanation about these items and only pointed out that the Persians should decipher their meaning if they are wise. The Persians discussed the matter, and two diametrically opposed interpretations were proposed for the Scythians’ riddle. According to King Darius’ explanation, the objects signified that the Scythians were surrendering themselves: the mouse would represent the earth and the frog the water, the natural elements in which these creatures have their habitat; “earth and water” were, after all, the standard tokens of submission which the Persians demanded from subjugated peoples. Furthermore, the bird is quite similar to a horse, and the arrows were the Scythians’ main weapon; in combination, these two elements should indicate that the enemies were willing to surrender their means of military might. Darius, therefore, proposed to construct the objects as plain metonymies, joined together in a simple, straightforward parataxis.10 By handing over these items to the Persian monarch, the Scythians meant to yield their land, waters, cavalry, and military force. On the other hand, the Persian nobleman Gobryas gave the opposite interpretation, taking the gifts as a direct threat. According to his view, the meaning to be drawn from them was the following: “Unless the Persians become mice to hide under the earth, or frogs to dive under water, or birds to fly in the sky, they will not escape the Scythian arrows”. In essence, Gobryas argued for a more complicated syntax of the material constituents of the message. The four items are no longer taken as metonymies but keep their original, literal semantic values,11 which are combined into a hierarchised syntactic pattern, in order to produce an overarching meaning: the arrows provide the main sentence, and the three animals stand for subordinate conditional clauses, connected to each other by disjunction or alternation. In the end, Darius was forced to accept Gobryas’ interpretation and decided to withdraw his army from Scythia (4.134). A variant version of the story is transmitted by the historian Pherecydes (FGrHist 3 F 174, from Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 5.8.44). In this case, the two conflicting explanations are provided by two Persian military officials, the chiliarch Orontopatas and the nobleman Xiphodres. The construction of the message is slightly more complicated, because the list of symbolic gifts is augmented with one addition: apart from the mouse, frog, bird, and one arrow, the Scythian chieftain also sends a plough. In Orontopatas’ positive interpretation, the five items are again constructed as a parataxis of metonymies: the Scythians mean to hand over their habitations (mouse), waters (frog), air (bird), weapons  10 Cf. Mazzarino 1974, 144‒145; Schubert 2010, 102‒103. 11 Cf. Benardete 1969, 117‒118; Steiner 1994, 175‒176; Schubert 2010, 103, 111‒112.

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(arrow), and entire land (plough). Xiphodres, in his alarming reading, follows the same line as Gobryas in Herodotus (“unless we fly up like birds, or we hide under the earth like mice, or we dive under water like frogs, we cannot escape their arrows”); but he adds at the end that the Persians do not dominate the Scythian land (τῆς γὰρ χώρας οὐκ ἐσμὲν κύριοι), presumably as an explanation of the symbolism of the plough. Thus, the Herodotean pattern of conditional discourse is retained: the three animals provide the conditional clauses, and the arrow stands for the main sentence. The additional fifth item is turned into a causal or explanatory afterthought, an independent causative γάρ-phrase placed in conclusion, which offers the reason and justification for the entire preceding cluster of conditionals: the Persians run all these risks and need to flee because they do not have control over the Scythian land, they cannot “subject it to the plough”. The story of Darius and the Scythians’ gifts thus shows the inherent polysemy of this kind of Bilderrätsel. The objects, which make up the visual riddle, can be constructed in different ways; they may be assigned different semantic values and be arranged in simpler or more tortuous syntactic patterns, and thus may reveal different messages.12 In the entire Graeco-Roman literature, there is no other example that highlights this feature in so forceful a manner, even though the Herodotean narrative about Darius had a rich Nachleben in ancient lore. A number of similar anecdotes, concerning exchanges of symbolic gifts between later potentates, are transmitted by Hellenistic and Imperial Greek sources. None of them, however, displays such a degree of variation and richness, with regard to the alternative constructions of the objects’ meaning, as is found in Herodotus’ and Pherecydes’ stories. Among these later derivative traditions, the most sophisticated specimen is included in the so-called Alexander Romance, a biographical novel about Alexander the Great, replete with anecdotal and legendary materials. The earliest extant text of this work must have been compiled in the third century AD. The relevant episode (1.36‒38), which also comprises two contrasting interpretations of the proposed iconogriph, occurs in the context of the diplomatic correspondence between Alexander the Great and the Persian king Darius III, at the time of the former’s great expedition in the East. The young Macedonian king has conquered Tyre and is preparing to advance further into inland Asia and confront the Persian forces. At that point, Darius sends envoys to Alexander’s camp, who are bearing a triad of symbolic gifts: a whip, a ball, and a chest full of gold. These are accompanied by a letter, in which the Persian despot explains  12 Cf. Mazzarino 1974, 144‒146; Lateiner 1987, 99‒100.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos the allegorical meaning of his presents. His main purpose is to mock Alexander for his extremely young age. The whip is supposed to indicate that the young Macedonian is still in need of being disciplined and educated, like a disobedient boy. Similarly, the ball signifies that Alexander is merely a child, fit only for playing with his age-mates, not for undertaking military campaigns. As for the third item, the chest, this contains enough gold to provide for the Macedonian soldiers, so that all of them return to their homeland, even if Alexander does not possess the means to finance their journey back (1.36). At least two of the objects of Darius’ dispatch function as straightforward symbols or metonymies: both the ball, as an emblematic toy of children, and the whip, as a means of chastisement and punishment, point to Alexander’s childish disposition and behaviour. The chest, on the other hand, is not a symbol but a practical means of financial aid, if not of bribery: Alexander should be content with the gold contained in it and go away. Alexander is not intimidated by Darius’ haughty attitude. He writes a letter of response to the Persian despot, in which he reinterprets the symbolic objects and deftly manipulates their metonymical value to his own advantage. Alexander’s alternative reading of the riddling message is diametrically opposed to his adversary’s original explanation. As he points out, the ball stands for the spherical world, over which the Macedonian conqueror is fated to dominate. The whip represents the weapons, by which Alexander will strike the Persians hard and make them submit to his authority. Lastly, the coffer of gold foreshadows that Darius will be defeated and forced to pay tribute to the Macedonians (1.38).13 Thus, in Alexander’s variant interpretation, Darius himself has relinquished to his Macedonian enemy the lordship over the world, the riches of the Persian Empire, and the arms by which Alexander will take possession of all these things. The chest of gold, which had a plain and literal function as a monetary offer in Darius’ original message, is now also invested with a figurative value and becomes a symbolic omen of the future: the gold contained in it synecdochically stands for the wealth of the Persian realm, which will be soon handed over to the conquering Macedonians in the form of tribute. In this episode, as in the story of the Scythian gifts in Herodotus and Pherecydes, the two opposed parties give contrasting and incompatible explanations of the Bilderrätsel. However, unlike what happened in Herodotus’ and Pherecydes’ narrative, the change of meaning from one to the other interpretation is  13 On this episode and its different versions in the tradition of the Alexander Romance, see Konstantakos 2015 with full discussion and bibliography; see also Eckard 1997; Rosenmeyer 2001, 177‒180; Stoneman 2007, 553‒554; Whitmarsh 2013, 176‒178.

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not brought about by a different syntactic arrangement of the visual elements of the riddle, but simply by a redefinition of their metaphorical value. In themselves, the items given as presents are ambiguous symbols; depending on the point of view, they can be read either as signs of puerility and weakness (as Darius proposes) or as omens of power and dominion (as Alexander insists).14 Two brief moralistic anecdotes may be considered, from a morphological point of view, as simplified or curtailed variants of the narrative about Alexander and Darius’ gifts.15 The protagonists are again rulers of the Hellenistic world, in the centuries after Alexander’s death. Both anecdotes are built around the same main motif: a monarch presents his opponent with toys, which serve as mocking symbols of the recipient’s childish behaviour and powerlessness. The narrative, however, is limited to a single, unilateral explanation of the metonymical items, which is given or implied by the sender. There is no juxtaposition of alternative or contrasting decipherments of the riddling message, no competition between the two rivals with regard to the correct interpretation of its meaning. In one of these stories, transmitted by Plutarch (De cohibenda ira 458a), the comic playwright Philemon is shipwrecked on the coast of North Africa and falls into the hands of Magas, the governor of Cyrene, whom Philemon had pungently satirised in his comedies. Magas, however, does no harm to the poet; he regales Philemon with a ball and knucklebones (ἀστραγάλους) and thereby implies that he holds him in no greater esteem than a child, fit only for play. A similar incident is reported by the Latin historian Justin (38.9) regarding the Seleucid monarch Demetrius II Nicator. The latter was taken captive by the Parthians (138 BC) and twice attempted to escape but was intercepted and brought back. Finally, the Parthian king Phraates presented Demetrius with a pair of golden dice, as a reproach for his childish levity. In both tales, the ironical gift has a rudimentary metonymic value and is therefore, typically and formally, an iconogriph, even though its solution is quite obvious to the reader (and, most painfully, to the recipient of the gift himself). On the other hand, another humorous anecdote, recorded by the Hellenistic historian Phylarchus (FGrHist 81 F 1, from Athenaeus 8.334a‒b), is overtly paral 14 Cf. Whitmarsh 2013, 177‒178. 15 Nevertheless, it need not be assumed that these two anecdotes are actually derived from the story of Alexander and Darius by abbreviation and simplification. The reverse process is also imaginable; the anecdotes may have pre-existed and have served as literary models and sources of inspiration for the episode in the Alexander Romance. The latter would have developed from the simpler anecdotal narratives through duplication of their basic narrative pattern. Cf. Merkelbach 1977, 49, 118; Stoneman 2007, 554; Konstantakos 2015, 137‒138.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos leled with Herodotus’ story of the Scythian gifts in the sources.16 It may thus be plausibly assumed that this anecdote has been directly modelled on the Herodotean narrative. In this case, again, Herodotus’ original double-sided pattern, in which two contrasting interpretations of the visual riddle were confronted, is reduced to a single and definitive explanation. When the Macedonian ruler Antigonus Gonatas was blockading Athens, in the course of the Chremonidean War (267‒261 BC), Patroclus, a general of King Ptolemy II Philadelphus, sent to Antigonus some large fishes and figs. Antigonus laughed, for he grasped the sarcastic message hidden behind these gifts: “You must either become master of the sea or eat figs” — meaning presumably that Antigonus had to acquire total control of the seaways and block every maritime outlet of the Athenians; otherwise, his siege of Athens would be endlessly prolonged, and his troops would end up eating the fruits of the fig-trees of Attica in order to sustain themselves. This tale is a parody of the Herodotean episode, humorously rehashing the exchange of Darius and the Scythians in the context of the wars of the Diadochi. The two symbolic items, which make up the iconogriph, are constructed as exhortative or imperative clauses, paired into a binary disjunction (“either ‒ or”). The Herodotean legendarium also includes another narrative about a symbolic object, this time not dispatched as a gift but set up in the context of a meaningful public display. The episode forms part of the cycle of tales concerning the jocular Pharaoh Amasis (2.172). This king was originally a commoner, an officer of the Egyptian army, who led a rebellion of the military against the previous pharaoh, Apries. The rebellion led to Apries’ deposition and Amasis’ ascension to the throne of Egypt. When this former army veteran became king, his Egyptian subjects did not at first show much respect towards him; they did not rate him highly, because of his undistinguished family background and lowly origins. Amasis, however, found a clever way to earn their esteem. He had in his possession a golden basin, which he and his guests were accustomed to using in banquets for washing their feet, and sometimes even spat, vomited, or urinated in it. Amasis had the gold of this basin recast and moulded into a cult statue of a god, which he erected in a prominent location. The Egyptians did not know the actual provenance of this statue and treated it with great reverence, worshipping and honouring it as a divine icon. Finally, Amasis summoned them and revealed what he had done and how this venerated holy image had originated.  16 See Athenaeus 8.334a: οἶδα δὲ καὶ Φύλαρχον εἰρηκότα που (...) ὅτι αἰνιττόμενος Πάτροκλος ὁ Πτολεμαίου στρατηγὸς Ἀντιγόνῳ τῷ βασιλεῖ ἔπεμπεν, ὡς Δαρείῳ Σκύθαι ἐπερχομένῳ αὐτῶν τῇ χώρᾳ. ἔπεμψαν γὰρ οὗτοι μέν, ὥς φησιν Ἡρόδοτος, ὄρνιν καὶ ὀιστὸν καὶ βάτραχον· ἀλλ’ ὅ γε Πάτροκλος, ὡς διὰ τῆς τρίτης τῶν Ἱστοριῶν φησιν ὁ Φύλαρχος etc.

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As it transpired from Amasis’ explanation, the divine statue was in fact a Bilderrätsel, a riddling image which metaphorically stood for Amasis himself. The material of the cult image had served as a common receptacle of dirty bodily fluids but was subsequently transformed into a holy object worthy of reverence. In the same way, Amasis had been a person of humble origins, a low-brow and disreputable fellow, but now he had risen to the position of king and therefore deserved his subjects’ respect. In this story, there is no accumulation of multiple symbolic items, which need to be constructed or rearranged in variant semantic patterns. The single object, however, has a double nature and an ambiguous value, since it combines both filthy and venerable uses. It thus serves as an appropriate vehicle for the cryptic message about the equally ambivalent Amasis, the man of the people who became king.17 One particular aspect unifies the majority of the ancient examples of this type of Bilderrätsel. Almost every case is associated with a non-Greek character, usually a foreign ruler, who poses the visual riddle in the narrative. The Scythian chieftains, the Persian king Darius, the Egyptian Pharaoh Amasis, the Parthian king Phraates, all belong to this category. Even Magas of Cyrene, although a scion of a local Cyrenean Greek family and connected by marriage to the Ptolemaic dynasty, may count at least as a marginal or borderline member of this group, since he is the governor of a distant and exotic area at the outskirts of the Hellenic world.18 Apart from their foreign ethnicity, many of these figures also have another important trait in common: each one of them represents a peculiar tradition of local wisdom, an idiosyncratic kind of popular sagacity, which may be taken to express the quintessence of the spirit of the corresponding nation. For example, the Scythian chieftains, as represented in the History of Herodotus, incarnate the archetype of the noble savage. They put forward an ideal of rough simplicity, candour, and natural justice, which counters the hypocrisy of Persian imperialism and more generally serves as a foil to the debilitating

 17 On Amasis’ monument as a riddle or a sign to be interpreted, cf. Dewald 1985, 54‒55; 1993, 59‒60; Kurke 1995, 59‒61; 1999, 92‒98; Konstantakos 2004, 91; Hollmann 2011, 53, 177‒178, 234. 18 The only exception, among the known stories of this type, is Phylarchus’ anecdote about Antigonus Gonatas and general Patroclus, both of them well anchored in the Macedonian Greek world of the early Hellenistic age. However, as demonstrated above, this particular story is a derivative parody of Herodotus’ tale of the Scythians; a narrative originally concerning an exchange between non-Greek potentates is dislocated from its authentic context and artfully transplanted to the turbulent world of the Diadochi for satirical purposes. Therefore, Phylarchus’ anecdote is a secondary creation and cannot be considered a typical specimen of this category of narratives.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos complexities of civilised societies.19 On the other hand, the jocular king Amasis, as shaped by the Graeco-Egyptian popular imagination, brings forth the humorous sagaciousness of the common man, who views and critiques, from his unpretentious point of view, the conventions of power and hierarchy.20 Perhaps the protagonistic role of sagacious foreigners in this group of riddling narratives is not fortuitous. These figures from the periphery of the Greek world express a form of sagacity on the fringe of established and canonical Hellenic thought; it is precisely this peculiar kind of marginal and non-canonical wisdom that is deemed most suitable to be codified in the Bilderrätsel of symbolic objects. The simple constitution of this type of riddle, its plain means of expression, and its restriction to material items seem appropriate for the unadorned and ingenuous expression of peripheral figures, primitive and popular sages, barbarians, or representatives of alien wisdom.

 Greek wisdom and the performance of meaning While the first type of iconogriph, discussed in the previous section, is almost invariably associated with alien and barbarian figures in ancient sources, the second type, which is equally widespread in Graeco-Roman lore, is more central to the classical Greek way of thought. In this latter form of Bilderrätsel, the conveyance of meaning is not limited to the use of static objects. The recipient of the visual enigma is not faced simply with one or more material items, which he has to interpret symbolically, to the best of his abilities. Rather, this type of iconogriph is made up of live movements and actions which are carried out by the proposer of the riddle, sometimes with the assistance of further collaborators. In this way, the encrypted message is turned into a symbolic performance. The person who propounds the Bilderrätsel actively performs the meaning he wishes to transmit. He casts his secret message into a series of deeds, operations, or routines, which he executes before the recipient’s eyes.21 In the process

 19 See Lovejoy/Boas 1935, 286‒290, 315‒344; Lévy 1981; Braund 1999; 2004; Schubert 2010, 175‒192. 20 See Bencsik 1994, 100‒105; Kurke 1995, 58‒64; 1999, 90‒100; Konstantakos 2004, 90‒96, 116‒119; Müller 2006, 189‒224; Haziza 2009, 281‒286. 21 Karadagli (1981, 2‒3, 72‒96) calls the performed iconogriphs of this kind “ainoi dramatikoi” and “Fabeln in Aktion” (i.e. dramatised and live-action fables). Riddles and fables are of course kindred genres (see Konstantakos 2020 with further bibliography), and Karadagli also acknowledges that these performances are basically built around riddles (Karadagli 1981, 2‒3,

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of this performance, the proposer of the riddle may also handle material objects or living creatures, which are invested with a symbolic or metonymical value in the context of the Bilderrätsel as a whole. However, the meaning of the riddle is not exclusively contained in these physical items, as happens in the former type examined above. Rather, it is the proposer’s actions which bring forward the symbolic function of the manipulated objects and unify all the concrete elements of the spectacle into a significant system of visual signs, so as to convey a coherent codified message. In this type of Bilderrätsel, therefore, the objects are not the core and essence of the riddle; they are only the props of an overarching performance, which the viewer has to perceive in its entirety, in order to decipher its full sense. Once again, the most celebrated example of this type of iconogriph comes from the History of Herodotus. It is the famous episode of the riddling advice given by Thrasybulus, the tyrant of Miletus, to his younger colleague Periander of Corinth concerning the management of tyrannical power (5.92ζ). Periander had recently succeeded his father as tyrant of Corinth. He sent a messenger to Thrasybulus, who was more seasoned in the exercise of autocratic rule, and asked for his advice: how should Periander organise his government, so as to securely establish his authority and manage his city? Instead of a reply in words, Thrasybulus took the Corinthian messenger to a sown field outside the city, where crops were growing. The Milesian tyrant started walking there among the crops; whenever he saw an ear of corn which rose higher than the rest, he cut off its upper part and threw it down on the ground, until he destroyed the tallest and choicest stems in the entire field. After this exhibition, Thrasybulus sent the messenger back home, without adding another word. Periander’s envoy did not understand this charade; he took Thrasybulus for a lunatic who foolishly destroyed his own property. However, when the envoy returned to Corinth and described the scene to his master, Periander immediately decoded the hidden message: the Milesian tyrant was advising him to exterminate the outstanding and most distinguished citizens, if he wished to preserve his tyrannical power unscathed.22  73‒75, 77, 80, 88, 92). See also Merkelbach 1996, 463 (“Das Rätsel besteht in einer bedeutungsvollen Handlung, deren Sinn herausgefunden werden muß”), 465‒466 (endorsing Karadagli’s terminology). 22 In the Roman tradition, the same story was transposed to another pair, King Tarquin the Proud and his son Sextus Tarquinius. Sextus has used a cunning trick to be established as leader of the enemy city of Gabii. As soon as he is installed in power, he secretly sends a messenger to his father and asks for a way to destroy Gabii. Tarquin goes to his garden and knocks down the tallest flowers with his staff. See Ovid, Fasti 2.701‒710; Livy 1.54; Polyaenus 8.6;

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos Thrasybulus gives his reply in the form of a visual conundrum, a dramatised charade which consists of live actions and the manipulation of optical symbols.23 He encodes a piece of ruthless political advice into a live show and produces a small monodrama of metaphorical sense. His performance is staged in the graphic setting of a fruitful field and stars Thrasybulus himself in the protagonistic role of the great reaper. It is interesting to note the purposefulness of the use of a visual riddle in this case: because of the confidential nature of his advice, Thrasybulus’ missive to his younger colleague in power needs to remain secret. The messenger, a subject of Periander’s rule, must not become aware of the terrible content of the tyrants’ communication, which entails persecution and elimination of many of the messenger’s illustrious compatriots. Therefore, it is necessary for the Milesian sender to couch his message into an obscure symbolic form, which the envoy will transmit without understanding. The nonverbal spectacle of the performed Bilderrätsel provides an ideal means of cryptic communication in this respect.24 Thrasybulus had a reputation as a man of great intelligence and cunning; in other episodes of the Herodotean oeuvre (1.20‒22), he demonstrates admirable spiritual alertness in deceiving his enemy, the Lydian king Alyattes, so as to save his city Miletus from a prolonged military siege. He thus incarnates a wellknown character type of the early Greek cultural tradition: the active statesman who is also a man of sagacity, endowed with practical wisdom and with an intelligence of public orientation, particularly apt for the solution of political and strategic problems.25 Periander, the illustrious tyrant of Corinth, also became a figure of legend in the Greek imaginarium. In spite of the dark anti-tyrannical stories concerning his brutality, anomalous passions, and troubled family relationships, he was also acclaimed as a figure of wisdom and was regularly included in the celebrated circle of the Seven Sages.26 Thus, already in the Herodotean narrative, the earliest known specimen of this type of riddling performance in

 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities 4.56; Pliny, Natural History 19.169; Rutland 1984; Felton 1998. Despite the differences in circumstantial details, the basic elements of the performed iconogriph and its use for the conveyance of a secret communication are taken over in the Roman tale. 23 On Thrasybulus’ Bilderrätsel, see Karadagli 1981, 2‒3, 75‒76; Rutland 1984; Merkelbach 1996, 460‒468; Felton 1998; Forsdyke 1999; Beta 2016, 290‒291. 24 Cf. Beta 2016, 291. 25 See Martin 1993; Bencsik 1994. 26 For a full overview of the ancient traditions about Periander as a wise man, see Bollansée 1999, 169‒180.

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Greek literature, the dramatised iconogriph is associated with figures which represent particular models or archetypes of Hellenic wisdom. In other narratives of the same category, transmitted by later authors, the element of wisdom is even more emphasised. The central hero of the episode is an acclaimed wise man of the Greek world, a sage universally recognised for his spiritual power, for example, a great philosopher or poet or another important cultural figure. The latter performs the live-action iconogriph, in order to convey an important message to his audience, usually a piece of advice with political overtones and value. Unlike the case of Thrasybulus and Periander, the wise man’s intention in these stories is not to conceal the deeper meaning of his counsel from a third party. Rather, the hero puts forward his symbolic performance as a spiritual test for his audience. His dramatic show is a purposefully elliptic and abstruse manifestation of condensed wisdom, which is expected to bring his viewers into a state of spiritual alertness, so that they may finally perceive and assimilate the message through a worthy intellectual effort.27 This course of action was adopted by the philosopher Heraclitus, according to an anecdote (22 A 3b D‒K) transmitted in divergent variants by Plutarch (De garrulitate 511b‒c), the scholion on Iliad 10.149 (III 30 Erbse), and the orator Themistius. Themistius’ version, from his philosophical oration On Virtue, which survives only in Syriac translation, is the longer and more detailed one.28 The city of Ephesus was besieged by a strong army of horsemen. However, the luxurious people of the city continued the hedonistic and consumerist lifestyle, to which they had always been accustomed, until the provisions of food started to diminish, and the threat of hunger became palpable. The citizens of Ephesus convened an assembly to discuss the matter; but none dared come forward and propose the only commendable course of action, namely, the restriction of the people’s pleasures. At that point, Heraclitus came before his fellow-citizens and enacted a symbolic deed, without pronouncing a word: he prepared a simple drink, made of a cup of water mixed with barley; he then sat down and drank it in front of the people, who understood his silent teaching. As Themistius explains, the message hidden behind Heraclitus’ dramatised riddle was the value of frugality. The philosopher exhorted the Ephesians to desist from luxury, live with moderation, and feed on the simplest goods, such as water and grain. The citizens followed Heraclitus’ lesson, and as a result, their enemies were disheartened and departed.

 27 Cf. Beta 2016, 296, 299‒300. 28 See the new translation of the Syriac text by Rigolio 2019, 249.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos The briefer narratives of Plutarch and the Homeric scholion set the episode in a different context: the city is not plagued by an enemy siege and lack of provisions but by internal discord and civic conflict (the Ephesians ἐστασίαζον... περὶ χρημάτων, Scholion on Iliad); consequently, the citizens ask Heraclitus to give advice about concord (περὶ ὁμονοίας, Plutarch). The rest of the storyline, however, remains unchanged. The philosopher prepares the potion of cold water and barley meal (in Plutarch’s version, he also seasons it with a sprinkle of pennyroyal) and drinks it without uttering a word. The deeper message is again centred on thriftiness: to keep the city in a condition of peace and concord, the inhabitants must be self-sufficient (Scholion on Iliad); they must be satisfied with easily available commodities and must not wish for expensive luxury (Plutarch). In all versions, therefore, Heraclitus’ performance is a synecdoche for the thrifty lifestyle of plain dining, which the citizens are exhorted to adopt. The edible materials handled by the philosopher, as props in his performance, also represent synecdochically the frugal fare which the people of the felicitous city should be attached to (water and barley flour, the emblematic staple foods of the poor in the ancient world, garnished with no more than the commonest spices).29 Another story, transmitted in a number of sources, from the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia (14.2) to Plutarch (Solon 30.7, An seni respublica gerenda 794f), Aelius Aristides (19.7), Diogenes Laertius (1.50, 1.65), and Aelian (Varia  29 Cf. Beta 2016, 298‒300. Of course, the variant setting in the versions of Plutarch and the Homeric scholion creates the expectation for a different explanation of the wise man’s message. In the conditions of internal discord and conflict between different factions in the polis, Heraclitus’ performance would assume a weighty symbolism: by mixing together water, barley meal, and pennyroyal into a palatable drink, the philosopher offers a paradigm for the reconciliation of the opposing factions with a view to achieving civic harmony. The ingredients of the potion thus acquire a higher and more complex metaphorical value: they are not straightforward synecdoches for the staple fare to be consumed by the people (i.e. for materials of basically the same kind), but allegorical representations of entities from an entirely different order of reality — namely, the dissenting parties of the city. The fact that the drink prepared by Heraclitus (as noted by the Homeric scholiast) is identical to the kykeon, which was also the holy potion of the Mysteries, may provide a further level of symbolism: the conflicting factions must blend together and be united as in the Mystery rituals, in which all the initiates participate on an equal basis and form a unanimous community. Cf. Heraclitus’ own maxim 22 B 125 D‒Κ (καὶ ὁ κυκεὼν διίσταται μὴ κινούμενος, “the kykeon also separates into its components if it is not stirred”), which was doubtless the initial source of inspiration for the anecdote; this saying also connects the mixing of the kykeon with the themes of unity and division (cf. Chitwood 2004, 68‒69). However, this line of interpretation is not pursued in the texts of Plutarch and the Homeric scholion, which centre, like Themistius’ version, only on frugality and selfsufficiency.

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Historia 8.16), features Solon, the great Athenian sage and lawgiver, in the role of the performer of riddling wisdom.30 When Peisistratus was about to assume tyrannical power in Athens, the aged Solon tried to persuade the Athenian people to oppose the aspiring despot and defend their liberty; but no-one dared follow his exhortations. Therefore, Solon went home, took down his arms, and placed them outside his house, in front of the door (or, in Diogenes Laertius’ variant, in front of the stratēgeion, the headquarters of the generals in the Athenian agora).31 According to most of the sources, Solon then added an explanatory statement, providing the key for the decipherment of his symbolic gesture: as he said, he himself had done everything in his power to defend his city; now he called on all the others to do the same. The essence of Solon’s Bilderrätsel is concentrated in the old sage’s monodramatic performance. The arms, in themselves, obviously symbolise the fight for the liberty of Athens, but it is Solon’s manipulation of them that produces the broader message regarding the situation at hand. By taking his weapons out of his house and exposing them in the open public area (in the street or the agora of the city), the wise man denotes his own retirement from active struggle and, at the same time, exhorts his fellowcitizens, the people of the polis, to take up the arms and continue the fight.32 Not only the Greeks but also foreign sages are credited with similar performances of cryptic political advice. When Alexander the Great invaded India and met the Gymnosophists, one of them, the so-called Calanus, came before him and played out the following graphic spectacle, which constituted a visual parable about the proper government of an empire (Plutarch, Alexander 65.6‒8). Calanus placed upon the ground a dry and shrivelled hide and set his foot upon the outer edge of it. The hide was pressed down at that spot but rose up in others. The Indian sage then went all round the hide and kept pressing the edge down, demonstrating that the result was the same in every case. At last, Calanus stood in the middle of the hide, and then its entire surface was held down level and still. As Plutarch explains, the hide, the basic prop in this one-man show, was a simile (εἰκών, in fact an iconogriph) for Alexander’s vast empire. The implied message was that the Macedonian conqueror ought to concentrate his

 30 On this story and its tradition, see Paladini 1956, 395‒396; Manfredini/Piccirilli 1977, 275‒277; Rhodes 1981, 201‒203. 31 Cf. the variant version in Diodorus 9.4, 9.20.1, and Diogenes Laertius 1.49: Solon wears his full armour and goes to the agora, to declare resistance against Peisistratus. 32 Cf. Paladini 1956, 395‒396; Manfredini/Piccirilli 1977, 276; Leão 2019, 54‒55.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos powers and efforts upon the middle of his large territory and not wander far away from it, towards the edges of the world.33 In a story narrated by Sextus Empiricus (Against the Mathematicians 2.21‒23), the politically charged Bilderrätsel is attributed to a sagacious state official: a Spartan ambassador, who has been sent to the Persian satrap Tissaphernes to counter the claims of an enemy party of Athenian envoys. The Athenians held long and rhetorically embellished speeches before the satrap. The Spartan, however, expressed his own standpoint in a most laconic manner, dispensing altogether with words and proposing a visual conundrum. He drew with his staff two lines on the ground — the one straight and short, the other long and crooked — and called the satrap to choose whichever of the two he pleased. Sextus notes the solution to the riddle. The lengthy and tortuous line symbolised the Athenians’ elaborate and intricate rhetoric; the other line, the short and simple one, stood for the Spartans’ straightforward and uncomplicated speech. Occasionally, the wise man may use this kind of monodramatic riddle to convey teachings of a broader humane value, which are not strictly applicable to political matters but concern more generally everyday life or morality. In a versified fable of Phaedrus (3.14), the fabulist Aesop is derided by a haughty Athenian for playing with children in the street. Aesop takes an unstrung bow, places it in the middle of the street, and asks the mocker to interpret this action. The Athenian cannot understand the point, and Aesop reveals the secret message of his enigmatic show: if a bow is always kept tightly strung, it will break; but if its owner unstrings it now and then, it will always be ready for use when needed. Aesop’s manipulation of the string of the bow, tight or loose, is a metaphor for the necessary alternation of work and play in a healthy human life.34 In another anecdote, the Scythian sage Anacharsis extends his symbolic performance even to his sleeping time: while he is lying down asleep, he keeps his right hand placed on his mouth and his left hand on his genitals. By this pos-

 33 On this story, see Beta 2016, 295‒296. 34 This episode is based on a well-known apophthegm which Herodotus attributes to the sagacious Pharaoh Amasis (2.173.3: “If bows were kept strung forever, they would break, and so they would not be ready for use when needed. Similarly, if a man is always at serious work without relaxation, he will go mad or turn into an imbecile”). In later sources, the maxim is also transferred to other sages, such as the Scythian Anacharsis (A10 Kindstrand). See Kindstrand 1981, 129‒130; Müller 2006, 216‒222; Schubert 2010, 167‒170. In Phaedrus’ poetic fable, the graphic apophthegm (in which the bow was only mentioned as a simile for the human condition) is transformed into a live-action performance, with a real bow manipulated by the wise protagonist. Cf. Jedrkiewicz 1989, 190.

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ture, he allegorically indicates that a man must guard his tongue even more than his lust.35 In all these narratives, the wise showman handles a variety of props — from natural entities and growths, such as crops in a field, the hide of an animal, parts of the human body, or barley and water, to various artefacts, tools, and weapons. These things are organised into a coherent and significant spectacle by means of the wise man’s carefully planned movements, gestures, and programmatic acts. The performer’s bodily attitudes and the items he controls form a symbolic constellation of optical signs, which convey the unspoken meaning by means of visual metaphor. Probably the most elaborate riddling performance of this kind is described in Plutarch’s biography of Sertorius (Sertorius 16), the Roman general who led a long rebellion against the Senate of Rome in the Iberian peninsula, between 80 and 73 BC.36 Once, when the native forces, which had risen against Rome under his command, suffered a severe defeat at the hands of the Roman legions, Sertorius wished to dispel their dejection and raise their morale. For this purpose, he staged an elaborate symbolic pageant before their general assembly. At the centre of the spectacle there were two horses, one old and weak, the other large and strong with a very thick and hairy tail. A tall and robust man was ordered to pull at the tail of the feeble horse with all his might, as though to tear it off. On the other hand, a small man of unimpressive appearance was assigned to the powerful horse and began to pluck out the hairs of its tail one by one. The strong man, despite his considerable efforts, produced no result and had to give up his attempt in the end, provoking much laughter to the audience. By contrast, the small fellow gradually stripped his horse’s tail of all its hair. By means of this instructive performance, Sertorius demonstrated to his Iberian allies that perseverance is more efficacious than mere violence; even great powers, which cannot be beaten at once in their full might, may yield when one masters them little by little. In the same way, if the rebels had the patience and the endurance to wage a constant combat of attrition, they would eventually bring down the mighty Roman forces. The story of Sertorius’ pageant contains the most complex and composite production of a Bilderrätsel known from classical sources. It is noteworthy that this time the proposer of the riddle

 35 Anacharsis A21 Kindstrand, transmitted by Plutarch, De garrulitate 505a; Clement, Stromata 5.8.44; Gnomologium Vaticanum 136; and many other gnomologia and Byzantine sources. See Kindstrand 1981, 112, 136‒137; Beta 2016, 300. 36 The same story is also found in Valerius Maximus 7.3.6; Frontinus, Strategemata 1.10.1, 4.7.6. Cf. Karadagli 1981, 72‒74.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos is not himself an actor in the spectacle, unlike what happens in all the other known narratives of this kind. Sertorius does not play any role in the performance per se, but operates as an animateur, a stage director who organises the small troupe of animal and human performers. Instead of the monodrama of the other live-action riddles, the iconogriph now becomes a full-scale didactic mime, somewhat like an act in a circus show. Arguably, this type of performed Bilderrätsel is the most characteristic form of nonverbal, visual riddle in the Greek tradition. Occasionally a foreigner, such as the Roman Sertorius, may appear putting on this kind of symbolic spectacle. Nevertheless, it is noteworthy that most of the figures involved with this particular type of enlivened iconogriph are representatives of old, venerable, and sanctioned traditions of Hellenic wisdom. Among the protagonists of the narratives examined above, Heraclitus and Solon immediately stand out as grand masters of thought: the former was notorious for his enigmatic style and his proneness to obscure and riddling formulations; the latter was a poet and hence by definition an expert manipulator of linguistic signs and symbols. Aesop, the emblematic creator of didactic fables in the Greek tradition, is also an integral part of the classical Hellenic canon of wisdom literature and moralistic thought, in spite of his foreign origins.37 Thrasybulus and Periander, as already noted, incarnate the model of the sagacious statesman who is endowed with political wisdom and practical intelligence, a character archetype that was old and traditional in Greek lore. Both of them were connected with the circle of the Seven Sages, and Periander was often counted as a member of that wise collegium. Furthermore, the Spartan envoy of Sextus’ story embodies the traditional and age-old practical sagacity of Laconism, which used to be expressed with terse epigrams and manifestations of silent philosophy.38 Even the Scythian sage Anacharsis and the Indian Brahman Calanus may be considered as alter egos or aliases of specific streams of Hellenic thought. Anacharsis was regularly included in the circle of the Seven Sages, the foremost representatives of traditional Greek sagacity. In post-classical and later antiquity, his figure was also claimed as a spiritual precursor of major philosophical trends, such as Cynicism and Scepticism.39 As for the Indian Gymnosophists, scholars have often highlighted the close similarities between their representation in the Greek biographical legends of Alexander the Great and the ideas and practices of classical

 37 See Jedrkiewicz 1989, 108‒215; Kurke 2011, 95‒237. 38 Cf. Beta 2016, 296‒298, 303. 39 See Kindstrand 1981, 33‒67; Martin 1996; Schubert 2010, 69‒84.

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and post-classical philosophical schools, most notably again the Cynics, the Megarians, and the Sceptics.40 Therefore, the performed iconogriph, the staged riddle of live movements and role-playing is the ultimate Greek version of nonverbal wisdom. The symbolic shows and monodramas performed by the sages of the Greek world combine two of the most typical and emblematic features of the traditional wisdom of early Hellenism — the form of publicly oriented spirituality and apophthegmatic mētis embodied above all by the Seven Sages and related figures of versatile and flamboyant genius, such as Heraclitus and Pythagoras. On one hand, this early kind of Greek wisdom is enigmatic: it is couched in riddling terms, which need to be deciphered by an intellectually alert audience. The wise man consciously propounds his spiritual lesson in the guise of an enigma, in order to stir up his public and help them into a state of heightened receptivity and thoughtfulness. The celebrated allegorical akousmata of the Pythagorean school, the obscure and mysterious formulations of Heraclitus’ book, the epigrammatic and pregnant maxims of the Seven Sages, all these exemplify this peculiar form of enigmatic teaching, which calls for an interpretative initiative on the part of the audience and requires the active spiritual involvement of the recipient, in order to be properly understood.41 On the other hand, traditional Greek wisdom is performative: it is demonstrated publicly, in the open spaces of the city, through live actions and calculatedly dramatised spectacles, which the wise man presents to his fellowcitizens, so as to impress his message upon their minds in a graphic manner. In the rich anecdotal tradition, the sages and philosophers of Archaic and Classical Hellenism are presented as accomplished performers of wisdom; they enact their teachings in public, before the eyes of large audiences, and combine discourse, props, and gestures to convey didactic messages about important aspects of communal life.42 Thus, in both these respects, enigmaticity and performativity, the dramatised Bilderrätsel seems to be the ideal embodiment of old Greek sophia. If the Sphinx had expressed her riddle through mimicry, as postulated at the begin-

 40 See Muckensturm 1993; Stoneman 1994; 1995; 2015. 41 See in general Colli 1977, 47‒48, 340‒369, 435‒440; Mansfeld 1995; Struck 2004, 39‒52, 90‒110. See also Konstantakos 2005; Schubert 2010, 84‒92 (Seven Sages); Chitwood 1995; 2004, 76‒80 (Heraclitus); Burkert 1972, 166‒192; Berra 2006 (Pythagoras). 42 See the seminal essay of Martin 1993.

  Ioannis M. Konstantakos ning of this chapter, she might have joined herself the illustrious circle of Greek sages.43 Fortunately, the monster’s wisdom cannot reach so far.

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

Part III: Nonverbal Behaviour in Oratory

Michael Gagarin

Nonverbal Communication in Athenian Forensic Oratory Abstract: In this chapter I argue that physical nonverbal communication, that is, movement of the arms, head, or other body parts, was relatively unimportant in Athenian forensic speeches. Much more important was the voice and modulations of volume, tone, and rhythm. After examining and questioning several examples where other scholars have assumed there must have been physical nonverbal communication, I cite anecdotes about Demosthenes and delivery (hypocrisis) and then a section of Aristotle’s Rhetoric in which he discusses delivery to show that in antiquity vocal nonverbal communication was considered the only important feature of delivery.

I want to begin by distinguishing two general ways of communicating nonverbally, which I call physical and vocal. Physical nonverbal communication involves movement ranging from bodily gestures to facial expressions, whereas vocal nonverbal communication involves modulations of the voice regarding volume, tone, or rhythm, as well as the use of pauses and silence. My argument, in essence, is that Athenian litigants in court made much more use of vocal means of nonverbal communication than they did of physical means of nonverbal communication. That is, litigants conveyed much more meaning by the use of their voices than by moving other parts of their body. Vocal ways of nonverbal communication can perhaps best be understood if one thinks of speeches that most people probably heard (on the radio) but did not see, such as the speeches of Winston Churchill, President Kennedy, or Martin Luther King. One can feel the power of these speeches without having any visual image of the speaker’s physical movements (if there were any). I have no idea whether Churchill was moving his body when he delivered his speeches on the radio during World War II, but if he was, the power and effectiveness of his speeches was not at all affected by any bodily movement he may have added. Kennedy’s speeches were usually delivered with very little physical movement, even when he was speaking to a large audience. King did gesture a good bit, as the preacher tradition he was raised in required, but when his speeches were delivered to a large audience, it was often the case, as in his “I Have a Dream” speech, that the audience on the National Mall was so large that most listeners would not have been able to see whatever physical gestures he may have been

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-008

  Michael Gagarin using, and recordings of that speech and others still have immense power, even when one only hears them. Some of the power of these and other speeches that are not seen or are seen by only a few audience members, therefore, must come from vocal effects. We can feel these effects without seeing the speaker. Even if the ancient Greeks used many more physical gestures than we do today, they still must have also known and appreciated these sorts of vocal effects. Physical means of nonverbal communication involve not only facial expressions, hand and arm gestures, and other movements of body parts, but also movement around the podium or even acting out a scene. I do not need to say much about these except that they depend, of course, on the audience being able to see the speaker, and therefore on an in-person audience of limited size. If the Athenian assembly regularly met with a quorum of at least six thousand citizens present, it would certainly have been difficult for many of the audience to see the speaker’s physical movements or facial expressions.1 In court, on the other hand, in front of a normal jury of two hundred to five hundred members, it would probably not have been difficult for most members to see such physical movements. In some cases, however, with larger juries of a thousand or more, not to mention the very large number of onlookers who sometimes attended, many in the audience would not have been able to see the speaker well, if at all. Now, most recent scholarship about forensic nonverbal communication concerns physical methods of communicating, and in my view, much of what is written is exaggerated — at best. To be sure, we have isolated anecdotes like Hyperides tearing off the clothing of Phryne to reveal her naked breasts, a dramatic event that quite probably did not happen, but if it did, it was certainly exceptional. Much more common, according to many scholars, was the practice of bringing one’s children onto the bēma to elicit the pity of the jurors. According to most accounts, this was routinely done, but I have come to doubt this. I am familiar with the many statements by litigants criticising other litigants for bringing their children on to the bēma, or predicting that their opponent will do this, or asserting that they themselves will not do this. But I am unaware of any case where a litigant actually calls his children up to the bēma, or asks the clerk to bring them up, or makes any clear reference to his children being on the bēma with him. I am not saying that this never happened; the parody in Aris-

 1 To be sure, Greek theatre audiences were just as large, but the slope of the seats meant that everyone in the theatre had a clear view of the orchestra. The Pnyx, on the other hand, where the Assembly met had a relatively flat surface, especially in the fourth century, as did the courts. On the architectural form, socio-cultural importance, and perfomative value of Pnyx, see, recently, Serafim 2023, 1–63.

Nonverbal Communication in Athenian Forensic Oratory  

tophanes Wasps (976–978), when the little puppies are brought on stage, would not be effective if no litigant had ever done this. But the evidence indicates that this happened only very rarely, despite often being talked about. I should add that the presence of a deictic iota, for example in Aeschines 2.179, which was probably accompanied by Aeschines’ gesturing toward them,2 indicates that his children are in court, but it does not necessarily mean that they are on the bēma with him. Now, if the evidence for dramatic gestures is slim, what about a speaker’s ordinary gestures with his arms or head? The many criticisms Demosthenes levels at Aeschines for treating the courtroom like a theatre suggest that a relatively non-theatrical demeanor was generally considered most acceptable in court. This would still allow speakers to use gestures such as pointing, which must have been common in view of the large number of deictic iotas scattered throughout the litigants’ speeches.3 We may imagine that pointing with one’s arm might be most effective with a supposedly disreputable person like Neaira, for whom a deictic iota is repeatedly used (Dem. 59.14, 16, 17, etc.). In other cases, a nod of the head in the direction of the person indicated might be added, but the routine use of a demonstrative pronoun with deictic iota to indicate one’s opponent in court was in many cases probably accompanied by no gesture at all. With Neaira I would imagine that pointing to her the first time she is mentioned would be enough, since the effectiveness of this gesture if repeated would rapidly diminish. It might be used from time to time later in the speech, but surely not every time. Other sorts of gestures are harder to demonstrate. Alan Boegehold’s groundbreaking work, When a Gesture Was Expected (Princeton 1999), discusses a number of places in the forensic speeches where he thinks a gesture was expected, but in my view, most of his examples are problematic. Take, for example, the first passage he discusses, where the defendant in Antiphon 6.23 speaks as follows: I told him [my accuser] to go with all the witnesses he wanted to the people who were present — I named each one — and question and test them, those who were free in a manner befitting free men, who for their own sakes and for the sake of the truth would tell the truth of what had happened, and the slaves, if he thought upon questioning them they

 2 Serafim 2017, 31. 3 Note, however, Serafim’s cautionary words: “it seems highly unlikely… that the speakers were using gestures with every deictic word”; Serafim 2017, 31.

  Michael Gagarin were telling the truth, otherwise I was ready to give over all of my own for torture and whatever other slaves belonging to others he might order.4

Now, if we assume for the sake of argument that a gesture is in fact expected at the point indicated by Boegehold, what specific gesture expresses the thought that Boegehold calls for — “well and good”? I have no idea. Boegehold does not explain, and I rather doubt that any ancient speaker would know how to gesture in such a way that his audience would understand that he was saying “well and good”. Furthermore, I am not at all certain that a gesture is in fact expected or needed here. I think you can deliver the sentence in a way that would not need any gesture at all. At most a pause, perhaps accompanied by a little modulation of pitch or stress would help clarify the train of thought. In fact, this feature where the speaker breaks off in what seems to be mid-sentence, is common enough in speeches of the Attic orators, and in much other Greek prose that was intended to be spoken or to represent spoken speech, that it has a name, aposiōpēsis. Boegehold’s next example comes from the same speech and is, in my view, equally problematic.5 Here the defendant says (Antiphon 6.19): Where in the first place the prosecutors themselves admit that the boy’s death was neither premeditated nor contrived, and where they admit that everything that was done was done in the open and in the presence of many witnesses, both men and boys, free and slave, from whose presence any person who did anything wrong would be wholly visible and whoever charged an innocent person would be wholly exposed…

On this Boegehold comments: The sentence ends here without a written independent clause. With the next sentence the speaker begins a new tack, namely a history of the procedure at hand.

Boegehold then quotes the speaker’s next sentence: It is worthwhile to note both the intent of my opponents and the manner in which they came to this business.

Concerning all of this, after briefly noting the comments of two previous editors (Blass and Gernet), Boegehold comments:

 4 Boegehold 1999, 81. 5 Boegehold 1999, 81–82.

Nonverbal Communication in Athenian Forensic Oratory  

If what the speaker wanted to express was amazement at finding himself standing in a courtroom defending himself in view of what he has just related, then a single gesture could have said that vividly. To put it succinctly, the gesture would say: “I shouldn’t be here. This is crazy”, and if we do not know exactly how an Athenian would have said that with his hands and head, we can be confident that there was a way.

I must say, I am not at all confident that the speaker could convey this thought with a gesture. Even vocal effects could only do so much here. But in my view the audience would have had no trouble understanding the speaker’s feeling at this point if the speaker simply pauses for a moment and then begins to give his own explanation for why his opponents have put him in the extraordinary position. In my view, this is simply another case of aposiōpēsis. It seems to me that Boegehold’s reasoning in these passages begins not with what the speaker is actually saying, but with the assumption that the Athenians, in antiquity, regularly used many gestures in their ordinary conversations, and that therefore they must have brought this habit into their pleading in court. There must therefore be places in their speeches where they used gestures and our task is to identify these places. But even if Greeks regularly used many gestures while speaking, this does not necessarily mean that they brought this practice into court. Before a jury of strangers, in a setting where often a great deal is at stake, even sometimes one’s life, a Greek would not necessarily speak in the same manner as he would when he was speaking informally to friends. In addition, most of the speakers in the cases that are preserved today would have been speaking words that someone else had written for them and would therefore largely be concentrating on making certain that they remembered accurately the arguments that they had been given. I think, therefore, that we should at least hesitate before we assume that gestures were common in court, especially if that assumption leads us to some very problematic conclusions. Similar objections apply to Ian Worthington’s speculation that Euphiletus carried out a much more elaborate set of gestures in his defense speech in Lysias 1. Worthington is speaking about the climax of Euphiletus’ long account of the affair that he alleges took place between his wife and a certain Eratosthenes, and how he and his friends caught the couple in flagrante delicto. As Euphiletus tells it (1.25): I knocked him down with a blow, gentlemen; I forced his hands behind his back and tied them and asked him why he was insulting me by entering my house.

Worthington’s comment on this is:

  Michael Gagarin Surely, he [that is Euphiletus the speaker] acted out the fight scene he so excitedly described when he finally caught Eratosthenes in bed with his wife.6

I am not so sure. Are we really to suppose that as Euphiletus described the climax of his story, he was acting out the scene on the bēma? It would have been taken quite a bit of moving around to act out the scene: rushing in on Eratosthenes in bed, overpowering him, tying his hands behind his back, and then drawing his sword and demanding an explanation. All this while Euphiletus was confined to the bēma, which, from all indications was an unworked stone large enough for a speaker to stand on, but not such a large space that one could enact elaborate scenes such as this.7 And even if Euphiletus had the same amount of space as a whole theatre orchestra, I doubt that it would do his case much good to act all this out. One of Lysias’ great strengths as a logographer was his ability to create vivid narratives, and this is one of his best. Acting out the scene would be unlikely to add to the effect. The examples I have presented so far make clear my general skepticism about some of the claims commonly made concerning physical nonverbal communication in the forensic speeches. One speech, however, was very likely accompanied at some point by some obvious physical nonverbal communication. This is Lysias 24, for the invalid, in which the speaker argues for a continuation of the small daily payment he has been receiving from the polis because he is poor and physically challenged. Boegehold notes one place early in the speech where, as in the Antiphon examples we looked at earlier, the speaker breaks off without completing the sentence (Lysias 24.2): “Because if he is trying by means of a prosecution to extort money from me”.8 … At this point Boegehold notes that Lysias now begins a new sentence with no syntactical connection to what precedes. After again citing the explanations given for this break by earlier editors (Thalheim and Adams), Boegehold provides his own explanation:

 6 Worthington 2017, 18–19. 7 The various courts in Athens were all different. We do not know the exact dimensions of the two bēmata in any of them, but the drawing of a peristyle building that may have been a court in Boegehold 1995, 112 suggests an area about 8 meters square that would probably have held the two bēmata, two benches for the litigants when not speaking, the klepsydra and a bench for its attendant together with at least one or two additional jars of water, and other paraphernalia (ibid 111). The surface of the bēmata was unworked (agrous lithous), at least in the Areopagus, according to Pausanias 1.28.4 (ibid 46). This would seem to leave room for a bēma about two meters wide at the most, and probably less. 8 Boegehold 1999, 87.

Nonverbal Communication in Athenian Forensic Oratory  

The break was a clear sign to his [Lysias’] client to improvise with a gesture. The lame man for his part knew what gesture to make, given the condition expressed. If he did not know how to say “This is incredible” with his hands and head, he could be instructed at a rehearsal before the trial.9

This is perhaps not impossible, but the invalid (as he himself tells us) is walking with two sticks, so his ability to express himself with his hands, at least, would have been considerably restricted. In my view a gesture is in fact unnecessary here. The speaker’s point is clear and could be effectively conveyed by nothing more than a significant pause — again an example of aposiōpēsis. On the other hand, Boegehold misses a much more likely opportunity for a physical gesture in this speech, namely the chance for the speaker to emphasise his lameness, either when he first steps up to the bēma or perhaps later when he alludes to the fact that he walks using two sticks (Lysias 24.12): Surely it is extraordinary that he uses my horse riding as evidence that I am able-bodied but does not also accuse me of being able-bodied in that I use two sticks, whereas others use one. (tr. Todd 2000)

The text here gives no indication that a gesture was made at this point, and there may not have been a gesture at this exact point. But it seems very likely that some sort of gesture would have been made to draw attention to the speaker’s difficulty in walking with two sticks, if not here, then somewhere during his presentation of the case. As Todd notes in the introduction to his translation of the speech: It is worth bearing in mind the possibilities of visual theater in this case. A lot could be done to exaggerate the speaker’s disability by the way he walked to the podium with the use of two sticks, if he trained himself to use them for the day.10

Exaggerating the seriousness of this handicap by walking awkwardly, having trouble getting up onto the bēma, and so on would be a very effective means for the speaker to confirm his disability by means of nonverbal communication. Lysias 24 is unusual in providing such an obvious opportunity for physical nonverbal communication, and few if any of the other cases among the one hundred or so that have come down to us provide the same sort of ready-made opportunity. Thus, I would still argue that physical nonverbal communication

 9 Boegehold 1999, 88. 10 Todd 2000, 253 n. 1.

  Michael Gagarin was relatively little used in court in comparison with vocalic nonverbal communication, to which I now turn. I begin with the well-known stories about the rigorous training Demosthenes forced himself to undergo in order to learn how to be an effective speaker — speaking with pebbles in his mouth, talking over the sound of the waves at the seashore, and so on — and his famous response when asked what was the first thing in oratory, that it was delivery (hypocrisis), and second was delivery, and also third. Of course, delivery might include physical nonverbal communication, but just about everything Demosthenes is reported to have done to become an effective speaker involved training his voice. None of the preparations that are mentioned in these anecdotes involved physical training for gestures or other body movements. Another well-known anecdote similarly puts emphasis on the voice not the body. In his Life of Demosthenes (11) Plutarch describes an encounter between Demosthenes and a victim of violence: A story is told of a man coming to him and begging his services as advocate and telling at great length how he had been assaulted and beaten by someone. “But certainly”, said Demosthenes, “you received none of the hurts which you describe”. Then the man raised his voice and shouted: “I, Demosthenes, no hurts”? “Now, indeed”, said Demosthenes, “I hear the voice of one who is wronged and hurt”.

Again, no gesture is mentioned; the voice is all important. And even if most or all these anecdotes are fictitious, they still indicate the sorts of training Greeks regarded as important for forensic or other public speaking, in which delivery (hypocrisis) was important. On this point, Aristotle is in complete agreement.11 In most of the Rhetoric Aristotle says very little about delivery (hypocrisis),12 but at the beginning of Book Three (1403b15) he finally gets to the subject of style (lexis), which concerns not what one ought to say (ha dei legein) but how to say it (hōs dei eipein). He then continues (1403b18–23):

 11 Aristotle is often misleading (at best) about other matters treated in his Rhetoric, where his advice diverges significantly from what we find in the surviving speeches; see, e.g. Carey 1996. Of course, we cannot check his remarks on delivery against actual practice, but they do have the support of the anecdotes about Demosthenes and delivery. 12 A TLG search for hypocrisis in Aristotle finds six occurrences, four of which are in his Rhetoric. The others are in the Nicomachean Ethics and in a (supposed) letter.

Nonverbal Communication in Athenian Forensic Oratory  

In the first place, following the natural order, we examined the first thing, the facts themselves (auta ta pragmata), from which a matter gets its persuasiveness (to pithanon).13 Second, the arrangement of these things by style. And the third of these, delivery (hypocrisis), which has the greatest power (dynamis) but has not yet been treated by anyone.

After a short comment on delivery in tragic poetry, Aristotle resumes his remarks on delivery in rhetoric (1403b26–32): ἔστιν δὲ αὕτη μὲν ἐν τῇ φωνῇ, πῶς αὐτῇ δεῖ χρῆσθαι πρὸς ἕκαστον πάθος, οἷον πότε μεγάλῃ καὶ πότε μικρᾷ καὶ μέσῃ, καὶ πῶς τοῖς τόνοις, οἷον ὀξείᾳ καὶ βαρείᾳ καὶ μέσῃ, καὶ ῥυθμοῖς τίσι πρὸς ἕκαστα. τρία γάρ ἐστιν περὶ ἃ σκοποῦσιν· ταῦτα δ’ ἐστὶ μέγεθος ἁρμονία ῥυθμός. It [delivery] is a matter of the voice and how it should be used for each emotion, for example when it should be loud, when soft, and when moderate, and what tone should be used, shrill or low or intermediate, and what rhythm is appropriate for each matter. For these are the three things to consider, volume, tone, and rhythm.

These remarks of Aristotle on delivery make it clear that for him delivery is entirely a matter of voice and has nothing to do with physical gestures.14 And evidently this is also what Demosthenes meant when he said that delivery was the first, second and third most important thing for a speaker. Interestingly, although Aristotle recognises the importance of delivery, he does not think it should be so important. For him, the rational assessment of the facts of a case are what is important, and litigants should make their case persuasive by arguing based on the facts alone, without any embellishment. But he recognises that, in reality, the audience is moved by other features in addition to the facts, and therefore delivery is important.15  13 I think there is an allusion here to the opening of the Rhetoric (1.2.1, 1355b27–28), where rhetoric is defined as “the ability (dynamis) to discover what is persuasive (to pithanon) in each matter.” 14 See also Serafim 2017, 29. 15 “Since the whole business of rhetoric is directed at opinion, we must be concerned with it [delivery]. not because it is right but because it is necessary, for it would be just in our argument to have no goal except not irritating or delighting (the audience). For it is just for them to contend (in court) on the basis of facts, so that other things besides these are irrelevant. Nevertheless, it (delivery) has great power, as we have just said, because of the faults of the listener”. (ὅλης οὔσης πρὸς δόξαν τῆς πραγματείας τῆς περὶ τὴν ῥητορικήν, οὐκ ὀρθῶς ἔχοντος, ἀλλ᾿ ὡς ἀναγκαίου τὴν ἐπιμέλειαν ποιητέον, ἐπεὶ τό γε δίκαιον μηδὲν πλείω ζητεῖ περὶ τὸν λόγον ἢ ὡς μήτε λυπεῖν μήτε εὐφραίνειν· δίκαιον γὰρ αὐτοῖς ἀγωνίζεσθαι τοῖς πράγμασιν, ὥστε τἆλλα ἔξω τοῦ ἀποδεῖξαι περίεργα ἐστίν· ἀλλ᾿ ὅμως μέγα δύναται, καθάπερ εἴρηται, διὰ τὴν τοῦ ἀκροατοῦ μοχθηρίαν, 1404a2–9).

  Michael Gagarin Now, as far as the litigant’s voice was concerned, volume was obviously important, but it was probably more important in the larger assembly than in most Athenian courtrooms. In court, a loud voice was less important than the careful modulation of volume, together with tone, and rhythm. These in various combinations could far more easily express the sorts of meaning that Boegehold is looking for: “Well and good”. “This is crazy”! “No, they did not”. “You can fill in the rest”. But the sort of places Boegehold identifies as needing a gesture are only a tiny part of the corpus of forensic speeches. Vocalic effects would be important for just about every part of every speech. Listen carefully to the great speakers of the past and you will hear vocalic effects in every sentence. Even sentences that may be spoken with little or no special effects can for that reason provide an effective momentary pause in the rhetorical intensity of a speech. I am not suggesting that when litigants in court delivered their speeches, they stood stiff and rigid and did not move their body at all; but I do not think that any physical movements they made were intended to convey the kind of specific message that Boegehold thinks the speaker was trying to convey. Forensic speakers, in my view, would have been concentrating first on presenting their arguments correctly and keeping close to the words that had been written for them. Next in importance would have been putting the right emphasis in their voice and other vocalic nonverbal communication. They might also have gestured with their arms or head but aside from pointing out someone whom they had mentioned, I do not think most other body movements had any specific meaning, and I certainly do not think they would have been able to coordinate gestures with the words they were speaking in the manner that Boegehold and others sometimes assume. In short, physical, nonverbal communication played only a minor role in the Athenian courtroom, whereas vocal nonverbal communication was essential for conveying a clear and effective message to the audience.16

Bibliography Boegehold, A.L. (1995), The Lawcourts at Athens, Princeton. Boegehold, A.L. (1999), When a Gesture Was Expected, Princeton. Carey, C. (1996), ‘Nomos in Rhetoric and Oratory’, in: Journal of Hellenic Studies 116, 33–46.

 16 I want to thank Bernd Seidensticker for reading an earlier draft of this paper and making many very useful suggestions for improvement, and for calling my attention to Aristotle’s discussion of delivery in his Rhetoric.

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Papaioannou, S./Serafim, A./da Vela, B. (eds.), The Theatre of Justice: Aspects of Performance in Greco-Roman Oratory and Rhetoric, Leiden/Boston. Serafim, A. (2017), Attic Oratory and Performance, London/New York. Serafim, A. (2023), ‘Revisiting the Hill of Pnyx: The Physical, Rhetorical, and Socio-cultural Contexts’, in: Annals of the Faculty of Law in Belgrade 71, 1–63. Todd, S.C. (2000), Lysias, Austin. Worthington, I. (2017), ‘Audience Reaction, Performance and the Exploitation of Delivery in the Courts and Assembly’, in: S. Papaioannou/A. Serafim/B. da Vela (eds.), The Theatre of Justice, Leiden, 13–25.

Andreas Serafim

The σχῆμα of Invective: Body, Interpersonal Attacks, and Identity Deconstruction in Attic Oratory Abstract: The word σχῆμα is ambiguous in meaning and of protean nature. Ιt is tailored to the context it is placed in and to the argumentative and rhetorical/ persuasive purposes a speaker aims to serve in that context. This chapter investigates what the meaning of the word in Attic oratory is, and what the persuasive purposes of invective that is articulated by references to it are. The word σχῆμα is used eleven times in the speeches of the Ten Attic Orators: Aeschines 1.25, 2.49; Demosthenes 18.232, 19.251–252, 14.72, 195, 23.210, 61.12; and Isocrates 10.8, 183. Embodied invective is based on the accusation of flamboyant, unrestrained, and indecent actions that are indicated by σχῆμα: gestures, body stature, dress, or, in a nutshell, “physical totality” — the whole body that is used to undermine the identity of targeted individuals.

This chapter discusses passages in which the word σχῆμα is mentioned when descriptions of the damning behaviour of rivals are made. The aim is to examine how “embodied invective”, i.e. the attacks against a target’s physicality, is articulated, what features it has, what relations it sustains, how they become “triangulated”, i.e. relating to the speaker, his rivals, and the audience, and what purposes invective serves in relation to the rhetorical, communicative, and persuasive purposes of the speaker. Invective, a mode of aggressive and polemical argumentation that aims to insult, ridicule, and diminish the identity of the target, has been discussed in classical scholarship from several perspectives and angles, including, for example, comic,1 linguistic (as in the use of insults),2 and religious.3 A broad category of analysis of invective, its features, and the

 This research has been funded in whole by National Science Centre, Poland, grant number 2021/41/B/HS2/00755.  1 Halliwell 1991, 279–296; (2008); Spatharas 2006, 374–387; Serafim 2020b, 23–42; and most recently, Papaioannou and Serafim 2021. 2 Kamen 2020. 3 Martin 2009 and, more recently, Serafim 2021 on religiously flavoured invective in Attic oratory. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-009

  Andreas Serafim purposes orators have when levelling attacks against opponents has to do with the sex/gendered dimension, especially in regard to marginalised identities (e.g. kinaidoi/catamites). This kind of invective is sustained through references to the body or nonverbal behaviour in general. I have presented elsewhere the case that the body consciously or unconsciously, betrays homosexuality: sneezing is mentioned, in Diogenes Laertius 7.173 and Dio Chrysostom 33.53–54, as having this capacity.4 References in Attic oratory to facial expressions, gait, and hand gestures are also used to substantiate accusations against adversaries of being aggressive, snobbish, or deceptive towards the public,5 while even bodily reactions such as spitting, hiccoughing, farting, belching, and urinating have the capacity to reveal identity and thus articulate attacks against individuals and groups of people.6 Before fleshing out oratorical passages in which the word σχῆμα is used to examine the features and modes of composing invective and the purposes it serves, it is important to describe, as succinctly as possible, the two key notions this paper centres upon: σχῆμα and identity. The word σχῆμα is part of the general category of nonverbal behaviour. The actual meaning of the term is ambiguous; it is, in my view, tailored to the context it is placed in and to the argumentative and rhetorical/persuasive purposes a speaker has in that context. There are of course a few useful and important theoretical sources that shed light on the meaning and thematic breadth of the term. Referring to the notion of ὑπόκρισις, a term that entails the use of a wide range of kinesics and vocalics to deliver an oration in the most persuasive way,7 the anonymous Προλεγόμενα τῆς Ρητορικῆς says that “hypocrisis is to have, like the best actor, the best posture (σχήματι), to make the appropriate facial expressions, and to use appropriate vocal intonation to accompany his words”.8 Here σχῆμα seems, rather ambiguously, to denote gesticulation, nodding (but not any facial movement, since facial expressions are distinguished from other signs of posture), and movements (including inclination) of the whole human body. If we consider Aeschines 2.49, however, we see that head movements are excluded from the semantic spectrum of the notion of σχῆμα: “after we had spoken, last of all Demosthenes arose, and with that imposing air of his (τερα 4 Serafim 2022, 71–87. 5 Serafim 2020a, 114–143. 6 Serafim (forthcoming b). 7 Serafim 2017, 28–31 on theoretical explanation of ὑπόκρισις, and 113–134 on how specifically kinesics and vocalics are used in selected speeches of Aeschines (2, 3) and Demosthenes (18, 19). 8 Translation is mine. For the text of the anonymous Προλεγόμενα: Waltz 1968, 35; Katsouris 1989, 36. Translations of ancient texts are from LOEB series unless otherwise stated.

The σχῆμα of Invective  

τευσάμενος, ὥσπερ εἴωθε, τῷ σχήματι), and rubbing his forehead, when he saw that the people approved my report and were satisfied with it, he said that he was amazed at both parties, as well the listeners as the ambassadors, for they were carelessly wasting time”.9 Equally ambiguous and uncertain in meaning is the use of the word σχῆμα in Isocrates 15.183: “for when they take their pupils in hand, the physical trainers instruct their followers in the postures (τὰ σχήματα) which have been devised for bodily contests, while the teachers of philosophy impart all the forms of discourse in which the mind expresses itself”.10 “Postures” may mean, in context, the general physique of disciples that may perhaps entail all bodily aspects, both the observable (e.g. hands and feet musculature, the chest and the general physique that, through exercise, is honed so that participation in contests is possible) and the unobservable (e.g. stamina and good health). Bodily perfection and physical strength, as indicated in Isocrates 15.183, open the discussion about the actual form of the ideal male body. The Book of Physiognomy, a work of an unknown author that probably dates to the end of the 4th century AD, describes in ekphrastic detail the masculine body and powerful physiognomy in general: The neck should be of moderate thickness, somewhat extended, the top of the head rather upright, the shoulder-blades huge, the shoulders and upper parts of the body to the navel rather broad, the lower parts rather drawn in with decreasing width. [He is] muscular, with big bones, the knuckles and joints at the ends of the feet and hands solid, yet not stiff, but just right apart and separate near the end, with a high and prominent chest, detached collar-bones, a broach stomach pressed slightly inwards […] Also the masculine body is strong and tolerant of hard work, has a strong voice which is rather hoarse and occasionally deep, as if echoing from somewhere deep and hollow, like that of lions.

It is notable that, as indicated in sources, a beautiful and strong body is the natural habitat of virtue; no wonder, then, that the opposite, the kinaidic body, is both tarnished by lack of harmony and (moral, socio-political) virtue. As Z. Papakonstantinou, whose book Sport and Identity in Ancient Greece is perhaps the fullest and most up-to-date discussion of the embodied and gendered sport performances in antiquity, argues, “the athletic body was therefore suffused with attributes such as strength, energy, endurance and virtue, which were expected and, if we believe the honorary documents, exhibited not merely

 9 Translation: Adams 1919. 10 Translation: Norlin 1980.

  Andreas Serafim by successful athletes but also by competent and generous public figures and benefactors”.11 Non-textual (material) evidence, such as the Kroisos Kouros, a marble statue of a muscled young warrior, and the discus-thrower, a statue that was made by the Greek sculptor Myron, ca. 5th century BC, are also of some use in figuring out the physical appearance, especially the body stature, of the hoplite a male par excellence. The Kroisos Kouros, specifically, presents a man standing in a frontal posture, with his left foot slightly forward, with powerful thighs and shinbones shown with sharp lines. His waist is narrow, and his thoracic arch is wider and fleshier than other kouroi.12 Lucian, a Greek satirist, rhetorician, and pamphleteer, prevalent in the 2nd century AD, offers a succinct description of Myron’s discus-thrower: Have you never noticed as you came in that beautiful one in the court, by Demetrius the portrait-sculptor?’ ‘Is that the one with the quoit, — leaning forward for the throw, with his face turned back towards the hand that holds the quoit, and one knee bent, ready to rise as he lets it go?’ ‘Ah, that is a fine piece of work, too, — a Myron (Philopseudes 18).13

Philostratus, an important orator and sophist in Roman imperial courts, also offers information about the statue: A raised thrower’s stand has been set apart, so small as to suffice for only one person to stand on, and then only when it supports the posterior portions and the right leg of the thrower, causing the anterior portions to bend forward and the left leg to be relieved of weight; for this leg must be straightened and advanced along with the right arm. As for the attitude of the man holding the discus, he must turn his head to the right and bend himself over so far that he can look down at his side, and he must hurl the discus by drawing himself up and putting his whole right side into the throw (Imagines 1.24.1–2).14

Quintilian compares the statue with the grace and charm that rhetorical figures of speech produce (Institutio Oratoria 2.13.10–11). The sources, both textual and visual/material, which refer to the ideal male body, that of the hoplite and the athlete, give concrete meaning to the Isocratic perfection of σχῆμα, helping us visualise an individual’s main body features that the term may refer to. This overarching approach to σχῆμα is also denoted in the description in [Demosthenes] 61.12, the so-called Erotic Essay. The author, whoever he really  11 Papakonstantinou 2019, 121. 12 Further on the physical ideals of the Kroisos Kouros: Stewart 1997, 63–70; Janson and Janson 2004. 13 Translation: Fowler and Fowler 1905. 14 Translation: Fairbanks 1931.

The σχῆμα of Invective  

is, praises the unchangeable and unharmed beauty of an individual, when he refers to σχῆμα: [A] ἢ γὰρ δι’ ἀρρυθμίαν τοῦ σχήματος ἅπασαν συνετάραξαν τὴν ὑπάρχουσαν εὐπρέπειαν, [B] ἢ δι’ ἀτύχημά τι καὶ τὰ καλῶς πεφυκότα συνδιέβαλον αὐτῷ. ὧν οὐδενὶ τὴν σὴν ὄψιν εὕροιμεν ἂν ἔνοχον γεγενημένην: οὕτω γὰρ σφόδρ’ ἐφυλάξατο πάσας τὰς τοιαύτας κῆρας ὅστις ποτ’ ἦν θεῶν ὁ τῆς σῆς ὄψεως προνοηθείς, ὥστε μηδὲν μέμψεως ἄξιον, τὰ δὲ πλεῖστα περίβλεπτά σου καταστῆσαι. [A] For either through ungainliness of mien they have ruined all their natural comeliness or [B] through some unfortunate mannerisms have involved their natural attractions in the same disfavor. By none of these could we find your person afflicted, for whichever of the gods it was that took forethought for your person has so diligently guarded you against all such mishaps as to leave nothing calling for criticism and to render your general appearance superb.

In their translation of the text N.W. DeWitt and N.J. DeWitt translate the word as “mien”.15 On a similar line, J. Sonin takes σχῆμα to mean “demeanour, mien, or bearing”.16 I would suggest a different translation for the word σχῆμα in the pseudo-Demosthenic context: “physicality” or, simply, “body”. It is, therefore, necessary the meaning of εὐπρέπεια also to change from “comeliness” to “decency in behaviour” or “good manners”. So, the translation of the first part of the first sentence (noted in the text as [A]) should change into “for either through unharmonious physicality they disturbed their behavioural decency altogether”. Two are the notable key-terms in the first part: the tangible quality, what becomes visible after being sketched, as this is the primordial meaning of the Greek word σχῆμα, and the abstract quality, i.e. mien, which is considered part of the human nature (as the participle ὑπάρχουσα denotes). A disorder (ἀρρυθμία) in the former can negatively alter the latter. The second part of the first sentence (noted as [B]) repeats and clarifies what the first part discusses: that an accident, a negative reversal of a condition (ἀτύχημα), inevitably changes what is innately good (τὰ καλῶς πεφυκότα). This is perhaps a reference to moral bearing, or even φύσις, the entire bearing of people. Sonin is elsewhere right to note that “a man’s σχῆμα is his physical totality [emphasis is mine] and, although he might have a collection of independently beautiful features, if they are not combined to create an attractive σχῆμα, they are fatally flawed”.17 This is, arguably, another way of phrasing what [Demos 15 Translation: DeWitt and DeWitt 1949. 16 Sonin 1999, 217. 17 Sonin 1999, 219.

  Andreas Serafim thenes] points out in 61.12: that a virtuous soul is marred when people are not able to protect their bodily appearance, their σχῆμα. A passage from drama that points to the broad semantic cachet of σχῆμα as entailing “physical totality” and underlines the association between physique and behaviour/moral bearing, which is, arguably, stressed in [Demosthenes] 61.12, is Euripides’ Ion 237–240: “There is nobility in you, and you have an appearance that is a witness to your character, lady, whoever you are. For most men at least, you would know from their appearance if they are well-born” (γενναιότης σοι, καὶ τρόπων τεκμήριον τὸ σχῆμ᾽ ἔχεις τόδ᾽, ἥτις εἶ ποτ᾽, ὦ γύναι. γνοίη δ᾽ ἂν ὡς τὰ πολλά γ᾽ ἀνθρώπου πέρι τὸ σχῆμ᾽ ἰδών τις εἰ πέφυκεν εὐγενής). The word here seems to be synonymous with the body whole, as this en masse has the potential of indicating one’s personality traits, behavioural actions, and morality – one’s φύσις. On “physical totality”, Aristophanes’ Knights 1331–1332 may also be of some use. The text is as following: ὅδ᾽ ἐκεῖνος ὁρᾶν τεττιγοφόρας, ἀρχαίῳ σχήματι λαμπρός, οὐ χοιρινῶν ὄζων ἀλλὰ σπονδῶν, σμύρνῃ κατάλειπτος. The word σχῆμα is taken by translators and commentators as a reference to dress.18 The most recent translator of Knights offers the following translation: “Gaze upon this man, with the cicada in his hair, glorious in his ancient robes”.19 This is the description of the Demos by the Sausage-Seller, when the former emerges through the doors of the Propylaea. It is in this context that σχῆμα is meant to refer to attire. Even if we accept this meaning — I am hesitant to accept it without reservations since it seems to me that the reference in Knights 1331–1332 is allegorical, i.e. that Demos is rejuvenated in the whole appearance — it is still possible to see the connection between σχῆμα and the whole body. The word σχῆμα refers implicitly to, and, more importantly, takes meaning from the members of the body that are covered by the robes. And, as these robes (it is not mentioned what kind of robes these are; peplos, chitōn, and himation were usual garments for both men and women in Greek antiquity)20 were covering most of

 18 See, for example, O’Neill 1938; Neil 1966; Hanink 2021, 145–166. 19 Johnston 2017, 151. 20 “The peplos was simply a large rectangle of heavy fabric, usually wool, folded over along the upper edge so that the overfold would reach to the waist. It was placed around the body and fastened at the shoulders with a pin or brooch. Openings for armholes were left on each side, and the open side of the garment was either left that way or pinned or sewn to form a seam. The chiton was made of a much lighter material, usually imported linen. It was a very long and very wide rectangle of fabric sewn up at the sides, pinned or sewn at the shoulders, and usually girded around the waist. Often the chiton was wide enough to allow for sleeves that were fastened along the upper arms with pins or buttons. Both the peplos and chiton were floor-length garments that were usually long enough to be pulled over the belt. The cloak

The σχῆμα of Invective  

the human body, it is feasible to take σχῆμα as a synecdochical reference to the whole body. Another passage from a dramatic context also points to the “physical totality”, in the sense this time that by the word σχῆμα both body form and bodily mannerisms are implied. This is in Aristophanes’ Frogs 1070 where there is the expression σχῆμα κεὐρυπρωκτίαν, a succinct description of the “invective-full” ways in which kinaidoi are presented in comedy and elsewhere in ancient literature. Given that both body stature and mannerisms are the features of kinaidoi in sources, it is feasible to argue that σχῆμα entails both meanings and sustains the idea of “physical totality”. Presentations of kinaidoi are based on “body badges”, like the reference to “broad butt” (εὐρυπρωκτίαν), but also on the movements, the effeminate behavioural mannerisms (cf. Aristotle, Physiognomics 808a on gait, stature, and movements, especially of the neck, head and knees, and facial expressions), and the general physical bearing.21 The discussion about σχῆμα in Aristotle’s Physiognomics features the most detailed description of the meaning the word may have. In 806a28–34, for example, we read: ἔκ τε γὰρ τῶν κινήσεων φυσιογνωμονοῦσι, καὶ ἐκ τῶν σχημάτων, καὶ ἐκ τῶν χρωμάτων, καὶ ἐκ τῶν ἠθῶν τῶν ἐπὶ τοῦ προσώπου ἐμφαινομένων, καὶ ἐκ τῶν τριχωμάτων, καὶ ἐκ τῆς λειότητος, καὶ ἐκ τῆς φωνῆς, καὶ ἐκ τῆς σαρκός, καὶ ἐκ τῶν μερῶν, καὶ ἐκ τοῦ τύπου ὅλου τοῦ σώματος. The physiognomist draws his data from movements, shapes and colours, and from habits as appearing in the face, from the growth of hair, from the smoothness of the skin, from voice, from the condition of the flesh, from parts of the body, and from the general character of the body.

The Aristotelian text may give, prima facie, the impression that it distinguishes between σχῆμα, in context translated as “shape”,22 and colours, hair, face, skin, voice, and flesh. But it seems to me that the ending of the passage may equally well denote an overarching sense of the notion of σχῆμα. What starts as an in-

 (himation) worn by both women and men was essentially a rectangular piece of heavy fabric, either woolen or linen. It was draped diagonally over one shoulder or symmetrically over both shoulders, like a stole”. The Metropolitan Museum of Art: https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/ hd/grdr/hd_grdr.htm (last access: November 2022). 21 On the figure of kinaidos, his vignette, clothing, and behaviour: Dover 1978, 75–76; Winkler 1990, 178–186; Gleason 1995, 63–64; Davidson 2001, 23; Halperin 2002, 32–38; Hubbard 2003, 7; Skinner 2013, 155. 22 Hett 1955.

  Andreas Serafim sinuation becomes a stronger possibility if we stop by 806b28–32, in which σχῆμα is presented as reflecting upon ἦθος, two notions that seem to be distinct in 806a28–34: “forms and affections appearing in the face are considered according to their likeness to the affection” (τὰ δὲ σχήματα καὶ τὰ παθήματα τὰ ἐπιφαινόμενα ἐπὶ τῶν προσώπων κατὰ τὰς ὁμοιότητας λαμβάνεται τῷ πάθει). What is implied in 806a28–34 is mentioned in clearer terms in 806b28–32, so it can be argued that the use of the conjunction (ἔκ τε γὰρ τῶν κινήσεων) in the first part of the Aristotelian text actually puts in order supplementary features of the human body, the totality of which gives meaning to the “general character of the body”. That σχῆμα is not distinguished, in Physiognomics, from other notions — at least, as it seems to me — is also evident in 807b10, where σχῆμα and movements are taken together: “the figure is constrained in movement”. This description puts the two features of the body so close to each other that it seems that one entails the other, and that both are the same. This sense of “sameness” is also repeated elsewhere, as in 807a31–34: “the characteristics of the brave man are stiff hair, an erect carriage of body, bones, sides and extremities of the body strong and large, broad and flat belly; shoulder-blades broad and far apart, neither very tightly knit nor altogether slack; a strong neck but not very fleshy; a chest fleshy and broad, thigh flat, calves of the legs broad below”. It seems in context that “erect carriage of body”, τὸ σχῆμα τοῦ σώματος ὀρθόν, a generalised reference to body posture, is explained by what follows — the right form of belly, shoulder-blades, neck, chest, and legs. In line with the suggested Aristotelian explanation of σχῆμα as “physical totality” seems to me to be another text, Xenophon’s Memorabilia 2.1.22. The description, in context, of the physique and the general behaviour and moral character — in one word, the identity — of the two female personifications of the options Heracles had to choose between, Virtue and Vileness, presents another case for the overarching meaning of σχῆμα. The text is as follows: And there appeared two women of great stature making towards him. The one was fair to see and of high bearing (φύσει); her limbs were adorned with purity, her eyes with modesty; sober was her figure (τὸ δὲ σχῆμα σωφροσύνῃ), and her robe was white. The other was plump and soft, with high feeding. Her face was made up to heighten its natural white and pink, her figure to exaggerate her height (τὸ δὲ σχῆμα ὥστε δοκεῖν ὀρθοτέραν τῆς φύσεως εἶναι). Open-eyed was she; and dressed to disclose all her charms. Now she eyed herself; anon looked whether any noticed her; and often stole a glance at her own shadow.23

 23 Translation: Marchant 1923.

The σχῆμα of Invective  

Both attestations of σχῆμα in the text point to “physical totality” as the semantic cachet of the word, which can be adorned, improved, “beautified” by behavioural, mental, and moral ornaments, as σωφροσύνῃ is, roughly understood as “sense” or “prudence”. “Bearing”, φύσις, the individual psychosomatic totality, which is mentioned at the start of the paragraph, is explained in the rest of it. Limbs, eyes, and σχῆμα are, in context, the constituents and representatives of φύσις. They reflect upon moral bearing and behaviour, a point that is, arguably, put forward in [Demosthenes] 61.12, a text that is discussed above. “Posture” is how we should define σχῆμα, as mentioned in the description of the second female figure, inasmuch as it indicates height. Similar is the meaning of σχῆμα, i.e. main body construction, in Euripides, Medea 1071–1072: “O hands and lips so dear to me, o noble face and bearing of my children” (ὦ φιλτάτη χείρ, φίλτατον δέ μοι στόμα καὶ σχῆμα καὶ πρόσωπον εὐγενὲς τέκνων). It is worth noting that the face — and facial expression in a wider perspective — is presented as distinct from σχῆμα in all the sources that have been examined so far. Xenophon’s Cyropaedia 6.4.20 is another one: “and each one of you remind his own men of what I have called to your attention, and let each man prove to those whom he commands that he is himself worthy of command, by showing himself fearless in his bearing, in his countenance, and in his words (ἄφοβον δεικνὺς καὶ σχῆμα καὶ πρόσωπον καὶ λόγους)”. There is an uncontested point that all passages that have hitherto been discussed, more forcibly perhaps Xenophon’s Memorabilia 2.1.22 among the others, put forward: that physicality is part, and an infallible indicator, of all the traits that identity entails, including character, morality, aesthetics, and emotions. This idea suffuses ancient sources (indicated, for example, in Aristotle’s Great Ethics 1183b24–26), as is also unanimously espoused in modern scholarship. R. Birdwhistell, for example, notes that “probably no more than 30 to 35 percent of the social meaning of a conversation or an interaction is carried by the words”,24 with the rest being carried and expressed by nonverbal behaviour. In a similar vein, M.L.J. Abercrombie is right to note that “we speak with our vocal organs, but we converse with our whole body”,25 while R. Finnegan argues for the importance of the human body in providing visual cues: “particular stances and orientations can convey, for example, friendliness, hostility, playfulness, receptiveness, dominance, aggression or appeasement”.26 The human body and physical behaviour are, in other words, performative and communicative: if  24 Birdwhistell 1970, 158. 25 Abercrombie 1968, 55. 26 Finnegan 2002, 95.

  Andreas Serafim performance is “the communication between a performer and an audience, which is informed by the etiquette of a specific occasion [what we call above “context”] and is based on the interactive communication, explicit or otherwise, between the transmitter of a message and its receiver”,27 then nonverbal behaviour is one of the vehicles through which performance is carried out. The idea that the body can reveal a lot about individuals is propagated in S. de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, where it is argued that gender is the result of culturally enforced performance acts.28 Self is “real only to the extent that it is performed”: self/gender is not something one is, but something that one does through corporeal performance (action, dress, and manner) and through language.29 Given, therefore, that physicality describes what individuals do to be or become, invective, the presentation of distorted images of these actions, is an important tool for understanding the nature, the features, and the purposes of attacks in Greek (and Roman or even later) antiquity that are firmly rooted in the cultural norms and values that civic/ethnic communities espouse. For invective, the levelling of attacks against individuals or groups of them, is a culturally constructed phenomenon: to make sense, it needs a “contract”, a socio-cultural agreement of mutuality, i.e. common values, perceptions, and attitudes, between the invective-maker and the audience (either onlookers or readers), which the invective-receiver (allegedly) violates, surpasses, or ignores. There are, in other words, two groups that triangulate relations in any (performative or textual) invective context: the “in-group”, i.e. those who espouse values about which the target of invective is defiant, that is the “out-group”. The social identity theory of H. Tajfel and J. Turner explicates the dynamic interconnection between these two groups and how rhetoric that exploits them is powerful enough to have an immense impact upon the audience in decision-making contexts.30 But what exactly is identity in the first place? Identity, to put it simply, is all the traits that most succinctly describe individual or collective “self”. Defini-

 27 Serafim 2017, 16–17. Taplin 1999, 33 understands performance as “an occasion on which appropriate individuals enact events, in accordance with certain recognised conventions, in the sight and hearing of a larger social group, and in some sense for their benefit”. Further on performance: Bauman 1992, 41; Hall 2006; Schechner 2006, 35. 28 De Beauvoir 1973, 301; Butler 1986a, 35–49; 1990, 129. 29 Butler 1988, 527; 1990, 145; Salih 2007, 55. For a comprehensive overview of the gender theories of de Beauvoir, Wittig, and Foucault: Butler 1986b, 505–516; 1990, 1–35, 93–106. 30 On social identity theory: Tajfel and Turner 1979. Also: Miller, Gurin, Gurin and Malanchuk 1981, 494–511; Conover 1984, 760–785; Lau 1989, 220–223. On the dynamics of out-group hostility or in-group solidarity in ancient literary texts and contexts: Huddy 2003, 511–558; Hall 2006, 388; Arena 2007, 151.

The σχῆμα of Invective  

tions point to the notion of “self” being used interchangeably with “identity”.31 Identity is “a sort of predicate that is attached to individuals or collectives by themselves and others, and describes their nature, traits, and actions”.32 The essence of the notion of identity in the definitions presented above has two fundamental dimensions: first, it can be both individual (or personal),33 when there is only one bearer, and collective, when a community is marked in a specific way (e.g. a community of pious men or women, a community of foreigners etc.); and second, a prerequisite for identity construction is recognition or identification, i.e. how an individual or a community is perceived by themselves or by others, or perhaps better, what features are attributed to an individual or a community by themselves or by a third party.34 Identity is based on the tripartite scheme identifier-identified-context of identification, and it encompasses every aspect of bodily and intellectual conduct which has the potential to present an individual or a community as being X or Z: character and behaviour (ēthos), upbringing, education, occupation and way of life, physique, actions, origins, religious allegiances and practices, indications of morality and, of course, words (as ancient thinkers also indicate, e.g. Aristotle, Poetics 1450b8, 1454a17– 19; Rhetoric 1417a20–22, Nicomachean Ethics 1103a17ff, 1112a16–17, 1163a22–23; Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Lysias 8).35

 31 Weinreich (1986) 14, for example, defines identity as follows: “a person’s identity is defined as the totality of one’s self-construal, in which how one construes oneself in the present expresses the continuity between how one construes oneself as one was in the past and how one construes oneself as one aspires to be in the future; this allows for definitions of aspects of identity, such as: One’s ethnic identity is defined as that part of the totality of one’s selfconstrual made up of those dimensions that express the continuity between one’s construal of past ancestry and one’s future aspirations in relation to ethnicity”. In a similar vein, Hall (1989) understands that “identity emerges as a kind of unsettled space, or an unresolved question in that space, between a number of intersecting discourses.... [Until recently, we have incorrectly thought that identity is] a kind of fixed point of thought and being, a ground of action... the logic of something like a “true self”. [But] identity is a process, identity is split. Identity is not a fixed point but an ambivalent point. Identity is also the relationship of the other to oneself”. 32 Serafim 2021, 122. 33 Individual or personal identity is what defines every and any individual through biographical information, unaltered mental and physical characteristics (e.g. intelligence and skin colour), role identities in the broad socio-cultural system of hierarchy and beliefs (e.g. father, employer), and a combination of private and public experiences. 34 See Taylor 1994, 25–73; İnaç and Ünal 2013, 223; Hicks 2014, 10–15. 35 This comprehensive survey of theories about identity draws on Serafim 2021, 121–123.

  Andreas Serafim This chapter discusses, in what follows, passages where Attic orators describe the (supposed)36 σχῆμα of their rivals with the aim of undermining their credentials and inviting the audience to adopt an inimical disposition towards them. This is “embodied invective”, a term that Rafał Toczko and I coined to describe the enterprise of criticising physicality to articulate attacks against targeted individuals or ethic/civic and cultural communities. This aims at deconstructing identity to serve the utmost purpose of the speaker, whether in the lawcourt or in the Assembly, to instruct the judges and the onlookers as to what to think of and feel about rivals — in a nutshell, to persuade them, inasmuch as persuasion means “all the techniques, mechanisms and symbols, both cognitive and emotional, deployed in oral or written discourse, used to influence, voluntarily or not, the attitudes, behaviours and beliefs of target audiences”.37 The techniques that are used by the speakers in an attempt to influence the audience can be, as Aristotle mentions in Rhetoric 1356a1–4, related to content and argumentation (logos), the character of the speaker (ēthos), and emotions (pathos). References to σχῆμα are conceptualised through logos and aim to deconstruct the ēthos, “moral character”, of rivals, an aspect of identity, not least through the provocation of emotions that affect the perception and the emotional attitude of the audience towards the speakers’ rivals. For, as Aristotle argues, “[persuasion occurs] through the hearers when they are led to feel emotions by the speech; for we do not give the same judgment when grieving and rejoicing or when being friendly and hostile” (Rhetoric 1356a14–16). In the same vein, “the emotions are all those affections which cause men to change their opinion in regard to their judgments” (1378a19–20). The word σχῆμα is used eleven times only in the speeches of the Ten Attic Orators; I searched the whole corpus, using “The Diorisis Ancient Greek Corpus”, a digital collection of 820 ancient Greek texts (from Homer to the early 5th century AD). The references are, specifically, in Aeschines 1.25, 2.49; Demosthenes 18.232, 19.251–252, 14.72, 195, 23.210, 61.12; and Isocrates 10.8, 183. One would expect references to σχῆμα everywhere in oratory, such as, for example, in Lysias 24, a speech that focuses on the body of the disabled man, which acts as a proof of whether he had the right to get a pension. The reason for the re 36 We cannot be sure about the level of imprecision and fakeness information in speeches comes with. On fake stories in Attic oratory: Worthington 2020, 15–31. On the distortion of the rivals’ physicality as a means of attacking them: Serafim (forthcoming a) where information is given about the presentation of Timarchus in Aeschines 1 and of Philip II of Macedon in the forensic and symbouleutic speeches of Demosthenes (as in 11.22 and 18.67). 37 Papaioannou, Serafim, and Demetriou 2019, 3. See also: O’Donnell and Kable 1982, 9; Smith 1982, 7; Bettinghaus and Cody 1987, 3; O’Keefe 1990, 17; Perloff 2003, 8.

The σχῆμα of Invective  

strained use of the word cannot easily be explained — it may have to do perhaps with the lack of semantic clarity this term is notoriously marked by. But the rhetorical strategies that the word σχῆμα enables the speakers to exploit are all clearly linked to invective and are useful as a means of undermining the credentials of adversaries. A prime example of invective which exploits the word σχῆμα can be found in Aeschines 1.25–26: καὶ οὕτως ἦσαν σώφρονες οἱ ἀρχαῖοι ἐκεῖνοι ῥήτορες, ὁ Περικλῆς καὶ ὁ Θεμιστοκλῆς καὶ ὁ Ἀριστείδης, ὁ τὴν ἀνόμοιον ἔχων ἐπωνυμίαν Τιμάρχῳ τουτῳί, ὥστε ὃ νυνὶ πάντες ἐν ἔθει πράττομεν, τὸ τὴν χεῖρα ἔξω ἔχοντες λέγειν, τότε τοῦτο θρασύ τι ἐδόκει εἶναι, καὶ εὐλαβοῦντο αὐτὸ πράττειν. μέγα δὲ πάνυ τούτου σημεῖον ἔργῳ ὑμῖν οἶμαι ἐπιδείξειν. εὖ γὰρ οἶδ᾽ ὅτι πάντες ἐκπεπλεύκατε εἰς Σαλαμῖνα καὶ τεθεωρήκατε τὴν Σόλωνος εἰκόνα, καὶ αὐτοὶ μαρτυρήσαιτ᾽ ἂν ὅτι ἐν τῇ ἀγορᾷ τῇ Σαλαμινίων ἀνάκειται ὁ Σόλων ἐντὸς τὴν χεῖρα ἔχων. τοῦτο δ᾽ ἐστίν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, ὑπόμνημα καὶ μίμημα τοῦ Σόλωνος σχήματος, ὃν τρόπον ἔχων αὐτὸς διελέγετο τῷ δήμῳ τῶν Ἀθηναίων. And so decorous were those public men of old, Pericles, Themistocles, and Aristides (who was called by a name most unlike that by which Timarchus here is called), that to speak with the arm outside the cloak, as we all do nowadays as a matter of course, was regarded then as an ill-mannered thing, and they carefully refrained from doing it. And I can point to a piece of evidence which seems to me very weighty and tangible. I am sure you have all sailed over to Salamis and have seen the statue of Solon there. You can therefore yourselves bear witness that in the statue that is set up in the Salaminian marketplace Solon stands with his arm inside his cloak. Now this is a reminiscence, fellow citizens, and an imitation of the posture of Solon, showing his customary bearing as he used to address the people of Athens.

Timarchus in this passage is accused of flamboyant, unrestrained, and indecent actions (cf. 1.33).38 Invective, in context, focuses on an attack against the body of the targeted individual and is articulated by means of an antithesis between him and Solon, whose statue in the agora of Salamis denotes, according to Aeschines, the decent and proper posture for a speaker. It is not fully clear what  38 Aeschines 1.33: “Now these regulations of the law have long been in force; but you went further and added a new law, after that charming gymnastic exhibition which Timarchus gave in an assembly of the people; for you were exceedingly ashamed of the affair (μετὰ τὸ καλὸν παγκράτιον, ὃ οὗτος ἐπαγκρατίασεν ἐν τῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ, ὑπεραισχυνθέντες ἐπὶ τῷ πράγματι). By the new law, for every meeting of the assembly one tribe is to be chosen by lot to have charge of the speaker’s platform, and to preside. And what did the proposer of the law prescribe? That the members of the tribe should sit as defenders of the laws and of the democracy; for he believed that unless we should summon help from some quarter against men who have lived such a life, we should not be able even to deliberate on matters of supreme importance”.

  Andreas Serafim σχῆμα means in the context of Aeschines 1, but it seems likely, in my view, that it refers not simply to the hands, which are mentioned at the start of 1.25 (“speak with the arm outside the cloak”), but also to general physical calmness, restraint, and avoidance of nudity, which forms an accusation against Timarchus in 1.26 (γυμνὸς ἐπαγκρατίαζεν, “he threw off his cloak and leaped about like a gymnast, half naked”). Invective in 1.25–26 is based on the sharp contrast between idealised past and decadent present.39 Another “embodied” version of this zero-sum comparison is in Aristotle’s Constitution of Athens 28.3, where Cleon is presented as speaking to the public with his garments hitched up and using violent and crude gesticulation, in contrast with past speakers who conform to the norms of public speaking decorum. Unless the transmitted script of speech 1 was modified by post-delivery revisions, it would not have been possible for the speaker to make unsubstantiated claims about the appearance of Solon in the statue. And even though this statue has not been found, there are other preserved statues that confirm the validity of the claims of Aeschines. The members of the audience are, therefore, invited to think of or even see in front of their eyes statues of speakers with restrained postures. That is perhaps why Demosthenes is at pains in 19.251 to refute the argument of Aeschines that the statue was a relatively recent construction (it was erected 240 years after the lifetime of Solon) and that it bore no similarity to Solon’s hand-use.40 Also, Solon is presented, arguably, as reciting a poem,41 a situation that radically differs from that of a speaker, whose nerve, verve, passion, and confidence would have been effective in persuading the citizens about the actions they should take to protect the polis and serve its best interests. Despite, however, the doubts scholars expressed about the validity of the reference in 1.25 to Solon’s σχῆμα,42 its purpose is undoubted: to diminish the personal and political identity of Timarchus by comparing him with an idealised representative of the idealised past of the polis and observing that he falls mor-

 39 On the comparison between the present and the past in relation to religion: Serafim 2021, 133–138. 40 Demosthenes 19.251: “By way of censure and reproach of the impetuous style of Timarchus, he alleged that a statue of Solon, with his robe drawn round him and his hand enfolded, had been set up to exemplify the self-restraint of the popular orators of that generation. People who live at Salamis, however, inform us that this statue was erected less than fifty years ago. Now from the age of Solon to the present day about two hundred and forty years have elapsed, so that the sculptor who designed that disposition of drapery had not lived in Solon’s time, — nor even his grand-father”. 41 Ford 1999, 247; O’Connell 2017, 78. 42 Richter 1965, 83–86; Fisher 2001, 151.

The σχῆμα of Invective  

ally short. Invective is based on the untold but still conveyable conclusion that whoever cannot control his hands and his whole σχῆμα will end up being antiSolon, a discarded citizen, dangerous for the polis and for his fellows. Invective in context is a way, in my view, for Aeschines to sustain three-cornered relationships between himself, his opponent, and the lawcourt audience: he himself and the audience are successors to Solon,43 pure Athenians, who espouse the values of the past, whereas Timarchus is the outsider, the “anti-Solon”. The dynamics of in-group solidarity and out-group hostility, akin to social identity theory,44 serve well the purpose of the speaker to persuade the audience to adopt a negative stance towards his rival, as well as a positive one towards himself. Demosthenes 19.252 contains another reference to the posture of Solon. The speaker turns the tables against Aeschines and gives a twist to the accusation about his ally, Timarchus, not following the σχῆμα of Solon, by talking about the features of the stateman’s moral identity. τοῦτο μὲν τοίνυν εἶπε τοῖς δικασταῖς καὶ ἐμιμήσατο: ὃ δὲ τοῦ σχήματος ἦν τούτου πολλῷ τῇ πόλει λυσιτελέστερον, τὸ τὴν ψυχὴν τὴν Σόλωνος ἰδεῖν καὶ τὴν διάνοιαν, ταύτην οὐκ ἐμιμήσατο, ἀλλὰ πᾶν τοὐναντίον. He illustrated his remarks by representing to the jury the attitude of the statue; but his mimicry did not include what, politically, would have been much more profitable than the body — a view of Solon’s spirit and purpose, so widely different from his own.

It is not clear what the reference to σχῆμα entails in this context, but it is largely informed by the discussion in Aeschines 1.25–26 and Demosthenes 19.251. It is noteworthy that Demosthenes, unlike the association between bodily stature and morality/decency that he stresses in 61.12, attempts here to distinguish between σχῆμα, on the one hand, and ψυχή and διάνοια, on the other. This distinction perhaps reflects upon, or even has its roots in, the intricate discussion about the relationship between body and mind, physicality, and spirituality. There was a general tendency in past epistemological patterns of thought and theorising to consider the human body as being unrelated to and, in fact, as opposing, mind, will, and intention — this is the theory of mind-body (or radical) dualism, of which R. Descartes was a staunch proponent, following in the footsteps of Plato, who theorises about the disjunction between the mind (the rational part of humans, which is capable of intellect and leads to the truth) and body (the part of humans that represents the false properties of people and the

 43 Carey 2017, 281. 44 On social identity theory: see p. 160 in this paper.

  Andreas Serafim world around them). The allegory of the cave (in the Republic) indicates a fundamental belief of Plato that the body and, consequently, the senses are untrustworthy because they are inclined towards imagination, the shadows only of the true, immortal, and unchangeable ideas, the “Forms” (cf. Phaedo 78b4– 84b8 on their immortality). It is in the Platonic Phaedo that the body is presented as the jail of the soul (and, therefore, the mind) and that it is opined that the mind can only seek the truth through the body, an inquiry that is destined to lead to an imperfect and unstable outcome because the body can only see the shadows of the real Forms. The soul, we are also told in Timaeus, is stunned by the digestive processes within the body, is curtailed of its virtues, such as intelligence (44a–b), and lacks the ability to control the disoriented and needy body (43b), a virtue that is only to be gained after long and laborious exercise.45 Similarly, for Descartes, res cogitans, “thinking mind”, is distinct from res extensa, body as physical matter or substance. In his own words, “there is a great difference between mind and body, inasmuch as body is by nature always divisible, and the mind is entirely indivisible... the mind or soul of man is entirely different from the body” (Sixth Meditation, VII 86–87: CSM II 59).46 From F. Nietzsche onwards, however, epistemological, phenomenological, and philosophical discussions about the human body connect it firmly with mind and consciousness — a connection that is incisively presented, in embodied cognition research, by the concept of body-mind and theories about monism. Research recognises the significance of the body for the production of cognitive/ emotional meaning and the indication of an individual’s mentality, determination, and identity within the broader context of society in specified historical eras — and how, in reverse, body conditions and physical modes of activity have been limited by social systems.47 For M. Merleau-Ponty, to refer to an emblematic figure in the broad, multi-thematic, and interdisciplinary field of embodied cognition research, there is no distinction between bodily conduct and intelligence conduct, but the body expresses intentionality and gives meaning to

 45 Further on the relation between the human soul and the body in Plato’s Timaeus and Descartes: Wilson 2017, 177–191. Also: Sarah 2012 on divinity and nature in Timaeus. 46 On body-mind dualism: Ryle 1949; Hitchins 1959; Duncan 2000, 485–513; Walter 2011; Ouologueme and Coulibaly 2019, 281–294. On the differences between the theories of Plato and Descartes about the contrast between soul (mind) and body: Broadie 2001, 295–308 who argues that the arch difference is that the former propagates that the soul animates the body, an idea that the latter rejects. 47 See, for example: Foucault 1984, 152–153; Merleau-Ponty 2010, 27–28; Lakoff and Johnson 2015, 57–58; Varela, Thompson, and Rosch 2017, 173; Fei 2020, 1–14.

The σχῆμα of Invective  

conduct, while receiving meaning from the world.48 Similar is the argument of M. Heidegger for being-in-the-world: he argues that mind is not separated or detached from physical objects or the world. In a simple example, a hammer is recognised as the tool for pounding a nail into a wall because its agents have the knowledge of cultural, social, linguistic, and discursive practices that indicate that function. So, the actions of the human body do not have inherent meaning, but obtain meaning because the thinking mind correlates them with socio-cultural practices in the world of intertwined contexts and meanings.49 For interaction dualists, like Descartes, the mind and body are two different substances that can communicate; but, more than that, the monists argue that the mind is generated by the (neuronal and sensory) activity of the body, and that this activity can determine the mind (e.g. cognition, emotions, will, and intention).50 Another set of contrasting notions is presented in Demosthenes 18.232, where the contrast is, arguably, between truth and deceptive impression: I will not shrink from observing that any man who wished to bring an orator to the proof honestly (δικαίως ἐξετάζειν), and not merely to slander him, would never have laid such charges as you have alleged, inventing analogies, and mimicking my diction and gestures (παραδείγματα πλάττων καὶ ῥήματα καὶ σχήματα μιμούμενος). The fate of Greece, forsooth, depended on whether I used this word or that, or moved my hand this way or that way!

The translators, C.A. Vince and J.H. Vince, use the term “gestures” to translate the Greek σχήματα, but this is supported by neither the text nor the context. It seems to me that σχήματα may refer to “physical totality” — to use again the term that Sonin first suggests51 — inasmuch as Demosthenes claims that the body can be manipulated to create deceitful meaning. It is the whole body that enables the speaker to deceive, to go against justice, which in the text has adverbial form (δικαίως).

 48 Merleau-Ponty 1964; 2012; Gallagher and Zahavi 2008. 49 Heidegger [1927] 1962. 50 Hamilton and Hamilton 2015 online. I found interesting the reference, in Vita Aesopi 67, to the interconnection between body and mind, as implied in a crudely humorous way in the story of a man who prolonged defecation so much that he ended up defecating his mind (φρένας). That he defecated his mind is, in my view, a way of pointing to the association between body and the bodiless parts of the human existence. I used the text of Vita Aesopi as mentioned in Karla 2001, 200. 51 Sonin 1999, 219. The chapter by Christos Kremmydas on the nonverbal indications of deception in ancient literature adds significantly to the discussion of what is an intricate and intriguing topic; see pages 91–111 in this volume.

  Andreas Serafim Invective that focuses on the realisation of the potential of the body to create false images is also mentioned elsewhere, such as in Aeschines 2.49, where we can also find the word σχῆμα: After we had spoken, last of all Demosthenes arose, and with that imposing air of his, and rubbing his forehead (τερατευσάμενος, ὥσπερ εἴωθε, τῷ σχήματι καὶ τρίψας τὴν κεφαλήν), when he saw that the people approved my report and were satisfied with it, he said that he was amazed at both parties, as well the listeners as the ambassadors, for they were carelessly wasting time…

The ambiguity of what σχῆμα really entails remains in this passage, as in the others that have been explored thus far, and it becomes even more acute with the reference to τερατευσάμενος. There is nothing in that text that explains what the phrase τερατευσάμενος τῷ σχήματι indicates — specifically, how exactly the body is used for imposture. What is clear is that the participle τερατευσάμενος is associated with accusations of trickery and artificiality, as also indicated elsewhere in Aeschines 2: τερατείαν “trickery” (§11), τερατεύεται “he resorts to prodigious lies” (§98), πρὸς τῇ τερατείᾳ τοῦ τρόπου “to supplement the trickery of his character” (§153). The reference to the “imposing air” of Demosthenes may point to the use of “physical totality” in a way that indicates arrogance and snobbery, akin to other references, like that in Demosthenes 19.314, where Aeschines is presented as raising his eyebrows and puffing out his cheeks, an indication, I argue elsewhere, of snobbish manner or anger (as pseudo-Aristotle also notes in Physiognomics 812b27).52 By accusing his opponent of being a bold trickster and fabricator who seeks to deceive the audience, Aeschines implicitly presents himself as the victim of a well-orchestrated plot. Self-victimisation is an astute means of eliciting the sympathy of the audience, especially the judges, inviting them to treat the speaker with the fairness and clemency that sympathisers show towards the sufferer.

 52 Serafim 2020a, 121–122. Demosthenes 19.314: “Take another point. Before he did all that mischief to the commonwealth, he used to admit that he had been a clerk; he was grateful to you for his appointments; his demeanor was quite modest. But since he has perpetrated wrongs without number, he has raised the eyebrows (τὰς ὀφρῦς ἀνέσπακε). If a man speaks of ‘Aeschines, the man who was once a clerk’, he makes a private quarrel of it, and talks of defamation of character. Behold him pacing the marketplace with the stately stride of Pythocles, his long robe reaching to his ankles, his cheeks puffed out (τὰς γνάθους φυσῶν), as who should say, ‘One of Philip’s most intimate friends, at your service!’ He has joined the clique that wants to get rid of democracy, — that regards the established political order as an inconstant wave, — mere midsummer madness. And once he made obeisance to the Rotunda!”

The σχῆμα of Invective  

The idea that arrogance is reflected upon, and is indicated by, σχῆμα is clearly stated in Demosthenes 21.195: τί λέγεις, ὦ μιαρὰ κεφαλή; σὺ τὰ σαυτοῦ παιδί᾽ ἀξιώσεις ἐλεεῖν ἢ σὲ τούσδε, ἢ σπουδάζειν εἰς τὰ σά, τοὺς ὑπὸ σοῦ δημοσίᾳ προπεπηλακισμένους; σὺ μόνος τῶν ὄντων ἀνθρώπων ἐπὶ μὲν τοῦ βίου τοσαύτης ὑπερηφανίας πλήρης ὢν πάντων ἀνθρώπων ἔσει φανερώτατος, ὥστε καὶ πρὸς οὓς μηδέν ἐστί σοι πρᾶγμα, λυπεῖσθαι τὴν σὴν θρασύτητα καὶ φωνὴν καὶ τὸ σχῆμα καὶ τοὺς σοὺς ἀκολούθους καὶ πλοῦτον καὶ ὕβριν θεωροῦντας, ἐν δὲ τῷ κρίνεσθαι παραχρῆμ’ ἐλεηθήσει; Will you claim pity for your children and yourself or a kindly interest in your fortunes from these men whom you have already insulted publicly? Are you alone of living men privileged to be in your daily life so notoriously possessed of the demon of arrogance that even those who have no dealings with you are exasperated by your assurance, your tones and gestures, your parasites, your wealth, and your insolence; and then, the instant you are put on your trial are you to be pitied?

The translator, A.T. Murray, understands the word σχῆμα as referring to gestures, but this is not clearly stated in the text. This understanding is perhaps due to the distinction that is made between voice and σχῆμα; but this is not, in my view, a strong indication that the latter notion is restricted to gesticulation. It is “physical totality”, whatever this means in context (posture, movements of the body, facial expressions etc.), which indicates Meidias’ arrogance that, in turn, takes the form of hybris — insults and assaults, verbal or physical, against others. The lawcourt audience, especially the judges among the onlookers, are invited to think of themselves in the position of Demosthenes, who was insulted and assaulted by Meidias. If this invitation reaches the audience successfully, it has the potential to determine the cognitive/emotional disposition of its members towards the physically and morally flamboyant and unrestrained Meidias. In the same oration, Against Meidias, Demosthenes includes the word σχῆμα in his description of the things that the one who commits assault can do, but the assaulted cannot disclose. Here is 21.72: “Many things, Athenians, some of which the victim would find it difficult to put into words, may be done by the striker — by physicality (τῷ σχήματι), by look (τῷ βλέμματι), by tone (τῇ φωνῇ); when he strikes in wantonness or out of enmity; with the fist or on the cheek”. The word σχῆμα is, in context, clearly distinguished from look (and facial expressions) and voice, but it is vastly unclear what features of physicality this includes, despite being translated as indicating gestures. Despite the semantic ambiguity of the word, the features of invective are clearly articulated: it is the body that indicates the moral badness, boorishness, and decadence of the man who commits assault — thus, also Meidias. The contradiction with Demosthenes

  Andreas Serafim is sharp: unlike Meidias who uses physicality to attack, he trusts the case to justice to reach a decision in a legal and civilised manner. Deception is also the accusation that is trotted out against rivals of allegedly manipulating their σχῆμα to pretend they are someone they are not. This is the case of Stephanus in Demosthenes 45.68–69: οὐ τοίνυν οὐδ᾽ ἃ πέπλασται οὗτος καὶ βαδίζει παρὰ τοὺς τοίχους ἐσκυθρωπακώς, σωφροσύνης ἄν τις ἡγήσαιτ᾽ εἰκότως εἶναι σημεῖα, ἀλλὰ μισανθρωπίας. ἐγὼ γάρ, ὅστις αὐτῷ μηδενὸς συμβεβηκότος δεινοῦ, μηδὲ τῶν ἀναγκαίων σπανίζων, ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ σχέσει διάγει τὸν βίον, τοῦτον ἡγοῦμαι συνεορακέναι καὶ λελογίσθαι παρ᾽ αὑτῷ, ὅτι τοῖς μὲν ἁπλῶς, ὡς πεφύκασι, βαδίζουσι καὶ φαιδροῖς καὶ προσέλθοι τις ἂν καὶ δεηθείη καὶ ἐπαγγείλειεν οὐδὲν ὀκνῶν, τοῖς δὲ πεπλασμένοις καὶ σκυθρωποῖς ὀκνήσειέ τις ἂν προσελθεῖν πρῶτον. οὐδὲν οὖν ἄλλ᾽ ἢ πρόβλημα τοῦ τρόπου τὸ σχῆμα τοῦτ᾽ ἔστι, καὶ τὸ τῆς διανοίας ἄγριον καὶ πικρὸν ἐνταῦθα δηλοῖ. Neither should the airs which the fellow puts on as he walks with sullen face along the walls be properly considered as marks of sobriety, but rather as marks of misanthropy. In my opinion a man whom no misfortune has befallen, and who is in no lack of the necessaries of life, but who none the less habitually maintains this demeanor, has reviewed the matter and reached the conclusion in his own mind, that to those who walk in a simple and natural way and wear a cheerful countenance, men draw near unhesitatingly with requests and proposals, whereas they shrink from drawing near in the first place to affected and sullen characters. This physicality,53 then, is nothing but a cloak to cover his real character, and he shows therein the rudeness and malignity of his temper.

The passage is notable because it connects the notion of σχῆμα specifically with gait and face. It corroborates the argument this paper puts forward about the protean nature of the notion: that it may refer to a specific part of the human body from neck to tiptoe, or the “physical totality”, which may include any aspect of physicality. Despite this ambiguity, it is certain that σχῆμα changes its semantic cachet, depending on its immediate context. One quality is unchangeable, of course: the potential to betray character. I argue elsewhere that the sullen expression that is attributed to rivals — I have commented, specifically, on Aeschines 2.3654 — as an indication of anger, reflects upon their crude, unre 53 I changed the actual term in LOEB translation from “demeanor” to “physicality”, as this is the right attribution of the word σχῆμα in context. 54 Aeschines 2.36: “Now when we were by ourselves, our worthy colleague Demosthenes put on an exceedingly sour face (σφόδρα σκυθρωπάσας ὁ χρηστὸς οὑτοσὶ Δημοσθένης) and declared that I had ruined the city and the allies. And when not only I, but all the rest of the ambassadors were amazed, and asked him his reason for saying that he asked me if I had forgotten the situation at Athens, and if I did not remember that the people were worn out and exceedingly anxious for peace”.

The σχῆμα of Invective  

strained, and untrustworthy character.55 That gait is also manipulated for deception is indicated by a reference in the same speech of Demosthenes, 45.63, to Stephanus changing his pace when walking next to Aristobulus, the banker.56 “Fawning stigmatizes an individual who is presented as having no scruples about undertaking any action, from which he stands to benefit in any way. Whoever fawns upon the most powerful creates for himself the image of someone with unstable morality and dubious values, and these were the qualities of the kolax, the flatterer, which terrorized the Athenians”.57 The conjunction between τρόπος and σχῆμα corroborates two key-arguments of modern interdisciplinary scholarship: that body best reflects one’s behaviour and that it can be used to hide intentions and deceive about moral character. As this chapter indicates, invective in the texts and the contexts of Attic oratory is a complicated, intricate, but also intriguing topic that is yet to be fully investigated in classical scholarship. There is a lot we do not fully know about the mechanisms of levelling attacks against others, both individuals and groups: the thematic patterns of articulating invective, the (nonverbal) language it is expressed through, the images it conjures up, and the roots it has in the fertile soil of culture, referring to the violation of rules, norms, customs, and practices by the targets, are subject to incessant investigation and reinterpretation. The word σχῆμα is one of the “known unknowns” in ancient literature and invective in particular: we know we do not fully know its meaning, which is very much constructed within a context; and as for its use in speeches, even if we know it is a means of invective, we cannot always define the particulars of the practice. I hope this chapter offers some useful insights in the direction of explicating the notion of σχῆμα in Attic oratory, instigating further research not only on that notion, but more generally on (embodied) invective as a cultural phenomenon.

 55 Serafim 2020a, 120. 56 Demosthenes 45.63: “Now, judges, while he might justly be made to pay the penalty for all these things, he deserves even more to be punished in your court for the rest of his conduct. Observe the kind of a life he has lived, and judge. For so long as it was the lot of Aristolochus, the banker, to enjoy prosperity, this fellow fawned upon him as he walked beside him, adapting his pace to his (ἴσα βαίνων ἐβάδιζεν ὑποπεπτωκὼς ἐκείνῳ), and this is well known to many of you who are present here”. 57 Serafim 2020a, 134. On flatterers in Greek literature: Fisher 2000, 355–378; Duncan 2006, 102–123; Serafim 2017, 93.

  Andreas Serafim

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

Part IV: Constructing Identities: Power Statuses, Social Norms, and Ethnicity

Donald Lateiner

Tactics of Nonverbal Persuasion and Rule Infractions in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika Abstract: Heliodorus’ disempowered characters compensate for inferior strength, numbers, and authority by superior powers of expression and, thus, persuasion. Their rhetoric flourishes body language, facial expression, positioning, and deceitful words. Charikleia deploys beauty, gestures, gendered proxemics, and polite misdirection to outwit legal, governmental, and outlaw powers. She evades suitors and rapists by threatening gestures of suicide. Her lovesickness charade in Delphi; her alluring scams played on sailor and pirate captors; and her martyr artifices deceive blocking figures. Sometime narrator Kalasiris (2.24–5.33), her companion and successful fraud himself, suffers different disadvantages, but his sharp mind stage-manages hyper-gestural crisis “scenes” (ὥσπερ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς). By speech, gestures, hocus-pocus (love magic), and significant objects (holy garments, gems), he “cons” individuals and multitudes. The two poseurs’ gestural mini dramas exploit others’ information deficits. Their nonverbal miscommunications, face-work, and interaction rituals, finally succeed. Heliodorus re-presents in detail the multi-channel performance of human micro-relations.

Heliodorus’ disempowered protagonists compensate for inferior strength, numbers, and authority by superior powers of argument (including disinformation), verbal and corporal rhetoric, and expression management: face, poise, and postures. Their prudent impression management persuades friends, antagonists, and strangers.1 Their rhetoric flourishes, for their self-preservation, deceptive body language, face-work, and body positioning (νεύματα, βλέμματα,

 1 Identity is fluid, but one needs signs before determining reactions to strangers, of the same ethnicity or cross-cultural. Ethnic characteristics include skin color, dress, and in proximity, language, grooming (hair length and style), gestures, turn taking in talk or sign-language; Shalev 2006, 176, 183; Groves 2012. See Achilles Tatius 3.9–10 for νεύματα καὶ χειρονομία as opportunities for surmounting the barriers that face interlocutors lacking a common tongue, such as 2.29, 5.8 [Greek whispers to filter out Persians], 8.15, 10.9.38, 10.38: understanding by body language when words are indecipherable. Heliodorus is unique, perhaps because of his own ethnicity, in attention to problems of communication; Winkler 1982, 104. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-010

  Donald Lateiner σχήματα).2 The first audience, the bandits, cannot read the scene before them, and they are paradigmatic of misreading interactants: (1.1.8: τὸ γέγονος ὅ τι ποτέ ἐστιν ἀποροῦντες, cf. 1.2.1). Gestures in life may either substitute for inadequate words or complement and supplement them.3 In fiction, wily characters often mislead powerful antagonists trying to interfere with and abort their plans. Not only speech, but looks (both gaze and appearance), postures, and gestures advance their agendas.4 They suppress utterances and adjust gestures to foil threatening interactants. They give off information voluntarily that may disinform opponents, and they give off information with their bodies (leakage) that may betray them. They buy time when confronting perils, which in turn defers damage to their cause, avoids disgrace, and defers plot-resolution for the reading audience. For example, Charikleia, Heliodorus’ supremely beautiful heroine, smiles at and grovels before Trachinos, her aroused pirate captor. She appears to promote his sexual intentions and later their marital union, an event entirely contrary to her amatory goals. In fact, by her gestures, her goddess-like clothing,5 and her postures, she advances her aged mentor Kalasiris’ elaborate ruse to tease their captors, preserve her virginity, and to destroy the pirates’ short- and long-term  2 Nods: νεύματα: (1.11.3: Δημαινέτη) ἐφείλκετο βλέμμασι νεύμασι συνθήμασι; (7.24.4: Ἀρσάκη) τοῖς ἡμετερόις νεύμασιν καὶ ἄκων ἑπόμενος.... Looks: βλέμματα: (5.26.2: Χαρίκλεία) βλέμματος ἀπεσκευασμένη καὶ πρὸς τὸ ἐπαγωγότερον ἐκβιασμένη. Gestures: σχήματα: (9.5.3: the Syenians) ἐλεενοῖς τοῖς σχήμασι τὸ βούλευμα τῶν τοξεύματων ὡς δυνατὸν ἔφραζον. 3 Kendon 2005, 1. 4 Kalasiris accuses slow-witted Knemon of deceitfulness (3.4.9: ἐξαπατᾶν); cf. Morgan 1989b, one charming example of many where the pot calls the kettle black. Charikleia teasingly accuses Theagenes of falling for (dead) Thisbe’s “deception” (2.8.2: ἐξηπατήθης) and thus kissing her corpse in the dark cave. Kendon 2004 offers an introduction to modern gesture study; Lateiner 1995 examines gestures in Homeric epic, a rich source mined by Herodotus and Heliodorus; Corbeill 2004 attends more to orators and religious rituals than creative literature, but he cites parallels from Petronius, Vergil, and Ovid; Bevington 1984 explores gesture in Shakespeare (who read Heliodorus in translation). 5 Her clothes and stillness mislead the Egyptian bandits — they wonder whether she is a goddess. “Clothes make the (wo) man”, the English proverb claims. Artemis spells trouble for men and Charikleia is her acolyte. Actaeon experiences the goddess’ wrath by the attack of the dogs in myth, and Peloros in combat dies by Theagenes’ hand as Charikleia cheers him on (5.32). Thus, Kalasiris’ scheme and Charikleia’s appearance bring about the pirate band’s drunken and murderous self-destruction. Kalasiris’ Hellenic clothes cause Knemon to mistake him for a Greek (2.21.4), one of many times that the young Athenian jumps to wrong conclusions. The mendicants’ clothes and facial disfigurement are so convincing that even Theagenes at Memphis mistakes his beloved for a ratty hag (7.7.6). Elegant vestments and raggedy beggars’ disguise deceive the two multitudes at the Nile’s mouth and far upstream.

Tactics of Nonverbal Persuasion and Rule Infractions in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika  

plans (5.26–33). While talk prevails in the limited, human-attention hierarchy and, thus, in literature, salient gestures gain main-track status, and in Heliodorus’ gesture-drenched novel, they do so, when words are not enough — or too much. Kalasiris narrates a full third of the story (2.24–5.33). Charikleia’s faithful protector, a successful fraud himself, he recognises and employs her innate courage and strategic skills. Kalasiris suffers different disadvantages (advanced age, hobbled walk, self-exile, barbarian outsider [xenos] status in Greece), but his priestly hocus-pocus showmanship stage-manages hyper-gestural crisis “scenes” (e.g., 4.5.3: ὥσπερ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς). These moments produce readings and mis-readings profitable to the usually captive threesome.6 By speech, gestures, rituals (de-hexing love magic), and marvelous objects (holy garments, gifted gems,7 incense, and laurel), he “cons” priests, lawless captains, merchants (2.30.5, 5.15.1),8 and multitudes to grant his wishes in both wild, law-free, and in cultivated, law-governed environments. In partly true guises of Memphis priest, ascetic thaumaturge, and wandering prophet, or duplicitous guises of respectable merchant, medical doctor (3.7), gemologist (5.13–15), and Homeric scholar (3.13.15), his gestural mini-dramas manipulate others’ information deficits in both Europe and Africa and in-between. Nonverbal behaviours vary in nature. Some are intentional, some uncontrollable, and some semi-automatic, psychologically activated. However, if an audience is present, such body-movement or vocal abnormality will be read, socially interpreted. A good example, if a rare one, occurs when Charikleia, irritated and angry at her boyfriend, Theagenes, scratches her cheek. She reacts to bizarre bad news, Theagenes has unintendedly kissed another woman, the dead Athenian servant Thisbe, in the dark of the cave, grieving over what he thought was Charikleia. She suppresses her anger for Theagenes’ infidelity (2.8.1), instead reacting with this impatient gesture: τὴν παρειὰν ὑπὸ

 6 The couple is even relatively autonomous rarely, only in Delphi (2.30–5.24), on the Egyptian road (6.11–7.14), and in the finale of the finale (10.40–41). Most of the time, they are constrained by roles and/or chains: priestess of Artemis, ambassador of Thessalians, arrested “brother and sister”, etc. 7 Charikles received valuables galore when accepting the baby Charikleia from Sisimithres (2.30). Kalasiris trades one of the many gems to gain possession of the maid from Nausikles with a conjuring stunt (5.14). The ring ekphrasis (5.15) and the pantarbe (4.87, 8.9.13–11) supply two other valuable objects and identifying tokens of her baby-treasure. 8 Kalasiris silences Charikleia when she whispers (paralinguistics: λάθρα) to him that they have many more riches to trade, if needed (5.11–12.1).

  Donald Lateiner τὸ οὖς ἐπικνῶσα, and a sarcastic riposte and question.9 The head-scratch redirects her aggression to herself but communicates her emotional agitation. Achaimenes, the son of Arsake’s body-servant Kybele, groans and wrings or rubs his hands in anger at his mother’s similarly bad news about his sexual expectations for Charikleia (7.28.5: ἀνοιμώξας... καὶ τῶ χαῖρε διατρίψας). The humiliating and insulting news (hybris) informs him that Charikleia and Theagenes are not brother and sister, but an engaged couple. The Persians’ master, the satrap’s wife Arsake, broke her oath and Achaimenes’ engagement to the beauty. I will not address this important kind of body language, unintendedly communicating frustrated anger, but rather we pursue here one woman and one man’s purposeful manipulations of social conventions encountered in Heliodorus’ Greek, Egyptian, Persian, and Meroitic societies. Here I explore Charikleia and Kalasiris’ disinforming nonverbal miscommunications: “looks”, body language, paralinguistics, and proxemics. Their confidence-man face-work and subversion of interaction rituals enable them to successfully defend themselves against coercive and smug opponents. They advance their goals by wit, not strength. Heliodorus’ favoured characters perform exceptionally well the multi-channel performance of human microrelations, often simultaneously, sending different messages to different audiences. Like Odysseus, their trajectory takes them from humiliation and neardeath to a return to power and status.

 Charikleia The heroine deploys her unrivaled beauty,10 gestures, gendered proxemics, and polite misdirection to outwit both legal and outlaw powers. Her beauty is an  9 Sittl 1890, 19 observes that she is angry. Liviabella-Furiani 1996, 313 perceives that she has translocated her aggression to her body (auto-manipulation), while she suppresses her anger at her boyfriend. The Groningen Apuleius Commentary (Zimmerman et al. 2004, ad Metam. 6.9) notes, following Sittl, that the goddess Venus, angry with the uppity Psyche, but after the fact, in frustration at her past acts, also scratches the side of Psyche’s face, her right ear (ascalpens aurem dexteram), preparatory to torturing “her slave”. The gesture expresses controlled dominance expressed toward a helpless subject. 10 In the face-to-face interactions of ancient Greek cities in all periods, a forest of eyes followed every woman’s action in public and private. Strategies of self-presentation preserved reputations. For Kallirhoe, the author mentions, without particulars, the look of her hair, the sound of her voice, the way she walked, her standing, speaking, voice and tears (2.4.3, 6.7.1; cf. de Temmerman 2007, 241–242).

Tactics of Nonverbal Persuasion and Rule Infractions in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika  

invariable, but her body language establishes her decent behaviour, her girl’s modesty (esp. blushing), and her goddess-like determination. Although her political, physical, and legal empowerment is negligible, she prevails through gestural and verbal subterfuges (1.25.3: λόγοι ἐπικαῖροι). She is a consummate illusionist.11 From the start, gestures trump words (Shalev 2006, citing 1.4.2: συνεὶς οὖν ὁ λῄσταρχος τὸ μέν τι τοῖς λεγομένοις, πλέον δὲ τοῖς νεύμασιν). Charikleia evades suitors, seducers, and rapists with teasing delays of her cooperation, and by threats and gestures of self-harm. Gestures that threaten suicide by sword outwit Egyptian brigands and boukoloi herdsmen, her captors near the Nile and in a marshy hide-out (1.4.2, 1.8.3, 22.6–23.1).12 She agrees to marry the boukoloi chief, Thyamis, when trapped, but defers the nuptials until after he returns to his Memphis priesthood. Thus, she retards her abhorrent deflowering and her sly trick deceives even her faithful sidekick and fiancée Theagenes (1.22, 25). She blushes but raises her head to meet Τhyamis’ lustful eye in an unmaidenly way13 and caps her verbal plea (in Greek, but translated into the local Egyptian tongue by her interpreter Knemon) with nonverbal tears that persuade all his roughneck crew (cf. Lateiner 2015). Her beauty, although regarded by her as a fatal, repeating problem (5.19.1, 6.9.6: τὸ κάλλος), also serves her as a weapon to reduce her male captors to cooperate with her strategies. Her near-death parody of lovesickness, partly real but exaggerated into a charade for her foster-father and his planned groom in Delphi, and her other alluring scams played on merchant and pirate captors14 later, benefit from her

 11 She is arguably an illusion herself. Her appearance results from maternal impression, because her mother Persinna gazed on a painting of Andromeda at sexual climax. The Egyptian bandits fear the still goddess’ unexpected movement and dive for cover; some think she is a human possessed (1.2.6). Thyamis’ bandits regard her as a statue or a statue come to life (1.7.2: ἱερά τινα... ἢ καὶ αὐτὸ ἔμπνουν μετῆχθαι τὸ ἄγαλμα... ὑπ’ ἀγροικίας εἴκαζον), observed by Whitmarsh 2002, 115. 12 Charikleia adjusts performances to settings as well as to gendered audiences, bolder among bandits than among royalty. On the beach and in the marshes, she is displaced from her homes in the Delphic sanctuary and the Ethiopian public reception areas. See Smith 2006; Lateiner 2012. 13 Montiglio 2020, 73 observes that an ordinary maiden would have kept her eyes to the ground, as Charikleia previously had, not gazed directly at the besotted male (1.21.3: ἀντωπήσασα). The word and eye-contact tactic are hapax. 1.21.3: ἡ δὲ (Charikleia) πολύν τινα χρόνον τῇ γῇ τὸ βλέμμα προσειρήσασα καὶ πύκνα τὴν κεφαλὴν ἐπισείουσα....πεφοίνικτο τὴν παρειάν.... “πρέπειν γὰρ οἶμαι γυναικὶ μὲν σιγὴν ἀνδρὶ δὲ ἀπόκρισιν ἐν ἀνδράσιν”. 14 Captors provide the opportunity for post-mature Kalasiris and the seventeen-year-old Charikleia to prove their mettle. For the latter victim, recall two groups of Egyptian ruffians (1.3–4), her “master” Thyamis (1.22), the pirates Trachinos and Peloros (5.26–31), Nausikles (5.2) who snatches her from the Persian commander Mitranes (5.29–31), Arsake, nominally her

  Donald Lateiner mentor Kalasiris’ direction or cooperation. Her subsequent, martyr-like artifices when held prisoner by Persian Arsake and Ethiopian Hydaspes, delay and deceive15 enemies and uncomfortable friends. Her unexpected behaviours stupefy even her lover and parents.16 She advises her father to ask Theagenes who he is because he is a man, not a woman held back by embarrassment (10.18.2). She says this to her father both blushing and with eyes bent to the ground. Her daring here bookends her daring when the bandits’ captive. Her strategy there depended on lies (e.g., Theagenes was her brother); her strategy here depends on mystification and withholding vital information — her father too has been misinformed about her relationship to her companion, a sibling, not her fiancé.17 He is embarrassed too by violating her virgin modesty; she is in a frenzy of frustration and works stealthily (10.19.1: πάλιν ὑφεῖρπε τὸν σκόπον). The practiced mystifier Kalasiris explicitly compliments and complements her ruses and postponements.18 The aplomb of the mendacious teenager invites everyone to misread her. In Book X, she gains the sympathy of the vast Greekless audience in Ethiopian Meroë. They comprehend her dramatised, effectively nonverbal mimes — gestures and postures that convey her plight and hope. They know not Greek  son Achaimenes (7.23–26) and her husband Oroondates, the Persian eunuch and the Meroitic one (8.17.2–4), and Hydaspes, King of Ethiopia and her biological father. 15 These two everyday human ruses (delay and deception) thematise both the plot and the strategy of most scenes in Heliodorus’ novel with its endless Barthian deferrals. Underdogs and stigmatised individuals must work by ambiguity and indirection, delaying the decisions of authorised or lawless deciders (chronemics) and deceiving those parties, when possible, with elaborate back-stories about their own identities (affianced couple or brother and sister?) and their actual wishes. Odysseus and Penelope provide the paradigms of female delay and male obfuscation. 16 She and Kalasiris wait for καιρός in order to control the stage (10.33.4, 4.13.1, sic. Winkler 1982, 129–130) — opportunities sometimes controllable, but otherwise the result of luck or allegedly divine interference. Greek vocabularies of fraud include (Hld. 6.9.6–10) ἐπίνοια, μηχανή, τέχνη, πλαττώμεθα τὸ σχῆμα. Also, ἀπάτη, δόλος, γοητεία, πανουργία, etc. See Beta et al. Lessico svv. Explanations to Theagenes, her fiancée and dim side-kick, allow narrators Charikleia and Kalasiris to explain her covert strategies designed to manage each “fix”. 17 Montiglio 2020, 78. Charikleia manipulates silence repeatedly, in Egypt, Delphi, and Ethiopia, as Montiglio elaborates. See, e.g., facing Kalasiris (4.11.1): οὐκ ὀλίγον οὖν ἐφησυχάσασα χρόνον. I disagree, however, that shame determines her silence with her father; Montiglio 2020, 76. She uses this male expectation, approvingly voiced by Kalasiris (4.10.3–4), to maneuver endangered Theagenes into a safer place. Shame never stops this impressive twister; she stays three moves ahead of her opponents and foils. 18 [Δ]εινὴ δέ τις ἔοικας εἶναι σοφιστεῦσαι κατὰ τῶν ἐπιχειρούντων διαδύσεις τε καὶ ὑπερθέσεις (6.9.7).

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(τὰ πλεῖστα τῶν λεγόντων οὐ συνιέντες), but they understand and welcome the palm fronds that signify victory, the brazier-leap dance that proves her incredible virginity, the Andromeda painting (evidence of “maternal impression” that explains her white skin) and, another token of her hybrid cultural identity, the revelation of the black ring on her white arm, the maternal embrace, and her foster-father Charikles’ unexpected appearance to make a hands-on arrest of her alleged “abductor” Theagenes. But that was an elopement from Delphi — not an abduction — that Kalasiris fabricated and Charikleia arranged and fully cooperated with.19 The climactic final gesture after trial in Meroë, a jubilant parental hug, brings the bodies of three puzzled souls into one embrace (10.38: ἐνηγκαλίζετο). The populace dances in happiness; they comprehend the proxemic gesture of family reunion but, explicitly, not the words spoken. Heliodorus’ internal audiences, small or large, often cue the external audiences’ emotional reactions.20 Other scholars have rehearsed Charikleia’s successful tactics for preserving her life, her lover Theagenes, and, above all, her chastity.21 In peril, her gestures repeatedly threaten suicide.22 This extreme stratagem works every time. I suggest that she almost never intends the threat, but the gambit discomfits males bedazzled by her beauty and eager to enjoy it. Newly confident in her proven worth and stature as sex object,23 priestess,24 possible goddess,25 princess,26

 19 See Lateiner 1997/2000 for the details and comparanda. 20 Kaimio 1996, 58–66 makes the same point for emotional reactions in Chariton’s novel: admiration, fear, tears, pity, etc. She minimises the technique in the ‘sophistic novels’ (69–71), although the crowds in Egypt (1.1), Delphi (3.1), Memphis (7.5), Syene (9.5), and Meroë (10.44) would argue otherwise. He makes the same use of small audiences and their sympathy, e.g., 1.18, 5.33. 21 Kaimio 1995 addresses parallels in Chariton’s plot, Jones 2012. See Appendix 1. Pernot 1992 notes her frequent threats and stratagems, such as describing her lover as her brother, delaying nuptials, and devising man-talk arguments that stall male violence. 22 MacAlister 1996 follows the topos even before prose fiction. Chariton’s Kallirhoe never stoops to this expedient, although her husband Chaireas so threatens eight times. 23 Attracting Egyptian bandits, Greek pirates, a Persian satrap (by merely hearing her description), not to mention other men. Létoublon 1993, 80–83 summarises the pre-photographic novels’ topos of ineffable beauty. 24 At Delphi, at the mouth of the Nile, perhaps at Meroë deep in Africa in the final parade for the couple, in which local Sun and Moon divinities and Hellenic Artemis and Apollo find a Syrian syncretism. 25 The primitive Nilotic savages puzzle at her statuesque and imperturbable stillness in the programmatic, introductory violent scenes of mutual incomprehension. 26 In Meroë, she returns to prove that she is the daughter of the otherwise childless King and Queen. Queen Persinna was not going to take another chance.

  Donald Lateiner daughter, and foster-child,27 on each suicidal occasion she signals rejection of another male’s plan to possess her concupiscible body. This subtractive move performs a theatrical script in hyper-dramatic manner, often by nonverbal movements.28 The threat amounts to a female’s only non-negotiable tactic.29 The novel text exploits the metaphors, the cliché maneuvers, and even the machinery of Attic tragedy.30 The stage-managing, internal narrator Kalasiris scripts for us the audience his and her theatrical “moves”.31 Charikleia’s woman’s weapon amounts to a signature topos.32 She eroticises menace, violence, and death. Charikleia exploits her goddess-like beauty at the outset, the scene of chaos on the Egyptian shore. She enhances her beauty by tossing her long hair, displaying her crown of laurel, her golden robes, and her sword and bow (1.2; cf. 3.4, her Delphic near-epiphany as Priestess of Artemis).33 Her divine appearance and her striking motionlessness — zero degree movement — briefly stop the brigands in their tracks. After she springs off a rock to life (1.2.5: ἀνέθορεν), she suggests that they kill both her and the grievously wounded Theagenes now — not suicide proper, but an invitation34 to end their miseries — a tactic, as we shall see, that she will successfully repeat to save their lives (e.g., 8.8.4).  27 For the seemingly childless Ethiopian royalty Hydaspes and Persinna (10.38.1), for the otherwise childless Delphic priest Charikles who previously lost his biological daughter (graced with the same paternal name) in a house fire (2.29.4) immediately after he married her off to the man of his patriarchal choice. 28 When audiences are ignorant of the Greek language, as the Egyptian boukoloi, Theban and Meroitic crowds are, the protagonists’ mime of gesture is a necessary substitute for a shared language. Heliodorus is sensitive to language barriers (Groves 2012; e.g., 1.2.1, 2.30.1: the Meroitic Sisimithres ἑλληνίζων οὐ βεβαίως). 29 Cf. Aeschylus’ Danaid suppliants who seek Eleusinian asylum from lusty Egyptians. 30 Walden 1894 focused on the extensive literary terminology found in the text (e.g., δρᾶμα, ἐπεισόδιον, ἐπεισκυκλέω, κωμῳδία, θέατρον, σκηνή, τραγῳδία); Paulsen 1992, refers to the novel as a prose drama with an epic substrate and the “dustbin of literary genres”; Buhler 1976 examines the rich visual elements of the opening scene, etc. 31 Winkler 1982. 32 Attic tragedy flourishes many scenes of women killing themselves, such as Jokasta, Oidipus’ mother, Antigone, and Phaidra. See Loraux 1987; MacAlister 1996, 28–30. Such suicides represent an inevitable solution to an intolerable situation. Noose and knife predominate for the act; Garland 2014, III. 1377–1379). Antecedents appear in the four extant Greek novels, but there it is both rarer and not a deceptive ploy. Recall Anthia’s poison (Xen. 2.1.3–6, 3.6.1–5, 5.8.8–9), Chloe’s threat (Long. 4.27.2), Kallirhoe’s search for a sword (Char. 7.6). Leukippe reportedly dies three times, but not by suicide (AT 3.15.2–6, 5.7.4, 7.4.1). 33 Whitmarsh 2002, 125 n. 56. 34 First in the récit, but not in the history.

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Charikleia’s performance of love sickness,35 often remarked as the culmination — or parody — of tragic tradition,36 itself exaggerates symptoms of melancholy. She is not so much delusional and frenzied,37 as manipulative. Here she beguiles four audiences: her foster-father Charikles, her “intended” husband Alkamenes, the doctor Akesinos, and briefly Kalasiris, the thaumaturge solicited to cure her from the evil eye (3.7.2-8.2; 4.5.4).38 Her wry grin (σεσηρὸς ὑπεμειδία)39 and quick recovery indicate the malady’s exaggerated pretence, or at least its seriousness magnified with a purpose in mind. She herself rejects foster-father Charikles’ superstitious diagnosis of the evil-eye (4.5.3–4), and likewise smiles at Kalasiris’ pretended agreement. Her silence that follows (4.6.1) betokens her maidenly modesty — she exhibits gendered paralinguistic shame (αἰδώς) and deference to the self-exiled and self-isolated wise-man.40 Then, eminent doctor Akesinos visits her, but she turns away to the wall (proxemic dissociation by orientation) and remains silent. The learned doctor takes her pulse, prolongs his examination (4.7.4), and reaches the conclusion that no pharmaceutical, or herbal, remedy, but only the man whom she desires, can cure her: ὁ ἰασόμενος γένοιτο δ’ ἂν μόνος ὁ ποθούμενος.41 When deluded Charikles introduces Alkamenes (his choice of local spouse for her), she screams, averts her eyes, and wraps her hands noose-like around her neck,42  35 Arguably, such hysteria amounts to an involuntary, psychogenic suicide. 36 Even before Attic tragedy, Homer reports wife Anteia’s damaging passion for the stranger Bellerophon (Il. 6.157–178). Heliodorus borrows Euripides’ version of Phaidra’s story when Knemon narrates Daimenete’s passion for him. This erotic nosos is a topos in all the novels. It provides an opportunity for comic parody of physicians, both those perplexed and the occasional successful analyst, such as the doctor who examines the love-sick boy Polykles in Aristaenetus (Herscher, Epistol. Gr. Paris 1873). Amundsen 1974; MacAlister 1996; Haynes 2003. 37 Cf. e.g., pathos erōtikon, melancholy of virgins, found in Diseases of Women 8, Epidemics 5.12 and 25; Galen, On Prognosis 6, a novelistic detective text itself; and Soranus, Gynaecology 3.26–29. 38 Yatromanolakis 1988. 39 This look’s only comparables are other knowledgeable parties: Arsake’s Greek maid and bawd Kybele (7.10.5) and the high Ethiopian priest Sisimithres (10.14.6: Ὑποβλέψας οὖν ... καί τι καὶ εἰρωνικὸν ὑπομειδιάσας) whose wry smile speeds the plot to its long deferred climax. 40 Greek women’s modesty of the late 5th–early 4th centuries expects them to avoid the (male) public sphere and to award spatial deference to men with whom they share space. Henley 1977, 36–42, discusses contemporary gendered proxemic practices. Conversely, men invade even such women’s limited territory, entitled by profession, such as Dr Akesinos, age, such as Kalasiris, relation and status, such as Charikles and Hydaspes. 41 Amundsen 1974. 42 4.7.11: τὰς χεῖρας ὡς βρόχον ἐπάγουσα (Χαρίκλεια) τῷ τραχήλῳ διαχρήσεσθαι ἠπείλει. Such a strangulating method of self-killing is impossible, although the symbolic gesture may

  Donald Lateiner threatening self-killing (διαχρήσεσθαι), unless the two men leave. which they do. Jammed-up tragic heroines often self-destruct (e.g., Antigone, Jokasta). No woman in Heliodorus does, except the predator-like villains, Athenian Demainete and Persian Arsake.43 These two mature, married and unfaithful, seductresses have no better options, trapped in crime by evidence. These foils to Charikleia’s fidelity drop from the plot as soon as they dispose of themselves. Afterwards, Kalasiris returns to her sick-room, asserting that Charikleia must confide in him the source of her morbus amatorius (4.10). She blushes44 when asked to identify the object of her carnal desire (ἐπιθυμίας αἰσχρὸν ὄνομα), taboo for someone who has dedicated herself to Artemis’ priesthood and the virgin life.45 Indeed, Kalasiris claims (truthfully, for once) that he can divine her beloved’s name, even if she does not confess. She sweats heavily (ἰδρῶτι πολλῷ), more nonverbal “leakage” expressing anxiety and confusion resulting from conflicting emotions — early evidence of a “hot-flash”. She announces hyperbolically that she would rather die than marry Alkamenes (4.11.3: τάφον πρότερον ἢ γάμον). When the three escapees depart cloistered Delphi by following Kalasiris’ strategic abduction subterfuge, they sail off in a Phoenician merchant’s ship. Kalasiris must stall this captain’s suit for his counterfeit daughter (5.20.1: ὑπερθέσθαι) with attractive promises for “later”. Trachinos, the pirate and next lovesick suitor (αὐτῆς ἐρῶ μανικῶς ἅπαξ θεασάμενος), overtakes them, specifically to loot the merchantman and to seize Charikleia (5.20.8) — a “twofer”. His outlaw status prevents Charikleia from employing the three typical female defenses that polite society affords along with enforcers — blushes of embarassment (leakage), patriarchal domestic protection, and legal status of a free woman. Crafty Kalasiris, nevertheless, conceives a mini-spectacle to  indicate what she expects to do later with a rope. Indeed, nooses were the preferred mode of suicide for innocent maidens and faithless wives. Cf. Loraux 1987; Létoublon 1993; Garland 2014. Her facial expression is described: “as if she had seen Gorgo or some even more grotesque being”. She screams (paralinguistics) and turns her head away (orientation). This description focuses on her bizarre facial, vocal, and postural reaction suited to a veritable gorgon, not the nonentity Alkamenes. In Charikleia’s situation, the irrational response suits her performance of distaste or an induced hysteria presented to a groom forced on the woman by her dimwitted (foster-)father, a typical blocking patriarch. 43 2.8, 8.15; Bagoas plainly quotes Eur. Hipp. 802. 44 Lateiner 1998 surveys blushes in the novels. This form of involuntary self-disclosure, “leakage”, clarifies embarrassment — an admission of perplexed incapacity in a social setting. Another is Charikleia’s sweating in emotional confusion, 4.11.1: ἰδρῶτι πολλῷ διερρεῖτο. 45 The nubile beauty has rejected marriage and sexual activity on principle (2.33.4–5). She chooses to pursue a philosophical chastity.

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preserve both her purity and their lives (5.24), and he instructs her how. She ensorcels the presumptive suitor: τοῦ βλέμματος ἀπεσκευασμένη καὶ πρὸς τὸ ἐπαγωγότερον ἐκβιασμένη. When the pirates commandeer the merchant vessel, Charikleia restrains Theagenes from pointless fighting. The heroic paradigm is all he can think of. Charikleia again threatens to kill herself and Theagenes, suicide and homicide, if she cannot preserve her sexual purity. She informs her beloved that one thrust of one sword will effect a mutual suicide,46 a tactic preferable to combat. Thus, they would avoid unbearable separation in life and death. The late novel here riffs on the elegiac trope of mutuality, duo in una for eternity.47 Directed by Kalasiris’ plan, “the clever little minx, ever quick to turn a situation to her own advantage”,48 discards her unhelpful, downcast face. With malice and instruction aforethought, she puts on her alluring smile to disarm, entrance, and deceive the pirate chief, Trachinos (τοῦ βλέμματος ἀπεσκευασμένη καὶ πρὸς τὸ ἐπαγωγότερον ἐκβιασμένη). In addition to the facework and fraudulent words — and another threat of suicide — she clasps the outlaw’s knees with the age-old Hellenic ritual gestures and postures of supplication, weeps in a most attractive show of female powerlessness,49 and so persuades the brigand by her supplicant’s touch (περιπλοκαῖς ἐντρυφῶντος) to spare her alleged ‘brother’ and ‘father’.50 They gain time, deferring unwelcome sexual violation.

 46 The duo in una amatory and elegiac Liebestod topos. 47 5.24.3: ξίφει ἑνὶ καὶ πληγῇ μιᾷ τοῦ πάθεος. Hard to picture or perform. See Létoublon 1993; Konstan 1994, 30–36. Their emotions are symmetrical although not their nonverbal behaviours: gender driven. Their love is mutual and symmetrical, and so will as is their grief and despair when buried in Arsake’s prison (7.14–15). 48 5.26.2, Morgan’s 1989a translation of χρῆμα σοφώτατον καιρὸν διαθέσθαι δραστήριος. Thucydides’ first description of the aggressive, effective Spartan general Brasidas (4.81.1) includes this last, rare adjective — an example of Heliodorus’ allusiveness and sly gender-bending employing a masculine descriptor for his tough heroine. 49 5.26.3: καὶ ἅμα λέγουσα τοῖς γόνασι προσέπιπτεν (Charikleia) καὶ εἴχετο ἐπὶ πλεῖστον ἱκετευοῦσα τοῦ Τραχίνου ταῖς περιπλοκαῖς ἐντρυφῶντος.... ὑπό τε τῶν δακρύων πρός οἶκτον ἤγετο... Lateiner 2015 explores the many scenes of weeping exhibited in this tragicomic novel. 50 The asserted blood relationships provide the pirate a reason to grant her wish and removes the fatal objections that the former is her lover and betrothed and the latter elderly man merely her guide. She utilises the same faux grateful bride-to-be ruse on land soon after deceiving her next captor, the equally unrejectable bandit suitor, Thyamis (although he appears earlier in the récit (1.22.5). She explains to jealous Theagenes (and the reader) that “my deception is our protection” (Morgan, 1.26.5): καθάπερ πάλαισμα τὸ πλάσμα.

  Donald Lateiner Later, after other captivities, when the satrap’s wife Arsake has executioners light a penal and capital bonfire to execute her, Charikleia attempts to hasten death. Now she will commit suicide by throwing herself into the flames before they can snuff her out. Her failure to burn to a crisp puzzles her (8.9), until she realises that her never disposed of, birth-token and jewel ‘Pantarbe’ protects her (4.8.7–11). The Meroitic virginity-test gridiron provides a double, testing again her unlikely but deified and real virginity (10.9; 2.33.5). That inner, unpenetrated state protects her outer body, a doublet but with a clear difference.51 Here her priestly robes, another magical and holy talisman, a significant object at several points in the plot,52 echo the divine power of her dazzling beauty. The indestructible carapace protects her inviolable body. Clothes — such as military uniforms, priestly vestments, body badges, and athletic gear53 — nonverbally communicate personal status, age and gender, and alignment (or disalignment) with interactants. As Kalasiris had suggested to Charikleia donning her priestly gown as wedding finery to stymy the pirates, so Charikleia later suggests the “sartorial artifice” of beggars’ gear to Kalasiris (6.11: τὸ πτωχικὸν πλάσμα).54 Their dirty persons’ outfits stigmatise them and thus preclude arrest and detection while traveling through Egypt. They tease and mock each other, pleased with their charade (6.12.1: ὑπόκρισις, ἐπισκώψαντες, ἐπιχλευάσαντες).55 The episode of self-stigmatisation ends humorously when Theagenes himself falls victim to his beloved’s effective disguise, misreading her filthy face and tattered garments (7.7.6). He “elbowed off the mendicant thinking her a veritable vagabond” (καὶ ἀληθῶς ἀλῆτιν διωθεῖτο καὶ παρηγκωνίθετο). Only their password code convinces him of her real identity. Tragedy, the narrator insists, turned into comedy in the nick of time (7.8.1).  51 Morgan 1999, 70–71. 52 Morgan 1999, 71 mentions three things that visibly emphasise her hieratic status: the priestess’s robe’ in the opening scene, the lover’s first encounter in a ceremony at Delphi, and her incredible proofs of intactness on the gridiron (1.2.5, 3.4.2, 10.9.3). The golden robe’s dazzling sheen, when Charikleia suddenly appears at the pirates’ drunken banquet (5.31.2), draws all eyes — another epiphany-like entrance. 53 Other items held in one’s hand or worn on one’s head, body, or arms constitute nonverbal object-adaptors. These include heralds’ staffs, royal crowns, weapons, ethnic garb, and the stigmatised and shabby accouterments of the beggars (cf. Charikleia’s and Kalasiris’ get-ups, 6.10–11: with the narrator Kalasiris’ analysis of such a disguise as a technē and schēma). Theagenes’ mantle (3.3.5); Whitmarsh 2002 pictures the victory of the sober Thessalian Lapiths over the drunk and bestial, lustful Centaurs. 54 Cf. Whitmarsh 2002, 121. 55 Kalasiris play-acts with witchcraft while knowing better in Delphi (4.5), but he rejects necromancy near Bessa (6.14.7) as unclean, and probably unnecessary.

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Charikleia exploits the opportunities that female gender offers her. Her public behaviour turns weakness into strength. Mitranes, the Persian commander of the Guard seizes Charikleia (5.8) for his master’s harem. Quick-thinking Nausikles, however, contrives a ploy to save her from death or a virgin’s worse fate. Once he whispers (vocalics) the deceit to her in Greek (παραφθεγγόμενος), she instantly complies with his ruse (σόφισμα). She pretends to be another woman, Thisbe, the pert Athenian slave and later “companion”, whom the infatuated merchant Nausikles has vainly pursued and hired the Persian policeman to recover.56 Thisbe, the “wanted” Athenian slave, and Charikleia’s doomed and now dead sexual double, anticipates a number of Charikleia’s successes in a man’s world, and, as well, her womanly difficulties and embarrassments. She succeeds in numerous subterfuges — seducing Knemon for her mistress and then deceiving him about her mistress’ supposed lover (1.9–12); deceiving Demainete crazed with love for her stepson; misreporting Knemon’s hidden whereabouts; lying to Demainete’s husband Aristippus in order to trap Demainete in a bed trick (1.14.2, 2.8.4: ἀπάτη); escaping her rival courtesan Arsinoe’s anger and the anger of outraged Athenian courts (2.9); and, finally, escaping Athens entirely for Egyptian Naukratis with her “sugar daddy” Nausikles. Nevertheless, this survivalist trickster falls short of Charikleia’s supreme finesse, her strategic skills at nonverbal and verbal deception.57 Or at least, Thisbe fails to survive. The besotted, subordinate thug Thermouthis immures Thisbe in the robbers’ cave for his own lustful purposes, but the bandit chief Thyamis, in the dark and heat of battle, mistakenly thinks she was his “intended” Charikleia (1.28.1). She too had been hidden in order to preserve her from Persian police attack, but Thyamis finding a woman in his cave, in panic of hypermasculine possession, murders her there to preserve his intended from violation by others (2.12.3: ὡς Χαρίκλεια ἀνῄρει τὴν Θίσβην).

 56 Cunning Thisbe’s viewpoint and story, told by her pursuer Knemon, requires further attention. Morgan 1989 focuses on her disoriented, prejudiced, and often misinformed taleteller, Knemon. The controlled release of information, for example, whose corpse do the boys discover in the dark, leaves readers in the dark. Heliodorus exploits reader’s expectations — the ones that he has encouraged (Morgan 1989b: 104). Nausikles the Nausikritan experiences a profane love of Thisbe the sly hetaira, but one yet intended for his profit (2.9.3–4, 2.24; cf. his error at 5.1.5). The doublet contrasts mere lust to the mutual love of the main couple. The Thisbe novella is programmatic in romantic loss and lengthy journey but opposite from theirs in motives and outcomes. 57 1.26.4 (Charikleia explains to Theagenes): φυλακτέον... καθάπερ πάλαισμα τὸ πλάσμα.... Καλὸν γάρ ποτε καὶ τὸ ψεῦδος... 5.26.2: (Kalasiris describes Charikleia):“χρῆμα σοφώτατον καιρὸν διαθέσθαι δραστήριος”.

  Donald Lateiner Beyond reflexive skills at self-preservation, Charikleia has a performative personality. Does Heliodorus’ plot emphasise her exaggerated behaviours to fit his thematised theatrical metaphors or, does his choice of theatrical metaphors fit the social pragmatics of an inventive damsel in distress? The rare58 compound verb ἐπιτραγῳδέω describes tragic ranting, twice referring to Charikleia performing her captive persona.59 The narrator’s verb also characterises her melodramatic, theatrical gestures when addressing mortal dangers.60

 Kalasiris The wandering Egyptian priest, an aged Memphis prophet and stranger in Hellas is out of place for most of the novel.61 He boasts of his successful trumpery — mendacious, hocus-pocus powers.62 He divines love-sick Theagenes’  58 Found among the novelists only in Hld. (4x), one of his many Attic theatrical metaphors; cf. Walden 1894. 59 1.3.2, 7.14.7. The two other instances of the pseudo-technical literary verb colour Charikles’ description of his multiple sufferings (2.29.4: loss of daughter and wife) and the narrator’s wry judgment of a “new tragic episode added to the goings-on”, when Kalasiris joins the quasiHomeric but comical “heroes” running around Thebes’ city-walls. Thyamis chases his cowardly brother Petosiris in order to do battle (7.6.4: καινόν ἐπεισόδιον ἐπετραγῴδει τοῖς δρωμένοις). Heliodorus is playing with various subtexts, most obviously Akhilleus and Hector, but also Oidipus’ sons in (a different) Theban battle. Heliodorus “samples” the related topos of wily Greek battling brute-force barbarian first with comic Knemon trying to outwit Thermouthis (2.19) and its “doublet”, when Theagenes confronts the posturing giant and wrestles Meroibos’ Ethiopian monster to a deceptive fall (10.31); Morgan 1999, 62–63. 60 Arsake, whose lovesickness is more violent, near mania, runs and hurls herself onto her bed. She sighs, slumps, claws at herself. Her mutilating gestures signify to her confidante her desperate desire for recalcitrant Theagenes. Her maid Kybele (7.9) interprets her nonverbal behaviours immediately, since the psychological sequence is not new. The verb (7.22.2: σπαράσσω) provides a technical term for erotic derangement (cf. Achilles Tatius 5.3.6: Tereus and Philomela). 61 His γῆρας noted: [2.33.7 Charikles], [4.21.3 Delphi seniors], 5.1.3, 5.1.5, [5.18.5], 5.33.3, 6.11.4, 7.6.5. At 6.11.4, exaggerating his age in a beggarly disguise, he employs his bow as a staff for support, assumes a stoop whenever (εἰ πη) he sees someone approaching him, sometimes limps and sometimes leans on Charikleia for support — all this mimicking a man beyond his (actual aged) years: πλέον ... ἢ τὸ γῆρας ἐπηνάγκαζε. 62 2.22.3: ἁλύοντα και πλανώμενον; 3.17.1: τερατεύεσθαι καὶ μαντεύεσθαι, 10.36, etc. Winkler’s astonishingly perceptive article (1982; repr. in Swain 1999, 286–350) drew our attention to this perplexing text and ambivalent character, at once a self-expelled tragic exile who lost his sons

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secret at Delphi merely by paying close attention to the Liebespaar’s selfpresentation in the Delphic stadium and foot-race (4.1.3–4). Then, in private with the Thessalian youth, he gesticulates a thaumaturge’s repertory, displaying fancy if bogus showmanship. He smiles, he falls silent, he counts on his fingers, he shakes his long, white hair like one possessed (2.21.2, 3.17.2: ἐπὶ δακτύλων συντιθεὶς τήν τε κώμην διασείσας καὶ τοὺς κατόχους μιμούμενος ...). Soon after, he repeats the gestural charade when he visits equally lovesick Charikleia. His gestural drama (4.5.3: ὥσπερ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς τῆς ὑποκρίσεως) features props of incense and waving local Delphic laurel branches. He purses his lips, mutters, and repeatedly yawns like a hag (γραῶδες ἐπιχασμώμενος, [hapax]).63 Charikleia responds in gestural kind nonverbally. She shakes her head and smiles mockingly at his charades of face-work and arm-waving (4.5.4). Thus, she indicates nonverbally that he is on the wrong track, or better, that she sees through his mini-performance. This autonomous and self-confident young woman suppresses the truth and condescends to him, disparaging by mockery his inadequate powers to deceive her. These double deceptions amuse the reader, although narrator Heliodorus and his characters often mislead or deceive readers, too, kept in suspense while reading of eroticised violence.64 After a hurried and misleading interchange with Charikleia’s foster-father Charikles, Kalasiris hurries past (chronemics) Theagenes, as if by chance. The frustrated lover is pacing about in circles, talking to himself and besottedly  and stature (Oedipal), like to a clever comic slave (servus callidus) who outwits masters and competitors, a Socratic sage (who can run circles of logic around all comers), and a slapstick Egyptian thaumaturge. The simple Knemon later reasonably complains to Kalasiris that he is a Proteus, turning into falsehood and leading the listener (and reader) off in wrong directions (2.24.4: τρεπόμενον εἰς ψευδόμενην καὶ... με παραφέρειν πειρώμενον). 63 Perhaps the pose of senility suggests parallels to the aged witch of Bessa and the Petronian strix, old woman Oenothea and anicula Proselenus (Satyrika 134–138). The former woman brings her dead son back to life; the latter women try to cure the stupens anti-hero Encolpius’ impotence. Morgan 1989a, ad loc. n.106 cites similar spells against the evil eye. Further, Yatromanolakis 1988. 64 Thisbe, Nausikles’ sex-companion (2.8), provides an inferior doublet for Charikleia in a novel with many doubles; cf. Morgan 1989; 1999. Both unmarried women are ensnared in separated lovers’ plots but collide when Knemon and Theagenes think incorrectly that they have discovered Charikleia as the dead woman in the dark cave (2.3–6). The corpse, however, is Thisbe’s — as her convenient explanatory note written on a tablet clarifies. In metacommentary, Theagenes complains of straightforward Knemon’s alleged deceptions (2.5.3: οὐ παύσῃ ἀπατῶν με πολλάκις;). Knemon freaks out when later he hears Charikleia pretend to be the dead Thisbe speaking from another room (5.1–4.1). The naive believer in ghosts then trips and stumbles, he blunders into walls before he collapses and shakes, his teeth chatter (ἄραβος, παλμός) before he relapses into a swoon — his nonverbal signs of extreme stress.

  Donald Lateiner gazing at the house of his beloved (4.6), as if he were one of the comic poet Menander’s65 lovelorn lads — an exclusus amator. Who will see this performance? He catches Kalasiris’ available eye, since the matchmaker had only pretended to be surprised by the coincidental meeting (4.6.4: ἀνέστρεφον ἀθρόον). Kalasiris in motion had avoided Theagenes’ eye — gaze avoidance — but it’s only a pretence (4.6.3: ὥσπερ οὐκ ἑωρακώς) because he plans to ensnare the young lover for his own purpose.66 After that pretence of startled surprise (ἀθρόον), he puts on a nonverbal show of annoyance on his face (ἠγανάκτουν ὲγὼ μεχρὶ τῶν ὄψεων). Playing with the naive adolescent, he pretends that Theagenes is insulting him and his art, despite his alleged but false “fact” that his power has compelled the virginal lass to love the lovelorn lad.67 The mendacious but welcome explanation inclines the ever hasty athlete Theagenes to run immediately to the beloved. Kalasiris, with a haptic gesture, grabs his cloak. “Stop”, the elder orders the swift athlete. “Our business is not personplunder”: οὐ γὰρ ἅρπαγμα τὸ πρᾶγμα.68 Yes and no. In fact, Theagenes will soon abduct her from Delphi with her with Kalasiris’ connivance. They escape Hellas and cross the Mediterranean in a recognised variation (consent) on abduction marriage.69 The virgin rejects her foster-father’s chosen partner and herself chooses a spouse.70

 65 Men. Dysk. 302ff.; Ter. Andr. 896, etc. 66 ‘As ifs’ inspire the self-preserving charades of this novel’s heroes. Most transparent parties are villains, in this resembling many of the Odyssey’s “black hats” like Polyphemos, goatherd Melanthios (18.212–253), and the inept and clueless suitors. Those parties are dyssemic, bad readers of signs (human and divine), as we ourselves might be, if we had not been clued into the strategies by narrators and characters. Knemon and Theagenes, however, often err when reading the deceitful signs that Kalasiris and Charikleia lay down. 67 4.6.4: ὑβρίζων ἐμέ τε καὶ τὴν ἐμὴν τέχνην. 68 This play on words becomes ironic after two pirates (Trachinos and Peloros) have seized this girl as plunder, as have two sets of Egyptian brigand bands. The Persian police chief Mitranes will soon select her as sex toy for his master (5.8: λάφυρον). She provides sexual dreams for the villainous Persians Achaimenes (7.23–26) and Oroondates (8.2, 14). 69 See Lateiner 1997/2000, a survey of abduction marriages in Greek literature, esp. the one mutually arranged in this novel (five forms of the ἁρπαγ- stem). The two fathers offer the marriageable merchandise in the standard form of giving away one’s daughter, first to Alkamenes in Delphi and second to Meroibos in Meroë, but Charikleia’s strategic delays and informationsharing abort their self-serving choices. 70 The pattern repeats at the end of the novel when her biological father chooses a local partner, Moroibos. The black seventeen-year-old cannot conceal his blush of pleasure and embarrassment (10.23–24: ὑφ’ ἡδονῆς τε ἅμα καὶ αἰδοῦς οὐδὲ ἐν μελαίνῃ τῇ χροιᾷ διέλαθε φοινιχθείς), but again Charikleia foils the paternal plan for her life.

Tactics of Nonverbal Persuasion and Rule Infractions in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika  

Immediately after bamboozling Theagenes, Kalasiris deceives yet a third party, the distraught foster-father Charikles, recognising the erotic complexities faced by that priest’s foster-daughter and her choice of beloved. He truly reports that Charikleia, the devotee of chaste Artemis, has fallen in love, her fosterfather’s fondest desire. Of course, he suppresses the known identity of her love object — nonverbal non-communication. It is not her father’s patriarchal choice Alkamenes, but Theagenes, the Thessalian runner and wrestler. Next day (4.7), Kalasiris deceives Charikles again with a “look” and a gait expressive of mystic wisdom. He proudly struts and raises his eyebrow, as if he had solved a deep mystery.71 Next, Kalasiris falsely claims to Charikleia that his science has ensnared Theagenes for her (4.10.2: σοφίᾳ). At best, he has facilitated the next stage of their unaided, instant, and mutual enamorment. When he explicitly drops his act (4.12.1: τότε ἤδη συμβουλῆς τῆς φανερωτέρας ἠρχόμην, ἅπαντα ὡς ἔσχεν ἀνακαλύπτων), Charikleia is thrilled. Her father, however, again reminded of Kalasiris’ “magic art”, still fears she may kill herself (4.14.2: σὺν τέχνῃ πολλῇ καὶ σοφίᾳ τῇ ἐμῇ). Kalasiris amusingly deflects the anxious Dad’s priestly misinterpretation of his scary dream of an eagle grabbing his daughter, one justifying fears and premonition of the girl-napping soon to follow (4.15.1). Kalasiris mocks the priest’s inadequate mantic and dream powers, as he deflects him from his suspicions (ἀπάγων... καὶ ὑποψίας εἶναι πόρρω τῶν ἐσομένων παρασκευάζων). After he abets the abduction, Kalasiris urges the Delphians to achase down the outrageous girl-napper who has violated rules of hospitality (4.19.2). Kalasiris the charlatan, in sum, at Delphi runs a three-ring circus. He deceives the lover, the beloved, and her father. With each party, grand gestures support his rule infractions, and even support his claims to special wisdom — wisdom that he knows he does not possess. Their desperate desires lead them to trust him, so he deceives all three, although the two youngsters are thrilled with the outcome. Once the threesome have left Delphi, the bereft father covers himself in dust and ashes. Charikles’ clothes, gestures, words, and deeds72 bring the emergency midnight civic assembly to tears. The magistrates send the Delphic cavalry in pursuit. With hue and cry, they charge NNE toward Thessaly,

 71 4.7.2: ἐθρυπτόμην ἀνέσπων τε τὴν ὀφρὺν καὶ βλακῶδες (bis in Hld., nowhere else in novels) βαίνων. 72 He dresses in a black cloak, he covers his head and face with dust and ashes, as if mourning the dead. While his oration remains unfinished, his grief and tears (θρῆνος) overwhelm him and Hegesias the stratēgos pushes him aside before he urges the assembly not to “behave like women” (4.20.2: γυναικιζόμενος, oddly hapax in the novels).

  Donald Lateiner chasing in the opposite direction from the lovers’ sail out of the Gulf of Krisa, WSW (4.18–19, 21; 5.1.1; 4.19.2: ἐπιδίωξις). After they escape from Delphi and sail the high seas, the Phoenician merchant repeatedly tries to negotiate marriage to Charikleia addressing her faux father, Kalasiris (5.19–20). He demurs, deploying his usual false promises and deferrals (5.20.1: ὑπερθέσθαι χρησταῖς ἐπαγγελίαις) in their disempowered situation. They soon fall into pirate hands, from the frying pan into the fire, but Kalasiris again devises deceptive promises further to delay another unwanted sexual union (4.24.3). Charikleia saves both herself and Theagenes and Kalasiris too by making eyes at the lustful pirate, while insisting that he spare her two companions, ‘her brother and father’ (5.26.2). She succeeds, although barely. After further voyage, a typical novel storm (5.27.1), and shipwreck at the Herakleotic mouth of the Nile, Kalasiris must foil the pirate Trachinos’ announced intent to marry Charikleia, that day, willy-nilly (5.28). Trachinos anticipates and forbids Kalasiris’ expected nonverbal reaction, an unhappy “face”, a scowl of disapproval (5.28.2: Ὅπως οὖν μὴ αὐτὸς ἀνήκοος στυγνότερον συμποσιάζῃς). Kalasiris therefore feigns joy responding to the commander’s menace and threats of violence. He postpones the wedding, however, by demanding a suitable interval of time for greater ceremony and for Charikleia to don the finery available shipboard for the fortunate wedding (5.29.1: σεμνότερον τελεσθῆναι τὰ δρώμενα). Kalasiris then enlists Trachinos’ subordinate Peloros to challenge Trachinos’ claim to Charikleia’s person as his booty. All the pirates become drunk and rowdy (5.31.1: διαβεβρεγμένοι... πρὸς τὸ ὑβριστικώτερον παραφερομένοι). The disoriented and aggressive gestural behaviours of inebriation have not changed much, from the mythical Lapith wedding where the Centaurs went wild, to Aristophanes’ depictions, and indeed to the present. Kalasiris sidles up to Trachinos’ lieutenant Peloros (proxemics) and whispers (5.31.1) an explosive suggestion that Charikleia has fallen in love with him. Later, he whispers that Peloros should sneak a peek at the girl behind Trachinos’ back. In the ensuing melée, illuminated by the firelight and shadows, the rioting outlaws and suitors howl and bawl (οἰμωγή—paralinguistic characterisation). They bash each other’s heads in with wine bowls, sticks, stones and daggers (5.32). Kalasiris retires from the battlefield for safety, slowed by his aged hobble (5.33.3: τοῦ γήρως ἐμποδίσαντος). He observes from a distance his wards’ ups and downs, freed from the massacred pirates, dead Trachinos, and the now one-armed Peloros. Soon after, two sets of local bandits capture them (5.33 =1.1). Kalasiris breaks off his included narration to Knemon in Egypt, now that his story has finally caught up to the confusing opening scene. While some of his

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stories are designed — or altered — to win a specific audience’s goodwill, this one has no such motive, since Knemon no longer has any information or object that Kalasiris needs. His conversation with Nausikles, on the other hand, does seek to win ‘his daughter’ Charikleia’s freedom from her current, congenial but profit-seeking master. A smiling, that is, ingratiating but greedy Nausikles demands payment from Kalasiris, and calls it “ransom”. A mixed message. As if by “magic”, literally by dramatic ex machina means (5.12.2: καθάπερ ἐκ μηχανῆς ... ὑπὲρ τῆσδε λύτρα), Kalasiris satisfies him with another demonstration of his charming abracadabra. Kalasiris inspects the entrails of a preliminary sacrifice with “a play of expressions on his face”.73 Then he “passed both hands over the altar, all the while pronouncing an invocation, and drew — or pretended to draw — from the altar fire74 what he had had in his hand all along”. The legerdemain — gesticular deception — seems a “miracle” to greedy Nausikles (5.15.1: ὁ δὲ Ναυσικλῆς ἐκπλαγεὶς πρὸς τὸ παράδοξον...). It precedes a lengthy ecphrasis of the magnificent, valuable (πολύτιμον) ring intricately adorned with a pastoral scene on an amethyst gemstone. The mystifying hocus-pocus provides the welcome ransom for the young woman (5.13–14).75 This ring’s elaborately carved jewel scene exhibits various tiny optical illusions, a neat parallel to Kalasiris’ grand verbal and gestural illusions, but in a miniature medium celebrated for its deceptive capacities.

 73 [Π]οικίλην δηλοῦσθαι τῶν μελλόντων συντυχίαν ἡδέων καὶ λυπηρῶν ταῖς τοῦ προσώπου τροπαῖς ἐμφῆνας. 74 Morgan’s 1989a translation of: ἐπιβάλλει τῶ χεῖρε τοῖς βωμοῖς ἐπιφθεγγόμενος καὶ ὡς τῆς πυρᾶς δῆθεν σπασάμενος ἅ πάλαι ἐπεκόμιζετο.... (5.13.2). The particle δῆ and its compounds such as δῆθεν deserve an appendix of their own, for which see App. 2. 75 The ecphrasis ends with a description of a rock carved from the gemstone rock, but the artist considered it superfluous to represent a stone other than by the stone: περίεργον ἡγησάμενος λίθον ἐν λίθῳ σοφίζεσθαι.... Heliodorus explicitly contrasts τῷ ὄντι with μίμημα here, one of his many meta-commentaries on reality and “faking it”. Cf. Bartsch 1989, 149; Perkins 1999; Miller 2003, 148–153 on “passing” as a member of another ethnicity or gender, and its slippery evaluations; Lateiner 2018, 395–397 on Kalasiris’ mumbo-jumbo mental jiu-jitsu with Theagenes, Charikleia, and Nausikles. Heliodorus presents the stereotypes of Hellenic superiority but he subverts them by having women outsmart men, children outsmart parents, barbarians outwit Greeks; Perkins 199–201. These surprises (for Greeks and their progeny) engage nonverbal skills (proxemics, chronemics, metaverbal norms) — for “systematic unexpectedness”, as Shalev 2006, 167 describes it.

  Donald Lateiner

 Conclusions Οther scholars have detailed the theatrical allusions and vocabulary in Heliodorus’ rich descriptions.76 I suggest that when Heliodorus’ heroes exaggerate their ubiquitous nonverbal behaviours, the author keys readers into his characters’ multi-channel, misinforming and fraudulent strategies. His heroes repeatedly perform false mini-dramas on a vast and cinemascopic stage — not the limited Attic theatre or even Epidaurian skene that allowed few actors on a stage 20 to 30 meters across.77 Every audience member now sits in the front row. His novel platform obviated the stage’s necessary contraction of space to two houses and a street, and liberated his text from drama’s artificial adoption of full-face masks — limiting face-work. Like Homer’s hexameter poetry and Herodotus’ historiographical prose, and unlike the live presentations then available for the limited dimensions and conventions of live theatre,78

 76 Inter alios, Winkler 1982; Morgan 1982; Whitmarsh 2002; Lateiner 2015. 77 Different takes on the vocabulary, allusions, and metaphors of theatricality can be found in the helpful studies of Walden 1894; Buehler 1976; Paulsen 1992. I focus on Heliodorus’ annotations (so to speak) of the characters’ postures, proxemics, and gestures. We now absorb without thinking the body language essential for conveying narrative portrayed in television, cinema, and novels, but Heliodorus, more than any predecessor except perhaps Homer, portrays these true and fraudulent micro-movements. Both emphasise dramatic gesturing when deploying scenes of deception. Erving Goffman’s micro-studies of face-to-face behaviour and selfpresentation substantiate (1959, 1967, 1971, etc.) this rich part of everyday life, and Miller 2003 carries the hypocrisy of civilised life further for the literary-minded. “Politeness” studies, as currently conceived, further illuminate the manipulations of individuals in society; e.g. Brown and Levinson 1978/1990, ch. 3 “Assumptions”. See my forthcoming paper on the application of Goffman’s acute analyses to the emotion of embarrassment in many genres of ancient Greek literature. 78 By conventions, observe the expressiveness of live bodies on stage indicating by characters’ “naturally” mimetic and stylised postures and movements. Japanese Noh drama and probably the dance gestures of Hellenic choruses illustrate the idea. Where a fictional literary text must narrate in explicit words the gestures, postures, and paralinguistic communicative behaviours of characters, characters’ presentations on stage directly offer emotional expression by means of bodies and vocalics to the audiences’ eyes and ears. Their gestures convey sensual experiences and actions, and their voices include vocal inflections reinforcing words of emotion, grief, joy, fear, etc. Theatrical masks posed special problems that Hellenic comedy and tragedy overcame by explicit words from the actor and from his interactants. Examples include dramatic characters referring to their own tears or smiles or those of others that they observe and hear. Heliodorus’ audiences cue reader responses, especially incoherent but jubilant outcries from onlookers, such as Theban and Meroitic crowds shouting their reactions, responses often based on others’ gestures and postures, not their words (7.3–8, 8.9, 10.30, 32).

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Heliodorus’ narrators specify many characters’ nonverbal behaviours — their gestures, postures, “face”, and vocalics.79 Third-person narrators — authorial, Knemon, and Kalasiris — report events spread over a thousand miles of land and sea, over many days and months, and describe many exotic and squalid milieux.80 More to our point, the action provides audiences with close-ups of postures, gestures, and facial expressions including micro-aggressions.81 Your patience precludes examination of Aithiopika’s other hyper-gestural moments that animate scenes of guile and fraud. The three protagonists, when relaxed, exhibit the modesty and gestural minimalism that Greek elites admired — from Odysseus to Charikleia.82 Both heroes and villains utilise genuine and deceptive generosity and politeness. Gestures — whether standalone or “redundant” — authenticate self-serving narratives and thus assist the presentation of insincere selves. Disempowered nobility — whether of unexpected royal or hieratic birth, or of achieved military authority or athletic status — must figure out escapes from indefinite confinement, murder, and

 79 Even when his characters voice, gesture, or act out tragic analogies, the (parodic) effect is more comic than tragic. 80 The amorous duo must outwit both Hellenes and barbarians (Phoenicians, Egyptians, Persians, and Ethiopians). When Kalasiris narrates, the Egyptian-born, Hellenic tourist outmaneuvers Hellenes and Egyptians. When the narrator presents the story in the latter part of the text, Ethiopian-born, Hellenic-educated Charikleia’s agile duplicity outwits a Persian satrap’s wife, utopian Africans, and her parents. Her muddled nature/culture ethnicity, her hybridity, problematises the simplified Herodotean inheritance and Hellenic prejudices confident in Hellenes’ higher intelligence. Lye 2016, 247 identifies ethnic contradictions exhibited by Kybele the Greek, Arsake the Persian, and Theagenes the Thessalian. Proskynesis in this text (7.19) follows the negative prostration paradigm celebrated in Herodotus (7.136). The Greek Theagenes violates Persian expectations and their cultural codes — very much on purpose; Shalev 2006, 186. As Morgan 1999, 75 expresses it, in the final scenes, Theagenes enters into Ethopian-ness, and the Ethopians hellenise, abandoning human sacrifice, and syncretise their Helios and Selene gods with the Hellenic Apollo and Artemis. Recall the author’s complicating epigraph in which the author reveals his Phoenician ethnicity. He has transcended his origins and absorbed Hellenicity more than most Hellenes. 81 Listeners, esp. the ideal audience, Knemon, praise the internal narrators’ descriptive detail, e.g., 2.26.3, 4.3.4–4.3. 82 Recall Charikleia in explaining her frustration to Kalasiris. On the other hand, when alone in an Egyptian bedroom in the women’s quarters, she tears her hair, makes an offering of the body part, weeps profusely, throws herself on her bed, clutches her mattress faux de Theagenes, moans and groans (6.8–9) until she swoons. Heliodorus’ profusion of signals of nonverbal grief, esp. Charikleia’s soliloquy, talking out loud to herself, perhaps reflects frequent models in tragedy such as Elektra, Alcestis, and Greek death and wedding rituals (e.g., Hdt. 4.34, Paus. 1.43.3, 2.32.1); cf. Morgan 1989a, ad loc. n.160.

  Donald Lateiner rape. Charikleia and Kalasiris’ “impression management” succeeds through submissive and cooperative “face-work”, postures, and gestures. Their strategic contrivances overcome laws, institutions, traditions, and brute force. Politeness, deference, and tact require social skills beyond etiquette and table manners. Greek paideia managed external social relations, often, competitive and uncooperative. Class, gender, and ethnic rules and expectations control internal social protocols that limit aggression.83 Any norm, however, or Bourdieuvian habitus, invites bending, breaking, or other exploitation by the disadvantaged as well as by those in power. Charikleia and Kalasiris, faced with menace and violence, employ the weapons of the oppressed to profit from complex negotiations with friends and foes, parents and pirates and to achieve their ends. Unable to summon sufficient violence, in the face of aggressive and hostile interactants, and usually in no position to threaten or bully antagonists, they nevertheless fracture opposition and gain their objectives. Nonverbal tactics notably advance their interaction strategies.84

Appendix 1: Kallirhoe’s nonverbal tactics in Chariton’s novel, Kallirhoe’s story Kallirhoe presents herself as a deceptive female similar (and prior) to Charikleia. She is not insipid and male-directed like Xenophon’s Anthia, but a proud daughter of Hermokrates the famous Syrakusan general of the later Peloponnesian War (Thucydides books vi–viii). Like Charikleia, she confronts a series of perils, patriarchs who arrange marriages, pirates (Theron) who wish to sell or enjoy their flesh, barbarian autocrats whose word and wishes must be obeyed (the Great King of Persia), and military commanders whose prisoners they become. Stratagems enable disempowered women to overcome their disadvantages. In Kallirhoe’s case, not poison, epileptic fits, a dagger, consecration to a goddess, or even a miraculous/magical escape from a burning pyre (like  83 Coincidence/ gods/ good luck/ Providence (δαίμων, δαιμόνιον, τύχη, εἱμαρμένη, μοῖραι, θεῖον, πεπρωμένα) aid our favourites and preserve their plot, as the omniscient author notes. These two protagonists always observe some set of proprieties as they outsmart self-dealing opponents. 84 I thank Andreas Serafim and Antonios Rengakos for inviting me to the October 2021, Academy of Athens conference at which I delivered a shorter version of this paper. Their hospitality and generosity made the perilous journey in the epoch of COVID–19 worth the risks and a pleasure — even masked — to attend the papers.

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Charikleia’s) secures her unlikely triumph, typical solutions to impasses of the ancient novel. Rather, her self-control and manipulation of foolish male selfimportance wins her way.85 Kallirhoe’s self-presentation is humble (e.g., 6.2.5), but her pose pretends to present the self-effacing female modesty that patriarchs, oriental Kings, pirates and fat-cats, and even ordinary ancient males expect. She feigns ignorance (1.11.12: προσεποιεῖτο μὴ νοεῖν; cf. 6.5.6) with the pirate Theron, smiling inwardly (like Odysseus) at his flattered idiocy (1.13.10). Chariton presents her as more intelligent, resourceful, and adaptable than her violent, jump-to-conclusions husband Chaereas (8.2.4). Whenever he is caught in a jam, like so many novel protagonists, he tries to commit suicide — eight times.86 In sum, aided by her stunning nonverbal asset, her beauty, Kallirhoe manipulates friendly and lustful males in whose clutches she has fallen–Theron, Dionysus, Artaxates the eunuch, and Artaxerxes the Persian King. Resigned to securing the best of her bad choices, she seduces her second husband, telling him her “story” in a credible way,87 but she specifically does not mention (2.5.9–11) that she has a first husband and is already pregnant by him: πάντα εἰποῦσα μόνον Χαιρέαν ἐσίγησεν. Enthralled by Kallirhoe’s beauty and not suspecting her shrewdness, her self-presentation and his expectations of women prevent him from ever learning the truth.88 As Kaimio concludes, her honest face and modest bearing have enabled her to outwit patriarchy’s most sacred concern: she has smuggled a supposititious child into her husband’s house and home.

 85 Kallirhoe is rational and perceptive (φρενήρης: 6.5.8, hapax in the novels). The proud but canny woman can restrain anger and follow a better second thought: ταχέως λογισαμένη καὶ τὸν τόπον καὶ τίς ἐστιν αὐτὴ καὶ τίς ὁ λέγων, τὴν ὀργὴν μετέβαλε ... . Kaimio 1995 defends both Chariton and his heroine from condescension, comparing her falsehoods and misleading gestures to Charikleia’s. 86 Kaimio 1995, 129. 87 [Ο]ὐ θέλω δοκεῖν ἀλάζων οὐδὲ λέγειν διηγήματα ἄπιστα τοῖς ἀγνοοῦσιν ... 88 de Temmerman 2014, 61–82, 84, 191 appreciates Kallirhoe’s strategies and her increasingly clever use of women’s weapons. He cites Kaimio’s 1995 decisive analysis of her interactive defensive and offensive skills.

  Donald Lateiner

Appendix 2: The particle ΔΗ in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika This variously performing particle by itself specifies time already past or connection (summary, resumption, or consequence). A Greek stylist could connect this postpositive to a preceding verb, superlative adjective, or pronoun, to “add explicitness” or produce a prized ironical sense (cf. Latin scilicet).89 ΔΗ also “gives great precision and exactness”.90 That is, often it identifies the obvious, “of course” — what is allegedly natural. Or it intensifies (“indeed”) or underlines with superlatives positively for positives, negatively for negatives, indefinitely for indefinites: οὕτω δή (just so), ὅστις δή (whoever at all). With KAI before, ΔΗ marks climax.91 A fortiori the Herodotean favourite καὶ δὴ καί, appears frequently in that author, flourished from the first to the penultimate chapter.92 Heliodorus writes καὶ δὴ καί six times, as the omniscient narrator focusing readers’ attention in the manner of Herodotus. 2.20.5: Omniscient narrator as anthropologist describes the Boukoloi bandits’ frightening appearance management, especially hair-styles, combed down over their eyes, alluring for lovers, alarming for brigands. 4.15.4: Kalasiris (an internal, nearly omniscient narrator) catalogues the wedding gifts that foster-father Charikles provides. The priest falsely alleges that the jewels and cloths are from Alkamenes, especially the Εthiopian necklaces that we know belonged to Queen Persinna. 5.8.5: The omniscient narrator describes how the Greek merchant Nausikles defrauds Mitranes, the Persian Police Commander, with special flattery of his present military success, in order to obtain Charikleia. 7.1.1: The omniscient narrator records that Kalasiris and Charikleia after another narrow escape, and with terrific dangers on the road facing them, hasten to Memphis. To top it off (although they did not know it), the cadaver’s predictions were coming true. 9.4.1: The omniscient narrator, after detailing strategic military planning and assignments, focuses on how Hydaspes built his offensive Syene tunneling.

 89 This ironical sense used to be translated in English as “forsooth”, as if true. The word is now obsolete, mock archaic. 90 Smyth 1959, 2840 compares French voilà. 91 Smyth 1959, 2847a. 92 Denniston 1934, 255–257.

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10.27.1: The omniscient narrator describes how the guests of Hydaspes bring various gifts, but of special note and thus climactic is an animal of a strange and wonderful nature, the cameleopard or giraffe described in zoological detail. The awesome particle-scholar J.D. Denniston divided the simple form ΔΗ into “emphatic, ironical, and connective” and offers 37 pages of examples, before turning to sixteen compounds. ΔΗΘΕΝ and ΔΗΠΟΥ especially interest students of Hellenic self-presentation who distinguish appearance from realities. The former compound signals apparent or pretended truths and the latter “doubts what seems certain” or provides “pretended truth”.93 Heliodorus employs ΔΗ a remarkable 277 times, ΔΗTA twice (4.16.8, 7.5.5), ΔΗΠΟΥ thrice, and ΔΗΘΕΝ twenty-one times (TLG search, 20 June 2014). The rare double compound ΔΗΠΟΥΘΕΝ surfaces once in Heliodorus (not in other novels; four times in Lucian).94 When Theagenes attempts to buck up the more timid Knemon who reasonably fears traveling alone with the brutal pirate Thermouthis (2.18.4), he points out that “you have sword and armor and he has nothing, so there is (as you can see!) absolutely nothing to fear”. ΔΗΘΕΝ poits to an ostensible situation, “as if”. Observe 1.17.2, 3.17.1, and 7.18.1, where appearance is contrasted with reality. Kalasiris (3.17.1) narrates that “it was now kairon for me to to play the charlatan to Theagenes and to prophesy what dēthen (in reality) I already knew”. Which characters in Heliodorus employ these deflating words – male or female, young or old, free or slave, Greek or barbarian? The omniscient narrator does so most, not surprisingly: 5.13.2: describing Kalasiris’ ring fraud; 7.18.1, 7.19.5: the fraud Arsake; 8.6.3: Kybele, “sous prétexte [Maillon, Budé]; 9.13.3. It is his task to distinguish appearance from reality for readers. The chief internal narrator Kalasiris (4.15.4) has similar powers. Even lesser tale-tellers such as Knemon quotes clear-eyed Thisbe (1.14.6: δῆθεν μὲν τῶν ἐπὶ σοὶ τὸ δ’ ἀληθὲς τῶν ἐφ’ ἑαυτῇ, 1.17.2), as he carries the included narrative forward. Charikleia rarely wishes to distinguish reality from her pretences, and Theagenes rarely tries.95  93 Smyth 1959, 2849–2850. 94 Denniston’s Greek Particles (Denniston 1934) stops far short of post-classical, imperial writers, but the compounded particle appears briefly on pp. 268–269. These last two particles signifying irony never occur in the preserved texts of Longus, Xenophon, or Iamblichus. Achilles Tatius never writes ΔΗΠΟΥ but exhibits ironical ΔΗΘΕΝ four times (2.1.1, 2.7.7, 7.1.2, 8.16.6). Chariton employs both particles four times. Lucian exhibits ΔΗΠΟΥ nine times, and ΔΗΘΕΝ 22 times in his vast oeuvre. Perry 1930, 267–269 terms this “as if” particle the sign of the ostensible and ironic. 95 (Beta), Conca, et al. LRG II,16 (1983), list twenty-one examples of this particle in Heliodorus’ ironical text.

  Donald Lateiner

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Bartłomiej Bednarek

How to be Sympotikos and what it Actually Means Abstract: This chapter puts forward the argument that the so-called “sympotic” iconography is a heterogeneous category despite what the scholarly tradition may suggest. It comprises images of various types of drinking and feasting groups, and individuals whose bodily position, gestures, and actions, despite their prima facie similarity, communicate multiple meanings to the viewers.

It would be commonplace to consider that modes of nonverbal communication owe much of their meaning to what Goffmann described as a communicative frame. Thus, the movement of our hands, heads, eyelids, and our overall body positions become meaningful or senseless, correct or subversive, depending on the cultural code and situation, which activate these meanings. This is why the discussion of what we are tempted to call sympotic gestures should begin with an inquiry into the communicative frames (in plural) and their typology. As I argue in what follows, scholars tend to pay too little attention to some of the ancient Greek conceptual categories, often taking for granted that all scenes involving drinking must represent symposia.1 This leads to a serious misappre-

 I would like to thank Andreas Serafim and other participants of the "Non-verbal communication" conference in Athens for the fruitful discussion. I also owe much to Emrys Bell-Schlatter and Sebastian Zerhoch. The research was possible thanks to the DAAD scholarship in 2021 and Polish National Centre of Science grant number 2018/31/D/HS3/00128.  1 The scholarly literature about Greek symposium is notoriously vast. The most important book recently published is probably the posthumous collection of essays by Murray 2018, given that this scholar’s contributions shaped the scholarly discussion over last four decades. Of particular importance are also three monographs published almost simultaneously by Topper 2012; Hobden 2013; and Węcowski 2014 (the Polish edition was published in 2011); and Filser 2017, 127–277. This is where further references to the scholarly literature may be found. Less recent but no less important are volumes edited by Murray 1990; Murray and Tecuşan 1995, as well as the classical monograph of the sympotic iconography by Lissarague 1997. What I refer to as a symposium in the present article was aptly characterised by Węcowski 2018, 257 as follows: “It is generally agreed nowadays that the symposion can be described in the following ways: as a strictly egalitarian elite gathering, as a nocturnal wine party attended by male aristocrats, as a drinking occasion strictly separated from feasting that involved more solid food, and as a party full of musical and poetic entertainments”. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-011

  Bartłomiej Bednarek hension of nonverbal messages that ancient drinkers sent to those who surrounded them. As the literary sources briefly discussed in the following section indicate, several modes of verbal and nonverbal behaviour that were permitted on less formal occasions would offend symposiasts. Conversely, although we have only limited access to actual data, it stands to reason that it must also have worked the other way around; we may thus assume that several forms of behaviour that were perfectly reasonable during a symposium might have been frowned upon during a less formal gathering. This raises questions that belong to three distinct categories. First, we would like to know what ancient Greeks really did in their lives. Second, to paraphrase Pierre Bourdieu, we would like to know how they theorised their practices. Third, we may inquire into the ways in which they represented this theory and how the actual practice influenced texts of culture. Obviously, only this last, most superficial layer of texts and artefacts is given to us, and it is often impossible to move further than their analysis. Fortunately, this material is very rich and intriguing. In what follows, I focus almost exclusively on vase paintings, some of which may reveal that the traditionally assumed frame of reference provided by the symposium can be misleading. Before delving into the material, however, taking a rather impressionistic glimpse of the literary sources helps set the framework of the inquiry.

 Between the ancient and contemporary meanings of the word sympotic In the famous passage in Aristophanes’ Wasps 1208–1213, Bdelykelon teaches his elderly father how to behave at symposia, to which he refers as being sympotikos:2 Βδελυκλέων παῦ· ἀλλὰ δευρὶ κατακλινεὶς προσμάνθανε ξυμποτικὸς εἶναι καὶ ξυνουσιαστικός. Φιλοκλέων πῶς οὖν κατακλινῶ; φράζ’ ἀνύσας. Βδελυκλέων εὐσχημόνως.

 2 On the passage, see, among others, Hobden 2013, 140–144. For the exact meaning of Bdelycleon’s instructions, see Biles and Olson 2015, ad locos. For similar passages in comedy, see Węcowski 2014, 97–98.

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Φιλοκλέων ὡδὶ κελεύεις κατακλινήναι; Βδελυκλέων μηδαμῶς. Φιλοκλέων πῶς δαί; Βδελυκλέων τὰ γόνατ’ ἔκτεινε καὶ γυμναστικῶς ὑγρὸν χύτλασον σεαυτὸν ἐν τοῖς στρώμασιν. Bdelycleon: Stop! Now come and recline over here and start learning how to be a symposiast and a socialite. Philocleon: Well, how am I supposed to recline? Hurry up and tell me. Bdelycleon: Elegantly. Philocleon: You’re saying I should recline like this? [He lies down in a stiff, angular attitude.] Bdelykleon: Certainly not. Philocleon: Then how? Bdelykleon: Stretch your legs and pour yourself out lithely and athletically on the covers.3

From these lines, we may deduce that there were certain refined gestures and other forms of nonverbal behaviour that were considered appropriate for symposia and some that were not. It is also clear that people like Bdelykleon, who frequented symposia, were fully aware of the existence of the code of sympotic norms and they were able to distinguish between adequate and inadequate forms of behaviour. It is thus tempting to compare this phenomenon to a linguistic subsystem, whose users, even if they are never capable of describing it in all details, may be very sensitive to the violation of its norms.4 A serious interpretative problem results from the fact that the source in question distorts the reality in a way typical for the Old Comedy. When taken at face value, it may seem to presuppose that there were also people like Philokleon, who, despite his old age, was completely unaware of the sympotic rules. However, from the fact that the audience was supposed to interpret it as humorous, we may infer that there is some comic exaggeration in it.5 The most reasonable conclusion seems to be that, depending on personal resources, social position, and similar factors, Athenians of the late fifth century BC were better or

 3 Text and translation Sommerstein 1983. 4 According to the often-cited formulation of Rossi 1983, 46–47, symposium can be interpreted as a “spettacolo a se stesso”, which means that symposiasts were aware of the performative aspect of their own and other participants’ involvement in the event. On this aspect see Hobden 2013, esp. 22–65. 5 See Fisher 2000, 356–357 with references to some scholars who took the passage at face value.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek worse acquainted with sympotic etiquette. Some of them were very proficient at it, whereas others were just enough aware of it to laugh at Philokleon, which does not mean that they were capable of fully adhering to the norms of sympotic behaviour. A good parallel may be provided by a contemporary cocktail party in an opera house. Even people who lack social skills that allow them to participate in such events with due self-assurance are perfectly aware of the existence of a code of behaviour and are capable of recognising its breach, especially when it takes a hyperbolic form characteristic of a comedy. The conclusion that contemporary scholars draw from this, and similar passages seems thus to be valid; there was a dichotomy between forms of behaviour that were common among wider circles and sympotic etiquette. Indeed, despite all the differences between scholars and the nuances they stress when referring to various types and evolutionary forms of symposium, there seems to be a general agreement that the term refers to a type of drinking party that was typically attended by higher-class Greek men.6 Several obvious differences result from the fact that the higher classes, in, say, sixth-century Megara and fifthcentury Athens, were substantially different from one another in terms of their ideology, material resources, relationship with wider circles, etc. Textiles, music, poetry, and the most perishable of all — gestures, would also change over time, which means that Theognis of Megara would probably have felt uneasy or even disgusted if he had the opportunity to participate in a party of Aristophanes’ contemporaries.7 What seems to have remained constant, however, is the relatively exclusive character of the symposia. The problem to which I would like to draw attention in this chapter stems from the fact that the same scholars who agree that participation in symposia was, to a large extent, restricted to a relatively narrow social group usually fail to pay due attention to situations involving non-sympotic drinking. Thus, for example, Kathryn Topper, in her otherwise very insightful book The Imagery of the Athenian Symposium, offers an extremely wide working definition of symposium: “the word symposium is used in this book to designate any image that combines reclining figures and wine, although in some cases a reclining figure’s surroundings make the sympotic context clear even in the absence of wine vessels”.8 As if this definition were not inclusive enough, Topper also discusses the

 6 See especially Murray 2018, 139–154, who, while arguing for a much higher level of sympotic inclusivity than most scholars assume, still maintains that symposia characterised the lifestyle of the upper classes. 7 See, e.g., Fisher 2000. 8 Topper 2012, 4–5.

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iconography of Phineus, a lone diner, whose meal is spoiled by the harpies. In all but one instance (this exception, which confirms the rule, will be discussed below; Fig. 1), Phineus is sitting on a chair or standing rather than reclining. Yet Topper, following Lissarague,9 states that these images “of Phineus’ banquet draw attention to the king’s isolation through the perversion of several aspects of sympotic iconography… Within the conventions of sympotic iconography, the king’s posture is another reminder that he does not belong to society of banqueters such as the ones who recline on other vases”.10 In reading this comment, one may get the impression that Phineus is trying in vain to relax with a cup of wine, friends, and entertainment, which is obviously not the case. He is rather on the verge of starving to death, and this is what the images seem to evoke in the first place. This scholarly approach appears to be symptomatic of a much wider practice of taking the symposium as a point of reference in such a consistent way that even a lack of visual cues that could evoke a symposium is interpreted as a significant omission.11 This problem is not new. As Shmitt-Pantel observed in the introduction to her classical book on ancient banquets, it is an inveterate tradition to refer to various scenes on ancient pottery and drinking events that are described in literature as sympotic.12 As long as we are aware that this is a modern convention, this practice is innocuous. There is, however, a serious risk of confusion between the modern onomastic convention and the ancient phenomenon, which, as can be deduced, for example, from the already cited passage in Aristophanes’ Wasps, had clear conceptual boundaries. Thus, not all that museums label as sympotic scenes depicts what Aristophanes would refer to as sympotikos. If we fail to realise this distinction, we allow for our perception of ancient Greek drinking habits to be shaped along the lines provided by a single, type of drink 9 Lissarague 1992, 55–56. 10 Topper 2012, 34–35. 11 Similar inclusivity also characterises the students of literary sources. A good example is provided by the scene in Aristophanes’ Clouds, in which Pheidippides returns home and is entertained by his father with a dinner. Afterwards (1354 ’πειδὴ γὰρ εἱστιώμεθ’, “when we finished the meal”), the father asks his son to sing a song. It seems to be a reasonable assumption that they were drinking wine at that point. Nevertheless, it is questionable whether scholars who comment on this passage (e.g. Bowie 1997, 4–5; Fisher 2000, 359) are correct in calling this event a symposium, given that there were only two participants, both of whom belonged to the same household. The party took place during the day and did not seem to last until late. The only entertainment was provided by one of the participants. There is nothing to suggest that they consumed wine in large quantities, and we are not told that they were reclining during the event, although nothing compels us to think that they were not. 12 Shmitt-Pantel 1992, 13.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek ing event, which has been described in several, admittedly, important texts produced by high-class free males, most of whom were citizens of Athens or only a few other Greek poleis. This arbitrarily chosen type of institution, which, to some of the ancients provided the model of what drinking should be like, has become an archetype of ancient drinking parties and more widely speaking for many of us, all ancient drinking events. Yet I would like to suggest that we may attempt to take a fresh look at the ancient material, aiming to free ourselves from the learned traditions of speaking about drinking in antiquity.

 Iconography: Prolegomena To state the obvious, a vase is a three-dimensional object that lends to a painter only its surface and which does not allow for a straightforward transposition of real-life objects or situations. Some Greek artists, however, managed to represent the sympotic space as we know it from literary and archaeological sources in a remarkably suggestive way. A good example is provided by an image on a red-figure cup, attributed to Douris (BAPD 4704; Fig. 1), which depicts several bearded men reclining on klinai: one is playing pipes, another is drinking, and yet another is playing kottabos. We may also see an attractive juvenile waiter, some musical instruments hanging from a wall, and a lamp, which evokes the late hour at which a symposium would normally take place. There can be thus no doubt that we are witnessing a symposium, especially due to the most striking detail that one of the klinai is set in a position perpendicular to the other two. This may evoke the architectural setting of a typical andron.13 However, such a way of representing the sympotic space is highly unusual, and we may see that the artist struggled to achieve it, by showing the offset klinē as devoid of a back and, unlike the others, occupied by one symposiast only. The more usual and, hence, less exciting way of showing symposia consists of the unrealistic

 13 McNiven 2014 argues that many such images represent drinking events that took place outside the exiguous space of an andron, because they often feature elements that could not be seen behind the couches if they were set under the walls. For example, in Douris’ image discussed here, there is a lamp, which could not be situated on the right of the offset klinē. This interpretation would certainly suit my needs by adding several new examples of drinking parties that took place outside of the sympotic space. Nevertheless, I am not sure of the degree to which the arrangement of these elements was meant to reflect their actual position. Thus, the lamp in Douris’ picture might have been placed where it is simply because the painter did not find a better position for it.

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representation of the klinai as if they had been set in single file. Often, the number of klinai is reduced to two or one, which is usually taken as a metonym of a sympotic group, which, as I argue below, is, to a certain degree, conditioned by our expectations of the composition and setting of a symposium. As Murray puts it in his introduction to the seminal volume of essays: “an andron would normally hold between fourteen and thirty persons. Any larger number of couches tends to isolate the members of the symposion from each other, and to make impossible the communal activities characteristic of it. The size of a group and the space within which it operated had an important effect on the nature of the group loyalties and the formation of the hetaireia”.14 In other words, a drinking party with too many or too few participants is no longer a true symposium. Paradoxically, even though no scholar seems to object to these statements, they tend to refer to all kinds of drinking events indiscriminately as to a symposium regardless of their size and setting. In the sections that follow, I address two interrelated issues: the location of the event and the size of the drinking/dining party to draw a clear distinction between what is sympotic and what may simply resemble a symposium.

 Parties in tents The andron, in which we expect that a drinking party would normally take place, could have been sometimes replaced with a temporary structure, such as a tent, which is visible in a couple of images. A good example is provided by a red-figure bell krater in Sozopol (BAPD 22727; Fig. 3). It features something that may seem like a typical sympotic scene: there are two bearded men and two youths reclining on klinai. In front of them, there are tables with only partially visible (due to the state of their preservation) objects that clearly represented food other than meat, which is typical of a sympotic context. There is also a woman standing with a pitcher, which evokes her subordinate role. What is less usual is a large piece of cloth hanging from strings above the drinkers’ heads, which indicates that the artist put special emphasis on the outdoor setting of the event. Such an arrangement is known to us, among other sources, from Euripides’ Ion 1129–1166,15 in which a large and elaborate tent that was set somewhere in the sanctuary at Delphi is described at substantial length. Even though the

 14 Murray 1990a, 7. 15 On the passage, see especially Martin 2018, ad loc. with further references.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek passage contains a reference to kraters (1165–1166), which are an essential part of a symposium,16 the enormous size of the tent (10,000 square feet; 1138–1139) and the inclusion of everyone who wanted to participate (1166–1168) make it a communal feast, which included animal sacrifice and a banquet, rather than a private event.17 Although the passage in Ion must be taken with due caution given that it describes a fictional event set in the heroic past, it seems to reflect the practice typical of the time of Euripides with only a little exaggeration. This is further confirmed by several other literary and inscriptional sources, meticulously gathered and discussed by Goldstein, which allowed him to conclude that “it was a common Greek practice — from the fifth century at least — to construct enclosures, in particular tents and huts, in sanctuaries for the ritual meal”.18 Needless to say, a ritual meal could have been followed by a drinking party, but somewhat alarmingly, perhaps due to the nature of these sources, almost none of them refers to a symposium.19 The question may be then asked whether the event depicted on the krater in Sozopol was still a symposium that incidentally happened to take place in a tent, or whether it was meant to be interpreted as another type of drinking event that could be characterised, among other features, by a much lower level of privacy that the participants enjoyed since they were not protected by the walls of an andron. This question becomes more pertinent in the case of parties that were not sheltered, even by tents.

 16 On kraters as an essential piece of sympotic equipment, see Lissarague 1990. It must be emphasised, however, that nothing compels us to think that kraters could not have been used in context that were not sympotic in the narrow sense of this word; see e.g. Rotroff 1996, 27. 17 On the difference between symposium and a sacrificial meal, see especially Shmitt-Pantel 1990. On several elements of sympotic behaviour during communal feasts, see Steiner 2002. Elsewhere, Steiner (2007, 232–233) observes that only a small portion of the sympotic pottery is found in the context of sympotic spaces. Apart from the fact that most of the vases have been found in graves (often outside Greece), it is interesting to note that the sympotic pottery is present in the context of public buildings, as well as in private dwellings without andrōnes. 18 Goldstein 1978, 8. 19 The only exception may be the scholia to Pind. Ol. 10.46–47, in which the area around the sanctuary at Olympia was a τόπος συμπόσιος, a convivial place, because of there were numerous inns scattered there (τὸ γὰρ ἐν κύκλωι τοῦ ἱεροῦ καταγωγαῖς διείληπτο).

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 Indoor versus outdoor parties More common than images of parties in tents, but still relatively rare, are pictures that explicitly frame a drinking scene in an architectural setting, which may be evoked by a series of columns between which the figures of symposiasts are situated. An example is provided by a black figure oinochoe by the Gela Painter (BAPD 14840; Fig. 4). Much more common are scenes in which the architectural frame is either altogether absent or indirectly evoked by objects, such as pieces of garments, pipe-cases, picnic baskets, and the like, which hang above symposiasts’ heads, presumably from a wall. Examples abound. On the other side of the spectrum are somewhat less common, but far from exceptional, images that make it clear that the drinking party is taking place outdoors, with drinkers reclining on klinai, or, in no less than 300 extant images, on the ground. This category, in my opinion, misleadingly called “symposia on the ground”, has been discussed at substantial length by Heinrich and Topper.20 A locus classicus is provided by the scene inside a black-figure phallic cup in the manner of the Andokides painter (BAPD 396; Fig. 5). It depicts a drinking party structured along the lines we associate with symposia. There are several men reclining with drinking cups. One man is playing an aulos, and another is being approached by a boy carrying a pitcher of wine. Intriguingly, the man is holding a sandal in his hand, which bears an allusion to some form of punishment or perhaps a sadistic erotic game he is about to play with the waiter.21 All of this belongs to the realm of the symposia. Similarly, the musical instruments and pieces of clothing that are hanging above the drinkers would perfectly fit the context of an andron. In this case, however, they are suspended on the branches of the vines that dominate the composition. This means that the presence of the vine, which is used as a prop, cannot be dismissed as purely symbolic. It is thus clear that the artist meant to indicate that the scene was taking place outdoors. It is also clear that the drinkers shown on the phallic cup in question are not reclining on couches, given that the waiter is shown as standing on the same level as the man lying next to him. In some other pictures, there are objects, such as craters set next to reclining men (e.g., BAPD 8255). Relatively often we

 20 Heinrich 2007; Topper 2012, 27–30 et sparsim. 21 See Stafford 2022, 221–244.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek also see animals, such as dogs, rams, and goats walking among them (e.g. BAPD 306350, 23081).22 Many vessels, such as the cup with white-ground exterior decoration attributed to the Euphronios potter (BAPD 200100; Fig. 6), allow us to see plainly the mattresses used by some of these drinkers. Such mattresses, which were stuffed with straw or leaves and put directly on the ground, were called stibades or chameunai. Although they were used in ritual contexts, such as Thesmophoria,23 and some scholars have interpreted them as a type of important religious symbol,24 their use was much wider, especially in a military context.25 It seems thus reasonable to assume that stibades were seen as also being suitable for informal events. A particularly relevant instance of their use is referred to in a passage of Philostratus’ Vitae sophistarum (549): ὁπότε δὲ ἥκοι Διονύσια καὶ κατίοι ἐς Ἀκαδημίαν τὸ τοῦ Διονύσου ἕδος, ἐν Κεραμεικῶι ποτίζων ἀστοὺς καὶ ξένους κατακειμένους ἐπὶ στιβάδων κιττοῦ. When they celebrate the Dionysia and they escort the statue of Dionysus to Academia, he [Herodes Atticus] would offer wine to the men from the city and strangers who were reclining on the mattresses filled with ivy.

This sentence immediately follows a passage in which Herodes is said to have regularly offered hecatombs and shared the meat resulting from them with the  22 On several red-figure vases (e.g. BAPD 200145), the lower edge of the image indicates the level of the upper surface of the couches, thus eliminating these pieces of furniture from the picture. This means that on some occasions, the lack of klinē does not mean that the party took place on the ground, which can be ascertained only thanks to some further cues, such as objects or animals shown on the same level with drinkers. See Nelis 1995, 439–440; Klinger 1997; Murray 2018, 128–131. 23 Thus Aelian, NA 9.26. 24 Thus, especially Nilsson 1906, 318–319 and more recently Sourvinou-Inwood 2003, 80–84. For a refutation, see Goldstein 1978, 25–26. A separate question arose around the Latin word stibadium. It referred to a large dining couch, which could accommodate up to six or eight persons (thus especially Mart. 14.87; Sid. Ep. 1.11.14; 2.2.11). This is a loan word, whose meaning in Greek seems more problematic. It seems that στιβάδιον was also a couch or mattress of some kind. There might have been also the word *στιβάδειον, which, according especially to Pickard (1944) was a name of a building with a stibadium in it. Although the existence of such buildings in the public areas of various Greek cities, such as Pergamon or Delos is well attested, the name remains a matter of a conjecture, based entirely on the inscription Inscr. Perg. 222, which reads ]ΤΙΒΑΔΕ[ in the context, which may or may not have something to do with the foundation of a dining building. Arguably, this is too little to build upon. See also Lavagne 1988, 111–116 for further references. 25 E.g., X. HG 7.1.16.

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Athenians, which was supposed to illustrate his enormous generosity. It is thus clear that Philostratus’ sentence presupposes mass participation in the drinking party.26 Otherwise, it would not have been suitable to exemplify Herodes’ magnanimity as parallel to that which made him sacrifice hecatombs. It is relatively safe to assume then that the passage illustrates a habit that was known in Athens of the Imperial period, and, probably also before that,27 according to which citizens and non-citizens who arrived for the Dionysia would enjoy wine outdoors as they reclined on portable mattresses. Even though we are not given additional details, it seems reasonable to adduce parallels from contemporary outdoor festivals that include well-organised forms of entertainment parallel to the theatrical events during the Dionysia that admit more spontaneous modes of participation. These often consisted of people drinking in small and informal groups, many of them feasting one next to another, thus, forming a crowd. Feasting in such groups could have shared many characteristics with a symposium, but there must have been also profound differences resulting, among other factors, from the fact that no walls protected the intimacy of the drinking party. Unlike a symposium, the event would probably take place, or at least begin, during the day. The mass participation would also make of it a non-elite form of meeting, which might have also been open to persons who were typically excluded from symposia. It may even be observed that the logic behind the magnanimity of Herodes Atticus seems to suggest that less well-off people in particular would participate in the event. Otherwise, the gift of free wine would be less appreciated. The question regarding the relationship between the event during the City Dionysia and images on vases showing people drinking outdoors cannot be answered in a straightforward manner, not only because of the problematic chronology but also because there is nothing to ascertain a direct connection. Indeed, the data relating to various other festivals seem to suggest that the City Dionysia was by no means an exceptional festival in terms of mass participa 26 Pace Sourvinou-Inwood 2003, 79–81. 27 Sourvinou-Inwood 2003, 79–80 observed that “the formulation suggests that he [Philostratus] is reporting a benefaction during a part of the festival that he refers to elliptically because he assumes it to be well known; he is not describing something unknown”. Having thus correctly, in my opinion, established that the habit of escorting the statue of Dionysus to Academia was well known, she assumes that the same must be true about the habit of drinking on stibades at Kerameikos. The matter-of-fact way Philostratus refers to seems to corroborate this. What is, admittedly, problematic is dating these habits back to a much earlier period. SourvinouInwood thought they were as old as the City Dionysia itself, which is unfortunately impossible to ascertain. On the other hand, there is no need to assume that any of this was a late innovation.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek tion. Even though scholarly tradition tends to focus on the “official”, “institutional”, and well-structured parts of ancient festivities, it is important to bear in mind that this is only a part of what the experience of such a festival could involve. Such festivities as City and Rural Dionysia, Anthesteria, or Lenaia almost certainly involved heavy drinking as a part of their more or less official program. Other festivals, such as Panathenaia28 or Diaisia29 for example, might have involved less excessive forms of feasting; however, it seems natural to think that eating and drinking in semiformal groups of friends and relatives, which could take place in various private or public buildings or outdoors, was a routine part of them. This means, that without falling into somewhat naïve, positivist approach, according to which images on vases should illustrate a particular event, it seems reasonable to observe that the real-life experience of outdoor drinking parties should have influenced the perception of these scenes by ancient viewers. Thus, instead of referring to such images as a kind of symposia characterised by their outdoor settings, it may be more accurate to call them what they actually are: outdoor drinking parties that allowed for mass participation, especially of people who did not belong to the elite classes. There were, on the other hand, some events that were situated on the opposite pole of the spectrum, due to the much-reduced number of participants.

 Drinking in two As already mentioned, according to the scholarly tradition, an image of two men reclining and drinking wine is usually taken as a pars pro toto of a symposium. There are, however, some scenes, mythological and non-mythological, that should not be interpreted in this way. A good example is provided by the tale of Heracles paying a visit to the centaur Pholus. According to the story, which is reflected on several black-figure vases, Pholus was a cultural centaur in possession of a pithos of an exquisite wine he received as a gift from Dionysus. When Heracles paid him a visit, Pholus opened the vessel to treat his guest with its contents. The smell of the wine attracted other centaurs, who, acting in accordance with their nature, invaded the party, turning it into a brawl. As a

 28 On the participants in the Panathenaea, see especially Shear 2021, 94–98, 165–170, 212–304. 29 For references, see Parker 2005, 466.

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result, many centaurs were killed by Heracles, including the incidentally wounded Pholus.30 In the images inspired by this story, Heracles and Pholus are often shown as reclining next to the vessel with wine. Some of these images feature an element evocative of the cave in which the hospitality took place. A good example is provided by the red-figure cup in Basel (BAPD 217401; Fig. 7), which shows a rock and Heracles’ quiver suspended above a huge pithos, whose upper part is visible above the level of the ground. Next to it, Heracles is reclining directly on the soil. Pholus is next to him, to a certain degree humorously depicted, with the equine part of his body lying on the ground. Further to the viewer’s left, there are two other centaurs approaching with their arms stretched out toward the wine. The aftermath is shown on the other side of the vessel, which features a scene of a fight between Heracles and the centaurs. The distinction between the two orderly drinkers and the unruly gatecrashers could not be more emphatic, which is crucial for my purposes here. Unlike other scenes with unruly centaurs, this is not an image of a symposium that went bad and turned into a riot. Instead, it needs particular emphasis that the drinking event represented on this series of vases, essentially consisted of a meeting of two, and only two, participants. It would be thus a mistake to call it a symposium. Although the iconography of Pholus may be particularly illuminating because of the sharp contrast between the feasting pair and the other figures, it is by no means exceptional in showing a party in which only two drinkers take part. Several other examples are provided by images of Dionysus reclining with Heracles or Hephaestus, who may be surrounded by secondary figures of maenads and satyrs whose role seems to be parallel to that of human waiters and entertainers. This distinction is emphasised by the reclining position of the two gods, which contrasts with the others who are all standing, dancing, or performing other activities. Although there is a difference between mythological and non-mythological scenes, the anthropomorphism of ancient gods makes them liable to engage in typically human forms of behaviour. Thus, given that a parallel scene with two mortal men reclining on a klinē and surrounded by servants would be interpreted as a sympotic scene, such descriptions as “Dionysus and Hephaestus at a symposium” are a commonplace occurrence. Yet, because we know that these images represent the totality of the drinking event rather than only a part of it, the symposium may provide an inadequate frame of reference. Instead, it might be more accurate to speak of the scenes as depicting a god paying a visit to his  30 See also Apollod. 2.83–87; DS 4.12; Σ Theocr. 7.149 (Dübner).

  Bartłomiej Bednarek divine brother or friend. This corresponds neatly to what we know from our lives and what must have been extremely common in ancient Greece. Friends and relatives pay visits to one another and only occasionally is a party organised to celebrate such an event. More often, we monopolise the pleasure of spending time with a guest all alone or in a family circle. Translating this contemporary habit into ancient Greek reality, we may imagine that some people, especially those of moderate means, would entertain their guests all alone, like Pholus did with Heracles. Some others would recline with their guest, delegating the task of serving food and drink to family members or slaves. We may also imagine that men of elevated status could entertain their guests by reclining with them on couches surrounded by numerous servants and entertainers. This may be the case of the black-figure Siana cup in Taranto (BAPD 350189; Fig. 8), which features one couch with a man and a youth on it. They are surrounded by a dancer, an aulos player, and two men with spears. According to the traditional approach, the image is interpreted as a typical sympotic scene,31 but a comparison of it with images of Dionysus reclining alongside another divinity may suggest another direction. Nothing compels us to think that the image was meant to be interpreted as a pars pro toto of a larger drinking party. Instead, it is very likely that the two drinkers were meant to be seen as two individuals of particularly high social standing surrounded by men of inferior status, two of whom provided entertainment, and the other two as their bodyguards or soldiers of a lower rank. This sharp distinction between the reclining men and those who surround them brings us to the last category of drinkers that requires attention, namely, those who drink alone.

 Monoposiasts Returning to Heracles and Pholus, a black-figure amphora in Florence (BAPD 320326; Fig. 9) offers an intriguing variation of this theme. Heracles is shown reclining on the ground with his lionskin and weapons hanging above him. To the left, there is the pithos. Unlike on the cup described above, Pholus is not reclining but is standing between the vessel and Heracles, ready to top up his kantharos from a jug. Does this mean that he has been turned into a servant? Not necessarily. He is rather a hospitable host, eager to treat his guest with wine, which he pours himself, given that there is no one else around to perform

 31 E.g. Filser 2017, 136–137.

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this task. This does not mean, however, that the two participants of the party are equal. We may clearly see who is being entertained by whom. The other side of the same amphora shows a similar scene (Fig. 10), which belongs to a much more widely attested type; Dionysus is reclining on a stibas with a kantharos in his hand. From the left, he is being approached by a satyr with a jug, whose position is parallel to that of Pholus. There are also two dancing nymphs that seem to provide entertainment to Dionysus. This image is very representative of the category ingeniously, but perhaps slightly misleadingly, called by Steinhart and Slater a monoposiast.32 What may be confusing in this term is that it has been formed in a parallel way to symposiast, which may suggest that figures such as Dionysus depicted as drinking alone must be analysed in terms provided by symposia, perhaps as simple instances of breaking sympotic rules. These rules, however, do not seem to be relevant in many of these cases. There is nothing anti-sympotic in Dionysus, who drinks alone, entertained by members of his thiasos whose status is obviously subordinate as evoked by their positioning and the roles they play. Similarly, in allowing Pholus to pour wine into his cup, Heracles does not seem to break any rules. He is just playing the role of a noble guest in the house of a devoted friend. They do not break sympotic rules because these rules were not valid outside of the symposia. As Steinhart and Slater convincingly argue in their article, the category of monoposiasts also embraces one of the images of Phineus, in which he is reclining at his meal rather than sitting. It features on a Chalcidian cup in Würtzburg (BAPD 18504; Fig. 1), showing the moment in which the harpies that used to spoil Phineus’ food are being chased away by Calais and Zetes. Phineus himself is reclining on a sumptuously decorated couch with an empty table in front of it. Next to him, there is a standing woman, presumably his wife. These motifs are known from the sympotic iconography, but it does not seem that they were meant to contribute to the characterisation of Phineus as a symposiast for two reasons. First, the story focuses on food rather than on wine. Secondly, the communal aspect of feasting is absent from the narration and from the image. In this respect, he is similar to other monoposiasts, whose position indicates the peculiarity of their status rather than their inclusion in the circle of fellowdrinkers or a meaningful exclusion from it.

 32 As Steinhart and Slater 1997, 204, n. 19 inform us, “the term ‘monoposiast’ was suggested by M. Mellink, at a Bryn Mawr seminar”.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek

 Mapping the meanings The material briefly presented above indicates that what we traditionally call “sympotic” scenes is a heterogenic category, which embraces the whole spectrum of possible types of events related to the consumption of wine and food. Some of the images in question are clearly meant to depict symposia, as we know them from literary sources. In these cases, certain assumptions that we make about the meaning of individual items of visual vocabulary applied by the artists are, to a large extent, justified. A symposium, as already mentioned, would take place indoors in a private house of an elite member. It would include his male social peers and females from outside the household and his social class. In these cases, the respective position of each member of the gathering would have a meaning strongly related to what we know of symposia from other sources. The reclining position of male drinkers would express their equal position vis-à-vis the other adult male symposiasts. Although the status of women drinking at symposia as hetaerae and that of female entertainers as lower-class prostitutes has been justly problematised over recent years,33 it is reasonable to assume that ancient viewers were unlikely to think of them as social peers of the males shown in their company. Such a temporary and conditional inclusion of non-elite women would indicate their ambivalent status of something perhaps more desirable than high-born females, but at the same time, entirely expendable. This, however, is true only in the case of the scenes that were meant to represent true symposia. I will return to this below. The status of young males who pour wine and perform similar tasks that indicate their subordinate role, also indicated by their standing rather than reclining posture, remains problematic, despite all the scholarly attention it has attracted.34 Two possibilities are usually considered. They may be young elite members, whose partial involvement in the symposium was a necessary stage in their informal education, during which they would learn the sympotic etiquette and become acquainted with grown-up symposiasts, whose rank they would join upon reaching a suitable age. Alternatively, they can be interpreted as members of a lower social class, perhaps slaves chosen for their bodily beauty and charming manners, whose role (as perceived from the point of view of reclining men) would be that of delightful but expendable commodities. In both

 33 Lewis 2002, 98–128; Kelly Blazeby 2011. 34 See especially Bremmer 1990; Topper 2012, 53–85; Węcowski 2013; 2014, 33; Murray 2018, 212–213.

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cases, the distinction between the reclining group of symposiasts and standing boys would be pregnant with important meanings that cannot be, unfortunately, understood without a proper understanding of the boys’ status. If the way to becoming a full-fledged symposiast was open to the serving boys, the body language of the reclining men would thus advertise the benefits of being a member of the elite and stimulate the young men to emulate them. If, on the other hand, the boys belonged to socially inferior classes, the same set of signifiers would transmit a radically different meaning, emphasising the difference in status and exclusion of the subordinate persons. This brings us to the opposite end of the spectrum, in which a single person or one pair of drinkers is shown in images as surrounded by other figures of evidently lower status. Very instructive in this context are parallels provided by non-Greek material. For example, a relief in British Museum (number 124920; Fig. 11) shows Assurbanipal reclining alone on a couch with his wine vessel. Next to him, there is a woman, presumably his wife, sitting in an elaborate chair and drinking from her own cup. They are surrounded by several other figures of servants with fans and various other objects, whose role within the image clearly emphasises the distance between the king and the ordinary person. Given what we know about the social structure in ancient Assyria, we find it very natural to interpret this image as a propaganda piece. Regardless of whether it reflects real-life practice, it transmits a clear message through the bodily position of the figures. Its meaning is obviously related to the sphere of political power, indicating the elevated position of the king as “a master of his domain”, as Steinhart and Slater called it.35 The same structure is typical of several Greek images on vases showing one or two men of an elevated status reclining on a klinē, occasionally accompanied by women clearly belonging to the same social sphere (wife, sister), who often occupy a seat next to the couch. They are often surrounded by other figures, performing a variety of activities, such as serving wine to the drinkers or entertaining them with dance and music. In such cases, especially when the divine or heroic status of the reclining figure is clear to the viewer, the parallel between such an image and that of feasting Assurbanipal becomes particularly clear. The reclining posture of the drinker juxtaposed with other figures indicates his elevated status in an outright fashion. These images do not reproduce reality in a photographic way. Nevertheless, they may be taken as a reflection of several forms of behaviour, such as the ritual of theoxenia. Thus, it stands to reason that pictures of Dionysus, Heracles, and other heroes and divinities being attended  35 Steinhart and Slater 1997, 207.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek to by humans or other terrestrial figures, such as satyrs, have been, to a large degree, inspired by worship practices associated with these same divinities (who might have been sometimes present in the form of statues).36 At the same time, however, we should take into account the probability that the theoxenia in turn was modelled along the lines provided by a more mundane form of behaviour, such as simple xenia, an act of hospitality, which involved only humans. Votive reliefs (sometimes used in funerary context) belong to a separate, but not unrelated, category of heroic drinking, which is known as Totenmahl.37 They normally depict a male38 reclining on a couch, often accompanied by a woman of a clearly “respectable” status. There is often a snake and a horse visible in the background. Finally, there are worshippers, whose presence makes it clear that the man is a hero or a divinity. These images are usually referred to by moderns as sympotic scenes, which makes the presence of the woman somewhat bewildering. This is unnecessary, however, if we realise that a representation of a man drinking without male companions does not have to stand metonymically for a symposium. If these representations reflected anything that mortals did in their lives, the woman sitting next to the monoposiast would not have been exposed to the gazes of his social peers, as it would happen during the symposium. The only people who could see her, apart from her husband, would be the servants. In all these cases, including votive reliefs and vases with monoposiasts and diposiasts (if I may use such a term), the woman is usually shown as occupying a position that indicates her inferiority vis-à-vis her male companion; she is standing or sitting on the couch or next to it. In addition, when she is reclining, she occupies the less prestigious “lower” position. Both aspects seem to be deeply grounded in ancient Greek attitudes, according to which women were considered inferior to the men from their respective social groups. Nevertheless, paradoxically from our point of view, their visible connection with men of high status could increase rather than diminish their prestige. A good parallel is again provided by the Assurbanipal frieze, in which the queen’s sitting posture underlines her royal status and puts her above the rank of ordinary people. By the same token, there seems to be nothing demeaning about women’s positions in Greek votive friezes with monoposiasts, in Athena’s presence at Heracles’ banquets shown on vases, or in that of Phineus’ wife on the cup in  36 See Jameson 1994. 37 See especially Dentzer 1982, 301–427, 453–557; Murray 2018, 220–224. 38 Occasionally, there are two men reclining on a single klinē (see Dentzer 1982, 316), which does not make these scenes truly sympotic.

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Würzburg discussed above. Even when a woman is shown as reclining next to a man, it may be a signifier of her elevated status, provided that its context is not sympotic. The clearest examples are provided by a series of images with Dionysus and Ariadne, such as that on an amphora in Cambridge (BAPD 302249; Fig. 12), which shows the central couple on a couch surrounded by figures of dancing nymphs, satyrs, and a youthful waiter. In this context, Ariadne is shown as Dionysus’ spouse, whose elevated status is underlined by her reclining position, as well as the fact that she is being entertained by the others. Similarly, we should suspend our judgement regarding the status of some presumably mortal women depicted as feasting in the company of men in these cases when it is not clear whether the context is meant to evoke a symposium. A good example is provided by a stamnos by Beaune Painter (BAPD 32053; Fig. 13), which contains four images of couples reclining together and engaged in various activities. In one of them, both the man and the woman are drinking from separate vessels, which makes this picture one of relatively rare depictions of women drinking in Greek vase painting. There is nothing, however, to show that her behaviour was unsuitable for a respectable woman of citizen status, given that we do not know whether she shares her intimacy with anyone else than the man next to her. If we allow for the possibility that this and similar images were not meant to be taken as a pars pro toto of a symposium, it is likely that ancient viewers were supposed to think that they represented moments of joyful intimacy shared between high-class husbands and wives.39

 Conclusions As we may deduce from the passage in Aristophanes’ Wasps cited above, Athenians of the classical period would be reluctant to call many of the drinking events in which they took part a symposium. The material I discussed indicates that what modern scholars refer to as sympotic scenes represents a much wider category than simply the symposium itself. Obviously, on some occasions, drinking was not sympotic because, despite the participants’ intentions, it degenerated into something different. A good example is provided by the behav 39 What contributes to the overall interpretative difficulties is that the Beaune Painter was one of the Greek artists whose works might have been tailored for the Etruscan market. It is thus possible that they reflected the expectations of the foreign buyers more than Athenian habits. This calls for even more caution to be taken in interpreting these scenes along the lines provided by our ideas about the Greek symposium.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek iour of Philocleon who tried to be sympotikos in vain. This does not mean, however, that all instances of drinking alone, in pairs, in very small or very large groups, drinking outdoors, drinking in the company of women and other persons who would not attend normal symposia, etc., was interpreted as an outright breach of sympotic norms. These norms were simply absent in a vast variety of contexts.

Bibliography Biles, Z./Olson, S.D. (2015), Aristophanes: Wasps, Oxford. Bowie, A.M. (1997), ‘Thinking with Drinking: Wine and the Symposium in Aristophanes’, in: Journal of Hellenic Studies 117, 1–21. Bremmer, J.N. (1990), ‘Adolescents, Symposium, and Pederasty’, in: O. Murray (ed.), Sympotica: A Symposium on the ‘Symposion’, Oxford, 135–148. Dentzer, J.-M. (1982), Le motif du banquet couché dans le Proche-Orient et le monde grec du VIIe au IVe siècle avant J.-C., Rome. Fehr, B. (1971), Orientalische und griechische Gelage, Bonn. Filser, W. (2017), Die Elite Athens auf der attischen Luxuskeramik, Berlin/Munich/Boston. Fisher, N. (2000), ‘Symposiasts, Fish-Eaters and Flatterers: Social Mobility and Moral Concerns in Old Comedy’, in: D. Harvey/J. Wilkins (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes. Studies in Athenian Old Comedy, London/Swansea, 355–396. Goldstein, M.S. (1978), The Setting of the Ritual Meal in Greek Sanctuaries: 600–300 B.C., Ph.D. Thesis, Berkeley. Heinrich, F. (2007), ‘Bodengelage im Reich des Dionysos. Gelagebilder ohne Kline in der attischen Bilderwelt des 6. Und 5. Jarhrhunderts v. Chr.’, in: M. Meyer (ed.), Besorgte Mütter und sorglose Zecher. Mythische Exempel in der Bilderwelt Athens, Wien, 99–153. Jameson, M.H. (1994), ‘Theoxenia’ in: R. Hägg (ed.), Ancient Greek Cult Practice from the Epigraphical Evidence, Stockholm, 35–57. Kelly Blazeby, C. (2011), ‘Woman + Wine = Prostitute in Classical Athens?’ in: A. Glazebrook/ M.M. Henry (eds.), Greek Prostitutes in the Ancient Mediterranean, 800 BCE 200 BCE, Madison, WI, 86–105. Klinger, S. (1997), ‘Illusionist Conceit in Some Reclining Symposiast Scenes Painted by Euphronios and His Colleagues’ in: Archäologische Anzeiger, 343–364. Lavagne, H. (1988), Operosa antra. Recherches sur la grotte à Rome de Sylla à Hadrien, Paris/ Rome. Lewis, S. (2002), The Athenian Woman: An Iconographic Handbook, London. Lissarague, F. (1987), Un flot d’images: une esthétique du banquet grec, Paris. Lissarague, F. (1990), ‘Around the Krater: An Aspect of Banquet Imagery’, in: O. Murray (ed.), Sympotica: A Symposium on the ‘Symposion’, Oxford, 196–209. Lissarague, F. (1992), ‘Le banquet impossible’, in: M. Aurell/O. Dumoulin/F. Thelamon (eds.), La sociabilité à table: Commensalité et convivialité à travers les âges (Actes du colloque de Rouen. 14-17 Novembre 1990), Rouen, 55–64. Martin, G. (2018), Euripides “Ion”: Edition and Commentary, Berlin/Boston.

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McNiven, T. (2014), ‘The View from Behind the Kline: Symposial Space and Beyond’, in: J.H. Oakley (ed.) Athenian Potters and Painters III, Oxford, 125–133. Murray, O. (1990a), ‘Sympotic History’, in: O. Murray (ed.), Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposion, Oxford, 3–13. Murray, O. (2018), The Symposion: Drinking Greek Style, Oxford. Murray, O. (ed.) (1990), Sympotica. A Symposium on the ‘Symposion’, Oxford. Murray, O./Tecuşan, M. (eds.) (1995), In vino veritas, Oxford. Neils, J. (1995), ‘The Euthymides Krater from Morgantina’, in: American Journal of Archaeology 99, 427–444. Nilsson, M.P. (1906), Griechische Feste von religiöser Bedeutung, Leipzig. Parker, R. (2005), Polytheism and Society at Athens, Oxford. Pickard, C. (1944), ‘Un type méconnu de lieu-saint dionysiaque: le stibadeion’, in: Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 88.1, 127–157. Rossi, L.E. (1983), ‘Il simposio greco arcaico e classico come spettacolo a se stesso’, in: F. Doglio (ed.), Spettacoli conviviali dall’antichità classica alle corti italiane del’400: atti del VII convegno di studio, Viterbo 27-30 maggio 1982, Viterbo, 41–50. Rotroff, S. (1996), The Missing Kater and the Hellenistic Symposium: Drinking in the Age of Alexander the Great, Christchurch, N.Z. Schmitt-Pantel, P. (1992), La cité au banquet: histoire des repas publics dans les cites grecques, Rome. Schmitt-Pantel, P. (1990), ‘Sacrificial Meal and Symposion: Two Models of Civic Institution in the Archaic City?’, in: O. Murray (ed.), Sympotica: A Symposium on the ‘Symposion’, Oxford, 14–33. Shear, J. (2021), Serving Athena: The Festival of the Panathenaia and the Construction of Athenian Identities, Cambridge. Sourvinou-Inwood, Ch. (2003), Tragedy and Athenian Religion, Lanham, MD. Stafford, E. (2022), ‘Olive Oil, Dildos and Sandals: Greek Sex Toys Reassessed’, in: A. Serafim/ G. Kazantzidis/K. Demetriou, Sex and the City: Sex and Sexual Practices in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Berlin/Boston, 221–244. Steiner, A. (2002), ‘Private and Public: Links Between Symposion and Syssition in Fifth Century Athens’, in: Classical Antiquity 21.2, 347–379. Steiner, A. (2007), Reading Greek Vases, Cambridge/New York. Steinhart, M./Slater, W.J. (1997), ‘Phineus as monoposiast’ in: Journal of Hellenic Studies 117, 203–210. Topper, K. (2012), The Imagery of the Athenian Symposium, New York. Węcowski, M. (2013), ‘Slaves or Aristocrats? Naked Boys in the Archaic Symposion’, in: Przegląd humanistyczny 2, 37–43. Węcowski, M. (2014), The Rise of the Greek Aristocratic Banquet, Oxford. Węcowski, M. (2018), ‘When Did the Symposion Die? On the Decline of the Greek Aristocratic Banquet’, in: F. van den Eijnde/J.H. Blok/R. Strootman (eds.), Feasting and Polis Institutions, Leiden/Boston, 257–272.

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Figures

Fig. 1: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Chalcidian black-figure cup, Würzburg, Universität, Martin von Wagner Museum: L164, BAPD 18504.

Fig. 2: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic red-figure cup, Douris, Karlsruhe, Badisches Landesmuseum: 70.395, BAPD 4704.

How to be Sympotikos and what it Actually Means  

Fig. 3: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic red-figure bell krater, Sozopol, Museum: D21484, BAPD 22727.

Fig. 4: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure oinochoe, private collection (?), Gela Painter, BAPD 14840.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek

Fig. 5: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure cup, Oxford, Ashmolean Museum: 1974.344, BAPD 396.

Fig. 6: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic red-figure/white ground cup, Euphronios Potter, Gotha, Schlossmuseum: 48, BAPD 200100.

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Fig. 7: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic red-figue cup, Basel, Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig: BS489, BAPD 217401.

Fig. 8: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure Siana cup, Heidelberg Painter, Taranto, Museo Archeologico Nazionale: 110339, BAPD 350189.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek

Fig. 9: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure belly amphora, Florence, Museo Archeologico Etrusco: 3812, BAPD 320326, side A.

How to be Sympotikos and what it Actually Means  

Fig. 10: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure belly amphora, Florence, Museo Archeologico Etrusco: 3812, BAPD 320326, side B.

Fig. 11: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Neo-Assyrian relief, London, British Museum: 124920.

  Bartłomiej Bednarek

Fig. 12: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black-figure neck amphora, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum: GR27.1864.48, BAPD 302249.

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Fig. 13: Drawing by O. Chmielewski-McCormick and A. Chmielewski of Attic black figure stamnos, Beaune Painter, Malibu (CA), The J. Paul Getty Museum: 86.AE.106, BAPD 32053.

Glenys Davies

Body Language and Becoming Roman on Trajan’s Column Abstract: Dress and body language as illustrated on the spiral relief band on Trajan’s column are used to identify and characterise various social and ethnic groups of people, including the emperor, the Roman military, civilians, and Dacians. This chapter examines the differences in posture and gesture used in the representation of these groups, contrasting the body language used by Romans and Dacians. It then focusses on the sequence of scenes 79–91 showing Trajan’s journey from Italy to the warzone at the beginning of the second Dacian war, and his encounters with the civilian inhabitants of several provincial towns. This sequence, it is argued, illustrates imperial ideology by showing the process of “becoming Roman” in the provinces, expressed through dress and body language, and forecasting a similar process for Dacia itself at the end of the war.

 Introduction: Trajan’s Column This research began with three interlinked questions: How is body language (pose and gesture) used in the visual imagery of Trajan’s Column? Did contemporary Romans perceive the body language of non-Roman “barbarians” as different (and inferior) to their own? And might body language be one of the things changed (consciously or unconsciously) by those absorbed into the Roman Empire by conquest, as one facet of Romanisation? The sculpted spiral band round Trajan’s column in Rome has an estimated 2500 human figures in 155 scenes.1 They illustrate the events of the two military campaigns fought against the Dacians (in AD 101–102 and 105–106) in what appears to be a realistic way, although their degree of accuracy has always been questioned:2 despite their appearance of documentary realism some aspects seem  1 Brilliant 1984, 90. The scene divisions identified by Cichorius are used in most subsequent publications. Arabic numerals are used here, although traditionally (and in older publications) Roman numerals are used. A full photographic record, taken from casts rather than the sculptures in situ, can be found in Lepper/Frere 1988; Rossi 1971; Settis 1988; and Coarelli 2000 (not casts). 2 The column nevertheless remains one of the most important sources for the Dacian wars: surviving literary sources are poor as Trajan’s own commentaries are lost, and there has been https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-012

  Glenys Davies to have been manipulated, and they are not to be taken as a straightforward photographic record.3 Rather they are to be seen as propaganda, aimed at various audiences in Rome, most of whom had never been to Dacia or taken part in the Dacian wars:4 this encouraged the use of stereotypical imagery.5 The visibility and legibility of the reliefs have been questioned, since it is not possible to follow the spiral round beyond the lowest registers, and the scenes nearer the top would not be easy to decipher, even supposing the column could be viewed from the upper stories of the flanking libraries in Trajan’s forum: this circumstance was partly taken into consideration by the spiral’s designer by using bold movements and repeated patterns which made certain figures and actions stand out.6 When we see the spiral band laid out in a continuous row as a series of casts we are perhaps seeing it as its designer originally conceived it (for example sketched out on a scroll) rather than as it was experienced when the monument was complete, making it easier to appreciate the ways in which body language was used not only to tell the story, but also to condition the viewer’s response.

 Dress and body language as ethnic and social markers: Dress The figures represented in the relief are identified by dress as belonging to specific ethnic and social groups. The best known example of this is the way legionary and auxiliary soldiers are distinguished from one another by their body armour, although it is generally agreed that this distinction was not strictly  much speculation about the relationship between these and the narrative as it appears on the column. 3 Strobel 2017, 324: the frieze is not a documentary film or free reportage. Dillon 2006, 244 and 259: “Designers of Roman historical reliefs want us to take these images as objective (and inevitable) historical truth; the wealth of precise details… encourage us to do just that”. But they “do not simply ‘reflect’ historical reality; they are actively involved in constructing it”. 4 Strobel 2017, 324: The audience consists of the citizens of Rome and the military and political elite. 5 Oltean 2007, 44 points out that the stereotype of the northern barbarian was established very early on in the Classical World by Greeks, and although there seems to be a large amount of information in ancient writings about Dacians they often seem burdened by confusion and stereotypes inherited from earlier Greek literature. These stereotypes also applied in art and are detectable on Trajan’s column. 6 Brilliant 1963, 118: the sculptors used an encyclopaedic variety of body postures and gestures to express the intense participation of Rome and Dacia in their joint struggle.

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adhered to in reality.7 Rather it was used as a visual clue for the viewer in Rome to identify the two main types of troops: the lorica segmentata is worn by legionaries (over a thigh-length tunic), chain mail and/or leather jerkins with knee-length breeches by the auxiliaries — breeches are not worn by the legionaries. They also carry different shaped shields (rectangular for legionaries, oval for auxiliaries). See Fig. 14 (scenes 10 and 11): in the adlocutio scene on the left the foreground row of figures in the audience, shown in back view, contains two auxiliaries and three legionaries; in the scene on the right the legionaries are engaged in building activity while on the far right two auxiliaries are on guard duty. The enemy (conventionally called “Dacians”) are also identifiable by dress (see Figs. 15, 16 and 17, scenes 75, 93, 111): they wear capacious knee-length tunics (which may be short- or long-sleeved and sometimes have slits up the sides) over long loose trousers (but no body-armour). They also wear cloaks which may be fringed, and which generally hang down their backs. They have longer shaggy hair than the Romans, and are divided into those who wear hats and those who do not — corresponding to a distinction that occurs in Dio Cassius (68.9.1).8 The pileati are the chiefs and higher-ranking men who tend to appear older; they wear hats which are said to be “Phrygian caps” by Lepper and Frere9 although they often appear on Trajan’s column to be more like turbans (see the kneeling figures in Fig. 15). The comati are the particularly hairy bare-headed and bearded rank and file seen standing with bound arms on the right of Fig. 15. There are also further distinctions represented by dress among the Romans: the armour worn by Trajan and the most senior officers (legionary legates) takes the form of a moulded Hellenistic-style cuirass, worn with a paludamentum (a high-quality shaped cloak fastened with a brooch on the right shoulder): see Figs. 14, 19, and 23 standing; Figs. 15 and 18, seated. Trajan also often wears knee-length breeches with this armour. This represents Trajan’s costume in the warzone when military action might be required imminently, but in other situations the emperor wears costumes according to the role he is playing. Thus, he occasionally wears a toga when sacrificing,10 and when travelling in areas out 7 See Rossi 1971, 100–103; Heitz 2017, 129–130. 8 Dio Cassius refers to the envoys sent by Decebalus during the first Dacian war: not the longhaired men as before, but the noblest among the cap-wearers. 9 Lepper/Frere 1988, 88 (scene 39) “an embassy of top-rank Dacian ‘Pileati’, distinguished by their Phrygian caps”. 10 This only applies to certain sacrifices (specifically a purificatory lustratio) where according to Scheid (2017, 146–147) Trajan is officiating as emperor, pontifex or flamen, but not as Ponti-

  Glenys Davies side the theatre of war he wears “travelling dress” — a capacious tunic and cloak, either the more prestigious paludamentum, or a more plebeian paenula, without armour (see Figs. 20, 25, and 27–30). The other ranks also adopt this form of dress when appropriate: it is often not possible to tell the nature of the cloak worn — it might be the simple basic sagum, but in some cases is clearly recognisable as a paenula by its characteristic hood and central front fastening. In addition a few of the soldiers fighting on the Roman side are identified as belonging to other ethnic groups by their dress and fighting methods: German clubmen wear long trousers with a bare torso and a cloak; slingers wear tunics with or without a cloak; Eastern (Syrian) archers wear long flowing robes and conical hats or helmets.11 Also meant to be recognisable by their dress are the ambassadors from surrounding communities meeting Trajan near the newly built bridge over the Danube (Fig. 20, scene 100). In the forefront is a man wearing trousers and a cloak but no tunic with the characteristic Germanic hair knot; behind him are two men in “Phrygian caps” wearing Dacian-style tunics and long trousers, and another wearing trousers and a cloak but without a tunic or the “Suebic hair knot”. The two figures in quiet conversation in distinctive long dresses and carefully styled hair would seem to be representatives from Greek states in the Black Sea area, and the two horsemen with split-sided tunics over long trousers and conical hats may be Sarmatian Iazyges.12 Several scenes show the civilian population in towns visited by the emperor on his journey towards Dacia at the beginning of the second Dacian campaign (Figs. 24–30, scenes 80–91). They are recognised by their civilian dress of toga for the town’s elite (those who held magistracies, priesthoods etc.),13 with tunics and cloaks for the ordinary townspeople.14 Also notable is the presence of women and children, with some wearing Roman and others a more traditional local form of dress (see Figs. 24, 26, 28, and 30). These scenes form the focus of my paper: they are set in towns that are “Roman” to varying degrees. Their Roman identity is indicated by their architecture (e.g. presence of a theatre, temples, a  fex Maximus. All those taking part (such as the camillus, victimarii) are dressed in the costumes worn at Rome. For other sacrifices (e.g. fig. 28, scene 86; fig. 30, scene 91; scene 99, the sacrifice in front of the new Danube bridge), Trajan wears a tunic and cloak (“travelling dress”). 11 These figures take part on the Roman side in battles and assaults on Dacian strongholds (scenes 24, 66, 72) and also march alongside the Roman army (scenes 106–8). Mauretanian cavalry also appear in scene 64. 12 Lepper/Frere 1988, 151–152. 13 Togas are worn by adult men in scenes 81, 83, 86, and 91, and by boys in scenes 83, 86, and 91. 14 Scene 80 has men and a boy wearing a tunic and paenula; scene 91 also has figures in a tunic and cloak that is wrapped around rather than fastened either at the front or on the shoulder.

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monumental arch or colonnaded forum) as well as the dress of the inhabitants.15 The representation of the first Dacian war on the column has very few such scenes — the story starts with the crossing of the Danube over the bridge of boats, whereas the sequence of events for the second war begins in Italy (Ancona?) and shows the emperor’s progress through a selection of provincial cities/towns where he is greeted by the local populace and often a sacrifice takes place.16 I shall come back to these later.

 Body language (posture and gesture): Trajan and Roman soldiers Whereas the dress of the figures serves to identify them according to their ethnic and social groups, the gestures they perform and the postures they adopt are designed to condition the viewer’s understanding of the character and nature of these groups. Stereotypical behaviours inform the audience what constitutes correct Roman behaviour (as demonstrated by Roman citizens, especially the elite) and how different it is from the behaviour of barbarians, and how close other social and ethnic groups are to behaving like true Romans. As one would expect, there is a clear contrast between how Romans and barbarians (in this case Dacians) behave (e.g. Romans are not as excitable or ill-disciplined in their actions as Dacians tend to be). But as we have seen, the category of “Roman” includes various social groups, and legionaries do not necessarily behave in the same way as auxiliaries, or civilians as soldiers. Most studied is the body language of the emperor himself. Trajan appears many times on the frieze (59 according to Richard Brilliant),17 usually standing in an elevated and very visible position flanked by officers who draw attention to him by looking at him (see Fig. 14, scene 10), surrounded by his entourage (Fig. 20, scene 100), or performing a sacrifice (Figs. 28 and 30, scenes 86, 91). Otherwise, he is sometimes seated (Figs. 15 and 18, scenes 75 and 44) and occa 15 Identification of these towns has been based on what appear to be representations of known buildings — but without complete agreement: Danner 2017; Bogdanović/Nikolić 2017. 16 There is considerable disagreement about the route taken by Trajan from Italy to the warzone at the beginning of the second war, with the towns represented on the column in scenes 79-91 variously identified. Lepper/Frere 1988 126–127 identify three routes suggested by previous scholars; for their own identifications of the various towns en route see Lepper/Frere 1988, 129–139; Strobel 2017, 314–316. 17 Brilliant 1984, 102.

  Glenys Davies sionally riding a horse (Fig. 29, scene 90): he does not take part in battle scenes, but is rather seen addressing the troops, overseeing building activities and receiving appeals for clemency. In these scenes Trajan makes little movement, except for his extended right hand, which performs a range of gestures according to the context.18. In adlocutio scenes (such as Fig. 14, scene 10) Trajan’s gesture can be interpreted as one of address; in submission scenes an extended arm with open hand may suggest receptiveness to appeals for mercy (as in Fig. 15) — whereas a total lack of gestural response (as in Fig. 19, scene 123) suggests the suppliants are unlikely to be successful. The emperor’s gesture seen in scene 100 (Fig. 20), with the right arm bent up at the elbow, suggests greeting and perhaps dialogue with the German ambassador who reciprocates with a similar gesture. Scene 44 (Fig. 18) is unusual: Trajan extends his right arm towards the auxiliary soldier who has been granted an award during the first war. The soldier not only touches but even seems to kiss the emperor’s hand, a gesture not seen anywhere else on the column. Trajan’s posture is upright when standing, sometimes stepping forward; his leadership and control of the situation is expressed through his lack of vigorous movement, his small but emphatic hand gestures and dignified pose. Leaving aside combat scenes, Roman soldiers share some of this calm demeanour, suggesting their control of the situation and their expertise. This is seen especially in adlocutio scenes, where a crowd of soldiers is shown listening to the emperor (Fig. 14, scene 10) or when they are attending an event such as a sacrifice or the submission of the enemy (Fig. 15) without making gestures. In a few scenes, however, they do respond by raising their arms (possibly in acclamation) such as in the last adlocutio at the end of the first Dacian war when the troops are shown acclaiming the emperor (scene 77) or attending a sacrifice (scene 85). Auxiliaries tend to be less restrained when expressing emotion and to gesticulate more than legionaries: this can be seen in the exceptional awardgiving scene (Fig. 18, scene 44) where two auxiliary soldiers are shown at bottom left embracing and kissing, and the scenes where auxiliary soldiers present enemy heads to the emperor (scenes 24, 72). These auxiliaries are not Roman citizens (though they can expect citizenship on retirement from service) — they are Romans in the making, and still retain some of their un-Roman excitability. Legionaries (recruited from Roman citizens) perform tasks that require vigorous movement and postures (building walls, digging ditches, felling trees for timber or foraging corn) but their vigorous movements and postures are all focussed on  18 Brilliant 1963, 119–127 discusses adlocutio and surrender scenes, with particular emphasis on Trajan’s right hand.

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the task in hand and show their fitness and technical skills as well as their ability to work together as a co-ordinated team (often in co-operating pairs). See Fig. 14, scene 11; Fig. 23, scene 39.19

 Body language: Dacians By contrast the Dacians are shown using vigorous movements to create an impression of chaos and desperation: this is particularly noticeable in scene 120 (Fig. 21), usually interpreted as Dacian warriors, both pileati and comati, demanding poison to commit suicide after defeat (an alternative interpretation is that the last available drops of water are being distributed). To left and right there are figures collapsing, dying, and dead. Those who are still alive demand or beg for their portion of poison/water, leaning forward with outstretched right arms, while the figure in the centre of the group raises both arms in the air in a gesture that suggests despair and anguish. This is a one-off incident, but similar body language is seen in scenes where Dacian men flee in disorder (something they do quite often: e.g. Figs. 16, 17, and 22, scenes 93, 111, and 122). Typical are outstretched arms pointing forward, often combined with heads turned to look behind them, designed to convey urgency, lack of control and panic. In scene 111 (Fig. 17) the fleeing figures at the top of the register appear above two Dacians who appear from their gestures to be arguing, presumably about the best course of action to take. This accords with Caesar’s picture of the Gauls — although he does not describe their body language, he does present them as prone to panic and disorder — unlike the Romans. Also represented several times on the frieze are scenes showing Dacians throwing themselves on the mercy of the emperor and submitting to him (e.g. Figs. 15 and 19, scenes 75 and 123). The body postures of the foremost figures are often exaggerated: they kneel, looking up at Trajan with both arms outstretched and sometimes outspread, with palms open, in a passionate appeal.20 The gesture of raising both arms towards the emperor is repeated (with rather less passion) by the large crowd of Dacians in scene 75, Fig. 15 (the great surrender at the end of the first Dacian war): the group of kneeling Dacians is followed by  19 The men in tunics shown hewing wood in scene 92 (Fig. 16) are interpreted as classiarii (men from the fleet) by Lepper/Frere (1988, 142–143) and Rossi (1971, 180). 20 Similar kneeling figures also appear in scenes 46, 61, 130, and 141. Lowering the body by kneeling, stooping, or just lowering the head is a gesture of subservience, and it is not used by the Romans on the column.

  Glenys Davies standing figures, all holding one or both arms extended in front of them, with open palms, their shields at their feet. On the whole they look sincere in their appeal to the emperor, but at the very rear of the group Decebalus stands upright on a rocky platform (unlike the other figures who lean forward to varying degrees) performing the gesture of extending both arms in a way that looks decidedly half-hearted (his arms are held out, but bent at the elbow, a formal rather than a heart-felt gesture). Decebalus’ pose, and the presence of the two Dacians standing closer to Trajan, under guard and with their arms tied behind their backs, indicate that not all of those who submitted to Rome at the end of the first war were wholehearted or sincere about it. The body language of most of the Dacians when surrendering to the emperor suggests desperate appeal rather than a formal “performing obeisance”. Dio Cassius mentions three occasions when Dacian envoys or Decebalus himself came to Rome to negotiate a settlement to end hostilities: in the first “even before his defeat” Decebalus sent the “noblest of the pileati” who “threw down their arms, and casting themselves upon the ground, begged Trajan that if possible Decebalus himself should be permitted to meet and confer with him…” (Dio Cassius 68.9.1).21 Later (68.9.7), when Decebalus was ready to agree to everything demanded by Rome (not that he intended to stick to it) he came to Trajan, fell upon the ground, did obeisance and threw away his arms: the term used for his actions implies he performed proskynēsis, suggesting a rather more formal (and possibly less sincere) gesture than the desperate kneeling and arm gestures represented on the column. On Trajan’s return to Rome (Dio Cassius 68.10.1) envoys from Decebalus “were brought into the Senate where they laid down their arms, clasped their hands in the attitude of captives,22 and spoke some words of supplication” — again the studied theatricality of their gesture is rather different from the passion demonstrated by the supplicating Dacians in scene 75. Exaggerated bodily movement is represented on the column as characteristic of the Dacians and is found in scenes other than surrender to Trajan: the kneeling posture with raised arms is also used, for example, in the “poison” scene (Fig. 21, scene 120). However, on occasion more restrained poses and gestures are used, as in scene 39 (Fig. 23), where three standing pileati negotiate with the emperor with their arms held in front but bent at the elbow: their pos 21 Translations of Dio Cassius are taken from the Loeb edition (= Cary/Foster 1925). 22 It is not clear whether their hands were fastened behind their backs, as is represented on Trajan’s column in scene 75, or in front (as represented by the colossal statues of Dacians which decorated Trajan’s Forum). The latter would be easier if performed on themselves!

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ture is stooped with lowered head, but they do not grovel. Similar hand gestures are adopted by the two Dacian children, a boy and a girl, who stand with their families outside the Roman fortification awaiting the result of the negotiation carried out inside by their nobles. Thus, it seems that certain gestures and postures are used by Dacians that are not employed by the Roman legionaries and auxiliaries: typically Dacian are outstretched and wide-flung arms with open palms, leaning forward and kneeling. There is a clear distinction on the column between the bodily behaviour of Roman soldiers and that of the Dacian warriors. How does this compare with the poses and gestures used in the representation of the non-combatants in both communities, and in particular the civilians in the towns in the provinces outside the theatre of war?

 Civilians (non-combatants) in scenes set away from the theatre of war Of particular interest is the series of scenes showing the emperor’s journey from Italy to Dacia at the beginning of the second war, with crowds of local inhabitants gathered to greet him at various places along his route (Figs. 24–30, scenes 80–91). In several cases the event is celebrated with a sacrifice attended by the local populace. The people involved in these scenes include local dignitaries, Roman citizens, non-citizen residents, women, and children: the body language displayed illustrates the behaviour expected of various social groups resident in provincial towns in the empire.23 Scenes 79–81 (Figs. 24 and 25): The sequence begins at a town in Italy (scene 79),24 represented by several Roman-style buildings, usually identified as Ancona, although some argue for Brindisi:25 the emperor and his troops apparently left at night without attracting a farewell delegation, as there are only two figures inside the town, and they carry torches. The three ships represented in scene 80 arrive at a coastal town, presumably in Dalmatia.26 It is there that we see two groups of local provincial residents gathered to greet the arrival of the  23 These scenes are discussed as of particular significance in Hölscher 2017, 242–246, Strobel 2017, 314–316. 24 Settis 1988, fig. 139; Lepper/Frere 1988, pl. LVIII; Coarelli 2000, pl. 93. 25 Hölscher 2017, 25 and Coarelli 2000, caption for pl. 93, for example, identify the port of departure from Italy as Brundisium (Brindisi). 26 The town has been variously identified: the architecture suggests that it had a strong Roman identity.

  Glenys Davies fleet and Trajan with his entourage (Figs. 24–25, scenes 80–81). The first group is waiting at the harbour watching the ships arriving: it consists mostly of men, wearing tunics and paenulae rather than togas.27 There is a small boy placed prominently in front (he too wears a paenula over a tunic). The men are fairly static, and all pay attention to the arrival of the boats. They use little by way of arm gestures, but there are two women in the background who both stretch out one arm (the right) towards the boats, while one turns her head back excitedly to comment to the figure behind her. The boy too gestures towards the boats with his right hand. The gestures of the women and boy are more animated and excitable that those of the men. The group gathered at the harbour is separated from the next scene (81, Fig. 25) by an arch, and the architecture in the background suggests the next event represented is in the civic centre of the town. There Trajan and his entourage (all in “travelling dress”) are met by a group of men (only — no women or children) in what appear to be togas (though rather skimpy short versions): the togas suggest that they are Roman citizens who form the local elite (magistrates, decurions and priests of the main Roman cults in the town). Again, the figures are static (it is the emperor’s entourage which is moving forward) with arm gestures limited to two figures raising their right forearm from the elbow in greeting: Trajan responds by extending his right arm, though unfortunately his hand is broken, and his gesture is uncertain. Scenes 83–84 (Figs. 26 and 27): After another voyage Trajan and his entourage have arrived at a town where again the populace has turned out to greet him and speed him on his way, this time on land.28 To the left of an arch (Fig. 26) we see family groups with men in front and women behind, and small children placed prominently in the foreground. A woman bends over a boy dressed in a toga, while a girl wrapped in a palla stands beside the men, with her right arm raised from the elbow, and a second boy is partially concealed by the arch: he may not be wearing a toga (rather a tunic and cloak?) and the man beside him (presumably his father?) has his hand on the boy’s shoulder. On the other side of the arch (Fig. 27) there is a larger crowd of male citizens, those in the foreground wearing knee-length togas, with more children prominently placed and again dressed as children of Roman citizens. Two of the men in the foreground gesture by extending their right arm which is bent at the elbow with the fingers  27 The hoods of the paenula can be clearly seen hanging down the back of at least two of the figures represented in back view. 28 This town may be further down the Dalmatian coast (Salona has been suggested), or further away — but although in a province it is some distance from the frontier.

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held loosely curled (in contrast to the Dacian gesture of arms held out straight with the palm held open with fingers splayed). The Roman children also hold their right arm in a similar way. Again, one of the men holds his arm protectively round the back of one of the boys and turns his head to look down at him. Scenes 85–87 (Fig. 28): In scene 85 Trajan and his entourage travel on foot towards a sacrifice of four bulls, attended on the right by a large group of soldiers wearing capacious tunics, paenulae, and scarves round their necks: the military standards and the architecture suggest the sacrifice is at a military site.29 One prominent figure at the front of the group however seems to wear a toga: he stretches his right arm out in an unusually expansive gesture (for a Roman), and several of the men behind perform a similar gesture, though rather more discreetly. This gesture of greeting or acclamation seems to be directed at the emperor rather than a reaction to the sacrifice: although the (togate?) man at the front holds his left arm with the palm open and visible, another prominent figure in the foreground holds his hand vertically with the fingers lightly curled, and the hand belonging to a figure in the middle rank is held with the forefinger extended and the other fingers curled (as if pointing) — thus a variety of hand gestures are used by the crowd. Despite this unusual degree of gesticulation, however, the soldiers all stand upright and do not surge forward: this is a static group, unlike scenes with a crowd of Dacians. After a brief reference to another voyage followed by land travel most of scene 86 (Fig. 28) is taken up by another sacrifice of a bull in front of architecture which suggests a sizeable town or city with a Greek-style theatre and temple.30 Trajan, still in travelling dress, makes an offering at an altar, and this time the crowd attending the sacrifice on the right is made up of civilians. They include adult men and children, the boys in togas and the girls in long dresses with a palla draped on top. There is little gesticulation — the most prominent man in the front of the group clutches the folds of his toga in a gesture familiar from togate portrait statues: wearing the toga imposes a limited range of characteristic movements on the wearer, and in this case requires the use of both hands to control the garment. A token woman, at the back of the crowd as usual, raises her right hand with open palm: again, the more demonstrative gesture

 29 For scene 85 see Lepper/Frere 1988 pl. LXII; Settis 1988 figs. 149–152; Coarelli 2000, pl. 99. Lepper/Frere 1988, 134 suggest these may be veterans rather than serving soldiers and discuss the identifications of the location suggested by various scholars. 30 For the possible identifications of the town, see Lepper/Frere 1988 135–136: they appear to favour Salona, but other suggestions include Piraeus, Byzantium, and Marcianopolis (Strobel 2017, 315).

  Glenys Davies is made by a woman. The crowd attending the sacrifice turns its back on the next scene (87) with another ship suggesting a voyage, followed by scenes of travelling on foot and then on horseback (scenes 88–89).31 Scene 90 (Fig. 29): Riding at the head of the column Trajan encounters another group of civilian families who seem amazed to see him and greet him in a friendly manner (at least at first sight — but see below), but this time they wear Dacian-style barbarian dress. Although there are children present (one girl and two boys) all the adults are men. They are all bare-headed (comati) and all the male figures (including the boys) wear the costume seen elsewhere on the column on Dacian warriors — knee-length tunics slit up the sides, long loose trousers gathered at the ankle, and large cloaks. But these do not seem to be Dacians who oppose Rome: it would seem they belong to a community that has accepted Roman rule living in an area now inside imperial territory (such as the province of Upper Moesia).32 They greet the emperor but do not grovel as the Dacians defeated in combat or taken prisoner do: on the other hand their body postures, leaning forward with arms outstretched, recall the unrestrained body language adopted elsewhere on the column by the Dacian opponents of Rome. They use a variety of gestures: the man at the head of the group raises his right arm bent at the elbow in a gesture of greeting also used by Roman civilians, but the pointing gesture with extended forefinger adopted by three of the figures does not appear to be particularly friendly. The two men at the top use the stereotypically “Dacian” submission/imploring gesture of outstretched arms with open palms, while the figure behind them at top right holds his hand to his mouth, turning his body away while looking towards the emperor, as if trying to decide whether to stay or leave. Lepper and Frere suggest these are “settled farmers with families, friendly towards the emperor, but anxious for his arrival and (to judge by some of their gestures) full of news for his ear.”33 Strobel, on the other hand. reads their body language as gestures of pleading and trepidation.34 Their dress and body language suggest that they are in a similar position to the Dacian families who surrendered to Rome in the course of the first Dacian  31 Lepper/Frere 1988, pl. LXIV-LXV; Settis 1988 figs. 155–159; Coarelli 2000, pl. 102–104. 32 Lepper/Frere 1988, 138: “Most scholars, however, have supposed, as did Cichorius, that we are now north of the Danube, somewhere in the Banat area, where the local inhabitants are frightened that they may lose their recently acquired ‘liberty’.” Strobel 2017, 316 however suggests the scene represents Dacians who have fled from Decebalus to somewhere south of the Danube, in the province of Upper Moesia. Coarelli 2000, under pl. 105, identifies the location as “Dacian territory under Roman control”, and the people as “pacified Dacians”. 33 Lepper/Frere 1988, 137–138. There is, however, no specific evidence that they are farmers. 34 Strobel 2107, 316: “mit Geste des Flehens und furchtsamer Erwartung”.

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war (Fig. 23, scene 39), but it is only the two figures at the top who feel the need to appeal to the emperor for mercy by using the gesture of both arms held out with open palms. Scene 91 (Fig. 30): Immediately after the scene with the “Dacian peasants” we see another civilian group of provincials attending a sacrifice (at six altars — the bulls to be slaughtered with their attendant victimarii, and five of the altars, are ranged along the top of the scene). Prominently placed on the left, under an arch, Trajan, still in travelling dress, pours a libation on another altar, with the usual Roman flute player and camillus in attendance. Behind him on the right is a group of civilians which consists only of men and boys — the women and girls are behind them, further to the right. Four of the men, those closest to the emperor, appear to be wearing togas, as does the little boy in the centre of the group of three children. The man at the back of the group and the other two boys may be wearing tunics with capacious cloaks rather than togas. These figures stand in relaxed poses, the one nearest the emperor and the boy below him with the right arm raised but bent at the elbow (a gesture of greeting). One man puts his hand on the man in front’s shoulder, and another turns to speak to the man behind him, in postures reminiscent of the processional scenes on the Ara Pacis. These civilians are more animated and varied in their poses than the soldiers who listen to the emperor’s address in adlocutio scenes, but their movement is “Roman” in its restraint and dignity. Separated from the togawearing provincial elite men are the other attenders at the sacrifice: women and children in the foreground, with the heads of men who have the hair (and dress in so far as it is visible) of Dacian comati: the little boy in the foreground also wears Dacian-style dress. The women are all wearing a costume that is not Roman: distinctive are the mantle worn knotted at the front at the waist, long sleeves, and the cap or scarf worn over the hair. The little girl, on the other hand, may be wearing a more Roman costume. The women form a more animated group and gesticulate more freely than the men: the prominently placed woman with a baby held in her left arm holds her right arm extended and down, with the palm open, and the woman shown in back view also holds out one arm, bent at the elbow. Their postures and gestures are restrained and graceful, more like those of the Roman women in scenes 83 and 86 (Figs. 26 and 28) than those of the Dacian men in scene 90 (Fig. 29). This scene would seem to be set within the confines of the Roman empire,35 (there is some way to go before scene 99 representing the sacrifice at the newly 35 Lepper/Frere 1988, 139 present a wide range of locations suggested by earlier commentators, mostly across the Danube, and Coarelli 2000, pl. 107 suggests the sacrifice was an annual

  Glenys Davies built bridge across the Danube)36 but the populace represented here consists of both Roman citizens and their families (probably Roman veterans) and Dacians who have settled here and count as members of the community but who have not as yet given up their Dacian dress: even so, they behave rather more like Romans than Dacians. The sequence of scenes showing Trajan’s journey from Italy to the theatre of war, and some of the places on his route (scenes 80–91), illustrate the social and ethnic diversity of the people living within the provincial towns of the empire, both those in settled provinces close to the Italian homeland (such as Dalmatia) and those closer to the frontier (such as Upper Moesia). The social and ethnic groups are characterised by both dress and body language, which allows for the expression of the differences between elite Roman citizens and other inhabitants of a town (including the women), as well those barbarians who now live alongside them but who have not yet adopted a Roman lifestyle.

 Becoming Roman: Dress and body language as an index of Romanisation The sequence of scenes involving civilians at the beginning of the second Dacian war appears to illustrate a process of “becoming Roman” very like that analysed by Greg Woolf in relation to Gaul.37 Within individual provincial communities there were some people who displayed a high degree of Roman culture (humanitas), but also others who, although apparently part of the same community, had not bought into the Roman way of life to the same extent: this could be because they still retained aspects of a previous ethnic identity, but “even in Rome and in Italy, artisans, the urban plebs and especially country dwellers were thought to exhibit humanitas very imperfectly”.38 Auxiliary soldiers were recruited from provincials who did not have Roman citizenship but were granted citizenship on completing their service in the army (whereas legionaries were recruited from those who were already citizens).39 These social  ceremony on the battlefield of Tapae. More recently Strobel (2017, 316) suggested the event took place in Upper Moesia. 36 Lepper/Frere 1988 pl. LXXI; Settis 1988 fig. 179; Coarelli 2000 pl. 118–119. 37 Woolf 1998. 38 Woolf 1998, 104. 39 For the social hierarchy within Roman society and the Roman army, especially with regard to the position of the auxiliary troops, see Heitz 2017, 130–133.

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hierarchies are clearly expressed in the scenes on Trajan’s column discussed above, where the elite local aristocracy (male) and town officials are dressed in togas and behave in a manner appropriate to their rank, but there are other townspeople who are clearly not elite (not wearing togas), and women, whose body language is less restrained, and in communities near the frontier (scenes 90 and 91), there are also people of barbarian descent whose dress and behaviour show only a little Roman influence. Greg Woolf does not explicitly include body language among the aspects of life that changed with growing adherence to Roman culture (“becoming Roman”) in Gaul, although he does cite changes in clothing and behaviour in general, and “even the most intimate details of life were refashioned”, for example shaving off beards and learning to bathe themselves.40 In the scenes on Trajan’s column the prominent positioning of small boys in togas (Figs. 26, 27, 28, and 29) acts as a reminder that the children of newly made citizens will be even more “Roman” than their parents: they are important elements in the Romanising process. In scenes 90 and 91 we also see, equally prominently placed, boys of a similar age dressed in Dacian dress (Figs. 29 and 30), while in scene 80 (Fig. 24) the boy at the front of the welcoming party at the harbour does not wear a toga but a tunic and paenula: these children do not belong to elite Roman families, and although they might become citizens later in life (e.g. by serving in the army as an auxiliary) they are not born citizens and their destiny, like that of their parents, is unlikely to include serving on their town council or as a magistrate. Why were scenes 80-91, ostensibly showing Trajan’s journey from Italy to the Danube area, included in the narrative and placed in such a prominent position? One simple answer might be that such an account was included in Trajan’s commentary at this point — but if so, why did he include it? The representation of the first war starts with the crossing of the Danube, without showing the journey to get there. Several contributors to the recent volume Columna Traiani (Mitthof/Schörner 2017) discuss the significance of, and role played by, the “journey sequence” represented on the spiral relief at the beginning of the second Dacian war. For Strobel it highlights the ideological importance of the homage of people living in the provinces; for Heitz it represents the importance

 40 Woolf 1998 Preface ix. In relation to clothing he cites the wearing of the toga (Woolf 1998, 12) as opposed to Gallic ambassadors wearing trousers in the forum (62), and as far as behaviour and manners are concerned, barbarian feritas (warlike, irrational behaviour) was seen as the opposite of Roman gravitas and humanitas, the cultivated and enlightened ideals of the Roman elite (59–60).

  Glenys Davies of the participation of all inhabitants of the empire; for Hölscher it shows how high Roman culture rose in the provinces and the benefits of Roman rule for all living there; and Seelentag points to the process of Roman civilisation (epitomised by Trajan) taming wild Dacian nature.41 Making a province of Dacia would seem to have been an intended outcome for the second Dacian war from the outset: this was not the case for the first war, which ended with Decebalus agreeing to terms which he did not keep, and probably had no intention of keeping.42 But, instead of showing the creation of the new province at the end of the spiral band (where there is only a brief and rather squashed scene of Dacians on the move), scenes 80–91, placed prominently in the centre of the spiral relief and immediately after the trophies celebrating the successful conclusion of the first war, serve to illustrate the benefits of becoming a province by showing the process of “becoming Roman” already successfully at work; they act as reminders that Dacia too was destined to become a Roman province, and these scenes give a foretaste of how the Romanising process might work there. Aimed at the audience in Rome, they are propaganda for imperial policy towards the provinces under Trajan and Hadrian: the successful application of that policy in the new province of Dacia is not directly represented, but it is implied and anticipated. For the reality as far as Dacia was concerned see Oltean’s analysis of the (mainly archaeological) evidence.43

 Conclusion The spiral relief band on Trajan’s column fulfils several purposes, only one of which is to present a narrative account of the two Dacian wars. The viewer’s understanding of the progress of the wars, the role and conduct of the emperor and the various Roman military forces, the nature of the Dacian enemy, and imperial policy with regard to the frontiers and provinces was manipulated using visual means. Nonverbal communication in the forms of the dress and bodily behaviour adopted by different groups of people in various circumstanc-

 41 Strobel 2017, 314; Heitz 2017, 129, 132; Hölscher 2017, 26; Seelentag 2017, 153–154. 42 Piso 2017 asks “was the conquest of the Dacians necessary?” 43 Oltean 2007 discusses, analyses, and queries the often ideologically driven past approaches to the question of how Dacia fared under Roman rule, including the “current orthodoxy”. She examines the archaeological evidence for the various types of settlement (such as farmsteads, villas, villages, and towns) before and after the Dacian wars.

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es plays an important part:44 there would appear to be a sliding scale with the emperor and Roman elite at one end, and the barbarian enemy at the other, with Roman citizens (including legionaries), non-citizens living in the empire, auxiliary soldiers, women, and Dacians who had accepted Roman rule and settled inside the empire, in between. In the imagery used on the column, therefore, body language is used to show the progress of Romanisation in the provinces as erstwhile barbarians converted themselves into Romans.45 But does the stereotype of the excitable, panic-stricken Dacian prone to flamboyant, exaggerated gestures, and the phlegmatic, relaxed, understated Roman reflect reality, or is it just an artistic invention designed to further a propaganda message? Was altering their body language one of the things new Roman provincials were expected to do, along with wearing more Roman-style clothes and speaking Latin?

Bibliography Bogdanović, I./Nikolić, S. (2017), ‘In the Beginning There was a Timber Construction… The Wooden Amphitheatre of Viminacium’, in: Mitthof/Schörner 2017, 87–94. Bourdieu, P. (1990), The Logic of Practice; transl. Richard Nice, Cambridge. Brilliant, R. (1963), Gesture and Rank in Roman Art. The Use of Gestures to Denote Status in Roman Sculpture and Coinage, New Haven, CT. Brilliant, R. (1984), ‘The Column of Trajan and its Heirs’, in: Visual Narratives. Storytelling in Etruscan and Roman Art, Ithaca/London, 90–123. Cary, E./Foster, F.B. (transl.) (1925), Dio Cassius, Roman History. Volume VIII: Books 61-70, Cambridge, MA. Coarelli, F. (2000), The Column of Trajan; transl. Cynthia Rockwell, Rome. Danner, M. (2017), ‘Die Stadtdarstellungen auf der Trajanssäule im Kontext der kaiserzeitlichen Bilder vom städtlichen Raum’, in: Mitthof/Schörner 2017, 113–120. Davies, G. (2018), Gender and Body Language in Roman Art, Cambridge. Dillon, S. (2006), ‘Women on the Columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius and the Visual Language of Roman Victory’, in: S. Dillon/K. Welch (eds.), Representations of War in Ancient Rome, Cambridge, 244–271. Heitz, C. (2017), ‘Orbis in urbe: Die Ordnung des Reiches auf den Reliefs der Trajanssäule’, in: Mitthof/Schörner 2017, 129–134.  44 Dress and bodily comportment are components of what Bourdieu calls the habitus: they vary according to social groups, are learnt at an early age, and once established are difficult to change. Bourdieu 1990; Davies 2018, 25–26; 267. 45 How easy this process would have been in practice, and how fast change could have been effected, is questionable, given Bourdieu’s account of the habitus (Bourdieu 1990, 85): it might take several generations before Dacians started to wear togas and behave more like Romans.

  Glenys Davies Hölscher, T. (2017), ‘Ideologie der Realität—Realität der Ideologie: Narrative Struktur, Sachkultur und (Un-)Sichtbarkeit eines bildlichen Kriegsbericht’, in: Mitthof/Schörner 2017, 15–40. Lepper, F./Frere, S. (1988), Trajan’s Column. A new Edition of the Cichorius Plates, Gloucester. Mitthof, F./Schörner, G. (eds.) (2017), Columna Traiani. Traianssäule Siegesmonument und Kriegsbericht in Bildern, Tyche Sonderband 9, Vienna. Oltean, I.A. (2007), Dacia. Landscape, Colonisation, Romanisation, London/New York. Piso, I. (2017), ‘War die Eroberung Dakiens ein Notwendigkeit?’, in: Mitthof/Schörner 2017, 333–342. Rossi, L. (1971), Trajan’s Column and the Dacian Wars, London. Scheid, J. (2017), ‘Rituelle Handlungen auf der Trajans- und der Marcussäule—ein Vergleich’, in: Mitthof/Schörner 2017, 145–150. Seelentag, G. (2017), ‘Kriegsherr und Kulturbringer. Die Trajanssäule als Zeugnis innovantiver Herrschaftsdarstellung des Optimus Princeps’, in: Mitthof/Schörner 2017, 151–168. Settis, S. (1988), La Colonna Traiana, Turin. Strobel, K. (2017), ‘Ein Kommentar zum Bildbericht des zweiten Dakerkrieges auf der Traianssäule’, in: Mitthof/Schörner 2017, 309–332. Woolf, G. (1998), Becoming Roman. The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul, Cambridge.

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Figures

Fig. 14: Scenes 10 (adlocutio) and 11 (legionaries involved in building activity). K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 91.154.

  Glenys Davies

Fig. 15: Scene 75: The “Great Surrender” of the Dacians at the end of the first war. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.746.

Fig. 16: Scenes 92 (Classiarii cutting down trees) and 93 (Dacians rush to enter their fortification). K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.563.

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Fig. 17: Scene 111: Dacians in disorder above, arguing below. F.W. Deichmann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 41.1630.

  Glenys Davies

Fig. 18: Scene 44: Trajan rewards auxiliary soldiers. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.768.

Fig. 19: Scene 123: Dacians plead for clemency during second Dacian war. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.618.

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Fig. 20: Scene 100: Trajan meets ambassadors from various local populations. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.576.

Fig. 21: Scene 120: Mass Dacian suicide by poisoning (or sharing the last drop of water?). K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.608.

  Glenys Davies

Fig. 22: Scene 122: Dacians flee in disorder. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.651.

Fig. 23: Scene 39: Dacian chiefs negotiate with Trajan on behalf of the families on the left; Roman legionaries carry on building activities below. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.760.

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Fig. 24: Scene 80: Civilians await the arrival of the emperor at a harbour town. F.W. Deichmann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 41.1502.

  Glenys Davies

Fig. 25: Scene 81: Civic dignitaries greet Trajan in a town with impressive Roman architecture. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.756.

Fig. 26: Scenes 82/83: After another sea voyage, the rear of the procession of civilians seeing Trajan on his way by land. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.757.

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Fig. 27: Scenes 83/84: To the right of the arch, more people see Trajan and his entourage off. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.549.

Fig. 28: Scene 86: Trajan and his entourage arrive at a town where Trajan sacrifices, with a crowd of civilians in attendance on the right. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.553.

  Glenys Davies

Fig. 29: Scene 90: Trajan, on horseback, encounters a group of Dacian men and children, who greet him with various gestures. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.558.

Fig. 30: Scene 91: Trajan sacrifices on the left; civilians in togas attend the sacrifice in the centre, and on the right women and children in local dress and Dacian men in the background. K. Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 89.560.



Part V: The Voice of Earth: Nonverbal Behaviour, Language, and Nature

Anthony Corbeill

Hearing the Earth Speak: Paralinguistic Mutterings in Cicero, De haruspicum responsis Abstract: During the Roman Republic, prodigies provided a means for extralinguistic communication between divine and human realms: these phenomena were regularly debated in the senate to determine what, if anything, they may connote. In 56 BC, rumblings in northern Latium prompted the senate to elicit a written response from the Etruscan haruspices to explain what these noises were saying. This response provides the occasion for Cicero’s De haruspicum responsis. Given the speech’s subject matter, Cicero exploits paralinguistic phenomena throughout as a way of demonstrating the connection between his own words and the external world. I focus on three features in particular: the manipulation of grammatical gender; prose rhythm; and the use of alliteration, homoioteleuton, and hiatus in describing the prodigy under discussion. Through these rhetorical and stylistic features Cicero underscores the relationship upon which the system of Roman prodigies depends: the intersection and interaction of language, nature, and morality.

As this volume makes abundantly clear the Greeks and Romans, like moderns, continuously enacted various paralinguistic elements that served to emphasise, nuance, and even betray what they were communicating in speech and writing. In this contribution I continue to engage with the role of paralinguistic elements in nonverbal communication, but not as it occurs between or among human beings. Instead, I am investigating a particular instance from Latium during the first century before the common era, when the gods spoke to Romans in a message mediated by rumblings in the earth. What I am particularly interested in is how those rumblings manage to convey a clear message to the Romans without having recourse to human speech. Cicero acts as the mediator between the human and more-than-human worlds and in doing so exploits three nonverbal areas to convey to his senatorial audience what the gods are communicating through the medium that is the earth. These areas all centre on the manipula-

 This article offers a synthesis compiled from various sections of my commentary on De haruspicum responsis (Oxford University Press 2023). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-013

  Anthony Corbeill tion of sound as it pertains to grammatical gender, prose rhythm, and the relation of sound to sense. My analysis derives from a single oration of Cicero entitled De haruspicum responsis (“On the responses of the Etruscan priests”). The theme of this analysis finds its origins in my personal frustrations as an undergraduate, when I would encounter commentaries on ancient authors that say something like “note the alliteration of [p] sounds”. Full stop. So, what I propose to do now, figuratively speaking, is to write the narrative that follows that full stop by asking a simple if perhaps naive question: “OK, I have duly noted the [p] sounds. So what?” In other words, I aim to discuss a small selection of sound patterns in one text from Roman antiquity and to make the perhaps ill-advised attempt to derive semantic significance from them. I am hardly the first person, ancient or modern, to attempt to find meaning in apparently meaningless sounds. In fact, my favourite example of this tendency dates from Roman antiquity and occurs in an anecdote preserved in Aulus Gellius’ Noctes Atticae. The scholar Valerius Probus was once asked to explain how best to choose among variant spellings of the same grammatical form. When, for example, should a speaker use the third-declension accusative plural [i] form for the word “cities” (urbis) and when is it better to use the [e] form (urbes)? In his reply, Probus advises avoiding what he calls the “overly rotten and smelly distinctions of the grammarians”. Instead, he says, whether writing prose or composing poetry, you should “ask your ear” (aurem tuam interroga); whatever your ear tells you to do will surely be correct.1 After the person who had asked the question requests examples, Probus gives an instance from Vergil’s Georgics where he claims that changing the poet’s urbis to urbes “produces something duller and heavier”; Probus follows this up with a citation from the Aeneid where replacing Vergil’s urbes with urbis would create a sound that is “excessively feeble and bloodless”.2 When Probus continues with still more examples, using the nouns turris (“tower”) and securis (“axe”), his questioner complains that he is unable to hear any difference. Probus, clearly irritated, stifles all debate by telling his interlocutor not to worry anymore about the issue since he is the kind of person for whom making mistakes does not matter.3 The

 1 Gell. 13.21.1: “Si aut versum”, inquit, “pangis aut orationem solutam struis atque ea tibi verba dicenda sunt, non finitiones illas praerancidas neque fetutinas grammaticas spectaveris, sed aurem tuam interroga quo quid loco conveniat dicere; quod illa suaserit, id profecto erit rectissimum”. 2 Gell. 13.21.5: “Insubidius nescio quid facies et pinguius... nimis exilis vox erit et exsanguis”. The Vergilian passages are Georg. 1.25 and Aen. 3.106. 3 Gell. 13.21.8–9.

Hearing the Earth Speak  

lesson from this anecdote seems lost on Gellius, namely, that euphony is subjective, and he proceeds to ignore the valid objection of the naysaying questioner in order to give even more examples from Vergil where he claims that varying orthography — that is, simply the sound of a word — has semantic value. This anecdote illustrates two important points. First, it shows that in antiquity, as now, specific effects depend upon the ear of the individual, even in the face of evidence that might raise doubts. Indeed, it would not be difficult to find a range of subjective reactions among modern scholars similar to that of Probus. One hears the claim, for example, that a sequence of [p] sounds reflects disbelief and amazement in a speaker — “p ... p ... p ... p”. To this claim, a prima facie reasonable one, a skeptic could point out some basic facts about the Latin language, such as that Gradenwitz in his Laterculi vocum latinarum lists about 6,250 words beginning with the letter “p”, as opposed to a mere 2,500 for the letter “m”, or, to put it perhaps more significantly, in the Thesaurus linguae Latinae, words beginning with the letter “p” fill roughly 5,600 pages (as opposed to, say, 1,750 pages for the letter “m”). So, in the case of a Latin author producing a series of replicating [p] sounds, it becomes difficult to decide whether this represents a conscious aesthetic choice or simply a statistical accident. Second, this story provides a clear example of some of the many ways in which ancient commentators tend to correlate the sound of human language with the relationship that a speaker has with the external world, a relationship that can even set aside long-established rules of grammar and usage. At this point a predictable reaction should set in: “if the interpretation of sound is so subjective, then why waste time writing about it?” I move, therefore, to specific contexts which indicate, I believe, that Cicero does indeed see the rhetorical advantage of playing with word sounds. I begin with some more speculative instances before proceeding to some that are less so, concluding with an example where I, like Valerius Probus on Vergil, am certain of authorial intention. And, of course, whoever dares to disagree with me will simply run the risk of proving that they are the kind of person for whom making mistakes does not matter.

 Grammatical gender and biological sex Before confronting the speaking earth, I begin with a set of examples of nonverbal communication that, perhaps paradoxically, involves words. I concentrate, in particular, on the manipulation of the relationship between grammatical gender and biological sex. Roman poets of the Republican period were known

  Anthony Corbeill to exploit this relationship to bend gender for literary effect.4 And yet it is rare to discover prose authors engaging in a similar kind of linguistic play. Cicero, however, seems to constitute an exception, and it will come as no surprise to those familiar with Ciceronian oratorical invective that this gender-bending technique seems to be applied most frequently in relation to Cicero’s primary opponent in the 50s, Publius Clodius. Cicero portrays Clodius throughout his corpus as a violator of religious piety for having dressed up as a woman to penetrate the rites of the Bona Dea in December of 62 BC. I give only a few of the several examples from De haruspicum responsis in which Cicero employs the slippage of grammatical gender to impugn Clodius’ masculinity. The first example occurs in a remarkably prescient remark that Cicero makes about Clodius being offered as a sacrificial victim to Titus Annius Milo, the man who was to kill Clodius in a street brawl only four years after this speech was delivered: “Everyone expects that [Clodius] is destined to be sacrificed as a victim to the famously brave man Titus Annius” (Har. resp. 6: exspectatione omnium fortissimo et clarissimo viro, Tito Annio, devota et constituta ista hostia esse videtur). Note here the series of contrasting grammatical genders: vir (“man”) and its attendant masculine adjectives, all ending in long [o], describe Milo; in direct juxtaposition Cicero places a feminine noun and three adjectives, ending in long [a], to describe Clodius. Rhetorical handbooks warn about repeating sounds in this way.5 Indeed, the incidence here of five consecutive long [o]s and four long [a]s — even if one considers the probability of elision — is unusual for one of Cicero’s later oratorical works. Scholars of Cicero claim that when sound effects of this sort occur, they normally emphasise an underlying idea.6 The emphasis here lies in the contrast between the masculine vir Milo and the passively effeminate Clodius. In support of this suggestion, the sentence that follows continues to display more feminine forms where the masculine gender would be expected. Cicero asserts that he does not wish to steal the glory that accrues to Milo for also being Clodius’ enemy: “it is very wrong that I... snatch from him promised and long overdue... praise” (cui me praeripere desponsam iam et destinatam laudem... est iniquum). Here, instead of the proper name “Clodius”, or some other masculine noun, being snatched from Milo, we again get feminine terminations. Moreover, it is likely no coincidence that in every occurrence in Latin before this passage the verb despondeo has the literal meaning of describing a bride being promised in marriage to a man (ThLL V, 1  4 Corbeill 2015, 12–103. 5 E.g., Rhet. Her. 4.22.32; cf. Marouzeau 1946, 43; Guggenheimer 1972, 13–140. 6 Laurand 1936–1938, 131–135; Gotoff 1979, 230–231.

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750.46 [E. Lommatzsch]) and that praeripio often describes in comedy the snatching away of women. Most contexts in the speech where unexpected grammatical forms are used resemble these two in that no explicit connection is made by Cicero between grammatical gender and biological sex, but where enough indirect connections encourage the attentive listener to manufacture a correspondence; in this case to recognise the unexpressed identification of Clodius as a bride snatched away by a vir. Later in De haruspicum responsis there appears a standard motif that occurs in most all of Cicero’s examples of harsh invective: the selective, critical, and tendentious moral biography of one’s opponent.7 In our speech, Cicero highlights Clodius’ chief moral and religious failings with typically exuberant language. He begins with Clodius’ extreme youth: “[Clodius] offered the notorious beginnings of his tender youth to the lusts of wealthy flâneurs” (Har. resp. 42: primam illam aetatulam suam ad scurrarum locupletium libidines detulit). It is easy to recognise a now familiar pattern: the sing-songy homoioteleuton of similar sounds, all describing in the feminine the beginning of Clodius’s life. In addition, however, just as he had done in the previous example through the verbs praeripere and desponsam, Cicero inserts here two clues that these feminine forms should be understood as more than accidents of grammar. The first indication is that each subsequent step in Clodius’s maturation is clearly signaled by adverbs: after his earliest youth (primam) we learn then (deinde) of his adventures as a young adult; afterwards (post) his experiences in the army; Cicero then recounts further crimes (inde); and he ends with (unde) Clodius’ political career in Rome. The only word in this systematic catalogue that is not an adverb is the first, where the expected adverbial primum is replaced by the feminine adjective primam. The uncommon diminutive aetatula (“tender young age”) further underscores the narrative context. Before Cicero, this noun is applied solely to the youth of women, usually prostitutes, or of young boys who are the object of pederastic attention.8 In fact, Cicero had used the same noun a month or so earlier to describe in Pro Sestio the homoerotic life of the young Aulus Gabinius (Sest. 18). These two lexical choices support the notion that Cicero wishes to stress Clodius’ effeminacy by grammatical gender, or, more provocatively, to reveal how Clodius’ non-masculine character emerges together with the language that describes him.

 7 See, for example, the recommendations of Rhet. Her. 2.5; Cic. Inv. 2.32–33; Quint. Inst. 7.2.28– 34. Berry 1996, 273–275 provides a full compendium of testimony. 8 Plaut. Persa 229; the sole exception is Cic. Fin. 5.55

  Anthony Corbeill Cicero concludes his synopsis of Clodius’ life by enacting a textual “striptease”, followed by a seduction.9 This time the play of grammatical gender offers a clear accompaniment to the transformation of social gender. The scandal-filled mini-biography of Clodius that began with his tender youth as a prostitute closes with his metamorphosis from a member of the elite to a popular tribune. Cicero has just completed a tendentious narrative of how populist tribunes of the past, such as the Gracchi, were driven in their politics by a serious cause that was bound up with a manly spirit, an animus virilis (Har. resp. 44: causa... gravis... et cum aliquo animi virilis dolore coniuncta). Cicero contrasts this type of masculine determination with Clodius’ political conversion, which is imagined as taking place when he emerged from his feminine disguise at the festival of the Bona Dea: “Publius Clodius? Changing from a saffron robe, a headdress, women’s slippers and purple veils, a breastband, a lute, his disgraceful sexual behaviour, he suddenly became a popular politician” (Har. resp. 44: P. Clodius a crocota, a mitra, a muliebribus soleis purpureisque fasceolis, a strophio, a psalterio, a flagitio, a stupro est factus repente popularis). As Cicero effects for Clodius a symbolic sex change from feigned woman to active male, the removal of Clodius’ feminine disguise enables him to be involved at the end of the sentence in rape — stuprum — as a man. It is notable how the series of terminal [a] sounds, suggesting femininity, ends with the emphatic revealing of Clodius as male (est factus). Considering how memorable this sentence is, both in content and grammar, it seems hardly coincidental that the Etruscan haruspices, upon whose response the entire speech centres, appear to have specialised in diagnosing not only prodigies of hermaphrodites, but also cases when people undergo sex change from female to male. They are attested as being summoned for two such cases, the other priests with supervisory duties over prodigies, the (quin)decimviri and pontifices, for none.10 This type of identification of Clodius with feminine abstractions, and an implicitly female identity, occurs over a dozen times in this speech. I conclude by listing only the most salient remaining examples: Clodius as a pest (6: ad illam pestem comprimendam, exstinguendam, funditus delendam); as negative abstract concepts (37: non modo improbitas sed ne imprudentia quidem); as a venomous viper (50: viperam illam venenatam ac pestiferam); and climaxing with the final dual description of Clodius, as a (feminine) ship to which the entire public has access (59: navis... in flumine publico... vulgata omnibus) and as the mythical, feminine, all-devouring monsters Scylla and Charybdis.  9 Leach 2001, 337–338. 10 Liv. 24.10.10, 13; Plin. Nat. 7.36; MacBain 1982, 119.

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 Prose rhythm Since at least the fifth century BC writers on Greek and Roman rhetoric have subscribed to the notion that literary prose should have its own metrical rhythms, with Artistotle’s Rhetoric providing our earliest extant discussion.11 While these ancient accounts are both complex and often frustratingly inconsistent with observable practice, the general principle remains clear: writers of prose utilise their own rhythms, principally at the ends of long clauses or sentences, using sequences of long and short syllables that distinguish them from the commonest meters employed by poets. Cicero’s manipulation of prose rhythm represents a second element in De haruspicum responsis in which he can be seen attempting with intention to have sound mirror content. In his treatise Orator, he introduces his own lengthiest account of prose rhythm with a dogmatic assertion about the essential and inherent humanity of euphony: “if someone does not feel [the aptness of certain rhythms], then I do not know what kind of ears they have or what among them even resembles a human being” (Orat. 168: quod qui non sentiunt, quas auris habeant aut quid in his hominis simile sit, nescio). In other words, appreciation of specific rhythms constitutes not simply an aesthetic preference but is tied into the nature of what defines our humanity. Cicero’s attraction to certain sequences of long and short syllables, and his avoidance of others, offers such a regular system in his oratorical works that prose rhythm has often been used by textual critics to emend a passage of his Latin even when it has been transmitted without variation in the manuscripts and when it makes complete semantic and syntactic sense. In other words, a perfectly understandable passage is emended simply because it does not sound good. An example from De haruspicum responsis shows instead, however, that not sounding good can be precisely the point. The context finds Cicero boasting on how free from religious taint is the property on which his house stands. The codices agree on what the Latin text should be: nec vereor ne haec mea... praedicatio non grata potius quam adrogāns vĭdĕātūr (Har. resp. 16, which I translate here literally if awkwardly as “nor do I fear that this my... boasting ungrateful rather than obnoxious may seem”). This clause is perfectly acceptable in terms of content, and its vocabulary, grammar, and word order accord with expected

 11 Rhet. 3.8. Oberhelman 2003 offers a thorough account of the study of Latin prose rhythm from antiquity through the twenty-first century; statistics on Ciceronian and other Latin authors’ clausulae are most reliably found in Keeline/Kirby 2019.

  Anthony Corbeill Ciceronian standards. So, what is objectionable? The objection lies in the rhythm of the final five syllables. The sequence underscored and in bold, -āns vĭdĕātūr, matches that of the so-called “heroic clausula”, the typical end of a dactylic hexameter, a meter characteristic of epic poetry in Greek and Latin and a rhythm that since Aristotle has met with unequivocal disapproval in rhetorical treatises, including Cicero’s own. The rhythms of oratorical prose, these treatises tell us, should not resemble the metrical cadences of poetry. Ciceronian oratorical practice supports these theoretical assertions. Although the dactyl + spondee closing clausula represented here can be expected to occur an estimated 8.3% of the time in “normal” Latin prose, it appears in fewer than 1.86% of the sentences in Cicero’s orations — that is, less than one-fourth of the time that one would anticipate.12 It seems indisputable, therefore, that Cicero prefers to avoid this rhythm. Nevertheless, perhaps these statistics would not warrant emending the text here if there did not exist a second complicating factor. Even in antiquity, Cicero was mocked for his love of the rhythmic ending ēssĕ vǐdĕātūr, a series of syllables that yields the attractive sequence of (resolved) cretic plus spondee.13 In contrast with the dactylic ending found in the manuscripts, Cicero strongly favours this sequence of (resolved) cretic followed by spondee; it comprises 28.42% of all rhythmical clausulae in Cicero’s speeches, and 35.41% of those in Har. resp.14 Since supplying the infinitive form esse would not change meaning, it is tempting to emend the text by simply adding the infinitive here, even though no manuscript evidence justifies the change. Accordingly, Zielinski, the doyen of early studies of prose rhythm, suggested that Cicero in fact wrote adrogans ēssĕ vǐdĕātūr.15 In this instance one is faced with a dilemma: either to trust the manuscripts and read the potentially offensive-sounding -āns vĭdĕātūr, or to trust statistics and emend to the more euphonic sequence of ēssĕ vǐdĕātūr. A third criterion can be solicited in addition to that of manuscripts and statistics: semantics or, more precisely, how sound relates to sense. I propose to keep the text as transmitted by the manuscripts, adrogāns vĭdĕātūr, for two main reasons: first, the use of preferred prose rhythms represents a tendency, not a hard and fast rule. If a student declaimer in Roman antiquity were com-

 12 For “normal” Latin prose see De Groot 1921, 106, and for the Ciceronian statistics Keeline/ Kirby 2019, 176, who do not allow resolutions in this calculation. 13 Tac. Dial. 23.1: nolo inridere... illud tertio quoque sensu in omnibus orationibus... positum “esse videatur”; cf. Quint. Inst. 9.4.73, 10.2.18. 14 Keeline/Kirby 2019, 175–176. 15 Zielinski 1904, 206.

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posing this clause, he would presumably avoid -ans videatur as dactylic and therefore, as he had been taught, ugly. But these ancient declaimers rarely rise to the discretionary heights of Cicero. Second and more significantly, Cicero not infrequently uses this epic ending to mock an opponent’s way of speaking, or simply to depict an adversary in a less than flattering light. One concise example will make clear this rhythmic tendency, which has tended to go unnoticed in scholarship on the topic.16 In a passage from the Second Philippic against Marc Antony, a passage that makes studying Cicero worthwhile, Cicero describes in mock-grandiose detail an episode when Antony, speaking before the assembled Roman populace, displayed the inevitable consequences of a night of drunken carousal (2.63): “While carrying out public business at an assembly of the Roman people, as Master of the Roman Knights, for whom even a burp would be objectionable, this man vomited, filling his lap and the entire tribunal with chunks of food that reeked of wine!” Cicero is punning here on the use of “vomit” to characterise an inappropriately messy style of speaking, and that messiness is mirrored in the prose rhythm. The textual tradition for the sentence that follows the one I have just translated is split concerning how Cicero rounded off this story. The best manuscript ends with a dactylic closure that fits the context and that I believe must be read: veniamus ad splēndĭdĭōrā (“let’s move on now to more resplendent material”). Although the majority of editors emend here the final word splendidiora to splendida in order to create a more acceptable rhythm, I would argue that the reading does not represent an accident of transmission, but that Cicero intends the apparently inappropriate dactylic closure to underscore Antony’s ineptitude as not just a statesman, but as an orator as well. This interpretation offers a new perspective from which to view the heroic clausula in De haruspicum responsis. The most economical explanation for its presence is that just as Cicero uses the dactylic rhythm to highlight the inappropriate behaviour of Antony and other of his opponents elsewhere, so too here he turns such criticism on himself. He too speaks improperly on occasion, and Cicero stresses this through the use of rhythm. To what fault does he refer? Cicero has a reputation in antiquity, perhaps one that is well-deserved, for boasting about his achievements, and this reputation is alluded to by his contemporaries as well as by later critics.17 Nevertheless, it is rare for him to make explicit reference in public to his reputation as a blowhard. He does so here, however, and in a gesture of calculated humility he consciously employs an awkward rhythmical  16 For a detailed demonstration see Adams 2013. 17 See Allen 1954 for testimony, as well as a reasoned justification of Cicero’s attitude.

  Anthony Corbeill close as an example of humorous self-reproach. As he says in the sentence containing this clausula, in a more elegant English version: “I have no fear that this boastfulness of mine may be seen as arrogant rather than grateful”. To underscore his lack of arrogant boasting, he uses a normally unacceptable rhythm. I hope to have demonstrated in these initial two sections that successions of vowel sounds and of long and short syllables can be employed by Cicero to underscore an argument without recourse to any explicit verbal cues. I conclude my discussion by turning to a specific context in De haruspicum responsis that I believe not only encourages, but maybe even necessitates, that Cicero play with language effects.

 The muttering earth My source text for this investigation has been Cicero’s De haruspicum responsis, a speech that assesses before the senate a document — a response — produced by a group of Etruscan priests in reaction to a prodigy that had occurred in Spring of 56 BC. An understanding of the final portion of my argument requires a brief outline of the speech’s historical context. Publius Clodius, as tribune of the people, had engineered Cicero’s exile in 58 BC, two years before our speech was delivered. In late summer of 57, in what he came to regard as a major moral victory, Cicero returned from exile after having been recalled by votes of the senate and of the Roman people. But while Cicero was in the East, Clodius had seized Cicero’s property on Rome’s Palatine Hill, torn down part of his house, and consecrated on the site a shrine to the goddess Liberty. As a result of this divine dedication, when Cicero returned from exile, he was unable to reclaim his property immediately since it was now sanctified ground. This issue was soon resolved in fall 57 when a panel of Roman priests, the pontifices, deemed that Clodius’ consecration of Cicero’s property had been invalid. Cicero seemed to be well on his way to regaining the stature that he had had before exile when, in late spring 56, the earth trembled. This event in nature would produce major aftershocks in politics: most importantly, it would pit Clodius against Cicero in a debate before the Roman senate to determine what precisely nature, by means of these noises from the earth, was intending to communicate about the current political situation. The prodigy of earth tremors offered a remarkable rhetorical chance: if Cicero could provide for the Roman elite — and ultimately for the urban populace — a convincing interpretation of this divine prodigy, then he could prove that the gods are united on his side against Clodius. Having regained, through a trium-

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phal return from exile, his status as Rome’s supreme public speaker, Cicero was now able to establish himself before his colleagues in the senate not only as Rome’s preeminent orator but also as its preeminent authority regarding the will of the gods. The speech De haruspicum responsis provides for modern scholars a unique opportunity of assessing the wording of a priestly response to a prodigy and the senatorial debate that follows. In this case the Etruscan haruspices, at the request of the senate, consulted their divinatory texts and culled excerpts to do three things: first, to define this divine sign; second, to list reasons why the gods were offended; and, finally, to warn about what will happen if these gods are not appeased. I cite below just the beginning of that response as quoted by Cicero to convey the flavour of this remarkable text (section numbers from Har. resp. where these passages are quoted are given in square brackets): QVOD IN AGRO LATINIENSI AVDITVS EST STREPITVS CVM FREMITV, [20] POSTILIONES ESSE IOVI SATVRNO NEPTVNO TELLVRI DIS CAELESTIBVS; [20] LVDOS MINVS DILIGENTER FACTOS POLLVTOSQVE, [21] LOCA SACRA ET RELIGIOSA PROFANA HABERI [9] ... Cic. Har. resp. 20–21, 9 Because a clash, accompanied by a rumbling, was heard in the ager Latiniensis, rites are due in reparation to Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, Tellus, and the heavenly gods. [The gods are angered] because games have been performed with insufficient care and polluted; because sacred and religious places are being treated as unholy. (and so on) [There then follows a series of warnings of what will happen if reparations are not made in response to these offenses.]

I am interested in the first clause of this response given in bold, which contains interesting exploitations of sound at the nonverbal level. The Etruscan priests describe the earthquake prodigy as follows: AVDÍTVS EST STREPITVS CVM FREMITV Heard was a rumbling along-with a trembling.

The juxtaposition seen here in bold of the consonant cluster [st] (without sense break) is avoided throughout most genres of classical Latin. It never occurs in Vergil, while Horace, Lucretius, and Catullus use it only once, the latter apparently to capture the dull stupidity of an enemy (78.5: Gallus homo est stultus); similarly, the sole occurrence in all of Horace, at carmen saeculare 26, was thought by Orelli as early as the mid-nineteenth century to be intended to echo

  Anthony Corbeill the awkwardness of the grammar of quod.18 Latin prose exhibits a similar avoidance: in the thirty-four extant books of the historian Livy, relevant instances appear only three times.19 In Cicero’s more than fifty extant orations, there are five instances, but three of those five occur in our single speech, De haruspicum responsis. The suspicion that the combination was considered cacophonous and unnatural is further indicated by the fact that of the forty occurrences in the remaining works of Cicero, twelve of them — that is, almost one-quarter — appear in a context similar to Catullus’, with a form of the word stultus, meaning “stupid”. Given the rarity of these consonant combinations and the special context of the prodigy, the conclusion seems inevitable that the haruspical text here is designed to imitate the unnatural sound of earth tremors by employing a combination of sounds deemed unnatural in Latin. Note in particular that the sequence of words causes an unavoidable hiatus, a gap between the two occurrences of [st], which mimetically produces an effect of words being separated in a kind of “wordquake”: AVDITVS EST // STREPITVS. One may compare this effect with the interjection frequently used in Roman comedy to impose silence — st! —, which enacts this type of hiatus to create an analogous hiatus in external sound. As St. Jerome notes in one of his letters: “when we want to request silence, we restrict the breath by clamping our teeth in order to force the sound ‘st’” (Epist. 20.5.1: quando silentium volumus imperare, strictis dentibus spiritum coartamus et cogimus insonandum ‘st’). The oddness of this clause is further reinforced by the threefold repetition of [itu]. Rhetorical treatises stress that partial rhymes such as this should be used only sparingly, and we have already noted how scholars such as Laurand and Gotoff see such sound effects as playing a semantic role.20 Indeed, if any doubt lingers regarding the intentions that lie behind these paralinguistic phenomena, Cicero provides confirmation in the closing words of the speech. He reminds his fellow senators that the haruspices have outlined for them what needs to be done, and that from this point on they must not rely upon the gods for assistance but solely on their own skill at reasoned debate: the prodigies that have occurred throughout the Italian peninsula represent divine warnings that the Romans need to settle the political discord that has been plaguing Rome. He summarises the earth tremors as follows:  18 Thomas 2011, 70–71 offers a fuller account of the poetic data; for Carm. saec. 26–27 (quod semel dictum est stabilisque rerum / terminus servet) see Orelli 1886, 1: 606. 19 Thomas 2011, 71. 20 See note 6.

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cogitate genus sonitus eius quem Latinienses nuntiarunt (Har. resp. 62) Recall the type of sound that the Latinienses have reported.

When the verb cogito is followed by a simple accusative direct object it means “recall” rather than “think”.21 In summoning up this recollection for his colleagues Cicero employs a device that is by now familiar. Mention of the earthquake prodigy prompts the repetition -us / -itus / -us, a series of sounds reminiscent of the effects found in the haruspical response. This final reminiscence in the speech underscores Cicero’s investment in matching sound to sense. But one peculiarity must be noted. What requires further thought is that this marked instance of language mirroring content originates not with Cicero, but with the Latin translation of what is presumed to have been originally an Etruscan text. Some evidence survives concerning the care that Romans could take in translating Etruscan sacred writings. Tarquitius Priscus translated the Ostentaria, apparently at the end of the republic, and the few extant fragments indicate that he attempted to preserve its original form.22 In the case of the haruspical response, although we cannot know what the Etruscan original would have sounded like, I suggest that the Latin translator has conveyed through sound a philosophical point made in the original: namely, much as the natural world intrudes upon human affairs, so too does it affect human language, thereby causing the description of a tremor to sound tremulous. If this hypothesis sounds too abstract, I should note that a prime contender for the Latin translator of this response is the first-century BC scholar Nigidius Figulus.23 Nigidius was a contemporary and colleague of Cicero, who characterises him in his Timaeus as “a keen and careful explorer of those things that seem hidden by divine nature”.24 One intriguing example of Nigidius’ explorations on grammar survives, which shows him trying to expose these natural elements that lie hidden. Nigidius posits that divine nature is actively involved in the production of language — for example, our lips protrude when we say “you” (tu and vos in Latin), because the lips are gesturing toward the person to whom we refer.25 Now, to somebody with a mind like that — or, even better, to

 21 ThLL III 1463.55–1465.28 (W. Elsperger); the imperative recordamini occurs in the next clause as a near synonym. 22 Thulin 1905–1909, 76–77 on cola. 23 Piganiol 1951, 85–86; for other candidates such as Tarquitius Priscus and perhaps Aulus Caecina see Rawson 1985, 28–30. 24 Tim. 1: acer investigator et diligens earum rerum quae a natura involutae videntur. 25 Gell. 10.4.

  Anthony Corbeill any of the senators in Cicero’s audience who will be sympathetic to this possibility — it would be appropriate to create an earth-shaking sound with the words AVDITVS EST // STREPITVS CVM // FREMITV.

 Conclusion The preceding account has outlined three different areas in De haruspicum responsis in which Cicero’s stylistic flourishes do not constitute simply attractive adornments designed to delight listeners. The areas include the manipulation of grammatical gender, prose rhythm, and more earthy sound effects. These paralinguistic elements comprise nonverbal utterances that are intricately connected with either stressing a local point, as with Cicero mocking his arrogance with a heroic clausula, or with more broadly supporting the speech’s basic argument. In the first section, Cicero exploits the tendency for Romans to believe in the identification of grammatical gender with biological sex in order to reinforce his portrayal of Clodius as a deviant who must be avoided, and who must surely have caused the recent prodigy. Second, the faulty prose rhythm that Cicero uses to describe his own oratory reaches out wordlessly to reassure the hearers that they should ignore his reputation for boastfulness. I concluded with a discussion of the sound effects contained in the phrase auditus est strepitus cum fremitu. This narrative description of a recent prodigy replicates the sound and actions of the tremor that it describes, so that the divine prodigy has, quite literally, a direct affect on the language of senatorial debate. In the case of De haruspicum responsis, the interconnection of language and the external world has particular resonance: in order to show how an earthquake prodigy — a message from the more-than-human realm — interacts with the day-to-day issues of Roman politics, Cicero has created a rhetoric that in turn reaches out beyond language into that very world of nature.

Bibliography Adams, E. (2013), ‘Esse videtur’: Occurrences of Heroic Clausulae in Cicero’s Orations, M.A. Thesis, University of Kansas. Berry, D.H. (1996), Cicero: Pro P. Sulla Oratio, Cambridge. Corbeill, A. (2015), Sexing the World: Grammatical Gender and Biological Sex in Ancient Rome, Princeton. De Groot, A.W. (1921), Der antike Prosarhythmus, Groningen.

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Gotoff, H. (1979), Cicero’s Elegant Style: An Analysis of the “Pro Archia”, Urbana, IL. Gradenwitz, O. (1904), Laterculi vocum latinarum, Leipzig. Guggenheimer, E. (1972), Rhyme Effects and Rhyming Figures: A Comparative Study of Sound Repetitions in the Classics with Emphasis on Latin Poetry, The Hague. Keeline, T./Kirby, T. (2019), ‘Auceps syllabarum: A Digital Analysis of Latin Prose Rhythm’, Journal of Roman Studies 109, 161–204. Laurand, L. (1936–1940), Études sur le style des discours de Cicéron, Fourth ed., Paris. Leach, E. (2001), ‘Gendering Clodius’, Classical World 94, 335–359. MacBain, B. (1982), Prodigy and Expiation: A Study in Religion and Politics in Republican Rome, Brussels. Collection Latomus 177. Marouzeau, J. (1946), Traité de stylistique latine, Second ed., Paris Oberhelman, S. (2003), Prose Rhythm in Latin Literature of the Roman Empire: First Century B.C. to Fourth Century A.D., Lewiston, NY. Orelli, J.C. (1886), Q. Horatius Flaccus, 2 vols. Fourth ed. rev. J.G. Baiter and W. Hirschfelder, Berlin. Piganiol, A. (1951), ‘Sur le calendrier brontoscopique de Nigidius Figulus’, Studies in Roman Economic and Social History in Honor of Allan Chester Johnson, Princeton, 79–87. Rawson, E. (1985), Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic, London. Thomas, R. (2011), Odes Book IV and “Carmen Saeculare”, Cambridge. Thulin, C. (1905–1909), Die Etruskische Disciplin, 3 vols. Göteburg. Göteborgs Högskola Årsskrift, 11, 12, and 15. Zielinski, T. (1904), Das Clauselgesetz in Ciceros Reden: Grundzüge einer oratorischen Rhythmik, Leipzig.

Notes on Editors and Contributors Lucia Athanassaki is Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Crete. Bednarek Bartłomiej is a Postdoctoral Fellow at the University of Warsaw. Anthony Corbeill is Basil L. Gildersleeve Professor of Classics at the University of Virginia. Armand D’ Angour is Professor of Classics at the University of Oxford. Glenys Davies is Honorary Fellow in Classical Art and Archaeology at the University of Edinburgh. Michael Gagarin is Professor of Classics Emeritus at the University of Texas at Austin. Ioannis Konstantakos is Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. Christos Kremmydas is Professor in Ancient Greek History at Royal Holloway, University of London. Donald Lateiner is Professor Emeritus of Humanities and Classics at Ohio Wesleyan University. Sophia Papaioannou is Professor of Latin Literature at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. Andreas Serafim is Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek at Nicolaus Copernicus University in Toruń. Mali A. Skotheim is Assistant Professor of English at Ashoka University in Sonipat, India.

General Index Alliteration 267–268 Anapaestic rhythm 21 Animals 6, 31–32, 37, 44, 69, 73–74, 118–119, 216 Antistrophē 6, 17, 19 Aposiōpēsis 142–143, 145 Arsis and thesis 20, 28 Atellana 49 Athlete 154, 194 Attire 156 Auctores 55 Aulos (double pipe) 18, 22, 33, 39–40, 215, 220 Bacchant 23 Barbarian 11, 67, 124, 181, 192, 197, 199–200, 203, 237–238, 241, 248, 250–251, 253 Bēma 140–141, 144–145 Bilderrätsel 8, 113–115, 117, 119, 120, 123–126, 129–133 Biological sex 269, 271, 280 Bird language 74 Body 1–5, 7, 9–12, 17, 19–20, 27, 41, 45–52, 55, 57–61, 64–65, 70, 75, 79–80, 83–84, 91–93, 95, 97, 99–101, 105, 107, 131, 139–140, 146, 148, 151–160, 162, 165–175, 179, 181–183, 186, 190, 198–199, 207, 219–220, 223, 237–239, 241, 243–245, 247–253 – Body language 1, 3–5, 7, 10–11, 45–52, 57–61, 65, 79, 179, 182–183, 198, 223, 237–239, 241, 243–245, 247–251, 253 – Semi-volitional body language 3, 5 Character 7, 10, 19, 45–56, 58–61, 68, 71, 79–83, 93–95, 98–99, 101, 103, 105–109, 123, 126, 132, 156–159, 161– 162, 168, 170–171, 179–180, 182, 192– 194, 196, 198–199, 203, 207, 210–211, 213–214, 217–218, 221, 241, 271 Cheironomia 6, 17, 19–20, 27 Choral odes 22 Chorodidaskaloi 18 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-015

Chorus 6, 17–25, 27, 31–32, 35, 37–40, 42–43, 198 Chronemics 2, 184, 193, 197 Civilians 11, 237, 241, 245, 247–250, 261–264 Comedy 4, 7, 18, 45, 47, 49, 51, 53, 55, 57, 59, 61, 63, 157, 190, 198, 208–210, 271, 278 – New 47, 49, 59 – Old 209 – Roman 7, 45, 47, 49, 51, 53, 55, 57, 59, 61 Communication 1–2, 4, 7–11, 32, 45, 47–48, 50–55, 63, 66, 68–69, 76–80, 84, 99, 104, 113–114, 126, 139–141, 143–148, 160, 207, 252, 267, 269 – Miscommunication 169, 182 – Nonverbal 1–2, 4, 9, 32, 45, 47, 50–51, 63, 66, 68–69, 76, 80, 113–114, 139–141, 143–148, 207, 252, 267, 269 – Visual 8, 113 Dacians 237–239, 241, 243–245, 247– 248, 250, 252–253, 256–258, 260 Dance 5–7, 17–21, 23–24, 26–28, 31–32, 35, 37–38, 40, 50, 63–74, 78–84, 185, 198, 223 Deception 5, 7–8, 53, 91–99, 101–109, 167, 170–171, 180, 184, 189, 191, 193, 197–198 Deer 6, 32, 40 Deixis 38, 67 “Dicea” 53–54 Disinformation 179 Dithyramb 18, 21, 38 Dochmiacs 24–25 Dog 32, 40 Dolphin 6, 31–43, 180, 216 Dramatis persona 94 Dualism 165–166 Earth 5, 11, 26, 67, 118–119, 267, 269, 271, 273, 275–280 Effeminacy 81, 271

  General Index Ekphrasis 99, 181 Embracing 242 Emotions 2–3, 5, 7, 36, 55–56, 58, 97–98, 106–108, 159, 162, 167, 188–189 Enargeia 95 Enigma 114, 116, 124, 133 Ethnicity 5, 10, 79, 84, 123, 161, 179, 197, 199 Ēthos 3, 5, 48, 91, 95, 97, 105, 109, 161–162 Eye 32, 34, 52–53, 83, 95, 103–104, 115, 183, 187, 193–194 – Evil eye 187, 193 – Eyelid 98, 102–103, 207 Facial expression 1–4, 7, 45–46, 48, 56, 58–60, 93, 98, 108, 139–140, 152, 157, 159, 169, 179, 188, 199 Fakeness 162 Female 81–82, 95–96, 158–159, 184, 186, 188–189, 191, 200–201, 203, 222, 272 Gait 53, 59, 152, 157, 170–171, 195 Gauls 243 Gender 3, 5, 10, 12, 69, 84, 152–153, 160, 179, 182–183, 187, 189–191, 197, 200, 267–272, 280 Gestures 2–4, 6, 8–11, 17, 19, 27, 46–47, 56, 58, 60–61, 63–68, 70–73, 77–83, 93–95, 107, 113, 131, 133, 139–141, 143, 146–148, 151–152, 167, 169, 179–185, 189, 192, 195, 198–201, 207, 209–210, 238, 241–249, 253, 264 Goat 216 Grammatical gender 12, 267–272, 280 Hand 3, 17, 20, 35, 64, 66, 72, 77, 84, 116, 121, 131, 143–145, 153, 159, 164–165, 182, 185, 187, 196–197, 207, 244, 247 Haptics 1 Haruspices 11, 267, 272, 277–278 Head 17, 20, 40, 46, 64, 77, 83, 102, 139, 141, 143, 145, 148, 152–154, 157, 182– 184, 188, 190, 193, 195–196, 207, 213, 215, 242–243, 245–249 Hiatus 11, 267, 278 Homoioteleuton 11, 267, 271

Hoplite 154 Horse 6, 32, 40, 78, 118, 131, 145, 224, 242 Humour 49, 103 Hybris 169, 182 Hypocrisis 4, 40, 139, 146–147, 152 Iconography 207, 211–212, 219, 221 Iconogriph 8, 113–114, 117, 119–122, 124–127, 129, 132–133 Identity 5, 9, 35, 50, 52–55, 59–60, 96, 101, 151–153, 158–162, 164–166, 179, 185, 190, 195, 240, 245, 250, 272 – Social identity theory 165 Imprecision 162 Invective 9, 151–153, 155, 157, 159–165, 167–169, 171, 270–271 Kinaidos 157 Kinesics 1, 152 Kissing 242 Klinē 212, 216, 219, 223–224 Kordax 19 Kosmos 70 Lexis 146 Logos 84, 162 Love magic 179, 181 Lyric poetry 18 Male 84, 96, 153–154, 183–185, 187, 200–201, 203, 207, 222, 224, 246, 248, 251, 272 Marvel-makers 73 Masculinity 270 Masks 5, 7, 45, 47–50, 59, 66, 68, 198 Matrona 55, 60 Memory 77, 79 Meretrix 47, 53, 55 Mime 10, 132, 184, 186 Mimēsis 38, 40 Miscommunication 10, 179, 182 Monism 166 Monoposiast 220–221, 224 Morality 12, 130, 156, 159, 161, 165, 171, 267

General Index  

Music 5–6, 18–19, 24, 31, 33, 37–38, 40, 42–43, 50, 66, 80, 210, 223 Muttering 11, 267, 276 Nachleben 119 Nature 3, 5–6, 8–9, 12, 32, 41, 58, 65, 73–74, 81–82, 123, 151, 155, 160–161, 166, 170, 181, 199, 203, 213–214, 218, 240–241, 252, 267, 273, 276, 279–280 Natyashastra 7 Neck 40–41, 52, 83, 153, 157–158, 170, 187, 247 Nonverbal behaviour 1–5, 7, 9–10, 45, 47, 49, 51, 53, 55, 57, 59, 6, 152, 159– 160, 181, 189, 192, 198–199, 208–209 Nonverbal “leakage” 188 Opsis 49, 52–55, 59 Oratory 4–5, 9, 69, 72, 84, 146, 162 – Attic 4, 9, 151–152, 162, 171 – Forensic 94, 99, 139, 141, 143, 145, 147, 162 – Symbouleutic 162 Paideia 71, 200 Palliatae 47, 49 Pantomime 7, 45–46, 48, 50, 60, 63–74, 77–82, 84–85 Paradoxography 7, 65 Pathos 162, 187 Paralinguistics 10, 181–182, 188 Performance 188, 193–194 Performing obeisance 244 Persuasion 8, 10, 93, 162, 179, 181, 183, 185, 187, 189, 191, 193, 195, 197, 199, 201, 203 Pnyx 140 Posture 2–3, 10–11, 32, 40, 71, 152–154, 158–159, 162–165, 168–169, 179–180, 184, 189, 198–200, 211, 222–224, 237– 238, 241–245, 248–249 Power status 5, 10 Prose rhythm 12, 267–268, 273–275, 280 Proskynēsis 199, 244 Prostitute 10, 222, 271–272 Proxemics 1–2, 10, 179, 182, 196–198

Pyrrhichē 19 Pythagorean philosophy 68, 80 Riddles 7–8, 113, 116, 124, 132 Romanisation 11, 237, 250, 253 Satyr play 18 Schēma/schēmata 53, 66–67, 71, 81, 190 Silence 63, 65–71, 73, 75–79, 81, 83–85, 106, 139, 181, 184, 187, 278 Social norms 5, 10 Sophrosyne 66 Stibades 216–217 Stigmai 6, 17, 25, 27–28 Strophē 6, 17, 19, 64 Symposiast 208–209, 212, 215, 221–223 Technē 190 Thauma 7, 65–66, 73–74, 79 – Language of thauma 66 Theatre 9, 27, 37, 49, 55, 61, 69–70, 80– 81, 83, 140–141, 144, 198, 240, 245, 247, 250 Theatrical allusions 198 Theoxenia 223–224 Tragedy 4, 18, 20, 24, 27, 63, 70, 83, 186–187, 190, 198–199 Trajan’s column 11, 237–239, 241, 243– 244, 247, 249, 251–253, 255, 257, 259, 261, 263 Triangulate 9, 68, 160 Trickery 73, 168 Truth 53, 58, 70–71, 74–75, 91–92, 94–101, 103–105, 107–108, 141–142, 165–167, 193, 201, 238 Vocalics 1–2, 5, 152, 191, 198–199 Walk(ing) 125, 145, 170–171, 181–182, 216, 290 Woman 76, 81–82, 100, 181–182, 184, 186, 188, 191, 193, 197, 201, 213, 221, 223–225, 246–249, 270, 272 Xenia 224

Index Locorum Achilles Tatius 3.9–10 5.3.6 Aelian Natura Animalium 9.26 Varia Historia 8.16

179 n.1 192 n.60

216 n.23 128–129

Aelius Aristides 19.7

128

Aeschines 1.25 1.25–26 1.26 1.33 2.11 2.36 2.49 2.98 2.153 2.179

164, 165 163 164 163, 163 n.38 168 170, 170 n.54 152–153 168 168 141

Aeschylus Agamemnon 40–47

21–22

Alexander Romance 1.35.7‒8 1.36 1.36‒38 1.38

116 n.6 120 119 120

Anonymous Lyric Fragment Fr. 939 Campbell = Aelian. NA. 12.45 (iii 70ff. Scholfield) 41 Antiphon 5.31–32 6.19 6.23

92 n.5 142 141–142

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111338675-016

Apollodorus 2.83–87 Aristophanes Knights 1331–1332 Frogs 1070 Wasps 976–978 1208–1213 Aristotle Great Ethics 1183b24–26 Nicomachean Ethics 1112a16–17 1103a17ff 1163a22–23 Poetics 1450b8 1454a17–19 Rhetoric 1355b27–28 1356a1–4 1356a14–16 1378a19–20 1376b–1377a 1403b15 1403b18–23 1403b26–32 1417a20–22 [Aristotle] Constitution of Athens 14.2 28.3 Physiognomics 806a22–33 806b28–32 806a28–34 807a31–34 807b10

219 n.30

156 157 141 208–209

159 161 161 161 161 161 147 n.13 162 162 162 92 n.5 92 n.5 146–147 147 161

128 164 93 n.12 158 157–158 158 158

  Index Locorum 808a 812b27

157 168

Artemidorus Oneirocritica 4.24

8

Athenaeus 1.20d 1.20d–f

69 n.27 63 n.2

Aulus Gellius 10.4 13.21.1 13.21.5 13.21.8–9

279 n.25 268, 268 n.1 268, 268 n.2 268, 268 n.3

Augustine De magistro 3.5

68 n.25

Bacchylides 17 17.17–100 18

38 41 n.29 38

Catullus 78.5

277

Chariton 1.2 1.24 1.4.1 1.4.3 1.4.5–6 1.4.8 1.7 3.4.12–13 7.6

106 106 106 106 106–107 106 n.44 108 n.48 108 n.48 186 n.32

Cicero De haruspicum responsis 6 270, 272 16 273 20–21.9 277–278 37 272 42 271

44 50 59 62 De inventione 2.32–33 De finibus 5.55 De oratore 3.59 3.213 3.214–216 3.222 Orator 168 Philippic II 2.63 Pro Sestio 18 Descartes Sixth Meditation, VII 86–87: CSM II 59 Demosthenes 14.72 14.195 18.232 19.251 19.251–252 19.252 19.310 19.314 21.72 21.195 21.204 23.210 45.63 45.68–69 61.12

Dio Cassius 68.9.1 68.9.7 68.10.1

272 272 272 278–279 271 n.7 272 n.8 58 58 n.23 57–58 58 273 275 271

166

162 162 162 164, 164 n.40, 165 162 165 97 n.20 168, 168 n.52 169 169 97 n.20 162 171, 171 n.56, 170 154–156, 159, 162, 165

239, 244 244 244

Index Locorum  

Dio Chrysostom 33.53–54

152

Diogenes Laertius 1.49 1.50 1.65 7.173 8.1.2 8.1.3 8.1.10

129 n.31 134 134 152 76 n.62 76 n.65 75 n.61

Dionysius of Halicarnassus Lysias 8 161 Roman Antiquities 4.56 126 n.22 Eratosthenes Catasterismoi 1.31 Euripides Bacchants 64–73 66 68 Ion 237–240 1129–1166 1138–1139 1165–1166 1166–1168 Orestes 338–344 Medea 1071–1072

41 n.29

23–24 23 24 156 213–214 214 214 214 24–27 159

Frontinus Strategemata 1.10.1 4.7.6

131 n.36 131 n.36

Heliodorus 1.1.8 1.4.2 1.7.2

180 183 183 n.11

1.11.3 1.21.3 1.25.3 2.4.3 2.8.2 2.24–5.33 3.4.9 3.17.2 4.5.3 4.7.4 4.7.11 4.11.1

5.26.3 6.7.1 6.9.6–10 6.9.7 6.11 6.12.1 7.7.6 7.22.2 7.24.4 7.28.5 9.5.3

180 n.2 183 n.13 183 182 n.10 180 n.4 181–182 180 n.4 193 181, 187, 193 187 187 n.42 184 n.17, 188 n.44 189 180–181 180 n.2, 189 n.48, 191 n.57, 196 189 n.49 182 n.10 184 n.16 184 n.18 190 190 180 n.5, 190 192 n.60 180 n.2 182 180 n.2

Heraclitus 22 A 3b D‒K 22 B 125 D‒Κ

127 128 n.29

Herodotus 1.20‒22 1.24 2.172 2.173.3 4.131‒132 4.134 5.92ζ 6.129

126 41 n.29 8, 122 130 n.34 8, 117‒118 118 125 20

Hesiod Theogony 79

18 n.4

5.24 5.26–33 5.26.2

  Index Locorum Homer Odyssey 2.92–102 9.19–20 13.292–295 14.156–157 14.199–359 14.203 14.204 16.190–192 19.71–88 19.104–360 19.105 19.107–122 19.117–122 19.137 19.151–152 19.162–163 19.165–202 19.167 19.167–168 19.178–202 19.203 19.209–212 19.215–217 19.215–220 19.221–223 19.221–245 19.237–240 19.244–248 19.250 19.262–307 19.269–270 19.280–281 19.298–299 19.302–307 19.383–385 19.389–391 Homeric Hymns Apollo 400–406 440–442 448–450 514–519 Dionysus 42–57

98 n.23 98 n.23 98 n.22 98 n.18 96 n.18, 97 97 97 97 n.19 95 n.16 95–100 96 95 n.16 97 96 96 96 95 n.16 96 97 97 97 97 98 97 n.21 99 95 n.16 99 99 99 95 n.16 99 100 99 99 100 100

34–35 35–36 35–36 35–36 36–38

Hermes 13 15–16 184–312 274–282 278–279 292

102 102 102 102–103 103 104

Horace Carmen saeculare 26

277

Iamblichus Vita Pythagorae 17

75–76

Isocrates 10.8 10.183

162 162

Jerome Epist. 20.5.1

278

Justin 38.9

121

Libanius Orationes 64.28 64.50 64.52 64.53 64.54 64.55 64.59–60 64.61 64.62 64.63 64.71 64.74 64.103 64.104 64.105

81, 81 n.89 81, 81 n.90 81, 81 n.91 81, 81 n.92 81, 81 n.93 81, 81 n.94 82, 82 n.95 82, 82 n.96 82, 82 nn.97–98 82, 82 n.99 82, 82 n.100 83, 83 nn.101– 102 83, 83 n.103 83–84, 84 n.104 84, 84 n.105

Index Locorum  

Lucian De Saltatione / Περὶ Ὀρχήσεως 2 69, 69 n.28 4 69, 69 n.29, 73 n.51 12 70, 70 n.34 15 70, 70 n.32 19 74 n.53 27 70, 70 n.36 29 71, 71 n.37 30 66 n.11 31 71 n.38 32 63 n.2 35 71 n.42 36 65 n.9 36–37 71 n.43 37–61 70, 70 n.33, 71, 71 n.39 37 71, 71 n.41 62 65 n.9, 67 n.22, 72, 72 n.45 64 65 n.9, 67–68, 76 n.46 70 68, 68 n.26 71 64 n.5, 71 n.40 Philopseudes 18 154 Lysias 1.25 24.2 24.12

143–144 144 145

Oppian Halieutica 2.533–537

41–42

Pherecydes FGrHist 3 F 174 (= Clemens, Stromata 5.8.44) 118 Phaedrus 3.14 Philostratus Imagines 1.24.1–2

Vita Apollonii 1.1 1.2 1.14 1.15 1.17 2.26 2.30 3.23 3.28 4.3 4.33 6.11 7.42 8.30 Vitae sophistarum 549 Phylarchus FGrHist 81 F 1 (= Athenaeus 8.334a‒b) Pindar Isthmian 9.27 Nemean 9.8 Olympian 3.8 7.12 Pythian 10.39 fr. 107a fr. 140b fr. 140b.11–13

130

Plato Phaedo 78b4–84b8 Timaeus 43b 44a–b

154

Plautus Amphitruo 142–147

76, 76 n.64 74, 74 nn.55–56 77, 77 nn.68–69 77, 77 n.72, 78, 78 n.73 77, 77 n.71 79, 79 n.81 79 n.79 79 n.77 79 n.80 79 n.76 77 n.70 76, 76 n.67 79 n.78 80, 80 n.83 216

121

39 n.23 39 n.23 39 n.23 39 n.23 39 n.23 40 31–43 32

166 166 166

51

  Index Locorum 441–449 456–458 527–530 Miles Gloriosus 142–144 150–155 200–215 290 299 337–338 339 345–348 354–396 383–392 411–466 627 639–640 651–655 661–668 1183 1282 1286 Persa 229 Plutarch Life of Alexander 24 24.8‒9 65 65.6‒8 Life of Demosthenes 11 Life of Sertorius 16 Life of Solon 30.7 Moralia (De cohibenda ira) 458a (De garrulitate) 511b‒c

51–52 52 n.15 57 53 46 45–46 54 54 54 53 54 54 53 54 49 49 49 50 53 n.17 53 n.17 53 n.17 271 n.8

8 116 8 129 146‒147 8, 131 128

8, 121 8, 127

Quaestiones convivales 9.15 (Mor. 747a) 9.15 (Mor. 747c) 9.15 (Mor. 747e) 9.15 (Mor. 748a)

66 n.17 67 n.18 67 n.19 67 n.20

Quintilian Institutio Oratoria 2.13.10–11 7.2.28–34 10.3.21 11.3.65–136 11.3.87 11.3.89–90

154 271 n.7 46–47 64 n.6 72 n.49 67 n.21

Rhetorica ad Herennium 2.5 270 n.5 Sextus Empiricus Against the Mathematicians 2.21‒23 130 Terence Heautontimorumenos 83–86 Phormio 128 204–213 210 Valerius Maximus 7.3.6 Xenophon Cyropaedia 6.4.20 Oeconomicus 8.3 Memorabilia 2.1.22

56 60 59‒61 60

131 n.36

159 31‒32 158‒159