Plautine Trends: Studies in Plautine Comedy and its Reception. Festschrift in honour of Prof. D. K. Raios 3110373653, 9783110373653

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Plautine Trends

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Philip R. Hardie · Stephen J. Harrison Stephen Hinds · Richard Hunter · Christina Kraus Giuseppe Mastromarco · Gregory Nagy Theodore D. Papanghelis · Giusto Picone Kurt Raaflaub · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 29

Plautine Trends

Studies in Plautine Comedy and its Reception Festschrift in honour of Prof. D. K. Raios

Edited by Ioannis N. Perysinakis and Evangelos Karakasis

DE GRUYTER

ISBN 978-3-11-037365-3 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-036892-5 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-039272-2 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. 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. © 2014 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck ♾ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Table of Contents Richard Hunter Preface VII I. N. Perysinakis, E. Karakasis IX Prologue E. Karakasis Introduction

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Part I: Plot D. Konstan Turns and Returns in Plautus’ Casina

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D. M. Christenson A Roman Treasure: Religion, Marriage, Metatheatre, and Concord in 13 Aulularia R. R. Caston The Divided Self: Plautus and Terence on Identity and Impersonation

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S. Papaioannou Duplication and the Politics of Comic De-structure: or, Why There Need Not be 63 Two Slaves, While There Are Two Cooks in the Aulularia K. Philippides The parallel ‘two plays’ in Plautus’ Captivi: A Dramatological Reading of the 93 Comedy N. W. Slater Gods on High, Gods Down Low: Romanizing Epiphany S. Frangoulidis Renewal and Compromise in Plautus’ Mostellaria

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Part II: Plot and Language M. Fontaine A Note on Philolaches’ Simile of the House in Plautus’ Mostellaria J. T. Welsh The ‘Fragments’ of Plautus’ Captivi

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Part III: Plot, Language, and Reception A. Sharrock Reading Plautus’ Trinummus: Who’d Bother?

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E. Karakasis Cicero Comicus – Catullus Plautinus. Irony and Praise in Cat. 49 Re– 197 examined M. Hanses Plautinisches im Ovid: The Amphitruo and the Metamorphoses A. Augoustakis Plautinisches im Silius? Two Episodes from Silius Italicus’ Punica D. K. Raios List of Works

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List of Contributors Index locorum

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General Index

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Richard Hunter

Preface It is a great pleasure to have been asked to write a brief Preface to this splendid tribute to Professor Raios, a very faithful servant of Latin studies and the University of Ioannina over several decades. The conjunction of subject and place is worth stressing, as this book, and its Editors, Ioannis Perysinakis and Evangelos Karakasis, are clear testimony to the strength of classical studies in Greece. Some six years or so ago, I mused, in the Introduction to my collected essays (On Coming After), on what seemed to me the relative lack of interest in Plautus in Anglophone scholarship, and wondered whether this had anything to do, not just with the well–known difficulties of text and metre, but also with the Zeitgeist, at least in the literary academy: ‘We live,’ I claimed, ‘in a post–Ovidian age: is there now something faintly embarrassing in, particularly British and American, academic circles about devoting one’s time to a literary form which apparently glories in its transparency, farcical qualities and broad, popular appeal? The modern turn to ars has left Plautus behind, as surely as did the ancient.’ The present book, which originates in a different academic culture is not, of course, proof that I was wrong, but it is one of a number of (very welcome) recent signs that I may not have been completely right. In presenting studies of Plautine comedy both ‘for itself’ (as it were) and in its relationship to Greek comedy, this volume pursues the two central thrusts of all recent ‘literary’ (as opposed to textual, metrical and linguistic) study of Plautus, but it is on a third area where I would like to dwell for a moment. The final section of this book is devoted to ‘reception,’ that is, in this case, to studies of how later poets used Plautine language and situations within very different literary contexts. Some plays in fact carry moments of their ‘reception history’ within the fabric of the text itself, not only in the intensity of Plautus’ metatheatrical observations, but also in the shape of post–Plautine prologues, added scenes and smaller ‘interpolations’; the extent of this latter class of additions will, however, always remain matter for scholarly debate, and these avenues are (reasonably enough) not pursued in the present volume. Rather, attention turns to a few moments of conscious adaptation to other poetic forms. Here, it is both the very openness of Plautine form and its self–consciousness, the fact that it ‘plays’ to the audience, constantly seeking reaction, that made it such a valuable resource for later poets looking for new ways to vary the texture of their own creations. The distinctive ‘voice’ of Roman comedy was a gift to later Roman poetry, in which effects of polyphony are among the most potent literary weapons; nor, of course, is the phenomenon restricted to poetry – the Plau-

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tine voice within the extraordinary texture of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, for example, is not treated in the current volume, but is one of the most familiar facts of Plautine Nachleben. If there really ever was any withdrawal from Plautus by the Anglophone academy, it was not for want of things to do. There is, then, much to do, both in Ioannina and further afield, and Plautine scholars could indeed do worse than devote themselves to pergraecari: ‘imitation of the Greeks’ is what, after all, Plautus himself did, and Professor Raios has set us a model worth following. We wish him a happy and productive retirement.

Prologue In August 2012 Professor Dimitrios Raios retired from the Department of Philology of the University of Ioannina. On this occasion, colleagues and friends took the initiative to publish this volume in his honour. We believe that, although Dimitrios Raios does not accord particular importance to formalities and accolades (he does not seek praise and glorification, as shown by his discreet and quiet presence in the University of Ioannina and the broader scholarly community), he will, nonetheless, accept this volume as a small tribute of love and appreciation, as a symbolic recognition of his multifaceted scholarly contribution to classical studies. The subject matter of the book covers only some of the interests of the honoree but is also, we believe, a desideratum of contemporary research. Dimitrios Raios was born in 1946 in the Zagoria area (at a village called Greveniti). His secondary education took place first (1958) at the Ioannina Zosimaia High School, then (1960) at Rizarios Ecclesiastical School in Athens, for three years; eventually, he graduated from Zosimaia in 1966. In the same year he entered the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Ioannina (first in order of merit) and graduated with honours in Classics. In the fall of 1976 he enrolled in the post–graduate department of the University of Strasbourg (Université des Sciences Humaines de Strasbourg II), and the next year he was awarded the DEA postgraduate diploma. In the autumn of 1979 he defended a doctoral thesis and obtained his doctorate with honours (‘Très bien avec les félicitations du Jury’). His supervisor was Professor H. Zehnacker. He also attended courses in Latin Literature, Numismatics and Metrology, Ancient Greek Literature, Linguistics and Papyrology. During his undergraduate and graduate studies he was a scholar of the Greek State Scholarships Foundation (IKY). At the University of Ioannina, he served, since 1972, as an assistant to the Third Chair of Classical Philology, then as a don (ἐπιμελητής) of the same Chair (1980), and, then, as a Lecturer (since 1982), as an Assistant Professor (since 1988), and as an Associate Professor (since 1998). From 2002 until the day of his retirement he served as Professor in ‘Ancient Greek and Latin Philology, Paleography–History and Textual Criticism / Edition of Ancient Greek and Latin texts, Papyrology.’ Professor Raios has a long teaching experience. As a faculty member, he has taught the following courses to students of the Department of Philology and the Department of History and Archaeology: Latin Novel (Petronius and Apuleius), Roman Comedy (Plautus’ Menaechmi), Roman Tragedy (Seneca’s Phaedra), Greek and Latin Paleography, Greek Prose Literature of the Imperial Period (Plutarch, Lucian, Dio Cassius, Dio Chrysostom, Aelius Aristides, Alciphron, Philo-

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stratus, Greek Novel, Epistolography, Technical Literature), Textual Criticism, Metrology, Numismatics; for the program of Graduate Studies he offered the course: ‘Problems of Interpretation and Criticism of Greek and Latin texts.’ The honoree has also taught (from 1994) the following courses at the Vella Ecclesiastical Academy in Ioannina: Translation and Interpretation of the Old Testament, Anthology of Aesop’s Fables, Philostratus’ Biography of Apollonius of Tyana, Plutarch’s De sera numinis vindicta, Interpretation of Patristic texts (Basil, J. Chrysostom), Analysis of Hymns and Liturgical Texts (the Akathist Hymn, various Masses), Christianity and Culture, Scientific Literature. Professor Raios has extensive administrative experience as well. Among others, he served as Director of the Division of Classics, Director of the Laboratory of the Classical Philology Section, Chair of the Department of Literature, member of the Senate of the University of Ioannina, member of the Post–graduate Studies Committee, of the Executive Committee of Vella Ecclesiastical Academy, member of the editorial Board and Director of the Periodical Dodone – Philology for many years, member of the editorial committee for the Dodone – Supplementary Volumes series, of examination committees (for the award of scholarships from the Greek State Scholarships Foundations, etc.), supervisor or member of advisory or examination committees of doctoral and master’s dissertations. He has also participated in numerous committees of the Division of Classical Philology and the Department of Philology at the University of Ioannina, and in dozens electoral boards in almost all of the Departments of Philology in both Greece and Cyprus. As Director of the Department of Classical Philology, he inaugurated and organised, for many years, the Classics Symposium, which has by now become an institution. He has participated as a speaker in many national and international conferences and has authored a number of books and articles on paleography, criticism and edition of ancient Greek and Latin texts, papyrology, history of science in antiquity, Latin novel, Roman comedy and tragedy, place names, reception of Classical literature in Modern Greek poetry, etc. A full list of publications by Dimitrios Raios is to be found at the end of the volume. Here we would like to present only his major works: (1) Recherches sur le Carmen de ponderibus et mensuris (Ioannina, 1983): The book is a revised and expanded version of the first part of his doctoral thesis. The first chapter is devoted to the problem of dating the text, the second to the identity and personality of the poet, the third chapter deals with the issue of the sources and the survival of the poem in medieval and modern times, while the last is a presentation of the manuscript tradition. (2) Archimède, Ménélaos d’Alexandrie et le ‘Carmen de ponderibus et mensuris’ (Ioannina, 1989): This book consists of four studies linked together by a common set of key points and sources (Archimedes, Menelaus of Alexandria, Carmen de Ponderibus et Mensuris (CPM) and the Arabic tra-

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dition). (3) Φιλοστράτεια A, B, Έρευνες στη χειρόγραφη παράδοση των φιλοστράτειων Eπιστολών (Ioannina, 1992 and 1997) (and C, currently in the final stage of preparation): The first volume includes three separate studies dealing with the manuscript tradition of the Philostratean epistolary corpus. The second volume consists of three parts: the first discusses the manuscript tradition of the letters, the second the manuscript translations, paraphrases, comments and interpretations, and the third the printed tradition. (4) K. Π. Kαβάφη, Mελαγχολία τοῦ Ἰάσωνος Kλεάνδρου, ποιητοῦ ἐν Kομμαγηνῇ· 595 μ.X. Ερμηνευτική προσέγγιση (Ioannina, 2001): An exemplary work, in its thoroughness and documentation, for the interpretation and full depth analysis of Cavafy’s poem, its sources and overall meaning. A brilliant example of what can be achieved by an excellent scholar, whose sensitivity not only rescues philology from repulsive aridity, but can, instead, enrich and complete it. (5) H Mέλισσα και ο Λυκάνθρωπος: Mια αλληγορία της πολιτικής σύγκρουσης στα χρόνια του Nέρωνα (Ioannina, 2001): The aim of the author is to show that the inset story of the werewolf, experienced by the freedman Nikeros in Petronius’ Satyricon, is not an ordinary folk tale of horror and magic, but a story which, through the known strategy of concealment and disguise, can be read as an allegory, especially as a story of political opposition, namely of anti–Neronian character. This overview of Prof. Raios’ work would not be complete without the mention of four significant volumes, the result of longtime research and teaching experience: 1) Σενέκα Φαίδρα. Εισαγωγή – Κριτική έκδοση – Μετάφραση – Ερμηνευτικά θέματα (Ioannina, 2013, revised and expanded edition). The first part of the book examines Seneca’s life and works, while the second consists of a comprehensive introduction to Phaedra, followed by a new critical edition of the tragic text with a copious critical apparatus and a clear and accurate Greek translation. The appendices include a comparative discussion of Euripides’ Hippolytos Stephanephoros, Racine’s Phèdre, Ovid’s fourth Heroine, Philostratus’ Imagines on Hippolytus, and Ritsos’ Φαίδρα. 2) Λατινικό Mυθιστόρημα. Πετρώνιος – Aπουλήιος (Ioannina, 2010, reprint). The book is a creative synthesis of selected secondary literature, enriched by D. Raios’ longtime research, and constitutes a general introduction to the ancient novel, Petronius’ Satyricon and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Selected passages are also edited, translated and annotated. 3) Ελληνική Γραμματεία των Αυτοκρατορικών χρόνων. Εισαγωγή – Επισκόπηση – Ανθολογία (Ιoannina, 2012, expanded and revised edition). The book consists of a general introduction to and an anthology of literary texts from the imperial period. The introduction aims to highlight particular trends of the poetry and the prose of a period extending from the first up to the fifth/sixth century and, accordingly, to outline the historical, political, social, ideological, religious and educational conditions defining it. A recurrent interest in the discussion of each

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author is his reception, as in the case of Plutarch, Lucian (as received by Cavafy and Souris) or Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana (and its Cavafian reception). Dimitrios Raios also taught Plautus for many years and has, in addition, conducted important research on Plautine drama; therefore, the decision to honour him through a volume on Plautus came as a natural choice. His book with the title Ρωμαϊκή Κωμωδία – Πλαύτου Μέναιχμοι (Ioannina, 2006 reprint) offers a concise yet thorough introduction to Roman theatre, its history and importance in terms of Early Roman culture, as well as to New Comedy, the palliata, and Plautine drama in particular. Of crucial value is Prof. Raios’ endeavour to revisit earlier critical analysis of Menaechmi and its dramatic characters, the dating of the play (c. 216 BC, for Raios), the authenticity of the prologue in opposition to its spuriousness occasionally argued for in Plautine scholarship, the reception of the drama, its linguistic and metrical analysis, and act division. Prof. Raios compellingly challenges J.B. Pius’ classical division with a long last act and accepts, instead, a more balanced structure. A flowing Greek translation complements the introduction along with basic notes; what is more, Prof. Raios’ rendering has been used for performances of the play by the municipal theatre of Ioannina in summer of 1991. Dimitrios Raios’ research interests effectively cover a wide field in classics: ancient Greek and Latin philology, interpretation of ancient Greek and Latin literature, and related fields: criticism and edition of ancient Greek and Latin texts, history of science in antiquity, reception of ancient Greek and Latin literature (by Cavafy and others). Discouraged over the state of Greek universities, in recent years he seems remote from academic life, for which, however, he always expresses his view, outspoken, informed and sound. He mostly, however, remains devoted to his research. We wish him, from the bottom of our heart, good health and strength, to be able to pursue his creative research. I. N. Perysinakis E. Karakasis

Introduction This book is intended as a contribution to Plautine scholarship and puts together 13 papers on the dramatic and linguistic techniques of Plautus by specialists on Roman Drama. Before the analysis of the contributions in the volume, an overview of the extensive scholarly production on Plautus during the last years was deemed necessary, in an effort to set the present study in its critical context.

Plautine Studies – An Overview The Last Fifteen Prolific Years Recent years have witnessed a growing new interest in Roman Comedy, and Plautus in particular. First of all, new reliable Latin texts of several Plautine comedies have appeared, while others are due to come out in the near future, mostly the result of the distinguished Urbino Plautine group, within the framework of the project Editio Plautina Sarsinatis (e. g. R.M. Danese’s Asinaria (2004), C. Questa’s Bacchides (2008) and Casina (2002), W. Stockert’s Cistellaria (2009), S. Lanciotti’s Curculio (2009), S. Monda’s Vidularia et deperditarum fabularum fragmenta (2004)). This welcome addition to the standard Oxford Plautine text by W.M. Lindsay (T. Macci Plauti Comoediae, 2 vols, 1913 – 5) is supplemented by the new Loeb translation of Plautus, an opus magnum in five volumes by W.D.C De Melo (2011– 3), which now replaces P. Nixon’s old–fashioned rendering (Loeb, 1916 – 38). An excellent, accurate English translation complements a complete Latin text and comprehensive introductions. Clear translations of seven Plautine comedies are also offered by D.M. Christenson in two volumes by Focus Classical Library, namely Plautus: Four Plays. Casina, Amphitryon, Captivi, Pseudolus (Newburyport MA, 2008), followed by Roman Comedy: Five Plays by Plautus and Terence (Newburyport MA, 2010) with additional translations of Menaechmi, Rudens and Truculentus. Important commentaries in several standard languages of philological research have also been published in recent years; to mention a few, D.M. Christenson’s commentary on Amphitruo (Cambridge, 2000), F. Hurka’s on Asinaria (Munich, 2010), W. Stockert’s on Cistellaria (Munich, 2012), W. Hofmann’s on Truculentus (Darmstadt, 2001), as well as J. Henderson’s running commentary on Asinaria, along with a new edition of the text and an idiosyncratic translation (Madison Wisconsin, 2006). As to individual studies: M. Deufert’s seminal Textgeschichte und Rezeption der plautinischen Komödien im Altertum (Berlin, 2002) has become a reference work for the history of Plautine text in antiquity; Deufert, evidently, shares O.

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Zwierlein’s view of the Plautine text as largely the result of later interpolations (Zur Kritik und Exegese des Plautus I–IV, Mainz, Stuttgart, 1990 – 2). For a compelling approach to Plautine metrics through Latin linguistics, one should now consult B.W. Fortson IV, Language and Rhythm in Plautus: Synchronic and Diachronic Studies (Berlin, 2008), while C. Questa’s full metrical analysis of Plautine metre in La Metrica di Plauto e di Terenzio (Urbino, 2007) constitutes the basic reference for Plautine scansion. T.J. Moore’s Music in Roman Comedy (Cambridge, 2012), on the other hand, has become the standard study on comic music, focusing on issues such as vocal performance, dance, melody, metre and rhythm and their importance for the understanding of comic theatre. Significant linguistic studies include: R. Gerschner’s wide–ranging account of Plautine nominal declension, Die Deklination der Nomina bei Plautus (Heidelberg, 2002), D.M. Dutsch’s all–inclusive monograph on ‘gendered’ female speech in Roman Comedy (Plautus included), Feminine Discourse in Roman Comedy: On Echoes and Voices (Oxford, 2008), W.D.C. De Melo’s The Early Latin Verb System: Archaic Forms in Plautus, Terence, and Beyond (Oxford, 2007) on the Early Latin (Plautine) verbal forms, and, last but not least, M. Fontaine’s intriguing Funny Words in Plautine Comedy (New York, 2010); Fontaine’s serious philological study on Plautine world–play has compellingly shown that Plautine comedy presupposes a quite refined and sophisticated Plautine audience, able to grasp subtle linguistic puns. Metatheatre, i. e., readings of Plautine theatrical self–reflexivity and performance awareness, constitutes a further basic hermeneutic approach of Plautus’ drama. N.W. Slater’s Plautus in Performance. The Theatre of the Mind (Princeton, 1985), reissued in an expanded version in 2000, is the basic work here. Slater’s main and highly influential thesis is that the Plautine servus callidus may be read as the self–reflexive image of the comic poet. Engagement with the audience is another sub–trend of contemporary Plautine scholarship (reference work is here T.J. Moore’s The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience (Austin, 1998)). From this perspective, in recent years, G. Sander–Pieper’s Das Komische bei Plautus: Eine Analyse zur plautinischen Poetik (Berlin, 2007) scrutinises communication structures developed between stage characters and the audience. Intertextuality (and metatheatre) as methods of deciphering meaning in Roman Comedy are very well served by A. Sharrock’s highly influential Reading Roman Comedy: Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence (Cambridge, 2009). As to comic stagecraft, C.W. Marshall’s The Stagecraft and Performance of Roman Comedy (Cambridge, 2006) is the most up to date, comprehensive analysis of Roman (and Plautine) comic staging, paying particular attention to Plautine scenic improvisation.

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New–historical approaches, viewing Plautine Comedy in its social, civic and historical contexts of republican Rome, are not missing: M. Leigh’s Comedy and the Rise of Rome (Oxford, 2004), contextualizing, for example, Plautine comedy in the Roman society of the Hannibalic War, and R. Stewart’s Plautus and Roman Slavery (Malden MA, 2012), exploring slavery in Plautus’ time, are both characteristic examples of the re–emergence of a ‘historicising approach.’ Plautine slavery and its social role also interests K. McCarthy in her Slaves, Masters and the Art of Authority in Plautine Comedy (Princeton, 2000); based, up to a point, on E. Segal’s seminal and Freudian ‘Saturnalian Inversion’ readings of Plautus (Roman Laughter: The Comedy of Plautus (Cambridge MA, 1968)), McKarthy interprets Plautine comedy largely as Bakhtinian interfaces between naturalistic and farcical comedy and their different views of authority. As to Plautine receptions, S.M. Goldberg’s Constructing Literature in the Roman Republic: Poetry and its Reception (Cambridge, 2005) is, among other things, an attractive discussion of comedy’s reception in late republican Rome, mainly as a text and not through performance. Parody, paratragedy and the tragic associations of the comic plot is the subject matter of two excellent Italian studies, namely the book by M.M. Bianco Interdum vocem comoedia tollit. Paratragedia ‘al Femminile’ nella Commedia Plautina (Bologna, 2007) and the collective volume, edited by G. Petrone and M.M. Bianco, with the title La Commedia di Plauto e la Parodia. Il Lato Comico dei Paradigmi Tragici (Palermo, 2006). The well–known ‘Freiburg school,’ on the other hand, with its tendency to document Plautine originality through the dramatist’s close engagement with the native Italian tradition, partly developed also as a reaction to Zwierlein’s school of thought that regards Plautus as a close imitator of Greek comedy (see above, pp. xiii – xiv), continues well after 2000; ScriptOralia, a series focusing on the interaction between script and oral literature, hosts several important studies associated with the Freiburg school: E. Lefèvre, Plautus’ Aulularia (Tübingen, 2001), Plautus’ Rudens (Tübingen, 2006), Plautus’ Bacchides (Tübingen, 2011), U. Auhagen (ed.), Studien zu Plautus’ Epidicus (Tübingen, 2001), S. Faller (ed.), Studien zu Plautus’ Persa (Tübingen, 2001), R. Hartkamp and F. Hurka (eds.), Studien zu Plautus’ Cistellaria (Tübingen, 2004), Th. Baier (ed.), Studien zu Plautus’ Poenulus (Tübingen, 2004). Hofmann’s commentary (mentioned above, p. xiii) also follows the line of thought of the Freiburg school. F. Stürner in Monologe bei Plautus. Ein Beitrag zur Dramaturgie der hellenistisch–römischen Komödie (Stuttgart, 2011) examines the function of monologue in Plautine drama and also comes to the conclusion that Plautus is influenced by the native Italian popular theatre. On the other hand, by examining the relationship between Greek model and Roman adaptation, largely through the typified figure of the parasite, A. Antonsen–Resch in Von Gnathon zu Saturio. Die Parasitenfigur und

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das Verhältnis der römischen Komödie zur griechischen (Berlin, 2005) takes the middle course: Roman dramas (Plautine included), in all probability, followed Greek models into which Roman comic playwrights introduced changes; yet the text, in its present form, is also the outcome of interpolation. A revived interest in Plautine Comedy is also evidenced by the publication of several meticulous collective volumes and overviews of Roman Drama. E. Segal edited the Oxford Readings in Menander, Plautus and Terence (New York, 2001), with a re–issue of various seminal and significant papers on almost all trends of Plautine scholarship, namely Plautus’ comic techniques, improvisation and oral tradition, comic language, characters (e. g. the servus callidus) and characterisation, the engagement of Plautine drama with contemporary history, New Comedy civic state ideology as well as its audience, comic deceit, metatheatre. E. Lefèvre’s Kleine Schriften on the originality of Roman Comedy (see above, p. xv) have also been published with the title Studien zur Originalität der römischen Komödie (Berlin, 2013). The volume includes papers written between 1973 and 2013, with 16 articles devoted to Plautine drama. Several important Italian volumes have also been published recently; G. Petrone edited a volume of 16 articles with the title Quando le Muse Parlavano Latino. Studi su Plauto (Bologna, 2009); the papers included follow well–established approaches of Roman Comedy and focus on an anthropological and historical analysis of Plautine drama, the function of the significant name in Plautine comedy, epic, mimic and philosophical discourses in Plautus, Plautine literary criticism and parody, the perennial interaction of Greek and Roman drama, the presence of Plautine women, issues of performance, but also of textual criticism and allotment of lines. Two scholars connected to the Urbino Plautine community, C. Questa and R. Raffaelli published, in 2002, a valuable volume entitled Due Seminari Plautini: La Tradizione del Testo; i Modelli (Urbino), where influential Plautine scholars deal with textual matters and the models of Plautine drama, although two of the contributions (i. e., Barsby’s and Raffaelli’s) focus on Terence. What is more, in honour of C. Questa’s 70th birthday, a volume with the title Sei Letture Plautine (Urbino, 2004) was edited, collecting revised versions of previously published papers by Questa concerning the following comedies: Aulularia, Casina, Cistellaria, Menaechmi, Miles Gloriosus, Mostellaria, and Pseudolus. Issues of content, plot and reception are accorded here particular attention. R. Raffaelli published a collection of 22 articles of his on Plautine Comedy, which had already appeared elsewhere from 1984 to 2010. The volume entitled Esercizi Plautini (Urbino, 2009) focuses on Plautine prologues, issues of philological interest and Plautine reception, and offers interesting and stimulating readings of various individual Plautine comedies and themes (e. g. the Captivi as an anomalous comedy, the sea in Plautine comedy, etc.). The publication of the series Lecturae

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Plautinae Sarsinates (a publication of yearly conferences in Sarsina, directed by R. Raffaelli and A. Tontini), and dealing with various issues on Plautine comedy (reception included), continues to date. The first was devoted to Amphitruo in 1998, and this annual publication of volumes, dedicated to Plautine comedies in alphabetical order, has now reached Pseudolus (vol. 16, 2013). Several overviews on Roman Comedy have also appeared. A synopsis of Plautine Comedy and its basic reference works is provided by the concise but thorough Comedy by N.J. Lowe, published as no 37 of Greece & Rome. New Surveys in the Classics (Cambridge, 2007). G. Manuwald’s Roman Republican Theatre (Cambridge, 2011) also includes discussion and synthesis of work on Plautine Comedy and its comic techniques, as does M. McDonald’s and J.M. Walton’s The Cambridge Companion to Greek and Roman Theatre (Cambridge, 2007) and the recent The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy (New York, 2014), edited by M. Fontaine and A.C. Scafuro. Last but not least, the English translation by T. Drevikovsky and F. Muecke of the monumental and classic E. Fraenkel’s Plautinisches in Plautus (Berlin, 1922), along with the addenda of its subsequent Italian edition (F. Munari, Elementi Plautini in Plauto (Florence, 1960)), as Plautine Elements of Plautus (New York, 2007), further testifies to the contemporary increased interest in Plautine drama.

The Essays in the Present Volume The aim of this book is to contribute, in its turn, to this ongoing discussion on Plautine drama; thus most of the basic topics examined by recent scholarship on Plautus, as set out above, are also to be met in the papers of this volume. Following the Trends in Classics editorial practice, it has been decided that each paper be preceded by a short abstract, summarising the paper’s basic points; therefore, the review of the essays here is, accordingly, not extensive. The papers cover a wide range of interests and use various methods and approaches; nevertheless, its basic scope is to address issues concerning a) the construction of the comic plot and its social, historical and philosophical contexts, b) the interaction of comic language with comic plot, and c) plot and language as markers of intertextuality and comic reception. The papers have been sub–divided according to the main focus of their analysis (plot, language, reception); this does not necessitate, however, that papers falling under a specific category do not touch upon issues mainly associated with another sub–division. In the first category (PLOT), the focus is on how Plautine plot interacts with its Greek models and, simultaneously, functions as a Roman performance. Metathetrical self–awareness, comic staging, ritual / religion and sexuality, Romani-

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sation, generic ‘serf–awareness,’ and ‘interaction,’ structure of the comic plot, e. g., in terms of the well–know technique of ‘a play within a play,’ historical, social and philosophical readings of the comic plot, engagement with the audience also constitute main interests of the first section. In particular, D. Konstan’s Turns and Returns in Plautus’ Casina sets out to establish verbal markers concerning Casina’s variations from the Greek original which he relates to themes that Plautus introduces into the play, particularly with regard to homosexuality. In a self–reflexive manner these alterations from the original are contextualised as ‘turns / returns to a previous path.’ Metatheatrical interests, although not exclusively, are displayed by D.M. Christenson in A Roman Treasure: Religion, Marriage, Metatheatre, and Concord in Aulularia. Through a close investigation of religious elements (e. g. Euclio’s irreverent attitude towards Fides and a transposition of his treasure to the divine realm of the rustic god Silvanus, the expulsion of Bona Fortuna from the old man’s premises), matrimony (chiefly in relation to large dowries (uxor dotata) and their side–effects on traditional familial structures), a metatheatrical view of Euclio (e. g. his frequent address of the audience, his metatheatrical aporia song) and the reading of Eunomia as an allegory of Concordia in Plautus’ Aulularia, the author moves away from previous scholarly attempts which examined Plautine drama predominantly against the background of Greek sources. Contextualising the drama in its historical setting (in the wake of the 2nd Punic war) and the ideology of the period, Christenson explores the Plautine play as a specifically Roman work addressed to a diverse Roman audience in terms of a performance setting. In The Divided Self: Plautus and Terence on Identity and Impersonation, on the other hand, R.R. Caston examines impersonation and disguise in Plautine comedy, with special reference to Amphitruo, while her analysis is also complemented by a reading of role–playing in Terence’s Eunuchus. However, unlike earlier scholarship which tends to focus on the metatheatrical dimension of comic impersonation, Caston explores the motif in its philosophical contexts, as a comic reflection on the ‘stability and the integrity of the self.’ In particular, Caston examines comic disguise against the background of Panaetius’ theory of four personae and the interaction of ‘identity and memory’ in Lucretius’ DRN. In Duplication and the Politics of Comic De–Structure: or, Why There Need not be Two Slaves, while There Are Two Cooks in the Aulularia, S. Papaioannou pays attention to the structure of the comic plot and the play’s concomitant ‘generic awareness’; in particular, she investigates the cook episode in Plautus’ Aulularia in relation to the centrality of duplication and duality in the plot. She discusses several aspects of the problematic structure of the play (including the lack of collaboration between various comic characters) in relation to the view of Aulularia as an anti–palliata, a play on the structural disintegration of a ‘generically cor-

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rect’ Roman comedy. The same holds true, according to Papaioannou, for Truculentus. The structuring of the Plautine plot falls within the interests of K. Philippides as well, in The Parallel ‘Two Plays’ in Plautus’ Captivi: A Dramatological Reading of the Comedy. She shows that Captivi is artfully articulated as two parallel, alternating ‘sub–plays,’ each of which has its own prologue, scenes, characters and themes. The first ‘sub–play’ is mostly serious and progressively elaborates on the question of Tyndarus’ identity; the other ‘sub–play’ is purely comic and revolves around the problem of Ergasilus’ persona. Both ‘plays’ end when their protagonists achieve their comic goal: Ergasilus as Hegio’s privileged parasite and Tyndarus as the latter’s lost son. Comic staging and its tragic ‘generic associations’ is the main subject of N.W. Slater’s Gods on High, Gods Down Low: Romanizing Epiphany. Slater examines divine epiphany in Roman Comedy, focusing on Plautus’ Amphitruo and the prologues to other plays that shed light on the participation of gods in the plot. The author examines, in particular, the way deities are introduced into the comic plot in relation to tragic theatre, which, for Slater, before the use of mechanical resources, had previously created a visual vocabulary for suggesting divine epiphany. By centring on Amphitruo, Slater refutes the deus ex machina stage mechanism, but argues, instead, for an epiphany on the tectum. S. Frangoulidis, on the other hand, reads Mostellaria in terms of the well–known ‘historicising’ opposition between Greek and Roman values and, also, contextualises his reading into the civic ideology promoted by New Comedy dramas. In Renewal and Compromise in Plautus’ Mostellaria, Frangoulidis focuses on the servus fallax Tranio, who achieves a compromise between pleasure–oriented Greek style and strict Roman values. Through the haunted house ruse, the slave manages to drive old Theopropides, i. e., the representative of the traditional mores, away from the house. The removal of the old man from stage, coloured as a katabasis, suggests the demise of the old man’s former self and is replicated by the young carousers’ feast, also reduced to a ‘ghost’ of its inner self, driven indoors and continued in total silence. The senex eventually adopts a more open stance towards Greek values and cultural aesthetics, with a corresponding change of mind–set also taking place in the case of young men. The papers of the second category (PLOT AND LANGUAGE) examine how language use may help to detect a Greek model as well as on how fragmented lines with interesting linguistic features may be used for the restoration of a lost comic plot. This section includes the following papers: M. Fontaine’s A Note on Philolaches’ Simile of the House in Plautus’ Mostellaria deals with the relationship of Greek to Roman comedies. He argues that Philolaches’ aria, early in the play, presupposes an extended pun on τέκτονες, ‘builders,’ and τεκόντες, ‘parents.’ He concludes that the Greek author of Phasma, rather than Plautus,

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devised the programmatic simile of the house (84– 156) and the leitmotif of strict education that connects with it later in the play. Fontaine’s rather ‘analytical’ criticism is complemented by J.T. Welsh’s, The ‘Fragments’ of Plautus’ Captivi, which explores the potential fragments, preserved by the grammatical tradition as means of linguistic instruction, have for plot reconstruction. Using Plautus’ Captivi as a case–study, Welsh assesses the possibility of reconstructing the Plautine plot from fragments of Roman republican drama preserved in sources interested not in dramatic themes but in linguistic matters that were considered odd compared to the language of their own time. Welsh proceeds with his ludus in a twofold manner; first he makes an effort to reconstruct the plot of the Captivi on the assumption that he has no knowledge of other fully preserved Plautine comedies, whereas, in a second step of his exercise, he works on the background of the rest of Plautine comedy. In both cases a considerable amount of information may be drawn from the fragments, which, however, must always be dealt with caution. The third heading (PLOT, LANGUAGE AND RECEPTION) covers the last four papers. The aim of the section is to examine the ways plot and language function as markers of Plautine reception, starting from the republican period (Terence, Cicero, Catullus) and Augustus’ years (Ovid) up to the Flavian period (Silius Italicus). Starting with Roman Comedy itself, namely Terence, A. Sharrock in her Reading Plautus’ Trinummus: Who’d Bother?, argues that Plautus’ Trinummus, a rather unpopular play by modern standards, should be appreciated for its relationship with the Roman comic tradition. It displays an ingenious engagement with typical Plautine elements and was evidently well–known to Terence; for Sharrock, Trinummus is a cento of Plautine drama, as various Plautine comic devices appear in concentration, not always fully incorporated in the plot (e. g. Stasimus’ running routine (1008 ff.), and to effects which differ from the Plautine norm (the senex Megaronides as architectus doli), thus, occasionally, foreshadowing later Terentian evolution, especially with reference to the well–known Terentian ‘duality method,’ involving two pairs of lovers. E. Karakasis’ Cicero Comicus – Catullus Plautinus; Irony and Praise in Cat. 49 Re–examined investigates the way Plautine comedy informs Catullan poetry, namely c. 49 and the puzzling ‘praise’ of Cicero it contains. For Karakasis, the Catullan persona adopts established routines of comic characters, when they have to cope with the ruse of the typical Plautine comic hero, i. e., the servus fallax, and, thus, expresses recognition and appreciation of comic deceit. Catullus inverts the disillusionment experienced by comic figures, when faced with servile ‘smart tricks,’ and, consequently, nods to the function of Cicero as a comic hero in his Pro Caelio, i. e., a

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defense speech largely informed by comic discourse, and leading, as it did, to the defamation of Catullus’ former sweetheart, Lesbia. Next comes the Imperial period; In Plautinisches im Ovid: the Amphitruo and the Metamorphoses, M. Hanses establishes the importance of the palliata as a model and intertext of imperial Roman literature and discusses several passages from Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Met. 6 and Zeus’ metamorphosis into Amphitruo, Met. 9 and Alcmene’s tale of the birth of Hercules) in order to demonstrate that Ovid alludes directly to the tragicomic Amphitruo. Although Plautus is alluded to for comic relief, Ovid does not allow a happy resolution and exploits the play’s tension between the tragic and the comic rather to achieve a tragic effect. Evidence for such an interaction between Plautine tragi–comedy and Ovid’s Protean epic is also apparent in the metapoetic beginning of both texts, where one comes across a ‘generic transformation’ from tragedy to comedy and from elegy to epic respectively. Moving on to Flavian epic, A. Augoustakis examines the impact of Plautus on Silius Italicus. In his Plautinisches im Silius? Two Episodes from Silius Italicus’ Punica, the author traces Plautine comic elements in two episodes from books 7 and 11 of Silius’ Punica. In both books Venus plays a crucial role. Book 7 connects the origins of the Trojan War with the Punic War and book 11 presents the goddess as the catalyst for Hannibal’s downfall: it is through her agency that her sons, the Cupids, cause the prolongation of the Carthaginians’ stay in Campania, ultimately resulting in their weakening toward the end of the war. Silius draws Plautine stereotypes for the Carthaginians from Poenulus and inverts them. He also exploits the central role of Venus in Plautine comedies, notably Poenulus and also Rudens, by making the goddess instrumental in the development of the plot. Silius also portrays Hannibal in terms of a Plautine miles gloriosus: the Carthaginian general yields to the power of music and song during a ludus scaenicus. E. Karakasis

Acknowledgements Last but not least, we would like to thank all those who participated in this project; first of all, the contributors who kindly responded to our invitation (in alphabetic order), A. Augoustakis, R.R. Caston, D.M. Christenson, M. Fontaine, S. Frangoulidis, M. Hanses, D. Konstan, S. Papaioannou, K. Philippides, A. Sharrock, N. W. Slater, and J.T. Welsh. Special thanks are also due to Prof. R.L. Hunter (University of Cambridge, Trinity College) for writing the preface to this volume as well as for variously helping us shape the present book from its inception. We

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are also extremely grateful to the two anonymous readers who kindly read through the manuscript and made valuable and thought–provoking remarks. Finally, we would like to express our sincere gratitude to Prof. F. Montanari (University of Genova) and Prof. A. Rengakos (University of Thessaloniki; Academy of Athens), general editors of Trends in Classics, De Gruyter, who eagerly embraced the project and included the present collection of essays in Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes. Ioannina 05.02. 2014 Ioannis N. Perysinakis (Prof. of Greek, University of Ioannina) Evangelos V. Karakasis (Assist. Prof. of Latin, University of Ioannina)

Part I: Plot

D. Konstan

Turns and Returns in Plautus’ Casina * Abstract: In the Casina, there are verbal indications of changes or variations in respect to the Greek original; these phrases, which sometimes take the form of a return to a previous path (cf. nunc pol ego demum in rectam redii semitam, v. 469), correspond precisely to themes that are introduced or inserted by Plautus into the play, above all in connection with homosexuality.* Keywords: Plautus, comedy, originality, homosexuality ἦρ᾽, ὦ φίλοι, κατ᾽ ἀμευσίπορον τρίοδον ἐδινάθην, ὀρθὰν κέλευθον ἰὼν τὸ πρίν; (Pindar Pythian 11.38 – 9) ‘My friends, did I become confused at the place where the three roads meet, despite travelling on a straight path beforehand?’ (transl. P.J. Finglass, Pindar: Pythian 11 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007) 67).

All agree that the Casina, very likely the latest of the surviving comedies of Plautus, has a complex plot. The prologue tells us that the Greek model for the play was the Lot–Drawers (Klêroumenoi) of Diphilus, and no doubt this provided the armature for Plautus’ version. Here, however, disagreement arises among scholars. Some suppose that Plautus altered Diphilus’ comedy substantially, substituting among other things a farcical scene of his own for the original conclusion (a few, such as Paratore and Lefèvre, maintain that he made still more radical changes).¹ Others believe that Plautus reproduced Diphilus’ plot more or less faithfully, even as he embellished it with his usual array of songs, puns, slapstick elements, and other features specific to Roman comedy.² I wish here to sidestep the question of Plautus’ relation to the Greek play, though I incline to think that Plautus did modify the original considerably, whether he was inspired by Italian farce, as many have held,³ or invented the final scene and other bits out of whole cloth, or borrowed material from some other Greek comedy – though nothing prevents us from supposing that Diphilus himself could have combined two

* A French version of the paper appears as ‘Détours et Retours dans la Casine de Plaute,’ in: I. David and N. Lhostis (eds.), Normes Dramaturgiques et Normes Morales dans la Comédie Grecque et Romaine (Saint-Denis: Presses Universitaires de Vincennes).  Paratore 1959; Lefèvre 1979.  See esp. MacCary 1973; MacCary and Willcock 1976, 36 – 8.  See especially Ladewig 1845; Langen 1880; Leo 1897, 1912; more recently, O’Bryhim 1989.

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plots he found in earlier Greek comedy: contaminatio need not be an exclusively Roman phenomenon.⁴ I wish rather to consider the effect of the superimposition of two story lines, whatever their source. What is more, I hope to show that the playwright planted some metatheatrical cues that signalled the intersection of the two paradigms. The plot of the Casina ostensibly centres on the rivalry between a father, Lysidamus, and his son for an attractive slave – the Casina of the title. The motif of an erotic competition between father and son is not exceptional (cf. Plautus’ Mercator and Asinaria);⁵ in the Casina, however, the son never appears and his marriage with the girl is announced in just two verses in a coda addressed to the audience, with the additional information that Casina will turn out to be the daughter of the next door neighbours, Alcesimus and his wife Myrrhina (1013 – 4; the prologue had already revealed that the girl is an Athenian citizen).⁶ We are also told that a slave saw a baby girl being exposed sixteen years ago, begged to save her, and handed her over to Cleostrata, Lysidamus’ wife, who raised her as though she were her own child; but the slave is sick and so he too will make no appearance in the play. For the rest, Cleostrata’s husband and son are now madly in love with Casina and are secretly lining up their forces, the father planning to marry her off to the overseer of the country farm, Olympio, while the son seeks to wed her to his slave Chalinus, with intention, like his father, of taking possession of her on the first night and thereafter. The wife, however, gets wind of the old man’s passion and conspires with her son to block it; the father, in turn, cottons to the son’s desire and sends him out of town. In his absence, the mother will act in her son’s behalf. The prologue alerts the audience not to expect the boy’s return: ‘Plautus didn’t wish it; he broke the bridge that was on his route’ (65 – 6). It is noteworthy that there is no apparent distinction between the son’s passion for Casina and the father’s: given that the son will marry her, one might have expected some contrast between the youth’s authentic love and the dirty old man’s hankering for a young virgin. Within the play, moreover, there is virtu On contamination in the Casina, see Fraenkel 1960, 298 – 9. For a soberly skeptical view on Plautus’ handling of his sources, see Franko 2001, 159 – 60: ‘Since we have neither a script for an Atellan Farce nor a complete script for any Greek New Comic author other than Menander, we cannot know whether the ribald, farcical scenes in Casina reflect the zest of Diphilus’ original, or of native Italian comedy, or of Plautus’ own genius.’  For similarities between the Casina and the Mercator, see Questa 2004, 34– 41; Questa uses an actantial analysis in the manner of Vladimir Propp. See also Bettini 1982.  Cf. Cody 1976, 454: ‘Plautus’ Casina begins as a stereotyped new comedy story in which the love of young man and girl is beset with obstacles that are overcome in the course of the play. It does not end this way.’

Turns and Returns in Plautus’ Casina

5

ally no indication that Chalinus, as opposed to Olympio, sees his marriage to Casina as a mere ploy to make her available to the son, nor is it clear why the son would have to resort to such a device to gain possession of the girl, especially if he already has his mother’s consent. Cleostrata’s part in such a conspiracy is itself implausible: she has nurtured Casina as her own daughter, and while she cannot contemplate marrying her to a citizen, since she is a foundling, she would have no interest in prostituting her for her son’s benefit by arranging a sham marriage with a slave. The collusion of the son and mother is presented simply for the sake of making the contest between father and son symmetrical – or rather, between husband and wife: each seeks to arrange a proxy marriage with a slave, who will yield his rights to another man. The comedy thus develops on two fronts: a conventional movement toward marriage, with a recognition scene involving the neighbours and perhaps the sick slave, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the struggle of Cleostrata to marry Casina to a decent man, albeit a slave (we know that Chalinus had served as the son’s armour–bearer, and so is a man in whom the family has some confidence), and in the process to block her husband’s plan to possess her through the charade of a union with Olympio.⁷ In blocking the son’s way back to the city, Plautus introduces the first of his references to detours. The audience would have recognised, I believe, that not just the son but the plot itself was being shunted off in a new direction: the theme of rivalry between son and father is deflected onto the contention between husband and wife over who has the right to determine the future of Casina. Both stories are compatible with the further theme of blocking Lysidamus’ access to the girl: in this way, Cleostrata prevents the adultery and keeps control over Casina, and at the same time she eliminates an obstacle to the son’s desire. Blocking Lysidamus is thus a means to attain the resolution of both plot movements. But this neat fusion of the two story lines does not obscure the distinction between them. On the one hand, Cleostrata has an independent motive for interfering with her husband’s scheme, and one that reflects her sense of her own status; on the other hand, she is a subordinate agent serving the interests of her son – but until she learns, late in the play, that Casina is a legitimate citizen, she cannot have marriage as her goal. Hence, the scheme of a phony union with Chalinus, but this project, as we have seen, is not compatible with her personal aims. Cleostrata thus plays a secondary role in one strand of the narrative, even as she acts as an autonomous agent in the other. It is almost as though, in representing so independent a wife and giving her such a strategic role in the play, the play-

 On Chalinus’ status as armiger, see Anderson 1983.

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wright – whether Plautus or Diphilus – wanted to play down the novelty of Cleostrata’s active defiance of her husband. Powerful women are acceptable in the classical ideology, provided they are acting in the service of a male. The prologue goes on to register the audience’s surprise at the idea that slaves can marry, which was impossible under Roman law. Plautus pretends that this is in fact possible in Greece, Carthage, and his own Apulia, where slave weddings are celebrated even more lavishly than those of free people. This is a joke: Plautus offers to bet the audience that it’s true, provided the judge is Punic (proverbially known for lying), or Greek or Apulian. At this point, the prologue says: ‘But let me return [revortar] to that girl who was exposed’ (79). Once again, Plautus calls attention to a detour in the narrative. Marriage was scarcely necessary: Casina could just as well have been given to a fellow slave as a contubernalis or unfree mate, a status acknowledged in law: this would have accomplished what both father and son desired, according to what the prologue affirms. Why, then, insist that it is a real marriage, and deliberately highlight the anomaly? The answer lies, I think, in the controversial final episode, in which Cleostrata and Myrrhina dress Chalinus as a bride and in this guise marry him to Olympio who cedes his place to Lysidamus, with the result that both men are beaten by the simulated Casina and Lysidamus is thoroughly humiliated. It is much funnier if staged as a marriage, and given the absence of the son, there is no obstacle within the play to doing so. Indeed, the idea may have suggested itself precisely as a substitute for the wedding scene with which comedies so often conclude. The play proper opens with an altercation between Olympio and Chalinus over who is to get the girl: there is no reference to a proxy marriage here. Cleostrata then emerges from the house in search of her neighbour Myrrinha, in order to complain about her husband’s behaviour: she knows that his plan to give Casina to Olympio is a ruse, and that he himself is in love with her; she is particularly indignant because she regards the girl as hers and raised her at her own expense (193 – 6). Myrrhina objects that wives have no property of their own: it all belongs to the husband, and she advises Cleostrata to tolerate her husband’s philandering, provided he does not diminish the value of the household. This dialogue clearly establishes Cleostrata’s image as an independent and self–respecting woman. Lysidamus now enters, reeking of perfume and singing a hymn to love, and Cleostrata repulses his attempts to embrace her, warning him that she knows more than he thinks. When Lysidamus insists that Cleostrata should oblige him and give the girl to Olympio, since he will provide for her better than Chalinus will, Cleostrata replies that the care of the slave girls is her business, and adds that she wishes also to oblige their only son, to which Lysidamus replies that the boy is no more his only son than he is the boy’s only fa-

Turns and Returns in Plautus’ Casina

7

ther (263 – 4). This scene too dramatises the parity between husband and wife, though it is tempered by Cleostrata’s reference to the son. Lysidamus and Cleostrata decide that they will try to persuade Chalinus and Olympio, respectively, to give up their claim to the girl. This is the first attempt at resolving the conflict. Though Lysidamus tries to bully Chalinus into surrendering Casina, Chalinus is not intimidated (nor is Olympio, as we learn later). Lysidamus suddenly proposes that he and Cleostrata draw lots for the girl (295 – 6), bringing on the episode that gave the original play its title.⁸ The victory will go to Lysidamus, and Chalinus’ hopes will be dashed, as he confesses afterwards in a soliloquy. Cleostrata is something of a supernumerary in the scene (at first, she does not even know what the lots are for), and with her it requires four actors; when Chalinus says to Lysidamus, ‘Everything you asked for is here: wife, lots, urn and me,’ Olympio interjects: ‘With you there’s one more than I’d like’ (358 – 9) – a hint, perhaps, that there is an extra person on stage.⁹ But her presence helps keep the focus on her part in the contest. Lysidamus, taking one more stab at convincing his Cleostrata, says: ‘I thought I might obtain this from you, my wife, that Casina would be granted to me as wife, and I still think so’ (364– 5). ‘That she would be given to you?’ Cleostrata exclaims. ‘To me – um, no I didn’t mean to say that; when I meant ‘to me,’ I said ‘to him,’ and I so want her for me – I’m still speaking wrong, by Hercules!’ ‘And acting wrong too, by Pollux,’ says Cleostrata. Lysidamus again stutters: ‘To him – no, to me – bah, I’ve finally returned, barely, to the right path’ (tandem redii vix veram in viam, 369). This reference to a detour is, I think, again a metatheatrical hint to indicate a shift of story line: it points to Cleostrata’s exposure of her husband in the final scene – her triumph in the end. When the two slaves continue to bicker, Lysidamus exclaims: ‘Shut up, Chalinus.’ ‘Cram him! [comprime istunc]’ Chalinus replies, and Olympio responds: ‘No him, since he’s used to putting out [qui didicit dare]’ (361). The double entendre on comprime, meaning ‘restrain’ but also ‘rape’ or ‘enter sexually,’ is the first suggestion in the play of homosexual humour, and it too anticipates, I think, the cross–dressing conclusion to the comedy.¹⁰ When Olympio wins, Cleostrata meekly accepts the result and Lysidamus sends her off to prepare for the wedding. After Chalinus’ soliloquy, Lysidamus and Olympio enter and Chalinus eavesdrops on their conversation. Olympio and Lysidamus discuss mortifying Chalinus still further, after his defeat, by making him accompany Olympio to pur-

 On Roman elements in this scene, see Lowe 2003.  On scenes requiring more than three actors in Plautus, see Franko 2004.  On homosexual references in the play, see Cody 1976.

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chase the foodstuffs for the celebration. Olympio announces aloud that he has been strictly obedient to his master’s wishes, and that on this very day Lysidamus will enjoy what he has so desired. Lysidamus is overwhelmed with gratitude: he addresses Olympio as his darling (voluptas mea, 453) and says he can barely keep from kissing him. Chalinus is astounded: ‘What, kissing? What’s this about voluptas tua?’ Olympio says: ‘Now do you love me?’ and Lysidamus replies ‘More than my own self!’ and tries to hug him. As Lysidamus becomes still more demonstrative, Olympio himself grows wary, and Chalinus concludes that Lysidamus actually desires Olympio, even though he is already bearded. Only when Lysidamus declares, ‘And today I’ll be kissing Casina and will do wonderful things in secret from my wife’ (467– 8), does Chalinus at last realise what is going on, and exclaims: ‘Aha! Now I have finally returned to the right path [nunc pol ego demum in rectam redii semitam, 469]: he himself is dying for Casina. Now I’ve caught the blokes.’ Can it be that he did not know this already, especially after Lysidamus’ earlier confusion with the pronouns? Chalinus has evidently been assuming that the contest really was between himself and Olympio, and even that this is the son’s preference as well (289), though in the end, when her identity is revealed, he will have to yield her to the son. Once more, I believe, Plautus has flashed to his savvy audience (cf. sapientis, 5) a sign that he has shifted lanes, as it were, and it is no accident that here again there is a play on homosexuality. Lysidamus now explains to Olympio that he has arranged with his neighbour to lend him his house, and for Myrrhina to spend the night at Cleostrata’s, so that he can enjoy Casina at once: they will pretend they are going to the country, but in reality it will happen right next door. Lysidamus sends Olympio to shop for the wedding, evidently having forgotten the plan to make Chalinus accompany him, and as the two exit the stage, Chalinus gloats over his discovery, which he will now tell to Cleostrata. With this information, Cleostrata will be ready to set the trap for her wayward husband. Cleostrata’s first move is to go back on her pledge to her husband to summon Myrrhina’s help, thereby planting the seeds of a quarrel between Lysidamus and Alcesimus, which she aggravates by telling her husband that it was Alcesimus who refused to allow his wife come over. Afer a brief row, the two old men clear up the confusion and Alcesimus agrees to send his wife to Lysidamus’ house by a back alley. At this point, Pardalisca, a slave loyal to Cleostrata, emerges from the house in hysterics, and announces that Casina has gone mad and is threatening to kill whoever attempts to sleep with her. Once again, Lysidamus betrays himself by asking: ‘she’s going to murder me?’ (672), and once again he has to explain that he meant to say his overseer. Pardalisca says: ‘You’re consciously swerving from the road into an alleyway [de via in semi-

Turns and Returns in Plautus’ Casina

9

tam degredere]’ (675). In an aside, Pardalisca reveals to the audience that this is a hoax, cooked up by Cleostrata and Myrrhina. Lysidamus asks why his wife has not approached the girl herself and taken away her sword, to which Pardalisca replies that no one dares go near her. With this, Lysidamus declares: ‘If she doesn’t wish it, then she will marry today against her will; for why should I not carry out what I’ve begun, that she marry me – I mean, my overseer?’ (700 – 3). Lysidamus orders Pardalisca to tell Cleostrata to get Casina to lay down her weapon, promising her a gold ring and more if she succeeds. After some horseplay between Lysidamus and Olympio, in which Lysidamus acts as though he is the slave, he alerts Olympio to the danger inside the house, in hopes that he will deal with Casina. But Olympio refuses to go in alone, and the two men enter the house together.¹¹ At this point, Pardalisca emerges yet again and explains that Cleostrata and Myrrhina are now disguising Chalinus as Casina; at the same time, they are delaying the preparations so that Lysidamus will miss his dinner (775 – 6). The latter is pointless, since Lysidamus is so lovesick that he has no appetite, and he pretends in any case that he will dine in the country that evening (781, 802). What is more, Casina’s pretended insanity and possession of a sword are completely forgotten. When did the women decide to abandon this ruse, and why? And why did Myrrhina give up her position that Cleostrata ought to wink at the infidelity of her husband, and join in the plotting to discomfit the old lecher? One can hear the gears shifting here. It is not hard for us, or the original audience, to guess where Casina’s fake madness is leading: during the uproar in the household, Myrrhina, who one now recalls is inside with Cleostrata, will discover that Casina was her long–lost daughter, the recognition perhaps facilitated by the slave who saw the girl exposed. Alcesimus will be summoned to meet his newfound daughter, Lysidamus’ and Cleostrata’s son will return (forget that broken bridge), and the wedding ceremony will be performed: after all, the house has been adorned and the food is prepared. The son, who all along was enamoured of Casina, wins the bride, the dissolute father will get his comeuppance, and all’s right with the world. Only this is not what happens. Instead, the new plot is launched. Chalinus, dressed as Casina, flirts with Olympio and Lysidamus, and leads them into Alcesimus and Myrrhina’s house for the ostensible consummation of the marriage. Cleostrata, Myrrhina and Pardalisca lie in wait to enjoy the spectacle; as Myrrhina says, ‘No poet has ever made up a more clever trick that this one, so skillfully made by us’ (860 – 1),

 On spatial relations in the Casina, in particular inside versus outside, see Andrews 2004.

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an extra–dramatic hint that the finale represents a novel twist.¹² Soon, Olympio comes running out, terrified and ashamed: ‘Like a fool, I’m now doing something new – I am ashamed, I who have never been till now’ (858). That slaves are incapable of shame was a commonplace (see Kaster 2005, 23), but Olympio nevertheless experiences it anew as the women force him to reveal all that happened inside. Lysidamus himself soon follows, pursued by Chalinus. When he continues to pretend he is innocent, Olympio himself denounces him to the women: ‘I will not shut up; you urged me with all your might to demand Casina as a wife, for the sake of your own passion’ (992– 3). Lysidamus is reduced to begging his wife’s pardon, and at Myrrhina’s urging, she grants it and gives over her anger ‘so that we not make a long comedy even longer’ (1006) – a final metatheatrical comment, before Chalinus addresses the audience to ask for applause and announce the recognition. If any members of the audience supposed that the play was going to end with Casina’s marriage, they will now have realised their mistake. The play concludes with the triumph of the women over Lysidamus, and any intimation of the son’s role is shunted aside. The narrative paradigm of rival lovers – in this case, father and son – which provides the framework for the plot is displaced by a story of women engineering the disgrace of an errant husband, who seeks to exert his authority as paterfamilias to violate his responsibilities to his household. Cleostrata will vindicate her claim to bestow Casina on the partner she chooses, and thus her own sphere of authority and control within the home. She will not be a pawn in story about male desire and competition, but a strategist willing and able to defend her rights. The intersection of the two narrative lines serves to highlight the novelty of a matrona taking centre stage in a comic plot and acting on her own behalf, at the same time that it partly recontains this breach in the traditional ideology by allowing those who so desire to see it as the victory of young love, in which a mother plays, as usual, an auxiliary role.

Bibliography Anderson, W. S. (1983), ‘Chalinus armiger in Plautus’ Casina’, in: ICS 8, 11 – 21. Andrews, N. E. (2004), ‘Tragic Re–Presentation and the Semantics of Space in Plautus’ Casina’, in: Mnemosyne 57, 445 – 64.

 On Roman elements in the wedding scene, see Williams 1958, 17– 20.

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Bettini, M. (1982), ‘Verso un’ Antropologia dell’ Intreccio: Le Strutture Semplici della Trama nelle Commedie di Plauto’, in: MD 7, 39 – 101; reprinted in: Verso un’ Antropologia dell’ Intreccio, Urbino, 1991. Cody, J. M. (1976), ‘The Senex Amator in Plautus’ Casina’, in: Hermes 104, 453 – 76. Fraenkel, E. (1960), Elementi Plautini in Plauto, transl. F. Munari, Florence. Franko, G. F. (2001), ‘Introduction, Plautus and Roman New Comedy’, in: Shawn O’Bryhim (ed.), Greek and Roman Comedy: Translations and Interpretations of Four Representative Plays, Austin, 149 – 68. —. (2004), ‘Ensemble Scenes in Plautus’, in: AJPh 125, 27 – 59. Kaster, R. A. (2005), Emotion, Restraint, and Community in Ancient Rome, Oxford. Ladewig, T. (1845), ‘Einleitungen und Anmerkungen zu plautinischen Lustspielen’, in: RhM 3, 179 – 205, 520 – 40. Langen, P. (1880), Beiträge zur Kritik und Erklärung des Plautus, Leipzig. Lefevre, E. (1979), ‘Plautus–Studien III: Von der Tyche–Herrschaft in Diphilos’ Kleroumenoi zum Triummatronat der Casina’, in: Hermes 107: 311 – 39. Leo, F. (1897), Plautinischen Cantica und die hellenistische Lyrik, Berlin. —. (1912), Plautinische Forschungen, Berlin. Lowe, J. C. B. (2003), ‘The Lot–Drawing Scene of Plautus’ Casina’, in: CQ 53, 175 – 83. MacCary, W. T. (1973), ‘The Comic Tradition and Comic Structure in Diphilos’ Kleroumenoi’, in: Hermes 101, 194 – 208. MacCary, W. T. and Willcock, M. M. (1976), (eds.), Plautus: Casina. Cambridge O’Bryhim, S. (1989), ‘The Originality of Plautus’ Casina’, in: AJPh 110, 81 – 103. Questa, C. (2004), Sei Letture Plautine, Urbino. Paratore, E. (1959), Plauto: Casina, Florence. Williams, G. (1958), ‘Some Aspects of Roman Marriage Ceremonies and Ideals’, in: JRS 48, 16 – 29.

D. M. Christenson

A Roman Treasure: Religion, Marriage, Metatheatre, and Concord in Aulularia Abstract: This paper departs from analyst approaches to Aulularia that seek either to identify and reconstruct Plautus’ Greek source(s) or establish Plautus’ originality vis–à–vis Greek New Comedy and argue for native Italian influences, and instead focuses on the play as a Roman production designed to be performed before a diverse Roman audience. I examine four aspects of the play—religion, marriage, metatheatre, and the character of Eunomia—that articulate important issues and themes in Aulularia, which were also likely to provoke thoughtful discussion and debate among theatregoers. I conclude with the thesis that Plautus cleverly has named Eunomia to recall Concordia, a kind of back translation that highlights the play’s central theme of securing harmonious relations and exchanges in both the public and domestic spheres Keywords: Aulularia, Euclio, metatheatre, Eunomia, Fides, Megadorus, uxor dotata, concordia Following the 1958 discovery of a large section of Menander’s Dyskolos, scholars of New Comedy concluded that Aulularia most probably was based on a Menandrian source. A demonstrable wealth of dramaturgical similarities between Dyskolos and Aulularia has led to a consensus that the lost Greek source of Aulularia, if not Menandrian, must be the work of an accomplished imitator of Menander.¹ Such studies have contributed much to our understanding of Plautus’ lost source and Greek New Comedy in general. In the extended period of re–invigorated interest in Plautus and his sources, the so–called ‘Freiburg School’ has arisen under the leadership of Lefèvre, and continues to make important advances in establishing the (theoretical) originality of Plautus vis–à–vis his Greek sources and the presumed influence of native Italian drama on Plautine comedy. Lefèvre himself has published a valuable study of Aulularia. ²

 See, for example, Ludwig 1961, Arnott 1964 and 1989, Hunter 1981, and Bain 1992.  Lefèvre 2001.

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This study will look at Aulularia differently from either of these fundamentally analyst approaches by more narrowly focusing on the play as a Roman production for a contemporary Roman audience.³ Here I follow Hanson’s axiom that Plautine material ‘becomes Roman as soon as it is written down in Latin and subsequently performed before a Roman audience: that is, it becomes part of the milieu of ideas and expressions in the Rome of that age.’⁴ This approach to Aul. in no way denies that Plautine comedy is a complex literary and cultural mediation between Rome and Athens,⁵ but reflects a preference for evaluating the play in its original performance context. Perhaps more so than any Plautine production, Aul. is a play whose reception by an ancient Roman audience has been lost in minute analysis of its possible sources. I aim to build upon Konstan’s illuminating study of the play,⁶ in which he demonstrates that Auluaria fundamentally is about Euclio’s secession from, and reintegration into his city–state, and that the play engages with contemporary issues, especially financial and social exchanges surrounding dowries.⁷ Four loci of reception are examined here for their marked Roman–ness and deeply thematic ramifications: (1) religious elements in Aul.; (2) issues related to marriage; (3) Euclio’s pronounced metatheatricality; and (4) the unusual character of Eunomia. The phrase ‘Roman audience’ here refers to a diverse body of theatregoers, not a monolithic block of hypothetically homogeneous inhabitants of the post–2nd Punic War city, or some similar scholarly abstraction. Internal references⁸ in Roman comedy indicate that this audience was composed of a remarkably diverse body of women and men; free persons who occupied all rungs of Rome’s stratified society as well as slaves; old and young; the rich, poor, and others in–between; the married and unmarried, etc. While it is difficult to sort audience reactions, I nonetheless offer some speculation (passim) about what

 A date of ca. 190 BCE is assumed here for the debut of Aulularia in Rome; for issues of dating see Stockert 1983, 27– 9, Lefèvre 2001, 254– 6, and de Melo 2011, 251– 2. Such a date locates the play in Plautus’ later period, along with (probably) Truc., a play thematically similar to Aul. in its focus on the proper uses of wealth; cf. n. 46 below.  Hanson 1959, 50.  I agree with Wiles’ formulation (quoted by Braund 2005, 68 n. 45) that ‘the aesthetic basis of the palliata is to keep playing Rome off against Athens and refract the one through the other.’  Konstan 1983, 33 – 46.  Cf. Konstan’s 1983, 45 – 6 conclusion: ‘The ostentatious spending of the aristocracy and the weakening of the marriage relationship are early symptoms of this spirit [i. e. of harmful materialism]. The dowry was its victim: It ceased to be the material token of the communal identity of the clans, and became mere money. In this aspect, the dowry was a sign not of social integration but of fragmentation, both between the aristocracy and between the orders.’  See especially the prologue of Poen. (16 – 35).

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aspects of Aul. might have provoked either largely homogeneous or deeply split responses. Despite these critical limitations, it is productive to keep in mind that drama is a richly dialectical experience whose reception is always enlightening. What sorts of things did Roman audience members discuss and argue about when they left the theatre after seeing a play such as Aul.?

A Roman Pantheon Aulularia features a thematically significant nexus of Roman religious figures built primarily around the antitheses city ~ country and domestic ~ public.⁹ These deities include Fides, Fortuna, Ceres, Silvanus, and the Lar familiaris of Euclio’s home. The prologue is delivered by the Lar, the single tutelary deity of Euclio’s household.¹⁰ The Lar stands in front of three structures represented on the stage’s painted backdrop: the shrine of Fides, the Romans’ abstract deification of trust, and on each side of her shrine, the households of Euclio and Megadorus, a poor and rich citizen, respectively. There is the usual altar somewhere onstage.¹¹ The Lar has stepped out of Euclio’s house to inform the audience of the argumentum: Euclio’s grandfather had secretly entrusted a treasure of gold (7) to the Lar’s guardianship, but was so miserly (9 auido ingenio)¹² that he did not reveal its existence to his son before his death. The son in turn neglected to pay the Lar his due honours, and so was never apprised of the treasure and died a pauper (20). His son, Euclio, was no more observant of the Lar than his father and grandfather before him, but because his daughter (Phaedri-

 I use the terms ‘public’ and ‘domestic’ or ‘private’ here only to characterise deities and religious spheres as they are variously associated with the play’s juxtaposed public and private themes. Recent work on Roman religion has shown that actual Roman religious practice (especially as evidenced by material remains) was extremely complex and featured much more fluidity between the private and public spheres than previously was acknowledged. See further Bodel 2008, 248 – 68.  For an overview of the origins and functions of the Lares see OCD (3rd edn. 1996) s.v., and for a broad anthropological view of the Roman household gods (with some discussion of Aul.) see Bettini 2007.  The altar in Plautus is most often Apollo’s (Duckworth 1952, 83 – 4), perhaps reflecting the ludi Apollinares as a festival setting for the drama. Lyconides’ unnamed slave sits on the stage altar in order to observe Euclio (606), but offers no clue as to its ownership.  All Latin citations of Aul. follow de Melo’s 2011 text; all translations are my own.

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um) now scrupulously tends to the Lar’s cult (23 – 7),¹³ the Lar has allowed Euclio to discover the treasure, so that it ultimately may be used to effect the marriage of his daughter and the young man (Lyconides) of high rank (28 de summo… loco) who raped and impregnated her at a religious festival before the play (29, 36). This concern for moral behaviour and an appropriate outcome for both involved households shows that the Lar is not merely offended by the insufficient attention he has received from the house’s male line,¹⁴ but that he is also present to serve as a moral centre from which to view Euclio’s current behaviour. It is only the Lar’s beneficent intervention in the affairs of both Euclio’s and Megadorus’ families that initiates the former’s psychological healing and the ultimate reconstruction of the play’s fragmented society. The Lar’s plan to bring about the marriage between Phaedrium and Lycondides is to commence with the engagement of Euclio’s daughter to their elderly bachelor–neighbour, Megadorus, who happens to be Lyconides’ uncle (32– 6). The Lar’s role in both this transitory engagement and the final marriage would seem natural to an ancient audience, as one way that Roman ritual conceptualised marriage was as a transfer of the bride from the guardianship of her father’s Lares to those of her husband’s.¹⁵ In the play’s pivotal second scene (120 – 77), Eunomia persuades her brother Megadorus to marry. Eunomia’s mention of a potential middle–aged wife with a large dowry is met with a brief diatribe on the prospects of such a union (165 – 9), and Megadorus resolves instead to marry Euclio’s young daughter, for whom he expresses a vague fondness (172 – 4), and who, as the dowerless daughter of a poor man, conforms with his ideal vision of marriage. But before any marriage involving Euclio can take place, the paterfamilias must first experience deep alienation caused by his paranoid obsession with the aula. A great part of this debilitating learning process involves Euclio’s relationship with the goddess Fides, who, although silent and invisible in the play, functions as a kind of character in Aul. in that her shrine is present throughout the play and she is addressed on multiple occasions. Plautus’ choice of Fides as

 Phaedrium’s devotion to the Lar here might have reminded Plautus’ audience of the initiatory offerings made by Roman girls to the Lares on the occasion of their marriage (Var. Men. 463), and so anticipated the revelation of the play’s marriage plot at 27 ff.  I.e. the Lar is not simply an aggrieved party in a do ut des exchange, as is generally the case in Plautus’ religious universe: ‘Plautus offers little evidence to support the ‘contractual’ view of Roman religion, and much that implies a more refined notion of the relationship between human virtue and divine favor’ (Hanson 1959, 100).  Flower 1996, 199 – 201.

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an omnipresent deity in Aul. is thematically pointed.¹⁶ Fides personified essential qualities that stabilised social and political life in an ideally functioning Roman society: trustworthiness, honesty, honour, or at least reasonable assurances that the expected support of one’s friends and allies could be counted on in important personal, financial, and political dealings.¹⁷ Cicero considered the concept of fides to be the basis of a just society (fundamentum autem est iustitiae fides, id est dictorum conuentorumque constantia et ueritas, Off. 1.23). Fides was fundamental to Roman identity itself, as evidenced by the Romans’ perennial charge that their enemies, e. g. the Carthaginians, did not possess the credibility and honesty the goddess embodied. In the complete absence of the common bonds that were symbolically sealed and superintended by Fides, a vertically complex social hierarchy such as that of Republican Rome was doomed to perpetual instability. Euclio’s apparent lack of confidence in the guardianship of his Lar familiaris leads him to remove the treasure from his house and place it in the nearby shrine of Fides. Euclio’s transfer of the aula is effected in a delightful comic address to the pot and Fides that strangely combines the formal and overly familiar: edepol ne tu, aula, multos inimicos habes atque istuc aurum quod tibi concreditum est. nunc hoc mihi factu est optumum, ut ted auferam, aula, in Fidei fanum: ibi abstrudam probe. Fides, nouisti me et ego te: caue sis tibi, ne tu immutassis nomen, si hoc concreduo. ibo ad te fretus tua, Fides, fiducia. (580 – 6) No doubt about it, my pot, you certainly do have many enemies, you and that gold in there that’s been entrusted to you. Now this is the best thing for me to do, my pot: I’ll carry you off into the shrine of Fides; I’ll hide you nicely away there. Fides, seeing as we both know each other: make sure you don’t change your name once I’ve entrusted this to you. I’ve got faith in your fidelity, Fides—I’m coming into your place!

Euclio employs the du–Stil appropriate in formal prayer to a deity here (584 te … tibi … 585 tu … 586 te … tua), and in such a context the Fidei fanum on the backdrop might have conjured powerful images of the principal temple of Fides on the Capitoline.¹⁸ Yet the colloquial familiarity Euclio assumes with Fides (584

 Elsewhere in Plautus, Fides is personified only in passing jokes at Cas. 2 and Poen. 890.  Cf. Earl 1967, 33 – 4.  Cf. Corbeill 2005, 89.

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nouisti me et ego te),¹⁹ the bizarre exhortation to the deity not to change her name (i. e. to Perfidia?), together with the playful punning, alliteration and assonance of 586, are characteristically Plautine²⁰ and strike a very different tone from that tendered to such a powerful goddess. The parallel apostrophes and ponderous sound affects associated with the aula here (cf. 580 tu … 581 istuc … tibi concreditum … 582 factu … optumum … ted; and 581 concreditum est ~ 585 concreduo) also incongruously equate, in Euclio’s obsessed imagination, the goddess with the aula as personified guardians. For Euclio, the aula has assumed a quasi–divine status in its tutelary function with respect to the gold.²¹ Euclio exits into the shrine (588) just as the slave of Lyconides makes his entrance with a ‘good slave monologue.’ No sooner does the slave finish this bombast and take a seat upon the stage altar (605 – 6) to observe Euclio than the miser suddenly bursts out of the temple. Euclio does not notice the slave, as he is busy shouting back instructions to Fides, much as comic masters do to slaves or other subordinates inside their homes when making an entrance onstage: tu modo caue quoiquam indicassis aurum meum esse istic, Fides: non metuo ne quisquam inueniat, ita probe in latebris situm est. edepol ne illic pulchram praedam agat, si quis illam inuenerit aulam onustam auri; uerum id te quaeso ut prohibessis, Fides. nunc lauabo, ut rem diuinam faciam, ne affinem morer quin ubi accersat [me] meam extemplo filiam ducat domum. uide, Fides, etiam atque etiam nunc, saluam ut aulam abs te auferam: tuae fide concredidi aurum, in tuo luco et fano [modo] est situm. (608 – 15) Now don’t you tell anyone, Fides, that my gold is in there. It’s so well hidden in the dark, I’m not afraid someone will find it. But if anyone did find that pot full of gold, he’d sure make off with a beautiful prize from there. But that’s exactly what I’m asking you to prevent, Fides. I’m going to wash up for a sacrifice, so I don’t prevent my relative from taking my daughter to his house the instant he calls for her. Keep a look out, Fides, each and every second now, so I can take this pot back from you safe and sound. I’ve entrusted my money to your trustiness, it’s placed in your grove and shrine.

 I.e. Euclio’s presumption of such personal familiarity with Fides goes beyond the reciprocal relationship between worshipper and worshipped assumed in a typical do ut des exchange.  Cf. Lefèvre 2001, 82– 3.  In addition to apostrophising it, Euclio here lovingly personifies the aula by warning it that it has inimici, i. e. he reveals that he fantastically considers himself to be in a state of amicitia with the aula (for all this may imply in both Roman personal and socio–political relations see Konstan 1997, 122 – 48). Euclio’s purely imaginary ‘friendship’ with the pot further underscores the reality that his obsessive behaviour now prevents him from having amici of any kind in the city.

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While, for an ancient audience, the conception of a temple as a deity’s home would mitigate the awkwardness we feel at hearing Euclio speak to Fides from outside her shrine, the tone of this speech again is incongruous. In a highly colloquial and subjective manner, Euclio weaves his stern instructions (608 caue quoiquam indicassis … 611 quaeso ut prohibessis … 614 uide …)²² to the goddess to guard his gold together with his thoughts about what a beautiful prize it would make for its finder (610 – 11), as well as with his planned preparations for the wedding (612 – 13), for which he clearly has no intention of using the gold at this point. Euclio’s rambling speech thus subtly evokes a bundle of thematically related and unresolved issues at this point in the play: what really is the ‘beautiful prize’ to be won, who will win it, and what role will it assume in effecting a resolution of all the play’s loose ends? Euclio’s manifest anxiety here also suggests to the audience that he may not have much faith in Fides after all, and so anticipates his imminent removal of the pot of gold from the goddess’s shrine. Lyconides’ slave overhears Euclio barking his orders to Fides, and once Euclio is inside his house, the slave offers his own comic, competing prayer to Fides for the aula. In contrast to Euclio’s recent dictation of instructions to Fides, the slave’s prayer humorously adopts the traditional do ut des format of Roman prayer: se aulam onustam auri apstrusisse hic intus in fano Fide. caue tu illi fidelis, quaeso, potius fueris quam mihi. atque hic pater est, ut ego opinor, huius erus quam amat . ibo hinc intro, perscrutabor fanum, si inueniam uspiam aurum, dum hic est occupatus. sed si repperero, o Fides, mulsi congialem plenam faciam tibi fideliam. id adeo tibi faciam; uerum ego mihi bibam, ubi id fecero. (617– 23) He’s hidden a pot full of gold right inside the shrine of Fides here. Please make sure you aren’t more faithful to him than to me. I’m pretty sure this is the father of the girl master’s in love with. While this guy’s busy, I’m going into the shrine to take a look around, on the chance I’ll find the money somewhere. But if I do find it, O Fides, I’ll offer up to you a bucket full of six pints of sweet wine. I absolutely will offer this to you—though once it’s offered, I’ll be drinking it up myself.

After the slave enters the shrine, Euclio re–enters and announces (624– 7) that a crow’s (to him) significant actions have brought him back to the shrine. His faith in Fides now apparently jeopardised, he rushes into the shrine and hauls out the

 Euclio’s unremarkably uses imperatives in his speech passim with Staphyla and the other slaves in the play, but with 608 caue quoiquam indicassis here cf. 90 caue quemquam … miseris.

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slave, assaulting him both verbally and physically (628 – 32). After his search of the slave proves unsuccessful, Euclio irrationally assumes that the slave has an accomplice (655) and goes back into the temple (661). He discovers that his treasure is intact and emerges with the pot (665), but his faith in Fides is now virtually shattered: Fide censebam maxumam multo fidem esse, ea subleuit os mihi paenissume: ni subuenisset coruos, periissem miser. (668 – 70) I thought that Fides’ trustworthiness was as good as it gets, but she just about bamboozled me. If the crow hadn’t come to my rescue, I’d be utterly dead.

Euclio again demonstrates that his relationship with the revered Roman goddess is out of alignment, as he wrongfully doubts her essential capability—maintenance of the concept of fides—and instead credits the random crow with the preservation of his fortune.²³ Euclio’s use of the folksy Plautine idiom os sublinere is ridiculously inapt in misinterpreting the goddess’ intent (and actions) here.²⁴ Trickery, deception and the like are the very opposite values that Fides embodies, and so Euclio’s words here might almost sound blasphemous. Euclio certainly shows his disregard for the social cohesion that the goddess and the concept of fides promote, and suggests he lacks the constantia Cicero identifies as fundamental to the preservation of fides, and by extension justice in Roman social interactions. With his irreverent treatment of Fides here, Euclio has almost reached the apex of his insane obsession. He utterly despairs of Fides and all she represents within civic life when he decides to move the aula outside the city walls altogether: nunc hoc ubi apstrudam cogito solum locum. Siluani lucus extra murum est auius, crebro salicto oppletus. ibi sumam locum. certumst, Siluano potius credam quam Fide. (673 – 6) Now I’m thinking about a deserted place where I can hide this. There’s a grove of Silvanus outside the city–wall that’s off the beaten path and packed full of willow bushes. I’ll find a place there. I’ve definitely decided to trust Silvanus rather than Fides.

 Cf. Konstan’s 1983, 38 analysis: ‘The miser’s trust did not betray him; he thought more of a crow’s cackle than the personified force of social ties and rejected the good faith of his community.’  Nonius (45.18) explains the idiom with reference to a game in which pranksters smear a sleeping person’s face with a substance. Cf. Lefèvre 2001, 88.

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Euclio then exits the stage via the wing leading to the countryside. His renunciation of Fides’ power and subsequent transfer of the pot beyond the pomerium, the city’s religious boundary, to the uncultivated realm of Silvanus unambiguously marks his complete severance from civic life, including even the traditional religious observances of the civitas. Silvanus, whose worship is first attested here in Roman literature, is a shadowy rustic deity. As lord of the forests and its denizens (shepherds, woodland nymphs, et sim.), he is sometimes conflated with Pan, though in contrast to his Greek counterpart, he is not hyper–sexualised, nor is he associated with music and panic, but rather Silvanus ‘evokes an earthy and rustic simplicity appropriate for a rural deity.’²⁵ During Plautus’ floruit, migration to the city of Rome from the countryside was steadily increasing and Silvanus’ cult was in process of being introduced into the city through these rural immigrants, although the cult was still primarily located in the country,²⁶ as in Aul. While there is some socio–economic basis for Euclio’s affinity for Silvanus,²⁷ the god’s main function in the play is to emblematise Euclio’s self–isolation and inability to conceive of a better use for his treasure (in the city) than merely hoarding it for himself. Euclio now in effect rejects human society altogether, in favour of the Roman god of the countryside and woodlands, a deity who governs an uncultivated space outside traditional communal restraints and contracts: ‘Euclio has deliberately and explicitly abandoned the city and committed himself to the chance concern of nature.’²⁸ We can only wonder if, in the play’s lost section, Euclio somehow formally reconciled with Fides as part of his reintegration into communal life. While Euclio’s precipitously declining relationship with Fides throughout much of the (extant) play vividly documents his estrangement from the Roman religious mainstream, Plautus also gives us a humorous foreshadowing of this development very early in the play. Euclio’s brutal orders to Staphyla not to admit anyone into the house under any circumstances while he is away (90 – 8) reach an absurd climax in his prohibition against admitting even the goddess Fortuna into his household (100 si Bona Fortuna ueniat, ne intro miseris).²⁹ Audience members knew Fortuna as one of Roman religion’s oldest

 Dorcey 1992, 42.  See further Dorcey 1992, 7– 13.  The worship of Silvanus seems always to have been centred in Rome’s lower classes: see further Dorcey 1992, 135– 44.  Konstan 1983, 38.  There may also be an ‘insider’ metatheatrical joke here for those members of the audience who knew the Greek original of Aul., in that Tyche probably delivered the prologue there and her shrine was featured on the stage–backdrop. Cf. Euclio’s similarly absurd rejection of Megadorus’

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and most august deities, and had been conditioned to believe that their personal and collective prosperity depended on her goodwill.³⁰ Euclio’s banishment of Bona Fortuna from his house then is especially striking in its ancient context, and many audience members probably readily agreed with Lyconides’ slave’s later diagnosis of Euclio as being subject to the maddening influence of laruae (643).³¹ Ceres, the Italo–Roman goddess of (esp. agricultural) growth, plays a less pervasive and concrete role than Fides in Aul., but nonetheless is integrated into the play’s central themes. In the prologue, the Lar familiaris tells us that Lyconides raped Euclio’s daughter during a nocturnal festival of Ceres (36 qui illam stuprauit noctu, Cereris uigiliis). We later hear from Lyconides himself that he was drunk³² and simultaneously acting out of lustful impulsiveness (745 uini uitio atque amoris feci)³³ and under a god’s power³⁴when he attacked Phaedrium. All of Lyconides’ over–determined explanations evoke a stock New Comedy scenario.³⁵ If this is the Roman nocturnal initiation festival of Ceres of which Cicero approves at leg. 2.21,³⁶ Lyconides’ rape is especially inappropriate in that he has preempted what was to be the girl’s ritually sanctified passage to marriage. It also links him closely with Euclio as someone who has disrupted and disregarded the city’s communal religious experience; Lyconides, no less than Euclio, must somehow be reintegrated into that experience for the play’s comic society to be made whole again. The only possible (re)solution in Lyconides’ case, as the adulescens points out to Euclio, is legitimate marriage with Phaedrium (793 ut mi ignoscas eamque uxorem mihi des, ut leges iubent).³⁷ The vast majority of an au-

earnest blessing of his wealth (545 – 6 di … sospitent, where the verb belongs to formal sacral language), which he misinterprets as a reference to his secret treasure (547– 8).  On Fortuna and concepts associated with her in Plautus see Hanson 1959, 67– 8, 80 – 2.  See further Thaniel 1973, 186 – 7.  This detail in New Comedy’s pre–play rape narratives is meant to indicate that ‘[the rapist’s] offense was not intentional and so is pardonable’ (Scafuro 1997, 253). Eunomia later (688 – 9) assumes that this factor will earn Lyconides a pardon from his uncle. Euclio (and Plautus) problematises this conventional assumption when he rejects (746 – 51) Lyconides’ excuse of drunkenness (Scafuro 1997, 255 – 7).  Cf. his later explanation to Euclio: 794– 5 ego me iniuriam fecisse filiae fateor tuae / Cereris uigiliis per uinum atque impulsu adulescentiae.  The unnamed god Lyconides accuses (738) of inciting him to commit the rape presumably is Amor (cf. Stockert 1983, 192 n. ad 727).  For the unique exception to which, Terence’s Eunuchus, see Christenson 2013, 263 – 9.  Nocturna mulierum sacrificia ne sunto praeter olla quae pro populo rite fient. Neue quem initianto nisi, ut adsolet, Cereri Graeco sacro.  Ceres is also mentioned a third time in the play, when apparently a different festival of Ceres is made the subject of a joke about alcohol by Stappyla (354– 6). Perhaps the Sacrum an-

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dience probably agreed that both Euclio’s and Lyconides’ sense of religious protocol was in need of repair.

Marriage: The contemporary battleground The momentous consequences of the Punic Wars were not merely military and political, as Rome’s entry into ancient Mediterranean affairs also brought social disruption and change, including within the Roman household itself. During the series of campaigns against Hannibal in the 2nd Punic War (218 – 201 BCE), Roman heads of the household were absent for extended periods of time, and many were killed or captured in the protracted war. As a result, many women found themselves increasingly free of male authority, whether patria potestas or tutela, and were gaining independence by managing households on their own. And there were increased opportunities for women to have control over their own property.³⁸ The wars also introduced unprecedented new wealth to Rome and the values of dowries among the elite seem to have increased in this period.³⁹ For reasons that are unclear, marriages in which a father’s power over his daughter was not transferred to her husband (sine manu) increasingly were replacing the more traditional style of marriage (cum manu) in which there was such a transfer.⁴⁰ This factor in turn led to potentially increased financial liabilities for husbands in the event of a marriage’s end.⁴¹ Moral traditionalists railed against the decadence and danger they perceived in this new wave of wealth (and outside cultural influence), and depicted a crisis in which conspicuous consumption constituted a serious threat to the national character itself.⁴² The latter, Roman moralists claimed, was rooted in such values as parsimony, and the preservation of wealth always was of paramount importance. In the wake of a Roman defeat at Cannae, a law had been passed (lex Oppia) in 215 BCE to limit women’s expenditures on luxury goods, in particular niuersarium Cereris, which was focused on the sacred marriage of Pluto and Persephone (apropos of Aul., as a mythical exemplum of rape and reintegration?). Secure identification, however, of the festival is impossible: cf. Spaeth 1996, 15 – 16, and for the festival’s relevance in determining a terminus post quem of 191 BCE for Aul. see Stockert 1983, 28.  Evans 1991, 50 – 2.  See further Evans 1991, 53 – 83. For legal developments related to the dowry during this period see Saller 1994, 207– 24.  Dixon 1992, 74– 6.  Treggiari 1991, 327– 31.  On the threat that wealth in some circumstances presented to the aristocracy and its sense of Roman–ness see Rosenstein 2006, 374– 5.

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gold, clothing, and carriages. The restrictions were not well received by women in Rome, who in 195 BCE publicly demonstrated in support of repealing the twenty–year–old sumptuary law (Livy 34.1– 8.3).⁴³ Despite staunch resistance from traditionalists such as Cato the Elder,⁴⁴ the women secured the law’s repeal. The sumptuary controversies were far from over, however, and they re–surface in a group of (probably) later Plautine plays, including Aulularia. ⁴⁵ While marriage and dowries are the focus here, these same issues fall within a broader cultural examination of luxus and the proper uses of wealth (including its display in public), within which later Plautine comedy is squarely located.⁴⁶ Megadorus’ speech at 475 ff. plunges directly into contemporary debates about marriage and dowries. While the speech is usually characterised as a diatribe or rant, its effects as a brilliant specimen of contemporary rhetoric composed by Plautus have been overlooked. Megadorus begins with an arresting captatio benevolentiae that features a radical proposal that is aimed, as he sees it, at the betterment of society: nam meo quidem animo si idem faciant ceteri opulentiores, pauperiorum filias ut indotatas ducant uxores domum, et multo fiat ciuitas concordior, et inuidia nos minore utamur quam utimur, et illae malam rem metuant quam metuont magis, et nos minore sumptu simus quam sumus. (478 – 84) Now in my opinion, if other men of the wealthier classes followed my lead in marrying the daughters of the lower classes without dowries, then: (1) the city would be made far more harmonious than it is; (2) we would experience less jealousy than we do now; (3) the women would fear trouble more than they do now; (4) we’d have fewer expenses than we do now.

 On the protests and the possible reasons for the women’s success see further Culham 1982.  For some specific connections between Cato’s and Megadorus’s speeches in Aul. decrying ‘female extravagance’ see Moore 1998, 160 – 1.  Cf. the complaints of the old bachelor Periplectomenus at Mil. 679 ff.; Senex at Men. 765 – 7 (with McCarthy 2000, 61– 70); and Cas. passim (with Moore 1998, 158 – 80). In As., the paterfamilias Demaenetus openly admits he has enslaved himself to his wife and her dowry: 87 argentum accepi, dote imperium uendidi (see further Konstan 1983, 47– 56). The topic is attested in comedy outside of Plautus, e. g. Caec. Ploc. 142 ff. and Titin. Com. 73. Saller 1994, 221 concludes: ‘The kernel of truth in the topos of the uxor dotata is that a Roman woman could gain standing and power in marriage through a large dowry …’  Cf. Plautus’ broad fiduciary satire Truculentus (with Christenson 2010, 19 – 25), which debuted ca. 190 BCE.

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As Megadorus lists what he sees as the benefits of his plan for dowerless marriage between Roman society’s disparate orders, the anaphora of et in successive lines (481– 4) and juxtaposition of paired subjunctives and indicatives to contrast future possibilities with present realties (482– 4) create a crescendo that lends special emphasis to his final point: men of the upper orders, the ‘we’ in 484, would enjoy a reduction in expenses. But Megadorus’ assertion about increased concordia in the city resulting from such marriages, given its first position in the list, also commands attention. While some audience members and readers may immediately dismiss it as self–serving fantasy, concordia here may remind others of Megadorus’ seemingly sincere and progressive remarks earlier (217– 49) on intermarriage between the orders. Discord between classes of course was a perennially disruptive theme of the history of the sharply stratified city that was Rome. Concordia was both a longstanding political ideal and a powerful deity in the city, whose venerable temple on the Capitoline was well established before the debut of Aul. Statements on how a civitas might achieve greater concordia most probably caught a listener’s ear in Rome. Megadorus asserts that, despite a few dissenters, the majority of the population will approve of his plan (485 – 8). Marshaling one of rhetoric’s oldest tricks, he then posits an imaginary objector who asks about the fate of wealthy dowered women under his plan (489 namque hoc qui dicat), and immediately answers this question himself (491– 5): the women should exchange the traditional dowry for better character (492 mores meliores), a development that comically will bring down the price of mules uxores dotatae currently in use for the women’s luxurious wagons–about–town. In an aside to the audience, the eavesdropping Euclio not surprisingly approves of Megadorus’ parsimonia (496 – 7), at which point Megadorus resumes his speech with a no doubt lively prosopopoeia of a rich dowered wife:⁴⁷ nulla igitur dicat, ‘equidem dotem ad te adtuli maiorem multo quam tibi erat pecunia; enim mihi quidem aequomst purpuram atque aurum dari, ancillas, mulos, muliones, pedisequos, salutigerulos pueros, uehicla qui uehar.’ (498 – 502) No woman can then say: ‘I have brought you a dowry that far exceeds the money you had. It is only fair then that I receive purple and gold objects, maids, mule–cart drivers, man– slaves, slaves to convey greetings, and carriages to convey me.’

 The old bachelor Periplectomemus delivers a similar prosopopoeia of the dowered wife at Mil. 687– 9 and 692– 8.

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Some of the items demanded by the fictional uxor dotata here clearly recall the lex Oppia. Euclio again expresses approval in an aside, and Megadorus, after jesting that nowadays one can find more wagons parked before an urban house than on a farm (505 – 6), launches into his famously prolix catalogue of the bill collectors that beset the husband of an uxor dotata: stat fullo, phyrgio, aurifex, lanarius; caupones patagiarii, indusiarii, flammarii, uiolarii, carinarii; aut manulearii, aut †murobatharii†, propolae linteones, calceolarii; sedentarii sutores diabathrarii, solearii astant, astant molocinarii; petunt fullones, sarcinatores petunt; strophiarii astant, astant simul zonarii. iam hosce apsolutos censeas: cedunt, petunt treceni, quom stant thylacistae in atriis textores limbularii, arcularii. ducuntur, datur aes. iam [hosce] apsolutos censeas, quom incedunt infectores corcotarii, aut aliqua mala crux semper est, quae aliquid petat. (508 – 22) The laundryman stands there, as does the embroidery–man, goldsmith, wool–worker; the tunic salesmen, tunic border salesmen, orange–dyer, purple–dyer, brown–dyer, or the sleeved–garment–makers or scent–makers, hucksters, linen salesmen, shoe designers; squatting cobblers, slipper–makers, the sandal–makers, the mallow–garment–makers stand waiting; the dry cleaners want to be paid, the menders want to be paid; bra salesmen stand waiting, girdle salesmen stand waiting with them. Right when you think you’ve settled with them, a few hundred more come marching and want to be paid—the creditors stand waiting in the atrium, as do the hem–weavers, the chest–makers. They’re let in, you pay them. Right when you think you’ve settled with them, the saffron–dyers march in, or there’s always some pain–in–the–ass who wants something.

This breathlessly asyndetic list of exotic terms (some Greek, some Latin) for specialists employed by the dowered wife is rich in immediate rhetorical effects. Homoioteleuton (passim) carries the massive list forward, as does the thematic repetition of verbs: (a)stant), petunt, (in)cedunt, censeas. Word order is meticulously patterned, as in the case of the nouns and repeated verbs at 514– 16 (NVVN / VNNV / NVVN). Verbs are used with precision to evoke a vivid picture of the ever–swelling parade of creditors for the audience: the initial group is perhaps standing (508 stat) in front of the house, i. e. among all the imagined wagons (505); others stand waiting (astant, 514, 516);⁴⁸ still others are to be imagined  A pregnant sense of the compound found primarily in comedy: OLD s.v. 2.

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as vociferously demanding pay (petunt, 515, 517). And after one group that has found its way (517 cedunt) into the home’s entrance and been admitted further inside for payment, still more march into the house (incedunt, 521)⁴⁹ to take their place! Megadorus continues to build up to a climactic peroratio (525 – 35). After all the sundry expenses are met, a soldier appears demanding his pay (526 petit), apparently the husband’s public duty (aes militare).⁵⁰ The hungry soldier likewise must wait at the man’s house (528 miles impransus astat) while the latter unsuccessfully seeks funds to pay him from the banker. The soldier’s pay must be deferred, and Megadorus leaves the audience with a picture of the unpaid warrior and the implication that the dowered wife’s expenses now threaten the security of the state,⁵¹ along with this final summation of the issues: haec sunt atque aliae multae in magnis dotibus incommoditates sumptusque intolerabiles. nam quae indotata est, ea in potestate est uiri; dotatae mactant et malo et damno uiros. (532– 5) These and many other troubles come with large dowries, along with unbelievable expenses. But a woman without a dowry is a woman in her husband’s power, while those who have one torture their husbands with catastrophes and bankruptcies.

Analysis of Megadorus’ speech here too often tends to over–emphasise whether or not his views represent Plautus’ (this we can never know), to label it ‘misogynistic’ aut sim., and/or to dismiss it altogether as grotesque caricature. Megadorus’s main views about Roman marriage can be summarised thus: (1) dowries, at least among the upper orders, have become too large; (2) these large dowries grant undue power to wives because they may hold the threat of future liability over their husbands in the event of dissolution of the marriage; (3) dowries thus create a serious drain on household finances, and even ancestral patrimony; (4) dowries challenge traditional family structure, especially a husband’s father– like potestas over his wife. One thus can reasonably conclude, with reference to the conclusion of Megadorus’ speech (534– 5): ‘[so] here we have it: it’s all about money and power. The uxor dotata is resented because her money gives her more freedom and in-

 For the corrective use of compound verbs for the simplex, an Indo–European phenomenon, see Renehan 1977.  For this not well–attested practice see Franekel 2007, 92– 4 and Stockert 1983, 149 n. ad 526.  Fraenkel 2007, 91– 4 compares Epid. 223 – 35 (i. e. as quintessentially Roman and Plautine), where the clever slave asserts that such expenditures by women threaten the state treasury.

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dependence than is acceptable to the male ego.’⁵² But it is unclear what is gained by psychoanalyzing Megadorus (or his cultural milieu) in this way. Moreover, we should be wary of glossing over the very real economic issues here, as these are essential determinants in human behaviour and culture. We have already seen that Roman moralists readily speculated on how economic factors can create disruptions within society. The long history of sumptuary laws in Rome likewise reflects a strong belief that conspicuous consumption such as that Megadorus derides created wedges in Roman society, as it visually demonstrated that some citizens were above others in wealth, status, etc., despite their presumed equality under Roman law. Later moralising historiographers such as Sallust would locate Rome’s moral decline in the luxuria that they saw as accompanying new wealth at some point during Rome’s military expansionism in the Mediterranean.⁵³ Likewise, in assessing Megadorus’ over–the–top elocution, it is tempting to conclude: ‘Megadorus is another of Plautus’ overly ardent moralists, so obsessed with his diatribe, so determined to convince the audience of the truth of his opinion, that he becomes ridiculous.’⁵⁴ This perhaps overstates a plausible point, in that not everyone in the audience might have so readily dismissed Megadorus’ speech and the views therein as absurd parody.⁵⁵ My aims here lie more in gaining some sense, necessarily speculative, of a diverse, early 2nd century BCE Roman audience’s possible reactions to Megadorus’ speech, with an eye to its import for the play’s overall reception. I have lingered over the speech’s rhetorical effects to show that Megadorus’ words and arguments are skillfully articulated, so as to persuade his listeners. Megadorus’ recommendations, depending largely on a particular listener’s existing sympathies, might not have seemed so far–fetched, socio–economically myopic, or parodic as they are often characterised. Not only elite males might have agreed with Megadorus’ perspectives on dowries and conspicuous consumption, as in real life there might have been trickle–down effects whose economics touched non–elite classes. Some (to us) enlightened males of the upper  Braund 2005, 48.  We rue the lost text (and context) of what seems to have been yet another return to the topic of dowries and expenses by Megadorus in the play’s lost section: fr. i pro illis corcotis, strophiis, sumptu uxorio.  Moore 1998, 163.  Gruen 1990, 146, in commenting on the speech of Megadorus and the related remarks by Adelphasium in Poen. (210 – 31) is less willing to dismiss Megadorus’ speech as ridiculous, and avoids tagging Plautus’ politics: ‘… the playwright surely parodies the moralism that frowns on luxury but is powerless to check it … Plautus is neither moralist nor political partisan. The comic writer delights in the incongruity of rhetoric and reality.’

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orders might not have agreed with Megadorus’ recommendations at all. Other audience members simply might have had mixed or nuanced views on the various issues surrounding contemporary marriage that the speech evokes. Individuals of diverse demographics, including some women, might have themselves frowned on the conspicuous consumption Megadorus describes, and perhaps looked back nostalgically at a ‘simpler era’ when all marriages were cum manu and wives purportedly lived comfortably under their husbands’ potestas. ⁵⁶ Some women perhaps found their newfound independence fraught with complications. Individuals, both male and female, of various statuses in the audience might actually have found Megadorus’ quasi–utopian vision of marriages between the rich and poor highly alluring, however unrealisable it might be to implement in everyday Roman society. Without much more detailed information about the mental make–up of individuals in Plautus’ audience, it is impossible to gauge reactions more systematically here, but staying cognizant of a possible variety of responses at least saves us from critical reductivism. Perhaps the Roman urban population of this period was as socially complex, diverse, and thoughtful as those living in the 21st century like to assume we are. Another reason not to assume monolithic audience response inheres in the genre itself. Drama, tragic or comic, at least that which aspires to be emotionally engaging and intellectually provocative is by its very nature dialectical. Plautine drama, no less than that of a Menander, Sophocles, or Terence, is a fundamentally rhetorical forum in which characters juxtapose their personal points of view, to both other characters and audiences. Our understanding of this process of establishing rapport, making one’s case, et sim., in the case of Aul. is severely comprised by our ignorance of the live theatrical spectacle⁵⁷ and the range of responses it might provoke in contemporary audiences. Still, it is hoped that the analysis of Megadorus’s speech here has demonstrated the degree of complexity with which Plautine comedy and it audience might engage with current societal issues, as is increasingly being acknowledged in Plautine scholarship.⁵⁸ Megado Schuhmann 1977, 65, in her study of the Plautine uxor dotata, concludes that the omnipresence of this stereotypical figure reflects a sense of nostalgia over the increase of sine manu marriages in the time of Plautus’ floruit. Rawson 2006, 332 similarly writes, in reference to (late Republican) dowries: ‘it had been a rhetorical commonplace for centuries to deplore wealth and luxury; often this was associated with nostalgia for a supposed earlier period of virtue and simplicity.’  E.g. it is a theatrical truism that words in a script can be made to convey virtually the opposite of what they seem to mean on the page depending on how they are delivered in performance.  Konstan 1983, Gruen 1990, Moore 1998, and Leigh 2004 are exemplary in their contextualisation of Roman comedy within contemporary Roman society.

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rus’ speech seems to be just the sort of thing that might inspire audience members to discuss the politics of marriage after they left the theatre.

Metatheatre: Can somebody please tell me if there’s an audience in this play? The audience of Aul. is constantly reminded that they are watching a play being performed through Euclio’s extremely frequent addresses to them, whether in monologues or asides.⁵⁹ Another effect of such direct addresses lies in confirming an audience’s essential role in the entire spectacle of theatrical performance, along with the tacit assertion that what is being enacted on stage is aimed at them, including any engagement with societal issues and ideologies.⁶⁰ In other Plautine plays, e. g. Pseudolus, such a level of constant colloquy as Euclio assumes with the audience usually falls to a clever slave, who, in sharp contrast to Euclio in Aul., enjoys much more success in securing audience members’ sympathies.⁶¹ Euclio has a total of ten monologues in an incomplete play of just over 800 lines: 105 – 19, 178 – 81 265 – 7, 371– 89, 460 – 74, 580 – 86 (his address to his aula and Fides); 608 – 15, 624– 7, and 667– 76, where he believes he is speaking in confidence to the audience, but Lyconides’ slave is eavesdropping; and his desperate address (a monody) to audience members at 713 – 26. Plautus’ master audience–manipulator Pseudolus by comparison addresses his audience alone onstage six times (394 – 414, 561– 573a, 574– 94, 667– 93, 1017– 36, 1246 – 84) in a play of 1,335 lines.⁶² These comparative numbers alone illustrate that Euclio is desperate to control his audience’s reception of events onstage, and no less desperate to communicate with anyone at all. Until the play’s regrettably lost, but necessary peripeteia, Euclio’s theatrical autism—the result of his own paranoia and self–imposed exile—preclude a connection with any character he meets. Pseudolus’ monologues and monodies tend to be longer than Euclio’s, which reflects the reality that he is establishing rapport with audience members. Euclio’s attempts to do the same increasingly prove

 For the largely non–illusory nature of Plautine theatre, see Slater 1985, 10 – 12 and Christenson 2000, 18 – 22.  For the full range of metatheatrical moves in Plautus see Christenson (forthcoming).  For a perceptive account of how Plautine characters/actors create, and compete for rapport with the audience see Moore 1998, 8 – 49.  ‘In his control of the theatrical Pseudolus has, in a sense, been Plautus all through the play’ (Slater 1985, 144).

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to be delusional, and escalate to near pathos in his final (extant) attempt to reach them in song (713 – 26). Before focusing on Euclio’s famously metatheatrical song of aporia, it is instructive to trace some of his failed attempts at communicating with his audience that build up to this song. In Euclio’s first appearance onstage, he unsuccessfully competes with Staphyla for the audience’s sympathy. As he pushes her out of the house, brutally striking her and berating the elderly slave for her slow gait (40 – 9),⁶³ she expresses a preference for suicide over enslavement to Euclio in an aside. He in turn acknowledges her aside (52 at ut scelesta sola secum murmurat!) with his own, which is quickly followed by one of his characteristic threats of grotesque torture (53; cf. 45 – 9, 58 – 9, 93, 250 – 1). Euclio’s abuse continues along these lines until he again turns to the audience in an extended aside (60 – 6) to exclaim that he has never encountered a worse criminal (60 scelestiorem) than Staphyla, who, he suspects, has eyes in the back of her head (64) and is fixated on stealing his treasure. He exits into his house, and Staphyla delivers a monologue in which she expresses her dismay over Euclio’s apparently recent change in behaviour (67– 73), her cluelessness over how to deal with Phaedrium’s pregnancy (74– 6), and she again contemplates suicide (77– 8). Staphyla thus securely establishes for the audience that something is terribly wrong within Euclio’s asocial household, while Euclio simultaneously establishes a pattern by which he will consistently lose the battle for rapport with the audience.⁶⁴ It is his own monologues that depict Euclio at his worst, as his longest (371– 87), in which he expresses his enormous pride in spending virtually nothing on his daughter’s wedding.⁶⁵ In his second longest monologue (460 – 74), he completely misconstrues Megadorus’ loan of cooks for the wedding as an attempted burglary, and delivers one of his most memorable paranoid fantasies when he

 While the conditions and ideology of ancient slavery naturalised such treatment of slaves by masters (cf. Bradley 2011, 241– 64), Euclio’s brutality towards Staphyla (apparently the single slave of his household) is exceptional by the conventions of Plautine comedy, where, overwhelmingly, only disobedient and plotting servi callidi receive such treatment. The full extant of Euclio’s self–generated inhumanity is most clearly glimpsed when he orders Staphyla to deny the necessities of fire and water to all visitors (90 – 4, with Konstan 1983, 36). For torture in Roman comedy see Parker 1989 and Fitzgerald 2000, 32– 9.  Cf. Moore 1998, 44– 5.  To the self–exiled Euclio, communal celebrations are a waste of money (380 – 1). He boasts that he has purchased only a little frankincense (385 tusculum, coined by Plautus for the situation here; cf. 24 ture) and garlands, which he will at last offer to the Lar (387 ut fortunatas faciat gnatae nuptias). We later learn (539 – 44) that Euclio plans to attend in inappropriately drab dress.

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reports his imagining Staphyla’s rooster (466 qui erat anu peculiaris) to be the cooks’ accomplice: ubi erat haec defossa, occepit ibi scalpurrire ungulis cirumcirca. quid opust uerbis? ita mihi pectus peracuit: capio fustem, obtrunco gallum, furem manufestarium. credo edepol ego illi mercedem gallo pollicitos coquos, si id palam fecisset. exemi ex manu †manubrium†. quid opust uerbis? facta est pugna in gallo gallinacio. (467– 72) It started scratching with its claws, all around where I’d buried it. What can I say? My heart got acidic: I grab a club, I slaughter the rooster, red–handed thief that he was! I’m quite sure the cooks had promised a reward to the rooster for showing them where it was. I removed the handle right out of their hands on that one! What can I say? A war was waged over a rooster.

Elsewhere in Plautus, clubs (fustes) are associated with lorarii (‘enforcers’); coupled with Congrio’s account (406 – 9) of being chased by a club–wielding Euclio, who in the cook’s mind is the equivalent of a group of Bacchants, the clubbing– death of the roster is yet another index of how savage the anti–social Euclio has become. Especially revealing are a series of three short monologues, as Euclio successively emerges from the shrine of Fides (608 – 15), exits into his house but soon reappears on stage because he has been alarmed by a crow’s movements and cawing (624– 7), in turn rushes back into the shrine and immediately returns dragging out the slave of Lyconides, and following his lengthy interrogation of the slave and another exit into the shrine (661), he returns with the aula ⁶⁶ to inform the audience of his plan to transfer it to the grove of Silvanus (667– 76). In addition to the alienating content of his asides, Euclio’s attempt to engage with the audience in each case is compromised by the eavesdropping (607– 8) and trumping monologues (587– 606, 616 – 23, 661– 6, 678 – 81) of Lyconides’ slave. The slave ‘has usurped Euclio’s position as the major confider in the audience,’⁶⁷ and, to a seasoned palliata audience, he will easily slip into the role of clever slave, whose victim here is Euclio. Despite being a latecomer to the play, the slave’s trickery in fact ultimately does lead to his young master’s marriage with Phaedrium.

 The aula is a polyvalent symbol and virtual character in the play, and one of Plautus’ most effective (and extensive) uses of a prop: see the excellent discussion of Ketterer 1986, 118 – 28. For the parallelism between the pot’s theft and the rape/theft of his daughter’s virginity see Konstan 1983, 38 – 9.  Moore 1998, 45.

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Euclio thus has utterly failed in his attempts to establish the line of communication and sympathy he seeks from the audience, and once the slave absconds with the aula, the stage is set for his frenetic⁶⁸ monody: perii, interii, occidi. quo curram? quo non curram? tene, tene. quem? quis? nescio, nil uideo, caecus eo atque equidem quo eam aut ubi sim aut qui sim nequeo cum animo certum inuestigare. obsecro uos ego, mi auxilio, oro, obtestor, sitis et hominem demonstretis, quis eam abstulerit. quid ais tu? tibi credere certum est, nam esse bonum ex uoltu cognosco. quid est? quid ridetis? noui omnes, scio fures esse hic compluris, qui uestitu et creta occultant sese atque sedent quasi sint frugi. hem, nemo habet horum? occidisti. dic igitur, quis habet? nescis? heu me miserum! misere perii. male perditus, pessime ornatus eo: tantum gemiti et mali maestitiaeque hic dies mi optulit, famem et pauperiem. perditissimus ego sum omnium in terra. nam quid mi opust uita, [qui] tantum auri perdidi, quod concustodiui sedulo? egomet me defrauda– ui animumque meum geniumque meum; nunc eo alii laetificantur meo malo et damno. pati nequeo. (713 – 26)

(715) (718) (719) (717) (720) 721 721a 722 722a 723 723a 724 724a 725 725a

I’m dead, I’m done for, I’m deceased. Where should I run? Where should I not run? Stop him, stop him! Whom? And who? I don’t know, I can’t see a thing, I’m walking in the dark, my mind hasn’t a clue where I’m going or where I am or who I am. (to the audience) I beg you, I beseech and implore you: help me and show me the man who’s taken it away. (to an individual in the audience) What do you say? I’ve decided to believe you, because I can see from your face that you’re a good man. (to the whole audience) What is it? Why are you laughing? I know all of you all, I know there’s a bunch of thieves here who are hiding behind snazzy clothing and sitting there like you’re respectable. What, nobody here has it? (to another audience member) You’ve killed me. Tell me, then, who has it? You don’t know? O, poor, poor me! I’m terribly dead, utterly ruined—here I walk in the worst possible way! This day’s brought me hunger and poverty. I’m the most utterly screwed man on earth. Why keep living when I’ve lost so much gold, despite my guarding it diligently. I was the one who cheated myself and my own heart and my very being. Now other people are reveling in my desperation and loss. I won’t put up with it.

This is a truly desperate appeal from someone whose anti–social behaviour has alienated him from his familia, his well–intended neighbour, polite well wishers in the city (114– 17), and even himself. Euclio now futilely reaches out to fellow citizens in the audience, with whom to this point we repeatedly have seen him  Moore 2012, 120 – 1 thinks Euclio dances to the anapestic rhythm here.

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fail to connect.⁶⁹ Euclio’s metaphorical insistence on his death here (713 perii, interii, occidi; 720 occidisti; 721 perii), while a familiar idiom of Plautus’ colloquial arsenal, points to the fact of his own social death. Euclio comes to the painful realisation that he has not established the rapport he had assumed, neither with the audience as a whole (715 – 6) nor with the representative ‘good man’ addressed in 718, when no one responds to his direct question about the pot of gold’s whereabouts. The audience’s silence causes Euclio to assume that he is being mocked (719 quid ridetis?), and to then lash out at the audience’s most elite members⁷⁰ by accusing them of concealing their larcenous character beneath an outwardly respectable appearance (719, 717). This latter charge recalls Euclio’s many similarly false accusations against the wealthy Megadorus regarding the treasure, and marks his nearly complete disconnection from reality, which now entails not only alienation from the play’s characters and audience, but even his beloved treasure. But it is only Euclio’s excommunication from the aula that can effect his healing and reintegration into society, a process that begins in his monody. A serious loss of self ⁷¹ and sight informs Euclio’s song here, and the song’s aporetic language—esp. 713 – 5 quo curram? quo non curram? … / nescio, nil uideo, caecus eo atque equidem quo eam aut ubi sim aut qui sim / nequeo cum animo certum inuestigare—recalls the emotional depth of tragedy.⁷² The direness of Euclio’s situation may not rise to the profound tragedy of a helplessly blind champion of human suffering such as Oedipus, but his assertion that he is blind and lacks vision (714– 5) hints at fast growing self–awareness of his own deficient character. Owing to the fact that Euclio’s obsessive behaviour has brought on all this misfortune to himself, some audience members might smugly laugh at his protestations, but there is genuine poignancy in his acknowledgement that he has lost everything.⁷³ One wonders how many audience members laughed as heartily here as Euclio’s scripted words (719 quid ridetis?, 725a nunc … alii laetificantur)

 Cf. Lysidamus’ similarly desperate (and futile) appeal to the audience at Cas. 951– 4.  From 194 BCE on, the best seats in front of the stage were reserved for senators (Moore 1994). The chalk here is probably that used by fullers in ‘deluxe’ cleanings of togas, and so seems to be metonymic for the highest Roman orders here: cf. Stockert (1983): 187– 8 n. ad 717.  Cf. Raffaelli 2000, 60 for Euclio’s ‘crisis of identity’ here.  For tragic parody in Euclio’s song see Sharrock 2009, 198 – 9. Cf. Lefèvre 2001, 91: ‘Es handelt sich um ein ausladendes Canticum, in dem Euclio sich zu pathetischer Klage erhebt.’  Including, of course, his relationship with his own daughter, in that an equivalency between the aula and his daughter has been carefully established in the play. Cf. the remarks of Marshall 2006, 71 on Euclio’s first arresting appearance (449 ff.) with the aula onstage: ‘Euclio is shrouding the pot with his cloak, and consequently embodies a pregnant image of his unseen daughter.’

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might suggest. Euclio’s deep sense of loss leads him to the psychologically essential realisation that in hoarding the treasure he has cheated himself,⁷⁴ as well as to acute self–awareness that his bizarre behaviour has brought him public opprobrium (725a alii laetificantur). His full peripeteia presumably took place in a lost scene, though we cannot be entirely sure Plautus included such a scene in Aul. But whether or not such a scene was fleshed out in the play, it is generally true that as a result of this metatheatrical song, ‘[the] audience can thus appreciate Euclio’s alienation, and they can feel personally involved in his conversion.’⁷⁵ We see here a masterfully metatheatrical move for more than just the sake of cleverness or clowning, as is often the case in Plautus.

Eunomia in Rome The significantly named Eunomia⁷⁶ appears only briefly in two scenes (145 – 75, 682– 95), but plays an important role in the play that is disproportionate to the number of her lines. Her first appearance follows closely on Lar’s prologue, with only the acrimonious opening exchange (40 – 119) between Euclio and Staphyla intervening. We unfortunately do not know if she appeared in an additional later scene of the play’s resolution. Eunomia appears not to live in her brother Megadorus’ house,⁷⁷ and is a widow.⁷⁸ These two factors, along with the siblings’ father apparently being deceased, suggest that Eunomia manages her household

 Euclio places enormous stress on his responsibility here (724a–725 egomet me defrauda– / ui animumque meum geniumque meum). His mention of his genius here might recall the Lar (whom Euclio also has cheated), as there was some overlap in the worship of these household deities. The genius, however, was the divine ‘second–self’ of the paterfamilias, and so Euclio effectively means he has betrayed his essential humanity. Cf. OCD (3rd edn. 1996) s.v. genius and Stockert 1983, 189 n. ad 724.  Moore 1998, 47.  ‘Good Order’ in Greek, a term with a long political history. The name presumably originates with Plautus, who, as the discovery of the Dis Exapaton fragments proved, typically renamed the characters of his source plays and enhanced their ‘Greekness’: see further Fontaine 2010, 253 and passim, who concludes that all of Plautus’ character names are Greek .  He has summoned her for advice (145) and at the scene’s end (175) she does not exit into his house (cf. Stockert 1983, 58 n. ad 120 ff.). There is disagreement on the point, e. g. Ricottilli 2000, 33.  Cf. her son Lyconides’ recital of his genealogy: 779 meus fuit pater Antimachus. The name of Eunomia’s late husband, Antimachus (‘Opposing Fighter’), is comically significant in that it suggests he was his wife’s antithesis.

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independently of male guardianship.⁷⁹ She of course shares her brother’s (and clan’s) social status and wealth.⁸⁰ Eunomia apparently is to be imagined as living near the centre of city, as she exits (176) and enters (682) via the stage wing opposite the one leading to the countryside and the grove of Silvanus. At first glance then, even though Eunomia is widowed, she might appear to share some similarities with the dowered wives who in Megadorus’ opinion currently are undermining the traditional patriarchal structure of Roman households.⁸¹ Eunomia’s opening bacchiacs, however, which here convey a solemnity appropriate to a matrona,⁸² immediately align her with conservatism in the politics of Roman marriage: uelim te arbitrari med haec uerba, frater, meai fidei tuaique rei causa facere, ut aequom est germanam sororem. quamquam hau falsa sum nos odiosas haberi; nam multum loquaces merito omnes habemur, nec mutam profecto repertam nullam esse hodie dicunt mulierem ullo in saeclo. (120 – 6) I’d like you to think that what I say here is out of loyalty to you and with a view to your best interests, brother, as is right for a true sister. And yet I’m not mistaken about us women being an annoyance; we are for sure, and with good reason, considered to be very talkative. In fact, they say that a silent woman is yet to be discovered, either now or in any age.

Whether or not her surprisingly disparaging words about women are sincere, Eunomia’s rhetorical tactic here is appropriate in that her goal is to induce her brother to marry.⁸³ After this pleasing (to Megadorus) captatio and further affirmation of her harmoniously reciprocal relationship with her brother (128 – 30; cf. 121– 2), the hardly muta Eunomia requires four lines (131– 4) to state that there is personal matter of interest to Megadorus’ household (134 tuam rem … familiarem), about which she cannot keep quiet. There is also metatheatrical

 For Roman tutela see Dixon 1992, 42– 5. While free of any male supervisor, Eunomia might have been accompanied by slaves (mute characters appear in Roman comedy, e. g. the baggage– carriers at Am. 551– 632) when she first comes onstage (120) and so she does not appear in public unescorted, as befits a Roman materfamilias.  Cf. the Lar’s description of her son Lyconides in the prologue: 28 de summo adulescens loco.  Her costuming might somehow have enhanced such a characterisation.  Cf. Fraenkel 2007, 236 and Duckworth 1952, 370. For detailed analysis of the canticum see Moore 2012, 282– 6.  Krause 2004, 40 – 7 provides a good analysis of Eunomia’s language and rhetorical strategies within an excellent discussion of Eunomia’s uncharacteristically not functioning as a stereotypical matrona/blocking character.

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play here in that Eunomia has brought Megadorus outside (133), so that the two of them can discuss a private, household matter (133 secreto ~ 134 ego tecum) on the street in front of his house, the usual setting of Roman comedy. We might reasonably imagine that Eunomia is behaving so deferentially because she is aware that she has come off to her brother as a stereotypically loquacious nagger on previous occasions when the two discussed marriage (cf. 146 soror, more tuo facis). More anti–feminist banter follows (135 – 41), as Eunomia gradually steels herself to broach a topic she presumably has discussed with her brother many times before: 149 – 50 uolo te uxorem / domum ducere. Megadorus’ immediate reaction to her entreaty that he marry is predictably negative (150 ei occidi!), but with just the slightest coaxing on Eunomia’s part (153 heia, hoc face quod te iubet soror), Megadorus begins to take his sister’s advice seriously. After a stale joke (‘the best wife is a dead wife,’ 154– 7) and his rejection of Eunomia’s middle–aged, mega–dowered candidate for marriage (Megadorus cites the inadvisability of parents having children at an advanced age (162– 4) and his own ancestral wealth (165 – 6) as reasons for his refusal), Megadorus gives the short version of his later expansive speech on marriage with an uxor dotata: istas magnas factiones, animos, dotes dapsilis, clamores, imperia, eburata uehicla, pallas, purpuram, nil moror, quae in seruitutem sumptibus redigunt uiros. (167– 9). I don’t care for those important social connections, the haughtiness, their decadent dowries, their noisy shouting, their bossiness, their ivory carriages, their showy garments, the purple clothing. These are the women who reduce their husbands to slavery through their expenses.

Despite her affinities with the upper–orders and her initial desire to have her brother marry a rich woman, Eunomia instantly approves of Euclio as a citizen (172 hominem hau malum mecastor) and, despite Megadorus’ assumption (174) that she will disapprove of Euclio’s (and his daughter’s) poverty, Eunomia instantly grants the proposed marriage her blessing (175 di bene uortant) and exits. Demonstrating a shrewd psychological understanding of her brother and considerable rhetorical skill, Eunomia thus provides her brother with a forum in which to promulgate his strongly held views, which in turn leads to his acquiescence in her wish for him to marry. As a garrulous woman and social subordinate, then, Eunomia exercises considerable control over her brother’s life, and in

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fact shows herself to be capable of generating the upheaval Megaodorus so direly fears in marriage to a wealthy dowered wife.⁸⁴ Within this brief and mostly sung⁸⁵ exchange with her brother then, Eunomia seamlessly functions as the catalyst in the first phase of the Lar’s convoluted marriage plan (32– 6). Eunomia plays an equally important role in phase two of the Lar’s plan in expediting Lyconides’ plan to marry Phaedrium. Immediately following Euclio’s frantic decision to transfer his pot to Silvanus, Eunomia appears in what turns out to be an extremely brief exchange with her son. The pair enter in mid–conversation, where it is immediately made clear that Lyconides has told his mother the details surrounding his rape of Phaedrium (682– 4). Lyconides asks Eunomia to beseech his uncle on his behalf,⁸⁶ and in her confident reply she again expresses the same harmonious sense of familial reciprocity⁸⁷ we saw in her earlier dealings with Megadorus: scis tute facta uelle me quae tu uelis, et istuc confido fratre me impetrassere; et causa iusta est, siquidem ita est ut praedicas, te eam compressisse uinolentum uirginem. (686 – 9) You certainly do know that I want to see done what you want, and I’m sure I can obtain this from my brother. And your case is just, if in fact you did rape the girl when you were drunk, just as you declare you did.

Eunomia thus expresses her agreement with New Comedy’s only resolution to the rape of a freeborn girl,⁸⁸ as unpalatable as this situation may seem to modern readers. To intensify the moment still more, Phaedrium is heard giving birth inside the neighbours’ house (691– 2), and Eunomia exits into Megadorus’ house,

 Whereas Eunomia is our focus here, scholarship on the play overwhelmingly has focused on explaining Megadorus’ sudden conversion to the marriage project. Based on Megadorus’ reaction to his sister’s mention of procreation (148 – 9) and the verbs cupio (172) and placet (174), some see Megadorus as a ‘dirty old man’ (cf. Lysidamus in Cas.), who apparently has long fixed his gaze on his young neighbour. So Moore 2012, 285 – 6 and Konstan 1983, 41– 2; cf. also the discussion of Lefèvre 2001, 56 – 61. From a generic comic perspective, the old man cannot marry the young girl (cf. Frye 1957, 163 – 5).  161– 76 are in recitative trochaics.  The prospects for winning Megadorus over are good: for the traditional familial role of the avunculus as the supporter of his nephews and nieces (versus the conventionally stern patruus) see Bettini 1991, 46 – 66.  For the highlighting of reciprocity in the relationship between brother and sister in Aul. see Ricottilli 2000, 38 – 42.  Cf. n. 32 above.

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not to be seen again in the (extant) play. We later learn from Lyconides that she was successful in persuading Megadorus to call off his engagement (783), and, like Lyconides (803 – 4), the audience would be fully confident that the marriage between Lyconides and Phaedrium will take place, regardless of what took place in the section of the play that is lost to us. As the play’s acrostic summary makes clear, Lyconides learns that his slave has stolen the pot of gold and sees that it is returned to Euclio, who then apparently converts it into his daughter’s dowry.⁸⁹ Further details are lost, but one of the surviving fragments of the lost portion of Aul. seems to be Euclio’s assertion that he ‘now [will] be able to sleep’ (fr. iv). The transformation of the hoarded pot of gold into a dowry thus palpably signalled Euclio’s escape from self–imposed exile and his reintegration into the larger community via his newfound kinship with his wealthy neighbours. To sum up Eunomia’s role in Aul.: given her significant name and the manner in which she works in concert with the Lar, being briefly inserted into the play at critical moments to move the essential marriage plot toward its resolution, Eunomia functions as an almost allegorical figure. She takes no sides in the disputes about marriage, and in the interest of effecting harmony through marriage supports both what most probably would have been a traditional cum manu marriage in her brother’s case, and what is likely to be her son’s more modern sine manu marriage. Most significantly, she plays an instrumental role in restoring harmony within the play’s entire comic society. In serving in such a capacity, members of a Roman audience easily might see in Eunomia the stage embodiment of their own divine, abstract personification of the concept of concordia, a word that suitably translates the Greek eunomia. ⁹⁰ There is further advantage in having an audience think of C/concordia here: unlike eunomia, with its primarily political applications, concordia for the Romans was also idealistically connected with marriage,⁹¹ and so at play’s end helps foster some sense that the domestic union of Lyconides and Phaedrium will be a happy one. We cannot know if Plautus made the connection between Eunomia and the venerable Roman goddess Concordia more explicit in the play’s lost section, i. e.

 The aula thus completes a highly significant journey, as the gold which had led to Euclio’s self–exile until it was stolen and then passed into the hands of Lyconides, and then back to Euclio, now becomes his daughter’s dowry: ‘In a stroke, the violation of Phaedria and the plunder of the gold are undone’ (Konstan 1983, 40).  For an overview of eunomia, personified in Greek myth as the sister of Dike and Eirene, and with them traditionally seen as one of the guardians of social order see Andrewes 1938.  Treggiari 1991, 245 describes concordia within the discourse of Roman marriage as ‘[agreement] between husband and wife resulting from trust and sympathy.’

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through characteristic bilingual punning.⁹² In the end, however, Auluaria celebrates a marriage between a rich and poor family, thanks largely to the intervention of Eunomia, and certainly offers its Roman audience a final image of harmony between families of vastly different statuses.⁹³ The figure of Eunomia, Plautus’ Concordia in Greek dress, suggests, in direct contradiction to the (then crazed) Euclio’s parable of the incompatible ox and the ass (226 – 35), that even the most disparate classes can unite for inter–familial good, and that society can possibly achieve what Greek political theorists called eunomia. The play’s final vision of both public and private concord may be idealistic, but it was one that was likely to have provoked discussion among some theatrergoers after the show. A rich comic drama such as Plautus’ Aulularia will probably provoke similar discussions among readers, as well as those fortunate enough to see a live production today.

Bibliography Andrewes, A. (1938), ‘Eunomia’, in: CQ 32, 89 – 102. Arnott, W. G. (1964), ‘A Note on the Parallels between Menander’s Dyskolos and Plautus’ Aulularia’, in: Phoenix 18, 232 – 37. —. (1989), ‘A Study in Relationships: Alexis’ Lebes, Menander’s Dyskolos, Plautus’ Aulularia’, in: QUCC 33, 27 – 38. Bain, D. (1992), ‘A Recent Suggestion about the Original of Plautus’ Aulularia’, in: LCM 17.5, 68 – 70. Bettini, M. (1991), Verso un’Antropologia dell’Intreccio e Altri Studi su Plauto, Urbino. —. (2007), ‘Lar Familiaris: un Dio Semplice’, in: Lares, 533 – 51. Bodel, J. (2008), ‘Cicero’s Minerva, Penates, and the Mother of the Lares: an Outline of Roman Domestic Religion’, in: J. Bodel and S. M. Olyan (eds.), Household and Family Religion in Antiquity, Malden, MA and Oxford, 248 – 75 Bradley, K. (2011), ‘Slavery in the Roman Republic’, in: K. Bradley and P. Cartledge (eds.), The Cambridge World History of Slavery I, Cambridge, 241 – 64. Braund, S. (2005), ‘Marriage, Adultery, and Divorce in Roman Comic Drama’, in W. S. Smith (ed.), Satiric Advice on Women and Marriage from Plautus to Chaucer, Ann Arbor, 39 – 70.

 Compare, e. g., the example of Chrysalus (‘The Golden One’) in Bac., who we know was named Syrus in the play’s Menandrian source. Plautus’ renaming of the slave allows for both bilingual punning, e. g. 229 negotium hoc ad me attinet aurarium, and his famous metacomic declaration, ‘I don’t care for those … Syruses who rob their masters of small change’ (649 – 50). Cf. Aul. 481 et multo fiat ciuitas concordior and pp. 24– 5 above.  This fact remains, even if one cynically sees in the asymmetrical amicitia (245) Megadorus envisions between a citizen of his class and one of Euclio’s something like a typically Roman patron~client relationship.

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Christenson, D. (2000), Plautus: Amphitruo, Cambridge. —. (2010), Roman Comedy: Five Plays by Plautus and Terence, Newburyport, MA. —. (2013), ‘Eunuchus’, in: A. Augoustakis and A. Traill (eds.), A Companion to Terence, Malden, MA and Oxford, 262 – 80. —. (forthcoming), ‘Metatheatre’, in: M. Dinter (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Roman Comedy, Cambridge. Corbeill, A. (2005), ‘The Topography of Fides in Propertius 1.16’, in: W. W. Batstone / G. Tissol (eds.), Defining Genre and Gender in Latin Literature: Essays Presented to William S. Anderson on His Seventy–Fifth Birthday, New York, 79 – 95. Culham, P. (1982), ‘The Lex Oppia’, in: Latomus 41, 786 – 93. Dixon, S. (1992), The Roman Family, Baltimore and London. Dorcey, P. F. (1992), The Cult of Silvanus: A Study in Roman Folk Religion, Leiden and New York. Duckworth, G. E. (1952), The Nature of Roman Comedy, Princeton. Earl, D. (1967), The Moral and Political Tradition of Rome, Ithaca, NY. Evans, J. K. (1991), War, Women and Children in Ancient Rome, London. Fitzgerald, W. (2000), Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination, Cambridge. Flower, H. I. (1996), Ancestor Masks and Aristocratic Power in Roman Culture, Oxford. Fontaine, M. (2010), Funny Words in Plautine Comedy, Oxford. Fraenkel, E. (2007), Plautine Elements in Plautus, Muecke, F. / Drevikovsky, T. (trs.), Oxford. Frye, N. (1957), Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays, Princeton. Gruen, E. S. (1990), Studies in Greek Culture and Roman Policy, Leiden. Hanson, J. A. (1959), ‘Plautus as a Source Book for Roman Religion’, in: TAPhA 90, 48 – 101. Hunter, R. L. (1981), ‘The Aulularia of Plautus and its Greek original’, in: PCPS 27, 37 – 49. —. (1985), The New Comedy of Greece and Rome, Cambridge. Ketterer, R. (1986), ‘Stage Properties in Plautine Comedy II’, in: Semiotica 59.5, 93 – 135. Konstan, D. (1983), Roman Comedy, Ithaca, NY. —. (1997), Friendship in the Classical World, Cambridge. Krause, A. (2004), ‘Untaming the Shrew: Marriage, Morality and Plautine Comedy’, Ph.D. diss., Austin, TX. Lefèvre, E. (2001), Plautus’ Aulularia, Tübingen. Leigh, M. (2005), Comedy and the Rise of Rome, Oxford. Ludwig, W. (1961), ‘Aulularia–Probleme’, in: Philologus 105, 44 – 71 and 247 – 62. Marshall, C. W. (2006), The Stagecraft and Performance of Roman Comedy, Cambridge. McCarthy, K. (2000), Slaves, Masters, and the Art of Authority in Plautine Comedy, Princeton. de Melo, W. (2011), Plautus: Amphitryon, The Comedy of the Asses, The Pot of Gold, The Two Bacchises, The Captives, Cambridge, MA. Moore, T. J. (1994), ‘Seats and Social Status in the Plautine Theater’, in: CJ 90, 113 – 23. —. (1998), The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience, Austin, TX. —. (2012), Music in Roman Comedy, Cambridge. Parker, H. (1989), ‘Crucially Funny or Tranio on the Couch: the Servus Callidus and Jokes about Torture’, in: TAPhA 119, 223 – 46. Raffaelli, R. (2000), ‘C’è del Comico in quella Follia’, in: R. Raffaelli and A. Tontani (eds.), Lecturae Plautinae Sarsinates III, Urbino, 49 – 65. Rawson, B. (2006), ‘Finding Roman Women’, in: N. Rosenstein and R. Morstein–Marx (eds.), A Companion to the Roman Republic, Malden, MA and Oxford, 324 – 41. Renehan, R. (1977), ‘Compound–Simplex Verbal Iteration in Plautus’, in: CPh 72, 243 – 8.

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Ricottilli, L. (2000), ‘Strategie Relazionali nell’Aulularia’, in: R. Raffaelli and A. Tontani (eds.), Lecturae Plautinae Sarsinates III, Urbino, 31 – 48 Rosenstein, N. (2006), ‘Aristocratic Values’, in N. Rosenstein and R. Morstein–Marx (eds.), A Companion to the Roman Republic, Malden, MA and Oxford, 365 – 82. Saller, R. P. (1994), Patriarchy, Property, and Death in the Roman Family, Cambridge. Scafuro, A. (1997), The Forensic Stage: Settling Disputes in Greco–Roman New Comedy, Cambridge. Schuhmann, E. (1977), ‘Der Typ der uxor dotata in den Komödien des Plautus’, in: Philologus 121, 45 – 65. Sharrock, A. (2009), Reading Roman Comedy: Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence, Cambridge. Slater, N. W. (1985), Plautus in Performance: The Theatre of the Mind, Princeton. Stockert, W. (1983), Plautus: Aulularia, Stuttgart. Thaniel, G. (1973), ‘Lemures and Larvae’, in: AJPh 94, 182 – 7. Treggiari, S. (1991), Roman Marriage, Oxford.

R. R. Caston

The Divided Self: Plautus and Terence on Identity and Impersonation* Abstract: The topic of disguise and impersonation has received relatively little attention in the scholarship on Roman comedy, and when it has, it has been mainly in connection with metatheatre. Yet both Plautus and Terence are interested in disguise in ways that go beyond metatheatre to reflect upon the stability and integrity of the self. To explore this, I examine the Amphitruo of Plautus and Eunuchus of Terence, plays that turn centrally on the themes of disguise and impersonation. The Amphitruo asks whether two people can play a single part, while the Eunuchus asks if one person can play several parts. In the first play, Mercury has impersonated Sosia so thoroughly that Sosia believes he has lost his own identity. In the second play, the young lover Chaerea disguises himself as a eunuch, but then, still dressed as a eunuch, imagines himself playing Jupiter’s role in the rape of Danae, and he plays other parts as well. These issues about representation clearly have implications for the nature of theatre itself, but they also engage with various philosophical concerns, in particular issues of identity in the Stoics and Epicureans and the plurality of social roles described in Panaetius’ four-personae theory. Keywords: Panaetius, Cicero, Lucretius, Epicurus, Stoics, metatheatre, memory, impersonation Disguise and role–playing are essential features of drama. Actors dress up in costume and pretend to be someone other than themselves, creating what is at once an imitation and a performance. Some plays incorporate a second level of impersonation, with characters on stage taking on additional roles or disguise and devising what is in effect a play within a play. Disguise now becomes intertwined with plot and brings with it deception, confusion, and humour, at least in the case of comedy. As Frances Muecke states succinctly, ‘The prevalence of the theme of the physical double is ultimately connected with the nature of theatre itself and the conditions of theatrical performances.’¹

* Many thanks to Evangelos Karakasis for inviting me to contribute to this volume.  Muecke 1986, 221.

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The creation and re–creation of character also raises fascinating questions about identity: do we remain the same person over time? Is disguise just something superficial, or does it reveal a truth about who we really are? Do others see us differently than we see ourselves?² While critics have tended to address these questions in the context of theatre and metatheatre, problems of identity and the self were of interest not only to dramatists, but to philosophers as well. In fact, much of the humour in the comic episodes I examine here turns on paradoxes or ethical dilemmas that are ultimately philosophical in nature and which have parallels in nearly contemporary philosophical writings. To acknowledge these parallels is not yet to make any claims about specific allusions or influence. Comedy and philosophy share a fascination in the puzzling and the paradoxical. But while philosophy takes these problems in dead earnest and seeks a solution, comedy parades their paradoxical character in a madcap and hysterical way. Influence might run in either direction, or in both. Comic writers can make fun of philosophers, but philosophers can also take seriously the puzzles raised by the playwrights, just as Academics and Stoics made use of Epicharmus’ ‘Growing Argument’ (Epicharmus fr. 170 Kaibel).³ In what follows, I examine two Roman comedies in which disguise figures prominently. But these plays also, I argue, have an interest in problems of identity that we find in philosophers of the same period. The first comedy is Plautus’ Amphitruo, a disguise play par excellence that revels in doubles and impersonation. Doubts about identity permeate the play as a whole, yet it is Sosia’s puzzled but stubborn response to the crisis posed by Mercury’s impersonation of him that offers the richest basis for comparison with philosophy. I look in particular at the emphasis on the distinctiveness of names and pronouns, the link between memory and identity, and the possibility of one person being in two places at the same time, all topics discussed by philosophers in antiquity. The second comedy is Terence’s Eunuchus, which also relies heavily on disguise and impersonation, and is unique in this regard in Terence’s corpus.⁴ I focus on Chaerea, the young lover who, because of his lust for Pamphila, disguises himself as a eunuch and then shortly afterwards fantasizes that he is also Jupiter. Chaerea also plays several other roles in the play, and I compare these

 See Sharrock 2009, who emphasises the instability of identity in Roman comedy, and Wyles 2011, 61– 9 on the close connection between disguise and identity in Greek drama.  For more on the ‘Growing Argument’ and its philosophical uses, see Sedley 1982. On the relationship between Greek comedy and philosophy generally, see most recently the excellent treatment in Konstan 2014. I know of nothing comparable for Roman comedy.  Though see Sharrock 2009, 98 – 9 on impersonation in the Adelphoe, which, as she points out, is also very much centered on identity.

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many parts with the four–personae theory of the Stoic Panaetius, a near contemporary of Terence who lived in Rome in the 140’s.⁵ Panaetius’ theory explicitly appeals to the theatre as a model for its conception of personae, the different roles a person may play in his relations with others, and so affords a natural comparison with the emphasis on roles in Terence’s Eunuchus. In fact it is possible that Panaetius even saw some of Terence’s plays when they were revived after the playwright’s death.⁶

I. Sosia’s divided self in the Amphitruo While Plautus portrays doubles and twins in a number of plays, it is only in the Amphitruo that he exploits them for an extended examination of identity and who we are, and does so in a strikingly metaphysical way.⁷ Sosia, the slave of Amphitruo, suffers an identity crisis when Mercury claims that he is Sosia, and the results are both comical and entertaining.⁸ What lures him into the paradoxical thought that someone else might be him are the various features or characteristics that we normally use as criteria for identity, such as our outward physical appearance, or having a certain proper name, or intimate knowledge of our thoughts and experiences. In this case, though, they fail to distinguish Sosia and the disguised Mercury, and so raise worries about uniqueness and individuality, or what makes one thing the very thing that it is and not something else. These are the same sorts of puzzles that fascinate ancient philosophers.⁹

 Dyck 1996, 21 gives 138/9 as the most likely date for Panaetius’ Peri tou kathekontos. By discussing Terence and Panaetius together, I am not trying to revive the theory of a ‘Scipionic Circle’ (on which see most recently Hanchey 2013). It is not necessary to believe in a ‘Scipionic circle’ to maintain that there was a flow of ideas between drama and philosophy, especially given the connections between Panaetius’ theory and the theatre.  On the success of the Eunuchus, see Parker 1996, 591– 2; on revivals later in the 2nd c. BCE, see Victor 2013, 343 and Müller 2013, 363 – 4.  We find a parallel in the Miles Gloriosus with Sceledrus’ speech in 402– 3 and 407, but it is handled in a more limited way that relies on visual criteria for identity alone. See Bettini 2000, 172– 3 on differences between the Amphitruo and other Plautine plays in their treatment of identity.  Some critics note a troubling or frightening note in Sosia’s predicament as well: see e. g., Sharrock 2009, 111: ‘there is a serious dimension to this odd play, with its potentially nightmarish exploration of the loss of personal identity,’ and Slater 2000, 190: ‘The comedy of the scene is undeniable, but the undertone of fear is very strong as well. There is real pathos in Sosia’s use of tricolon in his parting speech (455 – 7).’  The only discussion I have been able to find that focuses on a philosophical conception of identity in the Amphitruo is Barnes 1956 (and to a lesser extent Bettini 2000). Both point only to

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Critics often focus on Plautus’ emphasis on visible characteristics and visible likeness in his portrayal of twins or doubles, in part because of a widespread interest in performance and metatheatre.¹⁰ But indiscernibility (aparallaxia) was also of interest to philosophers, who worry whether we can tell apart two people who look exactly the same, or indeed whether there can be two such people.¹¹ Mercury lets us know right from the prologue of this play that he and the actor playing Jupiter look exactly like Sosia and Amphitruo, except for the additions to their caps that will distinguish them for the audience’s benefit (143 – 5). When Sosia first runs into Mercury, it is too dark to see, since Jupiter has extended the night in order to have more time in bed with Alcmene. But in a subsequent passage, Sosia has apparently brought his lamp close to Mercury, and as a result, can now take note of their exact likeness (441– 3, 446 – 9):¹² certe edepol, quom illum contemplo et formam co– gnosco meam, quem ad modum ego sum (saepe in speculum inspexi), nimi’ similest mei; itidem habet petasum ac vestitum: tam consimilest atque ego; …. 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. It’s true, by Pollux, that when I look at him, I recognise my own shape and what I look like (I often look in the mirror). He is exactly like me: he has the same hat and clothing; he is as like me as I am to myself….There is nothing more alike than this likeness. But when I think about it, I’m sure that I am the same person I’ve always been. I know my master, I know our house, I’m completely sane and awake. I won’t give in to him, whatever he says.

Descartes and do not mention the ways in which the specific philosophical issues raised in the play are ones explored by ancient philosophers, and often ones contemporary to Plautus. Barnes also shifts from the metaphysical nature of the play to describing the confrontation between the two Sosias as a psychological drama in which Sosia must confront his lies and deceptions. Cf. Moore 1998, who also talks about puzzles and paradoxes, not in the crisis over Sosia’s identity, but over what the audience is to make of a play that calls itself a ‘tragicomedy.’  See Sharrock 2009, 110 – 5 on the visual elements, and for a metatheatrical reading of the play, see e. g., Slater 2000.  Indiscernibility or aparallaxia comes up in a number of Hellenistic debates, including Stoic and Academic debates over the criterion of truth, Stoic and Academic debates over the Growing Argument of Epicharmus, and the different Stoic views on eternal recurrence. See e. g., Long and Sedley 28O 2.  All quotations from Plautus are from Lindsay’s OCT. All translations from Latin are my own.

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Sosia admits that there is no discernible difference between him and Mercury, yet he is also unwilling to swallow the thought that the two of them could be identical. What is comical is that he tries to convince himself of something that is obviously, indeed necessarily, true, namely that he is himself. He uses verbs of knowing five times in three lines –cogito, novi, novi, sapio, sentio – to establish his sanity and the probative nature of the evidence he is considering.¹³ The humour of the situation derives from the fact that the answer to the question he is asking is so basic and fundamental that no evidence could establish it. It is logically incoherent to imagine that he is not himself. He goes on to consider whether he might have undergone some change or transformation that would interrupt his identity over time (equidem certo idem sum qui semper fui, 447). But of course no such change is possible: he could undergo a transformation or cease to exist, but then he would no longer be there. This is precisely the point the Epicureans press in discussing what happens to us at death. Lucretius describes how in thinking about death, we often mistakenly imagine ourselves present, observing ourselves dead (DRN III.876 – 8, 881– 3). The idea that we might have exact duplicates is entertained and disputed in Stoic theories of eternal recurrence.¹⁴ Their physics suggests that history repeats itself after long intervals, punctuated by a cosmic conflagration. Some Stoics appear to have thought that the people and events are the same as before, but differ in one small inessential, external respect, for example moles or freckles on the face (Long and Sedley 52F 2– 3). Other Stoics allow that they may be exactly alike or indiscernible though distinct individuals (Long and Sedley 52G), while Chrysippus may have thought that the very same individual returns with all the same qualities (Long and Sedley 52E).¹⁵ Other philosophers have also thought that you cannot have exact duplicates. So Plato, for example, states in the Theatetus 209C the need to find a distinctive quality which distinguishes one individual from another.¹⁶ And it is sometimes thought that the Stoics followed him in this, against the Academic skeptics who repeatedly brought up examples of duplicates – twins, eggs, coins, statues, snakes – as cases the sage would not be able to decide on. The Stoics may have insisted that although these individuals appeared very similar, they were not strictly indiscernible. The Stoics thought that each individual had an individual or distinctive quality which set it apart from all the others, and may have thought that the sage could rely on that.    

Compare Sceledrus’ speech in Miles Gloriosus 402– 3 and 407 and see Sharrock 2009, 106 – 7. See Sorabji 2006, 63 – 70. See Sorabji 1983, 182– 90. See Sorabji 2006, 149.

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Sosia cannot appeal to any of these theories, but believes that Mercury does not differ from him in any respect. As a consequence, he is worried that Mercury might be him. Initially Sosia tries to persuade himself of his continued identity as Sosia through insisting on the exclusivity of his name, and here we can again compare the Stoics, who thought that a proper noun denotes the individual quality (Long and Sedley 33M). Later, when Mercury insists that ‘Sosia’ is his name, Sosia thinks this is just a case of two people having the same name (399 – 400):¹⁷ certe edepol tu me alienabis numquam quin noster siem; nec praesente nobis alius quisquamst servos Sosia. By god, you’ll never convince me that I am anyone but myself; nor do we have any other slave besides me named Sosia.

As the conversation continues, however, he begins to realise that this other man is not simply named ‘Sosia,’ but really claims to be ‘Sosia,’ that is the very same Sosia. It is not just a case of mistaken identity, for example that Sosia discovers that he is not really Sosia but a different person with a different name. Sosia worries that the person he now is is actually someone else. This becomes clear when he switches from nouns to pronouns, which deictically refer to specific individuals.¹⁸ What makes his predicament so funny is that he tries to accept something that cannot possibly be true. As in the passage above about his mirror image, Sosia proceeds in what resembles a logical fashion to establish the ridiculous proposition that he is not himself (403 – 9): quid, malum, non sum ego servos Amphitruonis Sosia? nonne hac noctu nostra navis ex portu Persico venit, quae me advexit? non me huc erus misit meus? nonne ego nunc sto ante aedis nostras? non mi est laterna in manu? non loquor, non vigilo? nonne hic homo modo me pugnis contudit? fecit hercle, nam etiam misero nunc malae dolent. quid igitur ego dubito, aut qur non intro eo in nostram domum? Damn it, aren’t I Sosia, the slave of Amphitruo? Didn’t our ship arrive this night from the Persian port? Didn’t my master send me here? Aren’t I standing in front of our house? Isn’t this a lantern in my hand? Aren’t I speaking, aren’t I awake? Didn’t this man just

 See Wyles 2011, 64– 5 for the possibility of another case of ‘identity theft’ involving Mercury/ Hermes in Sophocles’ fragmentary Inachus. This play was probably a satyr play, which may be relevant to the ‘tragicomic’ Amphitruo as well.  We find confusion over personal pronouns in e. g., 399, 601; on this see Bettini 2000, 181– 2.

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beat me up with his fists? He did, by Hercules, for my jaws are killing poor me. Why then do I hesitate to go right into our house?

Sosia, like the philosophical sage, wants to be sure not to be mistaken and tries to avoid being precipitous (see Long and Sedley 31B 2, 41D 1, 41E, and 41G). So he tries to reason through this by rehearsing various criteria for identity. He repeats his name and his relationship to Amphitruo.¹⁹ He also adds his location, the fact that he is awake and not dreaming, and his awareness of his body, in much the same way that someone might pinch herself to make sure something is real. What devastates Sosia, however, and finally convinces him that this other man is in fact Sosia too, is Mercury’s ability to recite Sosia’s own memories or thoughts. Sosia peppers Mercury with questions about what happened on the battlefield, certain that no one else can know the details of the battle or Sosia’s own role in it. Unfortunately for Sosia, Mercury knows the answer to everything Sosia asks. The problem is that Mercury’s knowledge cannot be explained away by the possibility that Mercury was also there.²⁰ For Sosia has in fact fabricated the story of the battle he told on his way to the house, something that is known only to Sosia. Or so he thinks: it is this very fiction that Mercury cites back to him. The fact that Mercury’s story matches his word for word thus seems like incontrovertible proof that this other man is Sosia – at any rate, he is privy to things that only Sosia has recounted in his innermost thoughts. What is more, Mercury knows other private details, including how Sosia actually spent the battle (that is, hiding in his tent and getting drunk). These revelations have the most powerful effect yet on undermining Sosia’s sense of self (416 – 7): egomet mihi non credo, quom illaec autumare illum audio; hic quidem certe quae illic sunt res gestae memorat memo– riter. I don’t trust myself when I hear him saying these things. He certainly remembers memorably the things that took place there.

Sosia’s confidence in his own identity thus hinges on the exclusivity of his memories, as the repetition in memorat memoriter shows. The ownership of his own experiences is key to his identity and sense of self. Once someone can lay claim to them, Sosia capitulates and concludes he needs a new name, because in fact he is someone else (423):

 For the emphasis on Sosia’s name, see the discussions in Bettini 2000, 174– 7 and Sharrock 2009, 113.  Line 432 is only hypothetical.

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argumentis vicit, aliud nomen quaerundum est mihi He has beat me with his arguments, I’ll have to find another name.

The link between memory and identity is familiar in modern philosophy and is associated above all with John Locke. But it has roots in ancient philosophical thought as well, in particular Epicureanism and the account of palingenesis in De Rerum Natura III.²¹ Lucretius’ concern in Book III is not primarily with memory and identity per se, as he is concerned there with teaching us why we should not fear death. Yet as part of his argument that we will not be aware of anything after we have died, he raises the question about whether our atoms could ever reassemble in the same arrangement as they were before our death (III.847– 53):²² nec, si materiem nostram collegerit aetas post obitum rursumque redegerit ut sita nunc est atque iterum nobis fuerint data lumina vitae, pertineat quicquam tamen ad nos id quoque factum, interrupta semel cum sit repetentia nostri. et nunc nil ad nos de nobis attinet, ante qui fuimus nil iam de illis nos adficit angor.

850

Even if time should gather our matter together after our death and return it again as it is now placed, and the light of life should be given to us once more, it wouldn’t matter to us at all that this had been done, once the recollection of ourselves had been interrupted. And even now it doesn’t affect us at all who we were before, nor are we affected now by any anguish about it.

Lucretius suggests that our personal identity requires our presence continuously from birth to death. Even if our atoms were to come together in exactly the same way, ‘we’ would not be the same. It would not be us, despite being physical duplicates of ourselves, because we would not have memories of our earlier experiences (670 – 8): Praeterea si immortalis natura animai constat et in corpus nascentibus insinuatur, cur super anteactam aetatem meminisse nequimus nec vestigia gestarum rerum ulla tenemus? nam si tanto operest animi mutata potestas, omnis ut actarum exciderit retinentia rerum, non, ut opinor, id a leto iam longius errat;

675

 See Sorabji 2006, 94– 111. Warren 2001 takes a more skeptical approach to the connection between the passage and ideas about personal identity  Quotations from Lucretius are from Bailey’s OCT.

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quapropter fateare necessest quae fuit ante interiise et quae nunc est nunc esse creatam. Besides, if the nature of the spirit is immortal and creeps into the body at the time of our birth, why can’t we remember the time that has passed before, or hold on to any traces of the things that we have done? For if the power of the mind has changed so much that every memory of the things we have done has been cut away, this is not, I think, much different from death. Therefore you must admit that the spirit that was there before has died and that which is there now has just been created.

In the Amphitruo, Mercury not only appears to be a physical duplicate of Sosia, he seems to have access to the same inner thoughts. And yet to the audience, and in fact to everyone but Sosia, they are obviously distinct individuals. Thus when Mercury continues to refuse to let Sosia inside the house, Sosia asks (456– 9):²³ ubi ego perii? ubi immutatus sum? ubi ego formam perdidi? an egomet me illic reliqui, si forte oblitus fui? nam hicquidem omnem imaginem meam, quae antehac fuerat, possidet. vivo fit quod numquam quisquam mortuo faciet mihi. Where have I perished? Where did I change? Where did I lose my form? Or did I leave myself somewhere, if by chance I’ve forgotten? For this man here has taken my entire image, which was mine before. What’s happening to me while I’m alive no one will ever do when I am dead.

Sosia alternates between various hypotheses: he wonders whether he has lost himself somewhere, or whether he has undergone transformation, or whether there has been some other rupture with his past. The question of the relationship between past and present in quae antehac fuerat, found as well in both of the Lucretius passages above, brings out the essential similarity in thought: will our form come back after we die, and if so, will it really be us? This is also what is suggested by Sosia’s joke about Roman funerary practice and the description of Mercury as Sosia’s death mask. As a slave, the ius imaginum is an honour he would never receive.²⁴ Hence the humour is partly that Sosia witnesses it while alive, and partly that he witnesses it at all.²⁵  The language of imago and forma here is very Lucretian: cf. e. g., DRN 4.52– 3: quod speciem ac formam simile gerit eius imago cuiuscumque cluet de corpore fusa vagari.  For the custom, see Polyb., Hist. 6.53.5. On Sosia’s reference to the ius imaginum in the play, see Bettini 2000, 196 – 9 and Dupont 2011, 185 – 6.  Perhaps Lucretius has this passage in mind at DRN III. 876 – 83, mentioned earlier, which describe the contemplation of one’s own corpse.

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Although the exchanges with Mercury I have just been examining reveal Sosia wavering back and forth over whether someone does or does not have his identity, by Act II.1, Sosia appears to have accepted the fact that there are two of him. Thus when Amphitruo and Sosia now return together to the house, it is Amphitruo who worries about the paradoxes of Sosia’s identity crisis. While Sosia insists that he is both with his master and already at home, Amphitruo demands to know how something so impossible could be the case. Of course, Amphitruo is disposed to be skeptical of anything that Sosia says or does, since he believes that Sosia is using such lies to cover up for his failure to bring Alcmene news of the Theban victory (561– 2, 566 – 9, 576 – 7, 594):²⁶ AM. scelestissume, audes mihi praedicare id, domi te esse nunc, qui hic ades? SO. vera dico.²⁷ AM. Wretched scoundrel, do you dare tell me this, that you are now at home who are right here? SO. I do. AM. tun me, verbero, audes erum ludificari? tune id dicere audes, quod nemo umquam homo antehac vidit nec potest fieri, tempore uno homo idem duobus locis ut simul sit? SO. profecto ut loquor res ita est. AM. Do you dare to mock me, your master? Do you dare to say what no man has ever seen before now, and which cannot happen, that the same man is in two places at once? SO. Indeed, I told you the facts. AM. quid hoc sit hominis? SO. equidem deciens dixi: domi ego sum, inquam, ecquid audis? et apud te adsum Sosia idem. AM. What is it with this man? SO. I’ve told you ten times! I’m telling you I’m at home, don’t you hear? And the same Sosia is also here with you. SO. sum profecto et hic et illic. hoc quoivis mirari licet. I really am both here and there. Let anyone you like wonder at it.

This difference of opinion is never resolved in the play, suggesting that it is the sheer impossibility of it and Sosia’s ability to believe the impossible that are so  See also line 615: geminus Sosia hic factust tibi. (Your Sosia has been doubled.)  See Christenson’s note on vera dico: ‘cf. 395, where Sosia used the same words to assert the uniqueness of his identity. Here he tries to convince Amphitryon of his duality. As appearances and realities are confuted in the play, truth becomes an increasingly elusive concept.’

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delightful and funny. Here we again have a philosophical parallel, though. For bilocation, or being in two places at the same time, is attested in several sources regarding Pythagoras. According to Aristotle, Pythagoras was reported to have appeared both in Croton and in Metaponto ‘at the same time and at the same hour.’²⁸ This goes a step beyond even the Stoics, who in their theory of eternal recurrence granted that a single individual in separate cosmic cycles could be in exactly the same location. The story of Pythagoras holds that you could even have a single individual at a single time in different places.²⁹

II. Chaerea’s divided self in the Eunuchus If the Amphitruo presents us with two characters wrestling over a single identity, the Eunuchus offers the opposite scenario, a single character playing multiple roles.³⁰ Characters in New Comedy often mediate between various parties and play distinct roles with each side, as for example when a slave negotiates between a pimp and his young master.³¹ But the Eunuchus offers a far fuller picture than this. Not only do we see Chaerea adopt two bold and striking parts, that of a eunuch and that of Jupiter, the latter when he sees the god depicted in a painting of the rape of Danae. We also see him as a go–between for his father’s friend, a fellow guard and friend to Antipho, and a negotiator between his family and both Thais and the parasite Gnatho. It is not entirely surprising that these other parts, some of them quite brief, have not received the attention that Chaerea’s two impersonations have. The disguise as the eunuch and fantasy about being a second Jupiter are both striking and symbolic: together the two parts seem to signify the tension between powerlessness and power that run throughout the play, while Chaerea’s identification with Jupiter via a painting opens up important questions about representation and metatheatre.³²

 In the children’s book Owl at Home by Arnold Lobel, Owl tries to see if he can be both upstairs and downstairs at the same time. For the opposite problem, whether two bodies can be in the same place at the same time, see Sorabji 1988, 60 – 105.  Arist. fr. 191 Rose, also Aelian VH ii 26.  Note another opposition in the role–playing of gods and men: Chaerea imagines himself as a god in order to enter a girl’s bedroom, while Jupiter disguises himself as Amphitruo in order to enter Alcmene’s bedroom. The Eunuchus is often considered to be the most Plautine of Terence’s plays; see Karakasis 2005, ch. 7, which examines both linguistic and stylistic similarities between the Eunuchus and Plautine drama.  E.g. Syrus’ role in Act II.ii of Ter. Ad.  See Caston 2014, 60, n. 64.

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But the plurality of Chaerea’s roles also suggests a comparison with Panaetius’ personae theory, which emphasised that a single individual might inhabit several roles simultaneously and that these roles might place different demands on an individual.³³ In light of this, we might consider Chaerea’s impersonations as roles, too, and view them together with the other parts he has in the play. What is appropriate for a given individual to do in a given circumstance will depend on the different social roles that he inhabits, and sorting this out will obviously be important for any ethical agent.³⁴ Chaerea, of course, is hardly a role model, much less a Stoic sage (see e. g., Smith 1994 and James 1998). He no doubt fails to achieve the kind of ethical ideal that Panaetius hopes to promote. But the framework of distinct social personae is nonetheless a fruitful and illuminating tool for understanding the full range of relationships he has in the play, which have not been integrated into single picture before. Panaetius appears to be the first Stoic to have talked about personae, or at any rate to have developed it in a systematic theoretical framework. But Panaetius himself appeals to the theatre for a model to explain his notion and uses a number of terms like persona and pars that are drawn from the theatre, as well as quotations from drama, including even a reference to the Eunuchus. ³⁵ The main exposition of the theory is preserved in Cicero’s de Officiis I, where it forms part of his account of decorum, or what is ‘fitting’ or ‘appropriate’ (to kathêkon).³⁶ As such, it provides guidance for the readers in deciding about the right thing to do and making the appropriate moral choice.³⁷ Panaetius distinguished four roles. The first persona is our role as rational being, in particular our ability to exhibit qualities of virtue and restraint. The second is our role as an individual with a particular history with other people and particular preoccupations, desires and aspirations. In Cicero’s summary of the

 This marks an important difference between Terence and Menander. In the latter the emphasis on ethos denotes something stable and reliable: see e. g., Wiles 2004, 24. What we find in Terence is not a single character type, but instead a diversity and multiplicity of roles.  Konstan 1983 is also interested in social roles in Roman comedy, but he does not seem to have in mind anything as specific as personae theory.  Cf. e. g. I.97, 114 and 150, which quotes Terence’s Eunuchus 257. Even if these are Ciceronian additions, they still emphasise the relevance of the theatre for Panaetius’ theory.  De Officiis I.107– 25, though much of what precedes and follows these chapters is also relevant to persona theory. On personae in rhetorical theory, see esp. Dugan 2005 and Guérin 2011. I have not found any study examining the relationship of Terence and Panaetius, but see the remarks of Dyck 1996 on the importance of officium in Plautus and Terence (5 – 6). On the question of source criticism, see Dyck 1996 and cf. Lefèvre, who believes the theory is mostly Cicero’s own.  The work was intended for the young, on which see Dyck 1996, 11.

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theory, it is clear that choices that are appropriate to the second persona will always be tailored to the distinctive features of the individual. What is right for one person may be wrong for another, and thus we should not aim to copy or imitate what someone else has done (de Off. I.111).³⁸ There are two further personae as well, one that describes our social status or position, and another that involves our choice of career or profession.³⁹ To reach the goal of decorum, one must act in a way that is appropriate both to each role separately and to the coordination of all four together. Christopher Gill has questioned to what extent Panaetius’ theory allows for any real individuality or expression of the self, suggesting that Panaetius’ discussion of the second persona is as much concerned with social norms as the other personae. ⁴⁰ But this is a false dichotomy. We should not expect Panaetius to have a romantic notion of individuality. He is simply acknowledging that many of the things that are appropriate for us depend upon highly specific and contingent features of the history and context in which we are embedded. Turning now the Eunuchus, I leave aside Chaerea’s two impersonations for the moment in order to discuss his other roles and relationships in the play, all of which describe obligations and responsibilities that stem either from his social position or profession, the sorts of things that fit Panaetius’ third and fourth personae. In I.141, Cicero sums up what he has said so far about these two personae: ⁴¹ In omni autem actione suscipienda tria sunt tenenda, primum ut appetitus rationi pareat, quo nihil est ad officia conservanda accommodatius, deinde ut animadvertatur quanta illa res sit quam efficere velimus, ut neve maior neve minor cura et opera suscipiatur quam causa postulet. Tertium est ut caveamus ut ea quae pertinent ad liberalem speciem et dignitatem moderata sint. Modus autem est optimus decus ipsum tenere, de quo ante diximus, nec progredi longius. Horum tamen trium praestantissimum est appetitum obtemperare rationi. In undertaking every action, three things must be held in mind. First, impulse must obey reason, for nothing is more helpful for protecting one’s duties than that. Then we must keep in mind what sort of thing it is which we want to achieve, so that neither more nor less care or effort is expended than what the case requires. Third, we must take care that we moderate all things that pertain to our appearance and dignity as a gentleman. The best limit is to

 See the examples of Cato’s suicide or the opposite choices of Ulysses and Ajax in de Off. I.111.  On the question of whether these are Cicero’s own additions or part of Panaetius’ original theory, see Gill 1988, Dyck 1996, and Lefèvre 2001.  Gill 1988, 176 – 8, Sorabji 2006, 160, too, comments that ‘the variability allowed is variability within the limits set by rationality and acceptable character.’  Quotations from Cic. de Off. come from Winterbottom’s OCT.

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maintain propriety, about which we’ve spoken before, but not to move beyond it. Of these three things, the most important is for impulse to submit to reason.

While it may seem as though appetitus or impulse is one of the motivating features of Chaerea’s behaviour towards Pamphila, it is in fact restraint and an awareness of his social position that characterises Chaerea’s actions with all the other characters in the play. In Chaerea’s first appearance on stage in Act II.iii, we learn that he has placed his obligations to his father and his father’s friends above his personal desires. This occurrs when Chaerea, who was pursuing the beautiful Pamphila through the market place (292– 7), gets stopped by a friend of his father’s (302– 3). The friend, an old man named Archidemides, wants Chaerea to remind his father to show up to support him in the law court the next morning. Even though Chaerea finds the man repellant (see the description of his hunched form and slobbering mouth in line 336), he stays long enough to hear the old man out. He does this grudgingly, to be sure. But the encounter with the old man, who never comes up again in the play, suggests to us early on that Chaerea can control his desires when it is a question of his obligation to his father. Terence introduces the theme of favours and duties early on in the play to characterise Chaerea as someone with an awareness of his social responsibility. In de Officiis I.124, Cicero says that someone who is a private citizen should want public affairs to be peaceful and honorable (tranquilla et honesta), and Chaerea seems to agree with this principle, even if he acknowledges how trapped it has made him feel.⁴² Because Chaerea is truly desperate over losing Pamphila, he begs Parmeno for his help (307– 10). Almost immediately after being asked to do a favour himself, he asks one of his slave. In order to ensure he gets the answer he wants, Chaerea reminds Parmeno of all the times he secretly brought food from his father’s larder to the slave’s room (307– 10).⁴³ Young men in love who plead with their slaves make up a familiar scene–type in New Comedy. Nevertheless, Terence represents Chaerea as someone who understands the language of duty and obligation from all sides. Whether he is showing respect for an elderly family friend or reminding Parmeno about their past history together, Chaerea under-

 Cf. Goldberg 1986, 114– 5 on the theme of ‘subservience’: ‘Thraso and Gnatho are subservience personified’ and ‘The willing subservience so explicit in Gnatho and Thraso thus lies just beneath the surface in other characters until it surfaces in the finale.’  Paradoxically, the description of the room’s intimacy and its physical pleasures anticipate the much darker bedroom scene in Act III.v, where secrecy and physical desire lead to violence and harm.

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stands that social relations are built upon exchange and reciprocity that stem from one’s position and status. Another case in which Chaerea shows himself to be aware of appearances and the expectations of his behaviour occurs near the middle of the play, in Act III.iv. There the sudden appearance of Chaerea’s friend Antipho in Act III. iv not only gives Chaerea the opportunity to spill the whole story about Pamphila, but to reveal to the audience another one of Chaerea’s multiple roles. He and Antipho are guards at the docks and are due at a dinner for their fellow workers that Chaerea was supposed to organise that evening (540). Antipho thinks he has forgotten, and we might well have expected the same, given the distraction caused by Chaerea’s disguise and entrance into Thais’ house. In fact, it turns out that this is not at all the case: the meal is prepared and waiting at Discus’ house.⁴⁴ The responsibility regarding his obligations may surprise us in the aftermath of the rape. But it is very much in keeping with all the other roles we have been examining. When it comes to his responsibilities in the family or to his profession, Chaerea lets nothing stand in the way. Even the humiliating fact that he is still wearing his eunuch costume and will have no time to change does not prevent him from heading towards the dinner and fulfilling his role as host. Finally, at the end of the play, the other characters have discovered the deception involving the eunuch and the rape, a bad situation made worse by the revelation that Pamphila is a citizen, not the courtesan that Chaerea took her to be (858). In seeking forgiveness from Thais, the girl’s protector and the one who know her true status, Chaerea addresses her as patrona, a remarkable name for someone who is not herself a citizen (887).⁴⁵ Here again Chaerea shows his skill at negotiation. Perhaps he is manipulating Thais in order to flatter her and get her to agree to the marriage with Pamphila, or perhaps he is showing genuine respect for Thais, who has acted very impressively in the difficult circumstances in which she has been put. Either way, however, he shows a keen awareness of his goals and preserving his appearance and dignitas. Just a little later, it is Chaerea who speaks in place of his father in arranging his own marriage (888 – 90), and in the compromise that Gnatho proposes between Thraso and Phaedria, Chaerea gives his assent before his brother Phaedria does, even though Phaedria is the one directly affected (1083, 1087– 8). This behaviour re-

 See Barsby 1999 ad 608, who suggests that the confusion over the dinner preparations result from Terence’s transformation of the scene from a monologue to a dialogue.  Hunter 1985, 89: ‘Here the reversal of roles as a non–citizen courtesan assumes the position of patrona is a very striking dramatic effect, and one which emphasises to what extent all the male characters of the Eunuchus are dependent upon her favours.’

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veals Chaerea as someone eager to grow up and take on the duties of a man of his status. In all the relationships we have just examined, Chaerea seems to understand what is ‘fitting’ or ‘appropriate.’ He behaves as a young man who recognises his duties and responsibilities: he listens to the old man in the marketplace, remembers to make the plans for the guards’ dinner, and recognises Thais’ place in the community, honouring her in a way that acknowledges her character above her social position. He plays his third and fourth personae well. Yet Terence seems at pains to juxtapose these roles with the two impulsive acts involving impersonation that are more expressive of Chaerea’s individual desires and correspond to Panaetius’ second persona. Chaerea’s disguise as the eunuch and his pretense of being like Jupiter are roles that mark Chaerea’s independence. Chaerea refuses to listen to Parmeno when the latter insists that the idea of substituting Chaerea for the eunuch was a joke, not a serious suggestion. And everything about the decision to rape Pamphila is opportunistic and impulsive. Panaetius addresses the role of desire and its power to override restraint and shame (de Off. I.122): Maxime autem haec aetas a libidinibus arcenda est exercendaque in labore patientiaque et animi et corporis, ut eorum et in bellicis et in civilibus officiis vigeat industria. Atque etiam cum relaxare animos et dare se iucunditati volent, caveant intemperantiam, meminerint verecundiae, quod erit facilius si in eiusmodi quidem rebus maiores natu nolent interesse. Especially at this age one must be protected from the passions and trained in the work and endurance of both the mind and body so that their hard work may thrive in both military and civil duties. And even when they wish to relax their minds and to give themselves up to pleasure, they should watch out for excess and be mindful of shame, which will be easier if they allow their elders to be present even in things of this sort.

But Chaerea has no sense of shame and no desire for any elder to restrict his passions. In fact what the impersonation of Jupiter suggests is his desire to be free of the sorts of obligations and restrictions that restrained him in all his other roles. In contrast to the message of his eunuch costume, which projected impotence and the lack of threat, the impulse to ‘play’ Jupiter reflects his desire for control that is not bound by obligations or ties to other people. It is not difficult to imagine what Panaetius would have said about Chaerea’s second persona, with its lack of restraint or concern for anyone else. Not only is his behaviour unethical, but it conflicts with his behaviour in other contexts, making the goal of decorum impossible. Panaetius had also advised that our individual desires should be our own and not imitations of others, and in this regard, too, Chaerea fails to meet the objective.

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Chaerea does not achieve a successful integration of his various roles. But it is important to note that Terence does not represent imitation and impersonation themselves in an entirely negative light. For Chaerea to discover both who he is and who he wants to be, he must try on another part, in fact more than one part. Playing someone else is the way to discover who you yourself are. When Chaerea insists on wearing the eunuch costume, even against Parmeno’s objection, Parmeno has to concede that Chaerea will pass easily as a eunuch because of his immature physical form (375). The costume fits. And perhaps this is why once he puts it on, Chaerea never takes it off.⁴⁶ Although it is a role adopted after the play has already begun, it remains part of his identity for the duration of the play. Throughout the drama, Chaerea has to fight against the perception people have of him as passive and subservient. Yet because he wants to see himself differently, Chaerea also impersonates another part, one inspired by imagining himself as a god. This role appeals to him for the freedom it offers, and while the role of Jupiter may seem just as much an imitation as the eunuch costume, Terence seems to suggest the very opposite. What we may think of as copies – masks, disguises, and borrowed roles – are in fact the means by which characters experiment with who they want to be. By trying on a role, they see whether it suits their individual persona, whether it allows them to express something that they have been reaching for or groping for but have not been able to express, and likewise things that they do not feel comfortable with and do not want to adopt. The Eunuchus suggests that the development of our individuality is a process of adopting and rejecting earlier roles, both in order to discover what suits us and also to modify the ways in which we are perceived by others. Even if Chaerea is not successful, the play implies that the adoption of a new persona is not merely a disguise or theatrical device, but an important means of discovery and revelation, and one with ethical implications. Terence brings to the fore the multiplicity of roles that a person has to play and the problems that stem from someone who is unable to integrate them well. Each role requires different actions as appropriate or fitting. But these do not always go together unless one has a unified character. It is easy to see how a Stoic, for whom the notion of what is appropriate or fitting is at the core of his ethics, would see Roman comedy as a rich source for reflection over how to lead a good

 See Wyles 2011, 65: ‘The closeness of the identification between a character and their semiotic representation also has implications for the dramatic impact of the removal of costume. Since costume is so tightly associated with a stage character’s identity, removing it can have a striking dramatic effect. In the most extreme cases, this removal or cancelling out of the costume can represent a kind of identity crisis for a character, or even their semiotic death on stage.’ See also the interesting remarks on role-playing and authenticity in Bartsch 2006, 220 – 2.

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life and avoid bad choices. It is not surprising that Panaetius in this setting should avail himself of theatrical notions of personae in order to develop his innovative stance on Stoic ethics.

III. Conclusions Disguise and impersonation are natural devices of comedy and are obviously tied to the nature of theatre itself and performance. But they also raises questions about identity, and cases like the Amphitruo and the Eunuchus contain puzzles about the self and identity that are similar to those discussed by philosophers, and often from roughly the same period of time. I have not argued here for actual causal influence, though influence is possible and could have worked in either direction. More important are the parallels, because they show a common interest shared by comic authors and philosophers in the notion of a divided self and the question of that self’s integrity over time and space. Hellenists working on Old and New Comedy have frequently noted the connections between comedy and philosophy, and not just where there are direct allusions. In comparison, the study of Roman comedy has not exploited this relationship as fully. But if the parallels above ring true at all, it suggests that it might be profitable to look further at Roman comedy with philosophy in mind.

Bibliography Barnes, H. E. (1957), ‘The Case of Sosia versus Sosia’, in: CJ 53, 19 – 24. Barsby, J. (1999), (ed.), Terence Eunuchus, Cambridge. Bartsch, S. (2006), The Mirror of the Self: Sexuality, Self–Knowledge and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire, Chicago. Bettini, M. (2011), The Ears of Hermes: Communication, Images, and Identity in the Classical World. Tr. William Michael Short, Columbus. Caston, R. R. (2014), ‘Reinvention in Terence’s Eunuchus’, in: TAPA 144, 41 – 71. Christenson, D. (2000), (ed.), Plautus, Amphitruo, Cambridge. Dugan, J. (2005), Making a New Man: Ciceronian Self–fashioning in the Rhetorical Works, Oxford. Dupont, F. (2001), ‘The Theatrical Significance of Duplication in Plautus’ Amphitruo’, in: E. Segal (ed.), Oxford Readings in Menander, Plautus, and Terence, Oxford, 176 – 88. Dyck, A. R. (1996), A Commentary on Cicero, De Officiis, Ann Arbor. Gill, C. (1988), ‘Personhood and Personality: The Four–Personae Theory in Cicero, De Officiis I’, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy VI, 169 – 99. Goldberg, S. M. (1986), Understanding Terence, Princeton.

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Guérin, C. (2011), Persona: l’Élaboration d’une Notion Rhétorique au Ier Siècle av. J.–C. Volume II: Theorization Cicéronienne de la Persona Oratoire, Paris. Hanchey, D. P. (2013), ‘Terence and the Scipionic Grex’, in A. Augoustakis and A. Traill, (eds.), A Companion to Terence, Malden, MA, 113 – 31. Hunter, R. L. (1985), The New Comedy of Greece & Rome, Cambridge. Hyland, P. (2011), Disguise on the Early Modern English Stage, Surrey. James, S. (1998), ‘From Boys to Men: Rape and Developing Masculinity in Terence’s Hecyra and Eunuchus’, in: Helios 25, 31 – 47. Karakasis, E. (2005), Terence and the Language of Roman Comedy, Cambridge. Kenney, E. J. (1984), (ed.), Lucretius De Rerum Natura Book III, Cambridge. Konstan, D. 1983. Roman Comedy. Ithaca. —. (2014), ‘Greek Comedy and Philosophy’, in: M. Fontaine and A. Scafuro, (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, Oxford, 278 – 97. Lefèvre, E. (2001), Panaitios’ und Ciceros Pflichtenlehre. Vom philosophischen Traktat zum politischen Lehrbuch, Stuttgart. Long, A. A. and Sedley, D. N. (1987), The Hellenistic Philosophers, vol. 1, Cambridge. McCarthy, K. (2000), Slaves, Masters, and the Art of Authority in Plautine Comedy, Princeton. Moore, T. J. (1998), The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience, Austin. Muecke. F. (1986), ‘Plautus and the Theater of Disguise’, in: CA 5, 216 – 29. Müller, R. (2013), ‘Terence in Latin Literature from the Second Century BCE to the Second Century CE’, in: A. Augoustakis and A. Traill (eds.), A Companion to Terence, Malden, MA, 363 – 79. Nédonelle, M. (1948), ‘Prosopon et Persona dans l’Antiquité Classique: Essai de Bilan Linguistique’, in: Revue des Sciences religieuses 22, 277 – 99. Parker, H. N. (1996), ‘Plautus vs. Terence: Audience and Popularity Re–Examined’, in: AJP 117, 585 – 617. Perry, J. (1975), (ed.), Personal Identity, Berkeley. Sedley, D. (1982), ‘The Stoic Criterion of Identity’, in: Phronesis 27, 255 – 75. Sharrock, A. (2009), Reading Roman Comedy: Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence, Cambridge. Slater, N. (2000), Plautus in Performance: The Theatre of the Mind, New York. Smith, L. P. (1994), ‘Audience Response to Rape: Chaerea in Terence’s Eunuchus’, in: Helios 21, 21 – 38. Sorabji, R. (1983), Time, Creation and the Continuum: Theories in Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Ithaca. —. (1988), Matter, Space, & Motion: Theories in Antiquity and Their Sequel, Ithaca. —. (2006), Self: Ancient and Modern Insights about Individuality, Life, and Death, Chicago. Victor, B. (2013), ‘History of the Text and Scholia’, in: A. Augoustakis and A. Traill, (eds.), A Companion to Terence, Malden, MA, 343 – 62. Wiles, D. (2004), The Masks of Menander: Sign and Meaning in Greek and Roman Performance, Cambridge. Warren, J. (2001), ‘Lucretian Palingenesis Recycled’, in: CQ 51, 499 – 508. Wyles, R. (2011), Costume in Greek Tragedy, London.

S. Papaioannou

Duplication and the Politics of Comic De-structure: or, Why There Need Not be Two Slaves, While There Are Two Cooks in the Aulularia ¹ Abstract: The structure of the long cook episode in Plautus’ Aulularia relies on the twofold character of the cook which in turn captures in miniature the play as a whole by viewing it in relation to the two–slave problem and the politics of ‘reactionary’ dramaturgy communicated through it. The Aulularia features two cooks because duplication and duality are the key structural tenets of the plot. The characterisation of these cooks is deliberately sketchy, vague and artless, and Plautus is using this artlessness to illustrate the structural disintegration underlying comedy as a genre. The problematic structure is amplified by the ‘awkwardness’ of the slave Strobilus portrayed as a loyal servant of two masters in antagonistic relationship. The confusion resulting from the two–slave problem and the twin–cooks episode bolsters the interpretation of the Aulularia as an anti–palliata, a play centred on the de–structuring of the ‘generically correct’ Roman Comedy, with a plot that breaks down because the characters in the play refuse to collaborate. Keywords: Plautus’ Aulularia, two–slave problem, comic cook, de–structure, genre definition.

I. Introduction: The Duality Issue The Aulularia, one of Plautus’ most popular plays,² includes slave characters of uncertain identity and mission, and the longest episode involving cooks in all of the Roman stage. The playwright introduces not one but two cooks (who come

 I would like to thank my colleague Ioannis Konstantakos for reading and commenting on earlier versions of this paper, especially on the interaction between the Plautine theatre and the tradition of Middle and New Comedy.  The Aulularia is one of Plautus’ best known and most popular plays with modern readers; the three annotated editions of the play (Westerdorp Boerma 1972; Questa 1972; and Stockert 1983), and an in–depth examination of the play in terms of the leading thematic and structural issues, Lefèvre 2001, all produced within a period of less than thirty years, attest to this.

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on stage in line 280 and make their final departure in line 459), and allows them to take control of the action for nearly one fifth of the play, or a total of one hundred and eighty lines.³ Their performance is an organic (in the traditional sense of the term) part of the play: it contributes to the peripeteia by causing the play’s protagonist, the miser Euclio, to remove a pot of gold from his house and hide it elsewhere out of fear that it will be discovered.⁴ At the same time, the manuscript tradition is very problematic regarding the presence, identity and function of a second slave in the play, a personal slave to the young adulescens Lyconides, with some manuscripts offering him a small part at the opening of Act 4 (587 ff.), at a crucial moment in the course of the play, and a name, Pythodicus, while others agree on his presence while reject the particular name, and others deny altogether his existence in the original play.⁵ Briefly, the plot of the Aulularia is as follows: Euclio, an old miser, has discovered his grandfather’s treasure thanks to the good offices of the guardian deity of the household, whom Euclio’s daughter, Phaedria, piously worships. Megadorus, a rich neighbour and a bachelor somewhat past his prime, proposes to marry Phaedria and is willing to do so even without a dowry because he supposes that Euclio and Phaedria are very poor. Phaedria, however, was raped a while ago by Megadorus’ nephew, Lyconides, and is now pregnant and about to give birth. Megadorus tends to the preparations for the wedding, and for the wedding feast has hired a troupe of caterers led by two cooks: one of these cooks invades Euclio’s house. The latter, more terrified than ever for his pot of gold, removes the treasure from the house and hides it outside the city walls. In the midst of the turmoil things get even worse for Euclio; his daughter bears a child and the pot is stolen. Fortunately the thief is Lyconides’ slave, who has been spying on the miser and has stolen the pot in revenge for an undeserved beating he received at an earlier time from the old man; in the meantime, Lyconides explains matters to his uncle, secures the consent of all concerned to his marrying the girl, and orders his slave to restore the money to Euclio, thus inviting the old miser back into the play. Led by Strobilus, Megadorus’ slave, the two cooks and their company of caterers, along with two flute–players and a supply of food, arrive on stage at line

 Cf. Lefèvre 2001, 29; Stockert 1983, 91.  The organic integration of the cooks’ performance into the plot is described in Lowe 1985, 86 – 9, and more recently in Lefèvre 2001, 29 – 33; the latter argues for a twofold contribution of the cook scene to the plot, initially in advancing the progression of the action by causing Euclio to remove the pot from his house and go off in search of a new hiding place (as Lowe also argues), and then in providing a number of different viewpoints for assessing Euclio’s character.  Full discussion of the one– or two–slave problem is offered below.

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280 (the opening of scene 2.4). The staging of a pair of cooks in collaboration is, on the available evidence, unprecedented in comedy, and it is very likely that the exchange of taunts between them at the beginning of the episode is an oblique reference to this fact.⁶ The comic cook, by definition an antagonistic character, both in the Greek tradition and in the other plays of Plautus including a cook in the plot,⁷ has competitors, not partners in his art. Integration of the cooking duo thus entails a twofold dramaturgical problem, further – and perhaps deliberately – accentuated by the presence of a slave duo, whose separate identity is in fact disputed by many on account of a very confusing manuscript tradition and of the fact that their presence is hardly justified given their inorganic role in the plot. To this day, the critical consensus is that the problematic dramaturgy of the Aulularia, which may be deliberate, is intimately connected to Quellenforschung, a complex set of questions regarding the identity of the Greek (or, according to some commentators) other, model(s) behind Plautus’ script, and the nature and extent of the reworking to which the original material was subjected.⁸ The pres-

 The model derives from the New Comedy tradition: in a number of plays a cook arrives on stage accompanied by an assistant, his slave or a disciple (e. g. Dionysius fr. 3 K.–A. [= Athenaeus D 381d], Euphron frr. 1, 10 K.–A. [fr. 10 = Athenaeus E 7d], Poseidippos fr. 28 K.–A.) or by a ‘τραπεζοποιός,’ a waiter or, literary, ‘table–setter’ (as in, e. g., Diphilos fr. 42 K.–A. and most prominently, Menander’s Aspis 233 ff.; cf. details in Dohm 1964, 89 – 90, 125 – 37; also Beroutsos 2005, 77– 9). Plautus most likely had precisely such an arrangement in mind (it is even possible that in the Greek model for the Aulularia the cook likewise appeared accompanied by an assistant, a disciple or a waiter), and elaborated it a step further by promoting the assistant to full–scale second chef. Introducing this innovation into a traditional comic pattern he brought a novel dramatic treatment to the comic cook motif.  The antagonistic side of the comic cook distinguishes the particular character already in Middle Comedy; see Wilkins 2000, passim; and Arnott 1996, 313 – 4, on a passage that features the most explicitly antagonistic speech of a comic ‘braggard cook’; the Roman comic cook draws on the characterisation of his counterpart in the Mese on this; cf. Gowers 1993, 93 ff. on the Pseudolus cook, the most fully developed cook character in the palliata, and his agon against the pimp Ballio who hired him.  The bibliography of Greek New Comedy writers surmised as having inspired the Aulularia synthesis is listed in Lefèvre 2001, 11, nn. 1– 5; the most comprehensive discussion of the Greek model for the Aulularia is in Kuiper 1940. Most of these studies argue in favour of Plautus’ having drawn on Menander (Lefèvre 2001, 11, n. 5 presents a full list), with two Menandrian plays, the Thesauros and the Dyskolos, appearing the likeliest prototypes. Of these two the former seems the stronger candidate. For Lefèvre 2001, 43 – 57, the case for the Thesauros is reinforced by the testimony of an anonymous fourth–century Latin comedy entitled Querolus, which until recently was believed to be a direct translation of the Aulularia, but is now throught to be comprised of elements drawn separately from both the Aulularia and the Thesauros; cf. Küppers 1989, for the Querolus–based argumentation (summarised in Lefèvre 2001, 48 – 50). In her introduction to the

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ent study is centred on the twofold character of the cook figure but reads the structure and performance politics of the cook episode as a restatement in miniature of the play as a whole, and views it in relation to the two–slave problem and the politics of ‘reactionary’ dramaturgy communicated through it. This assumption introduces a new perspective into the dramaturgy of the action based on the cooks’ performance. To be brief, the Aulularia features two cooks because duplication and duality are the key structural tenets of the plot. Notwithstanding the lengthy duration of their presence on the stage, the characterisation of these cooks is deliberately sketchy, vague and artless, and Plautus is using the artlessness to illustrate the structural disintegration underlying comedy as a genre. Along the same lines one should read the problem regarding the ‘awkwardness’ of Strobilus as a loyal servant of two masters in antagonistic relationship, an unprecedented role which has caused the even more awkward introduction into the play of a second slave character. Both the slave– and the cook issue are explained along the interpretation of the Aulularia as an anti–palliata. Like the Truculentus, the Aulularia centres on the de–structuring of the cut–and– dried, ‘generically correct’ Roman Comedy, but the two plays illustrate different aspects of the de–structuring; in the Aulularia the plot breaks down not because the characters actively work against the unfolding conventional structures of the palliata, as they do in the Truculentus,⁹ but because they do not work at all towards building the plot of the palliata.

II. Aulularia: An Unusual Play The idiosyncratic structure of the Aulularia is attributable to a deliberately uncoordinated deployment of two plot themes: the travails of the miser and the romantic affair between the miser’s daughter and the young nephew of the miser’s friend. The presence of two parallel but in essence loosely related plotlines is most recent edition of the Querolus, Catherine Jacquemard–Le Saos 1994, XXIV–XXXVIII, discusses the possible sources for the Querolus and its relationship both to the Aulularia and to Menander. In his discussion of the Greek model for the play, Questa 2004 draws attention to conspicuous parallels between the play and Menander’s Dyskolos. The Dyskolos obviously could not have been the principal Greek model for the Aulularia: the parallels between the two plays simply reinforce the view that the model might have been another play by Menander. On the other hand it is worth studying the argument put forward by Arnott that Alexis’ Levis could have been the model for the Aulularia: see Arnott 1996, Appendix III, pp. 859 – 64, including detailed bibliography on the possible relationship between the two plays. Also see the earlier investigations of the same issue in Arnott 1988 and 1989.  On the undoing of the conventional palliata plot in the Truculentus, see Papaioannou 2008.

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noted in the prologue to the play, specifically in lines 25 – 7, delivered by the Lar familiaris, Euclio’s household divinity: eius [sc. Phaedriae] honoris gratia feci thensaurum ut hic reperiret Euclio, quo illam facilius nuptum, si vellet, daret. It’s for her [i. e. Phaedria’s] sake I saw to it that Euclio unearthed the treasure here in order that he might marry her off more easily, if he wished so.¹⁰

This passage is at once clear and opaque: it introduces the two themes of Phaedria’s marriage and the discovery of the treasure (the pot of gold) by Phaedria’s father, and it anticipates their eventual convergence. But the phrasing has a studied vagueness to it, leaving out crucial details of the roughness that marks the interaction between the marriage plot and the discovery of the treasure. The awkwardness in the co–ordination between the two plots runs contrary to the conventions of New Comedy, which would dictate that Euclio should later offer part of the treasure as a dowry to help marry off his daughter.¹¹ In the character of the ‘Lar’ Plautus employs a peculiar conditional structure si vellet, ‘if he wished so,’ prompting the more thoughtful in his audience to ponder the actual purpose of using this construction, a counterfactual expression implying that the treasure will not be used for what is logically expected, so the plot of the play that presumably revolves around this treasure will be correspondingly unpredictable.¹² I would like to open a new interpretive perspective for assessment of the Aulularia. What if we understand lines 25 – 7 of the text at the level of metapoetics, with Euclio introduced as the potential auctor who fails

 The text of the Aulularia quoted is taken from Lindsay 1904; the translation is that of Slavitt– Bovie 1995, with adaptations.  The fact that the ending of the play has been lost makes it impossible for firm conclusions to be drawn concerning Euclio’s ultimate decisions. It seems likely that in the end he would have given part of the gold to his daughter as a dowry.  Batzer 1956, 14, summarises the puzzlement behind this peculiar conditional: ‘Sollte hier etwa ein Zuschauer bei Euclio einen Konflikt voraussehen aus dem Widerspiel von geschenkten Möglichkeiten und fehlendem Willen? Keine Situation der späteren Szenen verrät ein solches Dilemma.’ (‘Should a spectator predict a conflict in Euclio on account of the interplay of given potential and lacking will? No situation in the later scenes betrays such a dilemma’); Lefèvre 2001, 20, notes that the action in the concluding, but today lost, section of the play might have included material relevant to this dilemma. Evidence from the available fragments does not support the notion that Euclio kept the gold for himself, but the fragments are too scant to allow for any firm conclusion about the end of the play. It is therefore rather problematic to advance without caveats an interpretation of the play on the basis of such a hypothesis—particularly in light of the last line of Argumentum II.

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to fulfil the metaliterary expectations of his role? Who fails, that is, to ‘construct’ a palliata that would conform to the structural and thematic orthodoxy of the genre: a play centring on the complicated erotic relationship between his daughter and Lyconides, which Euclio would facilitate via his money. The plot could have included a ‘scheming slave’ character to aid and abet Euclio in his plans; or Euclio could himself have been the mastermind of a scheme that would enable him to display his wit as well as his money, and even advertise his talent in scriptwriting. But Euclio is so deeply obsessed with his secret possession of the pot of gold that he identifies his dramatic existence with it. He is aware of the drama around him, and interested in it, only to the extent that the action directly affects his gold. With the contraction of his role to identification with the gold, he begins to make an unscripted comic drama out of the various goings–on in his vicinity, which to his mind always threaten the exclusive relationship between him and his treasure. So the classic observation by E.J. Thomas that ‘the Aulularia stands alone among the comedies of Plautus as a character piece’¹³ is interpretable on more than one level: from a poetics–directed perspective, characterisation, i. e. the process of constructing a certain comic type (in Euclio’s case, the comic miser), is the play’s central focus, or rather one of two central foci. The second focus is the standardised erotic affair, but its treatment in this play is likewise out–of–the–ordinary. It is designed for more advanced, self–conscious reading: only through metapoetics may one understand why the Lar in lines 25 – 7 ‘explains’ that he has disclosed the pot of gold to Euclio so that the latter might properly marry off his daughter Phaedria. Dowry never emerges as a real issue throughout the play—unless of course, it was reserved for the conclusion, which has unfortunately not survived. The girl is betrothed twice to two different grooms, neither of whom faces serious challenges: Megadorus, the first groom–to–be, originally appears a confirmed bachelor but is persuaded in the course of a single scene to marry a girl whom, as it turns out, he has in any case already been thinking of marrying. He is, moreover, willing to marry her without a dowry, which is unusual. By brushing aside the dowry issue Megadorus not only transgresses a core institution of Roman social ideology¹⁴ but also apparently challenges the programmatic credibility of the Lar

 Thomas 1913, v.  Megadorus’ unusual gesture (it calls to mind Menander’s wealthy adulescens Sostratros in the Dyskolos, who also does not require a dowry as a condition for marrying Knemon’s daughter) in turn underscores Euclio’s even more unusual statement that he is not planning to give any of his gold to his daughter as a dowry. This stance on his part violates a socially established law: a girl is expected to bring a dowry to her husband, especially a poor girl who is going to marry a

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familiaris in lines 25 – 7 vis–à–vis the putative narrative purpose of the pot of gold. But a more attentive reader will note that in lines 29 – 30 the Lar mentions the dowry in connection with Phaedria’s marriage to the adulescens Lyconides, not to Megadorus. The implication of this is that the Lar’s dowry prediction may retain its validity, particularly given the information of Argumentum II 9 (ab eo [Euclio] donator auro, uxore et filio, ‘he [sc. Lyconides] gains from him [Euclio] the gold, a wife and a son’). The jury is still out, pending the resurfacing of the lost conclusion. Nevertheless, generally accepted views on the impossibility of changing one’s own inborn character in old age would argue against Euclio having ceased to be a miser and parting willingly with his gold.¹⁵ And if the old miser did, after all, hand over some of his gold, he must have done so grudgingly and most likely under the pressure of events.¹⁶ But, as already noted, in the currently existing text there is no mention prior to the conclusion of the play of the dowry issue in relation to the pot of gold, though the topic of marriage between two parties of what is to all appearances dramatically different financial standing is the core theme throughout. Of similarly comic unexpectedness is the fact that the nephew of Megadorus and the play’s adulescens, Lyconides, who ultimately marries Phaedria, reveals in the course of the play not only that he has earlier raped and impregnated groom of higher social rank (as is the case with Megadorus). Otherwise she runs the risk of being seen more as a concubine than as a lawfully wedded wife. Plautus says this explicitly in Trinummus 689 – 91. For more on the importance of dowry in the New Comedy for the maintenance of a bride’s social position in the marriage, in accordance with the Athens–based social context it reflected, see, e. g., Lipsius 1966, 472; Erdmann 1934, 303; Lacey 1968, 109.  According to Aristotle, EN Δ 1 1121b12 miserliness is both incurable and more of an innate characteristic of men (than is prodigality). It is incurable because of the advanced age and possible disability of the miser: Ἡ δ’ ἀνελευθερία ἀνίατός τ’ ἐστίν (δοκεῖ γὰρ τὸ γῆρας καὶ πᾶσα ἀδυναμία ἀνελευθέρους ποιεῖν) καὶ συμφυέστερον τοῖς ἀνθρώποις τῆς ἀσωτίας; cf. also Aristotle Rhet. B 13 1389b28; cf. the reasoned philosophical analysis of the comic miser’s character in Marcovich 1977, esp. 197– 204.  E.g. Marcovich 1977, 203: ‘We can only guess … about what moved him to give the pot of gold (or at least half of it) to Lyconides as the dowry of his daughter… The most natural reason seems… to be the simple fact that Lyconides had returned the gold to Euclio… Since the recovery of the gold through Lyconides (Arg. II 8 illic Euclioni rem refert) and Phaedria’s betrothal to the latter coincide in time, the most likely assumption seems to be that Euclio now realises his obligation to give a dowry to his daughter and, at the same time, to fulfill his promise to Lyconides (767) by rewarding him.’ This however does not take into account the fact that Euclio’s promise (767 dimidiam tecum potius partem dividiam, ‘I might even split it and let you keep a half’) was not a wholehearted one, and that it was made impulsively and reflexively in his eagerness to retrieve the gold first—it might reasonably be argued that Euclio was taken by surprise when Lyconides asked to marry Euclio’s daughter, and that it was in the confusion of the moment that he made the generous gesture.

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the girl, a typical plot denouement in the Greek New and Roman comedies, but also that he is in love with her (603), also a typical motif inherited by New Comedy. Menander’s Moschion, the adulescens and perpetrator of rape under similar circumstances in the Samia, readily comes to mind, as does the unnamed adulescens in Menander’s Georgos. In Moschion’s case, actually, so serious are the intentions of marriage that he sends his slave to carry out a reconnaissance of the wedding preparations and report back to him. Compounding the surprise, no explanation is ever offered for Lyconides’ sudden forwardness at that particular moment and not earlier, and it is worthy of note that the proverbial lack of money that inhibited the union of the New Comedy adulescens amans with his beloved is never made an issue of concern in the case of Megadorus’ young nephew in the Aulularia. It may be useful, for the purpose of coming to a better understanding of Plautus’ mind at work in the Aulularia as he revises the entrenched conventions of comic dramaturgy, to undertake a brief review of elementary narratological terminology. According to Plato (Republic III) and Aristotle (Poetics), a comic play is a piece of ‘mimetic narrative’—as opposed to ‘diegetic narrative’ which is based on narration rather than imitation and is characteristic of the novel and/or epic. A narrative, diegetic or mimetic, is anything that tells a story. A story is a chronological sequence of actions (intentional acts) and events (accidental, unplanned occurrences) enacted by characters, and describing what happened. An episode is a group of two or more interconnected actions. There can be no equating of a story and a plot: a plot is the logical and causal structure of a story, describing why whatever happened in the story actually happened. A discourse, diegetic or dramatic/mimetic, defined as the sequence of episodes linked purely on the basis of order in the narrative, tells a story when these serially ordered episodes follow a chronological sequence, but does not necessarily have a plot, which would require that the story be structured in terms of cause and effect.¹⁷ The Aulularia does not elaborate a successful narrative because even though it tells a story it lacks a unified plot. The two plotlines, one centred on Euclio’s anxiety to keep the existence of the gold an exclusive secret, the other centred on the marriage of Phaedria, intersect only tangentially. They do not

 This study takes a more general theoretical position on the definition of narrative (and the concepts that develop around this definition, accordingly) as anything that tells a story, in whatever genre, as argued, among others, by Barthes 1975 [1966]; Chatman 1990; Bal 1985. Genette and several others categorise as narratives only verbally narrated texts; cf. Genette 1988 [1983], 17.

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come together. There is no synthesis between them.¹⁸ What causes the rapprochement between the two plots is the studied ‘awkwardness’ of the servus Strobilus.

III. The One- or Two-Slave-(Non)-Problem Since the editio Aldina (of 1522) critics have been divided on whether to accept the presence of a single slave throughout the play or whether to follow the (problematic) manuscript tradition that introduces a second slave at the opening of Act 4 (587 ff.), thereafter replacing Strobilus as the play’s servus. ¹⁹ In a typical Roman comedy narrative Strobilus would normally act out the part of the callidus servus,²⁰ the character identified with Plautus’ comic genius and testifying to the authenticity of the Roman comic genre.²¹ In the Aulularia, by contrast, the

 Questa 2004 argues that the play has one plot with two elements, rape and theft, and offers a neat explanation of the parallelism between the two. What he fails to do, however, is to attach due importance to Euclio’s isolation, which is articulated in a series of direct interactions between the miser and the audience in the course of which a rationale different from the one prevailing on stage is put forward.  Lindsay 1904 believes that there are two different slaves in the play but disagrees with the manuscripts on the names of these slaves. Because of the anomalous situation of Strobilus being the slave of both Megadorus and Lyconides, Lindsay retains the name ‘Strobilus’ for Megadorus’ slave and does not give a name to the slave entering at 587 ff. He calls him Lyconidis Servus; Leo, by contrast, accepts the manuscript tradition. In the modern era the two–slave hypothesis was first developed by Köpke in the introduction to his translation of the Aulularia 1809, 7; for detailed discussions on the problem of the two slaves in the Aulularia, cf. Ludwig 1961; Bader 1970, 112– 6; Lange 1973; Marcovich 1977, 212– 6. The last–mentioned writer has produced the most sensible argument in favour of a two–slave theory; and he believes that Lyconides’ slave should be called ‘Strobilus’ on account of the speed with which he stole the gold from Euclio’s house. There are also discussions of the two–slave problem in Hunter 1981, 40 – 1; Stockert 1983, 16 – 8, 21; and Lefèvre 2001, 26 – 9. Lefèvre argues that a single slave, the so–called Strobilus in the manuscripts, serves both Megadorus and Lyconides.  The first literary attestation of the term servus callidus in its technical meaning of the specific stock comic character is in Quintilian Inst. 11.3.178, and the term is also to be found in Apuleius, Flor. 16, in a similar context (lists of stock characters). This suggests that the appellation had by then become well established; cf. Moore 1998, 208, n. 27; notable examples of comic slaves in the palliata who refer to themselves or others, as ‘callidi’ are to be found in Plautus Amph. 268 and Terence Eun. 1011.  Apart from in the Aulularia, there are ‘cunning–slave’–type characters (typically in the role of a servus or a parasitus) in most of Plautus’ surviving plays. They are as a general rule consciously involved in formulation of the metaplot. In ten of the plays in question (including the Curculio) a deception improvised by the ‘cunning slave’ character is at the heart of the plot.

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prescripts of the comic genre are not observed. The catalytic services of a ‘cunning slave’ are not required, with the result that Strobilus, the ironically and deceptively named ‘twister’ or ‘whirlwind,’ ends up performing a role that is deliberately ill–developed and fragmented and hardly in accord with the callidus servus model established on the Plautine stage in such performances as that of Palaestrio in the Miles Gloriosus, Pseudolus in the Pseudolus or even Tranio in the Mostellaria. ²² Strobilus’ claims to being needed in the play are tenuous at best: by means of a few jokes and double entendres he familiarises the two cooks who have just made their first entrance onstage (at 280 ff.) with the odd situation of the awkwardly planned wedding.²³ And shortly before the end of Act 2, at 370, Strobilus exits the play without any indication that he will not be coming back. His last words onstage at 363 – 70 are attributed by some manuscripts to a certain Pythodicus, who is not mentioned again in the rest of the play.²⁴ The contribution of Lyconides’ slave, who in Lindsay’s text in the last two acts assumes Strobilus’ role as the servus callidus of the play, only succeeds in making even more conspicuous the absence of actual mission or other meaningful thematic integration that had been underscored by Strobilus’ problematic presence onstage in the earlier part of the play. Lyconides servus, assuming that For the development of the servus callidus as a distinct Plautine character, see Fraenkel 2007, 159 – 72 and Anderson 1993, 88 – 106.  Another interesting case of a famous servus callidus is Tranio in the Mostellaria. Tranio’s plotting is not directly linked to the principal theme of the play, the undoing of a young man in love. That much is made clear very early in the play (84 ff.) by the adulescens amans himself. Tranio simply plays the archetypal ‘cunning slave,’ displaying a narrow range of behaviours centred on manipulation and ridicule of his master, the play’s senex. But there is still some logic and a causal sequence of actions in Tranio’s role. It is part of a plot, unlike the performance of Strobilus, which is frequently lacking in causality, comprised of events (accidental occurrences) rather than actions (premeditated initiatives).  Cf. Lefèvre 2001, 69: ‘[scene] II 7 ist ein Musterbeispiel für den diskontinuierlichen Charakter der plautinischen Dramaturgie’ (‘II.7 is a paradigmatic example of the discontinuous character of Plautine dramarurgy’); critics (the most important of them are noted in Lefèvre 2001, 69) mostly consider scene 2.7, in whole or in parts, a Plautine invention, a statement of auctorial creativity and independence. Other scholars (mostly earlier) tried to reconcile the artless performance of Strobilus with accommodation of Pythodicus as an actual character in the play. They thus called Megadorus’ slave in Act 2 (ll. 280 ff.) Pythodicus and reserved the name of Strobilus for the character who enters at line 587 (the opening of Act 4), whom Lindsay calls Lyconides servus.  As Lefèvre 2001, 68, aptly puts it, Strobilus’ departing monologue from the content viewpoint fulfils no function at all. This accords with the consensus among Plautus’ critics. In the most recent discussion of the Pythodicus case, Questa 2004 merely says that at II.7 Strobilus is mentioned in error instead of Pythodicus. He offers no further comment on an issue that is clearly more complex, and therefore contributes little to the discussion.

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he is a different character from Strobilus, likewise appears onstage without any prescribed role,²⁵ eventually finding a mission in the play only on the strength of his accidental discovery of Euclio’s hiding place for the gold, which he steals so as to be able to hand it over to his young master. Lyconides in turn deploys it (presumably in the missing last act of the play) in bargaining with Euclio for permission to marry Phaedria. But it is more likely that Strobilus and Lyconides servus are one and the same person. The most convincing proof for the independent existence of Lyconides’ slave in the last two Acts of the play is to be found as early as his entry monologue, in lines 603 f., where he contrasts Megadorus with his master: Nam erus meus amat filiam huius Euclionis pauperis: / eam ero nunc renuntiatum est nuptum huic Megadoro dari (‘for my master loves the daughter of that pauper man, Euclio, over here; now it has been announced that she is to be given in marriage to Megadorus over there’).²⁶ The demonstratives in lines 603 – 4 are the sole substantiation for the idea that Lyconides servus and Strobilus are two different people. Strobilus may after all have been Lyconides’ slave all along (i. e. from the beginning of the play) without this status being supported by legal ownership. Strobilus could be the loyal slave of the young adulescens although legally owned by Megadorus; that would be a possible explanation for why in the course of his ninety–odd lines on stage in Act 2, in his conversation with the cooks, he never once refers to Megadorus as his master but repeatedly refers to the household of Megadorus as ‘our household’ (ad nos 334; apud nos magna… familia est 342). Lyconides’ not living in the same house as Megadorus would not mean that his trusted slave could not still belong to Megadorus or regard Megadorus and Lyconides as members of a single familia: in our play Lyconides is legally independent—that is to say, over 18, the age at which young Athenian males attained their majority and became their own kyrioi. On the other hand his mother, the widowed Eunomia, would be expected to continue to live with her brother Megadorus, her closest kin and very likely also her legal guardian. It was typical in Athens for fatherless children to live with their mother

 Menander’s Dyskolos records a similar case: Sostratos describes his slave Getas as cunning and crafty, expecting that Getas will assist him in his love troubles (181– 5). But Getas does not come up with any plan, and though Sostratos succeeds in marrying the girl he loves, he does so only by virtue of a series of coincidences, unrelated to any planned effort. So Menander, it seems, tricks his audience into expecting that Getas will act out the prototypical role of the cunning slave charged with improvising the plan that will bring about resolution of the plot. As it turns out, Getas plays a very small role with almost no participation in the action—very similar to the role of Strobilus in the Aulularia.  See the full argument in Marcovich 1977, 212– 6.

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and grow up in the household of their maternal grandfather and uncles, even if under Athenian law they legally belonged to the family of the deceased father.²⁷ Ample cases are recorded in epigraphic and literary sources from Athens and the rest of the Hellenic world documenting the close relationship between the maternal uncle and his nephew: the philosopher Steusippos succeeded his maternal uncle Plato as head of the Academy (Plut. Moralia 10D; Plut. Moralia 491F– 492 A; Diog. Laert. 3.4); Theomnestos, in Demosthenes’ Against Neaera, related how he was reproached for not seeking vengeance for the injuries done to his sister’s children (Dem. 59.12); Diodorus writes that in the laws of Charondas, the famous Sicilian legislator of the archaic era, the education and upbringing of children who had lost their father were entrusted to the mother’s family, irrespectively of the arrangements made for administration of the estate, where it was the father’s family that would assume the relevant responsibilities (Diod. Sic. 12.15); in Isaeus 1.15, the speaker relates that after the death of their legal guardian he and his brother were taken into the house of their maternal uncle, who educated them.²⁸ In short, it would be quite possible for Strobilus to consider himself the personal, trusted servus of Lyconides while legally belonging to Megadorus, because Lyconides grew up in the household of Megadorus. Strobilus has a different master for each of the two halves of the Aulularia: in the first half his task is to carry out the instructions of his actual master, Megadorus; in the latter half he obeys the commands of Lyconides. In both halves he assists each man in their respective preparations to marry… the same bride. It is precisely this common mission that justifies Strobilus’ role in the play and makes the situation so extraordinary: in no other palliata does the same slave willingly involve himself in serving two masters who are separately pursuing the same goal. In the end it hardly affects the flow of the narrative whether there are two distinct slaves or only one slave in the play because it really does not matter. The point is to generate confusion and induce the audience to try to untangle the play’s fragmented plot. The plot–lessness is epitomised in the ambiguity that pervades Strobilus’ comic performance.

 See MacDowell 1978, 88 – 9.  For additional examples, both mythological and historical, as well as a comprehensive bibliography on the close relationship between maternal uncles and nephews, see Bremmer 1983; for more on the lifelong close relationship between brother and sister in classical Athens, see Golden 1990, 114– 35.

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IV. Plotlessness Dramatised: Two Cooks on a Mission The play’s two main structural principles, discontinuity and duality, are fully dramatised, or more correctly dramatically caricatured, in the episode of the cooks, where two characters are involved independently in impromptu acts of a farcical nature. In the Aulularia the cooks embody authorial initiatives and meta–drama. They enter the stage in an impressive thiasos–like procession, accompanied by flute–players and loaded with provisions (280 – 2; 291 opsoni; 295 opsonari). This play has no metapoetical auctor figure or set of figures. The cooks’ performance, as will presently be shown, is illustrative of the absence of discourse in the narration. It projects a clinically precise picture of Euclio which helps the second–degree audience (the spectators, as they reflect on it afterwards, and the readers living in another era altogether) to understand why this plotless play would be judged a success: what is stressed from beginning to end is Euclio’s rapport with the audience. Strengthening rapport between the actors onstage and the audience affects the audience’s critical objectivity. The rapport between Euclio and the audience is supposed to serve a dual purpose, at one level dissociating Euclio’s plan to keep the gold for himself from the issue of his daughter’s marriage and linking it to the image of the miser and his social alienation.²⁹ That the social alienation ultimately becomes dramatic alienation is never a source of particular concern for Plautus³⁰ because it helps to keep the miser well away from the marriage theme, which in accordance with the generic conventions of Roman comedy must be the central focus. And it does this until the very end of the play, even

 For more detail on Euclio’s social isolation, that is to say his self–imposed exile from the community to which he belongs in consequence of his obsession with the gold, see foremost Konstan 1983, 33 – 46; id. 2001, 137– 8.  As argued by Moore 1998, 43 – 7, who links Euclio’s social alienation (expressed, at the dramatic level, as alienation from all other characters onstage) to his avaricious obsession with the gold; Moore observes that as long as Euclio is in possession of the gold his relationship with the audience is intimate, as evidenced from the amplitude of monologues and asides, but when the gold is stolen Euclio is forced to reintegrate himself dramatically/socially at the expense of his rapport with the audience. Moore’s theory nevertheless fails to provide satisfactory contextualisation for Euclio’s direct appeal to the audience at the exact moment he discovers that his gold has been stolen; indeed upon becoming aware of the theft, in an excited monologue (713 ff.) Euclio asks the audience, or a section of the audience, for assistance, accuses them of the theft, opens an imaginary dialogue with them, all in all makes even closer his already close interaction with them.

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though towards the closing section the gold disappears out of Euclio’s possession and its existence becomes not an exclusive secret but common knowledge. At a second level the interaction between spectators and the protagonist is conducive to immediacy and undoubtedly introduces it into the acting: the closer to the spectators are the actors and the more intimately involved in the drama, the less comprehensive, objective and acute their assessment of the play. Close rapport induces a quasi–haptic perspective, a perceived intimacy that privileges detail, punching through the uniform texture of the dramatised narration. It is the polar opposite of the bird’s–eye view that scans and monitors the picture as a whole, instantly identifying jumps in the logical sequence of the narration.³¹ The simultaneous presence onstage of the two cooks is a case study in fragmentation:³² it is dispersed over nine scenes (2.4– 3.3), the longest being 45 lines in duration; in total it occupies two half acts. Strobilus draws attention to the fragmentation in lines 280 – 2, where he welcomes the culinary duo and their attendants onstage and announces that everything will now be divided in two: edixit mihi / ut dispartirem opsonium hic bifariam (‘he [Euclio] decreed that I should split the shopping here in two parts’ [281 f.]). The two cooks react to this without hesitation, one after the other. In their respective comments they toy with the theme of division: lines 283 – 8 introduce two back–to–back, obscene,³³ hence stylistically powerful puns around the word dividere, which linger in the memory. There is recurring use of vocabulary denoting division (e. g. dimidium 291, 293–twice) and fragmentation. Verbal obscenity is typically Plautine. Inspired by the improvisatory Atellana,³⁴ it introduces impromptu narration as a key structural parameter for projecting an actor’s un–scripted initiative rather than authorial direction. In the Aulularia, the typically farcical ending of the scene, in lines 321– 6, features authentic–sounding street–talk³⁵ and brings back the element of surprise, the unpredicted and the un–scripted, that are foreshad-

 Primarily a term of art history theory, hapticity or tactile vision, which penetrates in depth and identifies vision with interpretation, as well as its opposite, opticity or optical vision, which merely brushes the surface of things and is interested simply in recognisance rather than reconnaissance, are nowadays often applied to the study of literary texts and dramatised narratives—films primarily—which combine image and narrative, but also theatrical productions. A good introduction on the history of the term and its employment in theoretical analysis across disciplines is Gandelman 1991.  Only one study so far, Klinger 1956, has been exclusively devoted to the cook episode, and that is now half a century old. Klinger is primarily concerned with identifying evidence that would help clarify the literary origins of the Aulularia, possibly in some Greek model.  Lowe 1985, 88; Lefèvre 2001, 66 – 7.  See Höttemann 1993, 106, mentioned in Lefèvre 2001, 67, n. 111.  Lefèvre 2001, 66; Lowe 1985, 88; and earlier, Dohm 1964, 244; Krieger 1914, 25, n. 1.

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owed in the opening exchange of abuse. The characterisation of the miser that is interpolated (lines 296 – 320), in all respects a self–contained unit,³⁶ emphasises his self–imposed exclusion from the environment of the plot, projecting the subject of alienation from the main action as a theme in and of itself. The arrival of the two cooks at the same time sets in motion the second plot theme of the play, the marriage of Euclio’s daughter: the two men have been summoned to prepare the wedding banquet for the union of Megadorus and Phaedria. It is worth noticing the retreat in the presentation of the wedding plan: even though the conception, development and enactment of Megadorus’ plan to marry Phaedria has been enacted step–by–step before the audience (scenes 2.1– 2.3), the cooks receive from Strobilus, succinctly but in full detail, their briefing on the wedding plot and an explanation for why they are being assigned separate cooking missions (287– 95). Preparations for wedding banquets were the task that originally motivated the inclusion of a mageiros in New Comedy, so that Congrio, the ‘Eel,’ and Anthrax, the ‘Coal,’ have in effect come in expectation of acting out their stereotypical role and upholding dramatic convention.³⁷ But, as through the catalyst of their presence onstage, the miserli-

 Note the abrupt change of subject in Strobilus’ speech as he wraps up his description of Euclio’s stinginess (l. 320) and switches to taunting the cooks (l. 321).  In contrast to the situation with Old Comedy, where the cook played the leading role in preparation, conduct and enjoyment of the feast (which was usually part of a community festival, involving animal sacrifice), in New Comedy the dominant mageiros evolves into a stock character with a stage performance that is tied specifically to the culinary preparations for a wedding banquet, the celebration of the marriage that closes a typical New Comedy plot; cf. Wilkins 2000, 380, whence the quote. Also see Nesselrath 1990, 297. The names of the cooks reflect their profession: ‘Congrio’ has associations with food (the word being Latin for the Greek γόγγρος, ‘conger–eel’); ‘Anthrax’ suggests the fuel that enables the food to be cooked (‘Coal’). Congrio’s name also brings to mind specific and distinctive characteristics of the Greek comic mageiros. In antiquity the eel was a famed delicacy. In Greek comic literature eels are closely identified with sumptuous dining. A certain digression in Athenaios concerning the alazoneia (arrogance) of cooks—accompanied by a series of comic fragments enlisted to corroborate this view— is embedded in the middle of a lengthier dissertation on γὸγγροι, or conger–eels (7.288c– 293 f). For Wilkins this amounts to an association, albeit indirect, between conger–eels and the arrogance of cooks. (Wilkins 2000, 409: ‘the alazoneia of the mageiros is introduced [in the Deipnosophists] in Book 7 in the section on the eel, one of the favoured ingredients of the mageiros’). Still, when Wilkins speaks of γόγγροι he does not mean eels in general because conger–eels or congers live in the open sea and are not to be equated with ἐγχέλεις, the eels that live in lakes. One such type of eel was the famous eel of Copais, a characteristic delicacy much sought after by the wealthy and by lovers of fine food in antiquity, as may be inferred from Aristophanes (Acharnians 880). Aristophanes asserted that the desirability of Copais eels made them comparable to women (cf. Wilkins 2000, 36 – 8, 160). Congrio’s name accordingly brings to mind conger–eels and through its reminder of these eels’ reputation of being a luxury food

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ness of old Euclio is gradually exposed, the two independently developing themes of the Aulularia begin to interfuse. The interfusion is sealed through clever wordplay that chiastically pairs the etymologies of the cooks’ names with their respective areas of professional activity. Congrio fiddles about with fire in line 359 (Volcano studes, ‘you are much too fond of Vulcan’); Anthrax, in line 399, orders his assistant to hurry up and finish boning an eel and a lamprey (congrum murenam exdorsua quantum potest, ‘remove the backbone from the conger–eel and the lamprey as quickly as possible’).³⁸ Congrio and Anthrax have never met Euclio before and are only indirectly implicated in the miser’s lurid exposure. They react (with wonderment, admiration, amazement, puzzlement) to a series of brief but hilarious anecdotes centred on Euclio and exposing some telling instances of his miserly conduct (299 – 303; 304– 6; 307– 8; 309 – 13; 315 – 9). And, as is noted at the end of the list (Aul. 320), these represent only a small selection: sescenta sunt quae memorem, si sit otium, ‘there are hundreds of things I could relate to you, if I had time on my hands.’ The effect of Strobilus’ eagerness to recount endless instances of Euclio’s stinginess is that the portrait of the old man’s character that finally emerges is a distinctly personalised one. The elaboration of the miser’s character that may be noted as the plot of the Aulularia unfolds could almost be said to constitute a plotline in its own right. Strobilus’ speech on Euclio’s character is a recapitulation of earlier observations originally made in the programmatic prologue to the play by the extra–diegetic Lar familiaris. As early as lines 21– 2 Euclio’s parsimoniousness is introduced as if it is the play’s self–evident principal thematic thread: it is deemed a pathological inherited trait of the protagonist, for both his father and grandfather before him were notoriously stingy and it was his grandfather that originally amassed the gold and hid it in the house in a pot. But fifty–five lines later it transpires that Euclio’s elderly female servant, Staphyla, who usually pays little attention to her master, has just discovered the treasure in the yard. She gives a detailed account of Euclio’s extreme agitation, which she characterises as insanfocuses attention on Congrio’s lack of skill in cooking (or lack of opportunity to cook) them properly. The name also embodies a self–conscious pun whereby Plautus satirises the barbarous, uncouth dining habits of the Romans: Congrio is unaccustomed to cooking food for lovers of fine food—gourmets—either because there are no gourmets among the Romans or because the Romans cannot tell the difference between an eel and a conger. For more on the fattiness of eels as an occasion for jokes see n. 38 below. Some also see word play in Anthrax’s name, suggesting as it does the coal–like texture of burnt food, implying that the man is a bad cook and always burns what he cooks. But the reference (according to Paratore 1976, 253) may also be to his skin colour; cf. Lefèvre 2001, 151 with n. 67.  This ingenious chiasmus is commented upon in Lefèvre 2001, 151.

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ity, expressing sincere concern about it: (cf. 67– 9; 71 noenum mecastor quid ego ero dicam meo / malae rei evenisse quamve insaniam / queo comminisci; […] nescio pol quae illunc hominem intemperiae tenent, ‘Mercy me! What’s come over master, what crazy streak he’s got, I can’t imagine; […] Goodness gracious, what whim–whams the man’s got in his head I don’t see’). Staphyla’s testimony injects new elements that contribute to transforming the uncomplicated actions and reactions of a pathological miser into a situational comedy, imbued however with elements of suspense that centre on the uncontrolled, indeed explosive, behaviour of the miser when possessed by his passion. The gradual disclosure of new information concerning Euclio’s character sets the pattern, and the pace, for the final denouement, when the persona of the old man disintegrates under the pressure of events. The broad spectrum of reactions to which he gives expression at this point emerges as key element of the plot. Reintroduction of the duality theme, twice, along with entertaining elaboration of the stock motif of thievish cooks, followed by further description of Euclio’s miserly habits, all help to set the scene for a smooth transition from scene 2.4 to 2.5, against a spirited backdrop of scurrilous jokes and sly double–entendres. Anthrax’s hasty departure suggests that his role is now redundant in terms of dramatic economy, but it triggers new divisions because he takes with him off the stage exactly half the theatrical troupe, along with its attendant paraphernalia. The lamb and the flute player, i. e. the food and the music, also leave at this point, and they of course form the core of a wedding celebration. Shortly after Strobilus’ derisive characterisation of Euclio (296 – 320) and the brief exchange of abuse between the two cooks (321– 6), the wedding theme returns, to become the central focus of the next twenty–three lines (327– 49) of dialogue that comprise scene 2.5. The shrewd double entendres in successive scenes (339 – 49) of Strobilus’ second long speech, in which he comments on the lamentable state of Euclio’s household in terms of the food, utensils and accessories necessary for preparing a banquet,³⁹ all comprise a spirited  The linking of the fat lamb and the fat lady flute–player surely acquires added comic effect from being contrasted with the spartan appearance of Euclio’s household, which the tableau in the background depicting the house of the miser presumably reproduces with due accuracy; cf. Lefèvre 2001, 150 – 1, nn. 64– 5, where there is a list of earlier critics who have drawn attention to the amusement aroused by the ‘fat flute ladies’ onstage (they assume them to have been just that: fat). The appointment of Congrio rather than Anthrax to Euclio’s kitchen may well have heightened the comic effect even further, for eels were regarded as a delicacy precisely on account of their fatty texture. Scholars both earlier and later justify the etymology of the two cooks’ names in terms of a fat vs skinny gag, with Congrio the corpulent partner and Anthrax his scrawny offsider, and with the former characteristically bullying the latters; cf. Dziatzko 1882, 270, n. 1; Questa 1972, 69 (both studies listed in Lefèvre 2001, 151, n. 68).

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riposte to Congrio’s renewed, and rather desperate sounding, comments on the miser and his ways. They simultaneously imply that a plot centring on a miser and the story of a wedding are by their nature mutually exclusive. The two independent plotlines, in other words, acknowledge each other but refuse to merge. In the same way, from the perspective of metapoetics, the repeated ridiculing (344 – 5; 348 – 9) of Congrio because of his inability to steal anything from Euclio, precisely because there is nothing in the miser’s house worth taking, represents a caricaturing of stock features of the mageiros in Old and Middle Comedy, which subsequently becomes the most characteristic jibe about cooks in New and Roman Comedy.⁴⁰ Finally, Congrio’s forebodings at 339 ff. that his assignment to cook for Euclio augurs badly for him are confirmed when in scene 3.1 the poor cook takes a beating at the hands of the furious Euclio who mistakenly assumes that Congrio is after the pot of treasure. Indeed, lamenting over his misfortune at being required to cook for a pauper (usque ad ravim poscam prius / quam quicquam detur, ‘I shall make myself hoarse with asking before getting a thing’), Congrio in 336 ff. more or less foreshadows what is destined to occur a few lines later when he will be requesting something (a pot) and requiring that he be given it before providing his services. Old Euclio administers a thrashing so violent that Congrio will liken it to a full–scale assault by the Bacchae (406 – 12a): attatae! cives, populares, incolae, accolae, advenae omnes, date viam qua fugere liceat, facite totae plateae pateant. neque ego umquam nisi hodie ad Bacchas veni in bacchanal conquinatum, ita me miserum et meos discipulos fustibus male contuderunt. totus doleo atque oppido perii, ita me iste habuit senex gymnasium; attat perii hercle ego miser, aperit bacchanal, adest, sequitur. scio quam rem geram: hoc ipsus magister me docuit. Help! Citizens, natives and residents, neighbours and foreigners, everybody—stay back and clear the way for me to flee! Make all the streets wide open! Never in my life have I prepared a meal for the Bacchantes at a bacchants’ lair. How they pounded me and my assistants with their clubs! Now I’m one big ache! I’m utterly dead! The way the old man took me for a punching bag! Help! God, save poor me! I’m done for! He’s opening the lair; he’s right here; he’s after me! I know what I’ll do; my master himself had taught me this.

 The Greek poets already have taken advantage of the metatheatrical possibilities offered by this motif; cf. Adesp. Com. 1093.221 ff. K.–A.—a papyrus fragment from an unidentified comedy, where—strikingly—a slave is mentioned whose name is Strobilos!

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The parallelism between the senex and the bacchants recapitulates the profiling of Euclio in the prologue, and specifically recalls Staphyla’s description in lines 67– 73 of how her master’s obsession with his newfound gold caused him to behave with the uncontrolled frenzy of a bacchant. The viewpoint she articulates is likewise echoed by Strobilus in his speech in scene 2.4 in which he lists, as noted, a number of incidents apparently confirming the diagnosis of congenital miserliness in Euclio. It is a claim also put forward by the Lar in the prologue (lines 21– 3). The cook episode thus amounts to a restatement of one of the play’s central themes: Euclio’s dual character, as first outlined in the informative introduction. The subject is touched upon yet again, for a third and last time, in Aul. 642, when Strobilus, who has been spying on Euclio and his endeavours to find a safe hiding–place for his treasure, finally comes to the conclusion that larvae hunc atque intemperiae insaniae agitant senem, ‘ghosts, along with madness and insanity are driving this man crazy.’ Instead of subjecting the man to criticism from two different directions, the playwright through Strobilus’ statement combines together the two separate assessments in a single laconic phrase. Given the graphic description in scene 2.4 of Euclio’s innate miserliness, remarks formulated as part of Strobilus’ earlier attempt to explain the old man’s irrational behaviour—the assessment articulated by the slave in line 642, that Euclio’s obsessive manners are due rather to an attack of insanity or a visitation by supernatural forces—neatly synthesises the two views, resolving the characterisation problem. Meanwhile, from the angle of poetics, the escalating suspense in the way the old man is portrayed injects into the drama the Aristotelian structural element required to lend credibility to the description of Euclio’s character and to its adoption as one of the two key elements in the plot.⁴¹ At first reading the encounter with Staphyla in scene 2.6 appears to contribute little to the play’s dual plot, unless one interprets Congrio’s jocular reference to the use of the roof–beams of Euclio’s house as firewood for the cooking (357– 61) as obliquely related to Euclio’s strict order to Staphyla that she should extinguish the fire in the hearth lest some stranger come in asking to borrow a light

 The argument advanced above tends to confirm the hypothesis that Megadorus and Lyconides put forward, elaborating as it does another approach to arriving at dramatic unity. As noted earlier, in addition to serving, however ineffectively, the two grooms and their respective plots, the slave acts as a link between the two marriage scenarios. The same slave’s involvement with the play’s second thematic motif, namely the unfolding revelation of the character of Euclio, suggests that there is a crucial common denominator between these two key elements in the play. The manuscript problem centred on the identity of the servus character in Acts 5 and 6 needs to be examined anew in the light of this insight. There is a full discussion with comprehensive references in Stockert 1983, 16 – 8 (esp. n. 2).

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(91– 2). This order reflects the old man’s anxiety about the treasure, and is not entirely unconnected with the fire: the fireplace was the place of concealment his grandfather had chosen for the treasure in the first place (lines 7– 8), and it was indeed there that Euclio himself had discovered the pot. But by ordering that the hearth be extinguished Euclio was in fact violating a central institution of Roman civic and social life that prescribed that the hearth be kept perennially lit as token of involvement in the life of the community and society. His extinguished fireplace signifies voluntary alienation from the community—and, from the perspective of metadrama, strict separation of the miser and his obsession with his treasure from the romantic theme, with all this implies in terms of willingness to play one’s required part in the play. It is perhaps ironic that he should be transgressing actual civic institutions while at the same time abstaining from participation in an inversion of Roman reality enacted within the staged civic space whose objective after all was to flaunt convention via a reversal of Romanitas. Staphyla for her part allows Congrio to enter the house after hearing that he is involved with the wedding (351– 3); she thus acknowledges the erotic theme but at the same time, by granting the cook admission into Euclio’s household, brings about, contrary to her master’s wishes, his (and her own)⁴² integration into the play. Taking up all of section 2.8, Strobilus’ monologue is situated in the middle of the cooks’ episode (scenes 2.4– 2.6 take up 83 lines and the remaining 2.8 – 3.3 exactly 90). Far from being a ‘leading example of the lack of continuity that characterises the Plautine dramaturgy,’ contributing nothing to the unity of the narration,⁴³ Strobilus’ monologue prepares for the transition to the performance of the cooks after the arrival of Euclio and intrudes—virtually and figuratively— into the wedding plot, whose progression Euclio disrupts by expelling Congrio from his house and temporarily prohibiting him from finishing the cooking. This cooking, of course, represents Euclio’s symbolic contribution to the wedding banquet. As for the remark that is considered the focal point of this brief monologue, the double entendre concerning the benefits that the inferi reap at the expense of the superi when the cooks are doing their cooking unsupervised (367– 70), the audience might well regard this as an amusing allegory prefiguring the beating that is shortly to be inflicted on the inferus Congrio, who is cooking unsupervised in the house of Euclio, the superus.

 Her joke about the dryness of the wedding banquet (at 354– 5), with the implication that there may be no wine at it, is in keeping with the archetypal image of the alcohol–addicted old hag of New Comedy.  Thus Lefèvre 2001, 68 – 9, summarising the scholarly consensus on this problematic scene.

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Alternatively, the same double entendre may be interpreted as ironic anticipation of the misunderstanding that arises immediately afterwards, when the superus Euclio returns from the market in 2.8 and leaps to the conclusion that the inferus Congrio has invaded his house and discovered the hidden treasure. This is the ‘rapaciousness’ that Strobilus sought to escape by running off the stage at 369 – 70: sed verba hic facio quasi negoti nil siet,…/ rapacidarum ubi tantum siet in aedibus (‘but I am standing here chattering as if there weren’t anything to do, when such a rapacious gang is in the house’) and Euclio too has now been caught up in the panic: aurum rapitur, aula quaeritur, ‘my gold is being stolen; they are after my pot’ (392). Many commentators see this confusion as the raison d’être for the whole cooks episode, as it prompts Euclio at 460 ff. to remove the treasure from the house, thus setting in train a new round of adventures. No less significant than this is the fact that in scene 2.7 Euclio is reintroduced in new dramatic circumstances, providing the opportunity for a thoroughgoing scrutiny of the miser’s behaviour, independently both of the treasure and of awareness of its existence, as for example when he first comes onstage and complains about the high prices of all the provisions in the market (381– 7), and with an exclusive focus on the treasure, as when he hears someone asking for an aula and immediately draws the wrong conclusion (388 – 97). The salient point about this particularly important scene is the way that it presents the two facets of Euclio’s character as two sides of the same coin, introduced in Euclio’s own words. In the first part of his monologue the senex offers a vivid projection of his own miserliness, following the pattern of characterisation established by Strobilus: he gives specific examples of his own miserly self at work, drawing on his adventures while shopping around for his daughter’s wedding banquet. To him every single food item adequate for the special occasion of a wedding festival (for example meat or large fish) is too expensive; this is conveyed eloquently through the recurrent carus: venio ad macellum, rogito piscis: indicant / caros, agninam caram, caram bubulam, / vitulinam, cetum, porcinam: cara omnia. / atque eo fuerunt cariora, aes non erat. ‘I go to the market, I ask for fish: everything overpriced, overpriced also the beef, the veal, the tuna, the pork: everything overpriced. And they were all the more expensive because I had no money’ (373 – 6).⁴⁴ Note that Euclio does not report the price of each item as

 A wedding ceremony traditionally involved an animal sacrifice, and the victim, usually a lamb or a goat, was consumed at the subsequent banquet; fish, especially large and fatty fish (such as the eel and the lamprey of the type scaled under Anthrax’s orders at 399) had since the beginnings of Old Comedy been identified with exclusive and sumptuous dining; cf. Wilkins 2000, 257 ff., on lavish food consumption in Greek Comedy generally (pp. 297– 304, specifically on fish); on fish as a prime delicacy in Sicilian comedy also, see Wilkins 2000, 312– 41. For a

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he might if he were a normal shopper; he is not interested in the item per se but just in its price. For him incense and flowers are perfectly acceptable substitutes for the contributions to the wedding feast he, as father of the bride, might be expected to make. Of course his unwillingness to contribute his fair share of the high–quality food appropriate for a wedding feast in no way implies that he is equally unwilling to partake of the food in question. He is perfectly willing, as long as someone else (i. e. Megadorus, the ‘Great Gift–giver’) pays for it. In his refusal to make a contribution of equal value, just as in his earlier (in scene 2.2) agreeing to marry off his daughter without providing a dowry for her (though the newly–found treasure empowers him to do so), Euclio does not altogether exclude himself from the community, that is to say, the wedding party. What he does is to lower his own (and his daughter’s) status in the social power– and–hierarchy game that is signified by a feast, including a wedding feast. Anthropological and sociological research has shown that there is a semiotic aspect to food. It designates rank, articulates rivalry, symbolises identity, exclusion, community, alliance, etc. Food procurement for communal consumption, always involving hosts and guests, givers and recipients (and, in Plautine social politics, insiders and outsiders), is inextricably associated with the quest for social status. Feasts are contests centred on the display and consumption of lavish foods. They are symbols of power and hierarchical status because apart from collective consumption they also entail the element of ostentation (flaunting of status, success, wealth). They are assignable to different categories,⁴⁵ depending on who is providing the food, what its standard of quality is and how much of it there is, who is participating in the feast and who is being excluded. Feasts can be subdivided into celebratory, empowering, patron–role feasts and diacritical feasts. Celebratory feasts typically reinforce existing social bonds, either between individuals of approximately equal social standing or between individuals of different social standing in instances where the feast does not involve a competitive aspect. In pre–industrial societies, including the civic nuclei of Greco– Roman antiquity, such feasts include family celebrations such as weddings, more recent concise account of meat and fish in Greece and Rome as fine foods par excellence, also see Wilkins and Hill 2006, 142– 63. Euclio does not speak of specific fish but he mentions fish first, presumably on account of its higher price, and then goes on to detail various kinds of meat, all of which he has likewise found too pricey. This preference for meat over fish may well have corresponded to Plautus’ own tastes, being typically Roman; cf. the various meat delicacies listed as awaiting Curculio’s arrival in Curc. 323, 366 – 7.  On feasts, feasting and the politics of sumptuous communal dining from sociological and anthropological perspectives, see Hayden 1996; Dietler 1996; Dietler and Hayden 2001. The present discussion of communal feasts being categorised in terms of their political role follows Dietler 1996, 92– 8.

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most religious ceremonies accompanied by feasting where social status and rank are temporarily suspended, and communal feasts usually associated with some ritual and serving to strengthen civic and communal identity by de–emphasising inequality. Though marital unions between spouses of unequal social and financial rank were not uncommon, in ancient Greece and Rome the best type of marriage was considered to be the one involving two parties of equal social standing. The dowry accompanying the bride was in primis a political statement, an expression of status and power on the part of the bride’s family, and a means of empowerment for the woman. A wealthy wife could administer her own property, and in cases of divorce could take her dowry with her. A typical situation in the Roman palliata indeed involves the antagonism between a senex and his financially more powerful uxor (e. g. in the Casina). In the Aulularia, prior to the discovery of the treasure, Euclio’s family is (at least on the basis of the information in the text) socially and financially inferior to Megadorus’ family. Under these circumstances Euclio was not in the position of being able to offer a dowry grand enough to match the groom’s wealth, and he was explicit in mentioning this (190 – 2). Having done so, he did not expect that Megadorus would proceed further with his wedding proposal, so that when the latter’s response was to propose to marry Phaedria even without a dowry, Euclio thought that the aspiring groom was mocking him. When Megadorus persisted, Euclio expostulated that it would be (literally) contrary to the laws of nature and society for such a wedding to take place: his own social milieu would reject him, and Megadorus would never accept him (226 – 35). Faced with Megadorus’ persistence, Euclio finally gives his consent, but only after being reassured of his future son–in–law’s sincerity about not wanting a dowry and not feigning magnanimity only because of knowing about the gold and expecting to receive a portion of it as a dowry. His direct confrontation with Megadorus on this subject in line 240, eo dico, ne me thensauros repperisse censeas, ‘I say so [i. e. ‘that there is no dowry to give out’ (at nihil est dotis quod dem, 238b)], so that you may not nurture the thought that I have discovered treasures,’ reveals Euclio’s major concern, which is not the inequality of the social match between his daughter and Megadorus, but the social obligation that is upon him to offer a dowry commensurate with the wealth of Megadorus’ family, now that he does have the financial power to do so. Euclio voluntarily opts for his daughter to enter into an unequal marriage, and for himself to be considered inferior and even scorned by others in his own social milieu, rather than disclose the news of his treasure. He does not exclude himself

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from society altogether⁴⁶ but redefines his role in society and, metadramatically, in the play. He carries out voluntary self–disempowerment, socially and politically, for the sake of keeping his money in his own possession. In this way he disqualifies himself from influencing the politics of the wedding and from playing any role in relation to its romantic aspect, which is de facto the prime element in a Roman comedy. By behaving in this way he de–structures the play, not by acting contrary to the denouement prescribed by the rules of the palliata genre, but by not acting at all, by refusing to play any part in its development. His refusal is expressed in his withholding, contrary to social expectation, all objections to the social disparity between the groom and the bride:⁴⁷ by so doing he removes all obstacles to the wedding. Returning to Euclio’s monologue in scene 2.8, the old man’s rationalising of his shopping options has similar effects. He excuses himself for not buying the required fine food, fish and meat, for the wedding feast, pleading their expensiveness, which he portrays as unreasonable and deplorable, and proposing a much cheaper alternative, of equivalent value, he argues, if one bases one’s assessment on the rules of civics. In anthropological terms, he is accepting that for his daughter and himself the ceremonial feast of the wedding should be transformed into a patron–role feast, a feast where the food is provided by only one—the superior—party, which thus deploys commensal hospitality to legitimise existing unequal relations of status and power, without there being any expectation of reciprocity. Euclio’s dogged rationalising of his miserliness (382– 4 postquam hanc rationem ventri cordique edidi, / accessit animus ad meam sententiam, / quam minimo sumptu filiam ut nuptum darem, ‘after I put this case to my stomach and my heart, my mind seconded my motion to give my daughter in marriage with a minimum of expenses’)⁴⁸ enables him to keep the issue of the treasure, and his possession of it, separate from the romantic plot (or rather,

 As has been widely held, since the idea was first introduced in Konstan 1983, 41– 4.  But the lack of a dowry remains a ‘blocking characteristic’ (Braund 2005, 41), a temporary impediment to the marriage of Lyconides and Phaedria. A dowry is regarded as a necessary prerequisite for a stable, legitimate marriage (Konstan 1995, 29). Lyconides’ mother, Eunomia, is only too well aware of this when she promises early in the play to find her brother Megadorus a wife cum maxima dote (l. 158; cf. Rei 1998, 96)—a statement no doubt implying that she would desire a wealthy bride for her son as well. But once the wealthy Megadorus, the older suitor, who is in any case generally opposed to marriage (154– 7) shows himself willing to wed without a dowry (475 – 536; cf. Fraenkel 2007, 92– 4), he provides his lovestruck nephew with the necessary arguments for challenging the traditional dowry requirement.  De Melo 2011, 299, n. 19, discerns an effort on Euclio’s part to make his argument sound nobler and more sophisticated by infusing his rationalising language with ‘legal terminology common in sessions of the senate.’

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from formulation of the plotline): nowhere in his monologue about his own poverty and the skyrocketing prices of luxury food items is there the slightest hint of his being the owner of a treasure. All this changes unexpectedly when, from inside his house, he hears Congrio calling for a larger pot (390 f.). Hearing the word ‘aula’ instantly brings to Euclio’s mind his own ‘aula’ (the one with the gold), which in turn, triggering a conditioned reflex, Pavlov–style, unhinges him, suspending his rational faculties and inducing a bacchant–like frenzy, conveyed by Euclio’s, nimirum occidor, nisi ego intro huc propere propero currere, ‘Surely, I am to be murdered, unless I make haste to run in here’ (393), where he enunciates, in succession, three words synonymous with running. The hidden aspect of Euclio’s personality, so assiduously and comically concealed beneath a systematic, though ‘dramatically incorrect’ pattern of reasoning, suddenly makes its appearance in full force, causing two opposing facets of the miser’s personality to expose themselves one after the other in rapid succession in the course of the same scene and this time in both word and deed. Congrio, the cook, though not physically present onstage, becomes the catalyst for this turn of events. In the next two scenes there unfolds a spirited and detailed exposure of the old man’s frenzied condition. Anthrax enters (scene 2.9) to remark on the noise issuing from Euclio’s house as the enraged miser attacks the presumed thieves of his aula. These comments are followed in scene 3.1 by Congrio’s stormy entrance in the manner customarily associated with onstage appearances of the servus currens type.⁴⁹ In the visual and verbal presentation he then delivers, Congrio elaborates on the havoc that Anthrax has begun to describe. As Anthrax proceeds with his monologue Congrio’s input becomes virtually delirious, with repeated references to the frenzy of the bacchants and to beatings,⁵⁰ all of this

 E.g. Stockert 1983, 117– 8; Lefèvre 2001, 72.  Lowe 1985, 88, characterises Congrio’s monologue ‘an inflated entrance monody with repeated references to bacchanals and to beating,’ and not corresponding to anything in the original Greek text. But this sudden exit of a terrified slave, who bursts out of the house to escape from a threatening situation inside, launching into a fearful lament that reflects his anxiety and confusion, has a very clear parallel in the Greek drama, the Phrygian slave in Euripides’ Orestes, a popular play in the fourth century. Like Congrio, the Phrygian slave at line 1369 in the Orestes bursts abruptly onto the scene but his case is to deliver a messenger’s speech in the form of an elaborate operatic aria. The Greek comic poet who composed this key Greek model for the Aulularia included in it a similarly striking episode in imitation of Euripides, and Plautus borrowed it. The thesis of indirect borrowing should not be excluded, even if the Aulularia’s Greek model is a play by Menander. Apart from the series of tragic quotations from— and more or less explicit allusions to—Euripides in Menander’s plays, there is the fact that the Orestes exercised a unique influence, as may be seen from Menander’s imitation of the very play

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functioning as a verbal prelude to Euclio’s bacchic seizure (408 ad Bacchas…in bacchanal; 411a aperit bacchanal). All previous effort on the miser’s part to propitiate the rising hostility against him, while preserving his own peculiar standpoint, goes by the board in a sudden spectacular collapse. Scenes 3.2 and 3.3 follow step by step Euclio’s surrender to ecstasies (in the sense of entrancement, or being outside oneself), tracing his absurd—in terms of dramatic convention—trajectory towards deliberate withdrawal from the comic scenario that in one way or another has developed around the marriage of his daughter. His departure is consummated in the scenes immediately following. The senex takes his leave, placing himself beyond the walls of the city that stand literally and figuratively for the boundaries of civic—i. e. law–abiding and rule–bound—life and society. In metadramatic terms, the exclusion of the agelast ⁵¹ from the comic action is a conventional turn of events; what is atypical in the Aulularia is not so much the fact that Euclio’s exclusion is self–imposed (in defiance of the best efforts of the rest of the troupe to keep him in the play —the formula is already familiar from Menander’s Dyskolos) but the fact that his spectacular exit takes place at the mid–point of the plot. It comes across as an act of frenzied absurdity. Congrio’s dramatic ejection from the kitchen, the location par excellence for hatching plots, foreshadows the tumult that will accompany the departure of Euclio from the Aulularia stage.⁵² The intense

in the lengthy messenger–like speech of γεωργός in Act 4 of the Sikyonios; cf. Brown 2001, 14. However scanty the tangible evidence, it would be tempting to acknowledge direct influence of the Phrygian slave act in the Orestes on Plautus’ Congrio, that Plautus had good knowledge of this Greek tragedy—as well as of other Euripidean dramas—either because he had attended a performance of the play in Southern Italy or because he was, as I personally believe, a doctus poeta. He read it as a text, was impressed by the effectiveness of the Phrygian’s scene and strove to imitate it. For more on Plautus’ likely direct knowledge of Euripides’ plays, see Gratwick 1986, 227: ‘For all we know, Plautus may well have seen or read Euripides in Greek, and of course he was familiar with Roman versions of his plays by Ennius and others.’  An ancient Greek term, also used by the Romans, most famously by Cicero who employed it in reference to Marcus Crassus since the latter was never in his life seen to laugh (De finibus 5.92). Agelast was incorporated into the vocabulary of palliata criticism by Segal, who borrowed the term from an essay on comedy by English critic George Meredith. It became the technical term to refer to those characters who oppose laughter (a+gelõs), which is the essence of comedy and its culture; cf. Segal 1968, 70 – 98, esp. 71– 4.  The departure is preceded by a tour–de–force of improvisational acting typical of the native Italian tradition of farce, and culminating in a bawdy verbal altercation (esp. lines 415 – 34) including threats to summon the authorities, threatened assault, coarse accusations of homosexuality, and linguistic puns, such as those around caput sentit and coctum. Congrio’s complete ignorance of why the old man is behaving towards him with such demented belligerence makes his plight at once comical and pitiful—his perplexity continues in fact right up until his de-

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clash between these two characters testifies to the dissonance and incompatibility between the scenarios headed by the miser and the cook respectively. Congrio’s utter bewilderment at Euclio’s rage against him is symptomatic of the way that the wedding scenario has unfolded in a manner entirely independent of the vicissitudes of the hidden treasure. It is also a reminder of the successful comic effect that has been the by–product of the failure of the two independent and antagonistic plotlines to fuse.⁵³

V. Resolution Euclio tries to patch things up and restore order in accordance with his own perception of the situation. As soon as he realises that his pot is safe, coming back onstage in scene 3.3 he orders the cooks to continue with their preparations for the feast. The wedding, along with all the sub–plots that attend it, comes back on–track (449 – 53). In a series of commands, all of them urging Congrio and his troupe to carry on with their cooking (453 coquite, facite, festinate nunciam quantum lubet, ‘now you may cook, act about, run around as you please’; 455 intro abi: opera huc conducta est vostra, non oratio, ‘Go inside! Your work has been hired here, not your speech’; 458 lege agito mecum. molestus ne sis. i cenam coque, ‘Go and sue me; stop bothering me! Go inside and cook the dinner’) the old miser emphatically declares his intention of abstaining from personal involvement, quitting the scene so as to be able to tend to the safety of his gold.⁵⁴ This amounts to abdicating the key role he has up to now played in the central

parture from the play at the end of scene 3.3. Lefèvre 2001, 73 – 4, gives a succinct presentation of the dramatic aspect of scene 2.2, along with a summary of earlier writing on the authenticity of this scene. For more on the impromptu character of 415 – 34 in particular, see Lowe 1985, 88.  Again in terms of dramaturgy, for more on the comic element in Congrio’s ignorance of why he is being subjected to Euclio’s beating and abuse, see Nicastri 1970, 130: ‘Il violento alterco tra l’avaro e il malcapitato cuoco è tra le scene più divertenti dell’ intera commedia: il comico qui nasce soprattutto dall’ essere Congrione totalmente all’ oscuro dei motivi che possono aver provocato il furore di Euclione.’  The total domination of Euclio’s dramatic profile by the aula is unmistakeable in scene 3.3 where for nearly 150 lines, holding the pot of gold, he harps on it obsessively. The point was made by Krieger 1914, 47– 4 and was further elaborated in Lefèvre 2001, 74. Euclio’s fixation on the gold very nearly obliges him to abandon action, for the wedding plot, encapsulated in the performance of the cooks in the middle section of the play, comes close to embracing, integrating, and thus exposing, the treasure theme. Such exposure would entail removal of the play’s dramatic development from the exclusive control of Euclio.

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scenario, a role hitherto shared and in a way epitomised by the presence, and complementary interaction, of the two cooks.

Bibliography Anderson, W. S. (1993), Barbarian Play: Plautus’ Roman Comedy, Toronto. Arnott, W. G. (1988), ‘The Greek Original of Plautus’ Aulularia’, in: WS 101, 181 – 91. —. (1989), ‘A Study in Relationships: Alexis’ Lebes, Menander’s Dyskolos, Plautus’ Aulularia’, in: QUCC 33, 27 – 38. —. (1996), Alexis. The Fragments: A Commentary, Cambridge. Bader, B. (1970), Szenentitel und Szeneneinteilung bei Plautus, Diss., Tübingen. Bal, M. (1985), Narratology, transl. Christine van Boheemen, Toronto. Barthes, R. (1975), [1966], ‘An Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narrative’, in: New Literary History 6, 237 – 72. Beroutsos, D. C. (2005), A Commentary on the Aspis of Menander. Part. One: Lines 1 – 298, Göttingen. Batzer, S. (1956), Die Umformung der Aulularia, Diss, Freiburg. Braund, S. M. (2005), ‘Marriage, Adultery, and Divorce in Roman Comic Drama’, in: W. S. Smith (ed.), Satiric Advice on Women and Marriage: From Plautus to Chaucer, Ann Arbor, 39 – 70. Bremmer, J. (1983), ‘The Importance of the Maternal Uncle and Grandfather in Archaic and Classical Greece and Early Byzantium’, in: ZPE 50, 173 – 86. Brown, P. G. McC. (2001), ‘Introduction’, in: M. Balme and P.G. McC. Brown (eds.), Menander: The Plays and fragments, Oxford. Chatman, S. (1990), Coming to Terms: The Rhetoric of Narrative in Fiction and Film, Ithaca, NY. De Melo, W. (2011), (ed. and transl.), Plautus, vol. I: Amphitryon; The Comedy of Asses; The Pot of Gold; The Two Bacchises; The Captives. Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge, MA and London. Dietler, M. (1996), ‘Feasts and Commensal Politics in the Political Economy: Food, Power and Status in Prehistoric Europe’, in: P. Wiessner and W. Schiefenhövel (eds.), Food and the Status Quest: An Interdisciplinary Perspective, Providence, 87 – 125. Dietler, M. and Hayden, B. (2001), (eds.), Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power, Washington. Dohm, H. (1964), Mageiros. Die Rolle des Kochs in der griechisch–römischen Komödie, Munich. Dziazko, K. (1882), ‘Zur Aulularia des Plautus’, in: RhM 37, 261 – 73. Erdmann, W. (1934), Die Ehe im alten Griechenland, Munich. Fraenkel, E. (2007), Plautine Elements in Plautus. transl. from the Italian by T. Drevikovsky and F. Muecke, Oxford (orig. title: Plautinisches im Plautus, Philol. Untersuchungen 28. Berlin 1922; Italian edition: Elementi Plautini in Plauto. Transl. with Addenda. Florence 1960). Gandelman, C. (1991), Reading Pictures, Viewing Texts, Bloomington and Indianapolis. Genette, G. (1988), [1983], Narrative Discourse Revisited, transl. Jane E. Lewin, Ithaca, NY. Golden, M. (1990), Children and Childhood in Classical Athens, Baltimore and London.

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Gowers, E. (1993), The Loaded Table: Representations of Food in Roman Literature, Oxford. Gratwick, A. S. (1986), Review of Gianna Petrone, Plauto e il teatro antico, in: CR 36, 225 – 7. Hayden, B. (1996), ‘Feasting in Prehistoric and Traditional Societies’, in: P. Wiessner and W. Schiefenhövel (eds.), Food and the Status Quest: An Interdisciplinary Perspective, Providence, 127 – 47. Höttemann, B. (1993), ‘Phlyakenposse und Atellana’, in: G. Vogt–Spira (ed.), Beiträge zur mündlichen Kultur der Römer (ScriptOralia 47), Tübingen, 89 – 112. Hunter, R. L. (1981), ‘The Aulularia of Plautus and its Greek original’, in: PCPS 27, 37 – 49. Jacquemard–Le Saos, C. (1994), Querolus. Comédie Latine Anonyme, Paris. Kassel, R. and Austin, C. (1983 – 2001), (eds.), Poetae Comici Graeci, vol. I–VIII, Berlin and New York. Klinger, F. (1956), ‘Über eine Szene der plautinischen Aulularia (280 – 349)’, in: SIFC 27/28, 157 – 70. Konstan, D. (1983), Roman Comedy, Ithaca, NY. —. (1995), Greek Comedy and Ideology, New York and Oxford. —. (2001), ‘Aulularia: City–State and Individual’, in: E. Segal (ed.), Oxford Readings in Menander, Plautus and Terence, Oxford, 138 – 148 [revised version of Konstan, D. (1977), ‘The Social Themes in Plautus’ Aulularia, in: Arethusa 10, 307 – 20]. Krieger, A. (1914), De Aululariae Plautinae exemplari Graeco, Diss., Giessen. Kuiper, W. E. J. (1940), The Greek Aulularia. A Study of the Original of Plautus’ Masterpiece, Leiden. Küppers, J. (1989), ‘Die spätantike Prosakomödie ‘Querolus sive Aulularia’ und das Problem ihrer Vorlagen’, in: Philologus 133, 82 – 103. Lacey, W. K. (1968), The Family in Classical Greece, Ithaca, NY. Lange, D. (1973), ‘The Number of Slave Roles in Plautus’ Aulularia’, in: CPh 68, 62 – 3. Lefèvre, E. (2001), Plautus’ Aulularia, Tübingen. Lindsay, W. M. (1904), T. Macci Plauti Comoediae I, Oxford. Lipsius, J. H. (1966), Attisches Recht und Rechtverfahren mit Benutzung des attischen Prozesses, Hildesheim [original edition, Leipzig 1905 – 15]. Lowe, J. C. B. (1985), ‘Cooks in Plautus’, in: CA 4, 72 – 102. Ludwig, W. (1961), ‘Aulularia–Probleme’, in: Philologus 105, 255 – 8. MacDowell, D. (1978), The Law in Classical Athens. Ithaca, NY. Marcovich, M. (1977), ‘Euclio, Cnemon and the Peripatos’, in: ICS 2, 197 – 218. Moore, T. J. (1998), The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience, Austin. Nesselrath, H.–G. (1990), Die attische mittlere Komödie: ihre Stellung in der antiken Literaturkritik und Literaturgeschichte, Berlin. Nicastri, L. (1970), Aulularia / Plauto; con Introduzione e Commentario, Naples. Papaioannou, S. (2008), ‘The Undoing of Comedy and the Role of Cyamus in Plautus’ Truculentus’, in: Ordia Prima 7, 105 – 27. Paratore, E. (ed.), 1976, Plauto: Tutte le commedie, Rome [repr. 1992]. Questa, C. (1972), Plauto, Aulularia, Verona. —. (2004), Sei Letture Plautine, Urbino. Rei, A. (1998), ‘Villains, Wives, and Slaves in the Comedies of Plautus’, in: S. R. Joshel and S. Murnaghan (eds.), Women and Slaves in Greco–Roman Culture: Differential Equations, London and New York, 92 – 108. Segal, E. (1968), Roman Laughter. The Comedy of Plautus, New York & Oxford [2nd edition 1987].

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Slavitt, D. and Bovie, P. (1995), (transl.), Plautus: The Comedies, vol. I–IV, Baltimore. Stockert, W. (1983), T. Maccius Plautus, Aulularia, Stuttgart. Thomas, E. J. (1913), T. Macci Plauti Aulularia, Oxford. Westerdorp Boerma, R. E. H. (1972), Plautus’ Aulularia, Leiden. Wilkins, J. (2000), The Boastful Chef: The Discourse of Food in Ancient Greek Comedy, Oxford. Wilkins, J and Hill, S. (2006), Food in the Ancient World, Malden, MA and Oxford.

K. Philippides

The parallel ‘two plays’ in Plautus’ Captivi: A Dramatological Reading of the Comedy Abstract: An examination of the repeated scenes in Plautus’ Captivi reveals that the comedy is articulated as two interwoven ‘plays,’ one revolving around Tyndarus and another around Ergasilus. The first answers the enigma of Tyndarus’ identity and social status, and a series of repeated scenes give different solutions to it; in a parallel way, the repeated scenes in the Ergasilus ‘play’ provide different solutions to the problem concerning the latter’s persona as a parasite. In the end, both characters are integrated with their restored status into the house on stage. Keywords: repeated scenes; plot symmetry; two prologues; stage set with one house; stage movement Like many other Roman comedies, the dramatic articulation of Plautus’ Captivi can be seen as consisting of a main plot (with the character Tyndarus as its focus) and a sub–plot (with the parasite Ergasilus as its protagonist). This distribution differs from other similar twofold divisions in other comedies, because in this case the two plots not only revolve around similar subject matter, but are also juxtaposed in terms of dramatic organisation. In this paper I shall attempt to describe the two plots or ‘plays’ in the Captivi as unfolding in a parallel manner, each with its own prologue, plot and theme. The dramatological parallelism and symmetry¹ within both the Tyndarus and the Ergasilus ‘play’ is achieved by a series of repeated scenes,² which unfold in an

 The reading of the Captivi presented here is close to the work of other scholars who deal with the symmetrical articulation of plot in other Plautine comedies, for instance the Amphitruo (Galinsky 1966, 204– 6); the Bacchides (Clark 1976, 85 – 96); the Miles gloriosus (Saylor 1977, 1– 13; Maurice 2007, 407– 26); and the Menaechmi (Taladoire 1956, 116 – 7; Maurice 2005, 31– 59; cf. Damen 1990).  I borrow the term ‘repeated scenes’ from Hunter (1985, 56), who refers to such scenes in the Bacchides and the Menaechmi, plays involving two sisters and twin brothers respectively. Cf. Vogt–Spira 1991, 170 who examines the ‘repetitive Struktur’ of the Stichus; Wilner 1930, 66 – 71 has extensively dealt with repetitive motives in the Aulularia (cf. Steidle 1975, 350 – 8; Juniper 1936, 281– 2, and Moore 1998, 44). My approach is greatly informed by Taplin’s ‘mirror scenes’ theory (1978, 122 – 39), but in the case of Greek tragedy, the second scene actually becomes the reversal of the first. In the case of the Captivi, however, I examine more than two scenes, looking at how they repeat each other.

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alternating and interleaved articulation. By the term ‘repeated scenes’ I mean those which recall each other in terms of dramatic action, stage action or character distribution.³ However, my main task is not so much to examine the two distinct plots as to highlight how they are interrelated. Although these scenes represent events concerning the fortunes of two different characters, the systematic repetition and thematic similarity of the identity quests in both point spectators towards interconnections between the two plays. In addition to thematic similarity I shall examine other means of linking, such as the one house stage set and the continuous appearance of the senex Hegio on stage. The mostly serious play about Tyndarus’ fate and the purely comic one on Ergasilus’ fortunes produce a contrasting effect. Nevertheless, my reading views this apparent opposition between the serious and the comic as establishing a connection between the two. Thus, instead of reading the Captivi as a case of contaminatio or as an unsuccessful combination of diverse elements, I see the comedy as a dramatic text of high artistic organisation, which employs a deliberate blend of serious and comic components to provoke a bitter–sweet feeling among spectators.

The two plots The action in the Captivi takes place during a fictional war between Aetolia and Elis.⁴ Hegio, an old man from Aetolia, is trying to get his son Philopolemus back  Such scenes in the Captivi yield a series of different answers as to who Tyndarus is or what persona Ergasilus will adopt. According to Leach 1969, 287– 9, Ergasilus adopts various roles in the comedy until he is elevated to a privileged position of parasite in Hegio’s house. She adds: ‘the misfortunes of Ergasilus in search of a place for his role playing run parallel to those of the captives and Hegio’(my italics). Although I follow Leach’s understanding of the character Ergasilus, I concentrate more on the dramatological exploitation such an understanding might lead to. In the past, scholars saw Ergasilus’ long scenes as extraneous to the plot: for a review of the relevant views see Leach 1969, 266 – 7. More recently, Benz 1998, 51– 100 passim has suggested that Plautus took his inspiration for the parasite role from the improvised theatre (Stegreifbühne) of his time, and that he later adapted it in this comedy, which was based on a Greek original; however, Benz 1998, 52– 3 views Ergasilus’ parts as comic interludes in a play with a heavy atmosphere (cf. Viljoen 1963, 45). For McCarthy 2000, 174, Ergasilus is necessary for the announcement of the arrival of Philopolemus and Stalagmus. Konstan 1983, 67, n. 17 remarks that ‘The chief function of Ergasilus is to provide a coarse and comic symbol or mirror of the fortunes of Hegio’s family.’  Aetolia and Elis are Greek regions. In Elis region there was a city of the same name. Plautus uses the Doric form Alis rather than Elis (see Lindsay 1900, 119).

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from Elis, where he is being held as a prisoner of war; Hegio’s plan is to exchange him for some Alean prisoners. The main plot is a labyrinthine one: Tyndarus, an Alean slave, and his master, Philocrates, have been taken prisoners in Aetolia and are both bought by Hegio. The two prisoners hatch an ingenious intrigue: they decide to switch identities so that Philocrates, masquerading as Tyndarus, can be sent back to his father in Elis as an intermediary to negotiate the exchange of the Aetolian prisoner Philopolemus. Tyndarus, as the supposed master of Philocrates, will remain behind at Hegio’s house as a pledge, and wait for his young master to return, bringing Philopolemus with him. At the end of the drama it is revealed that the slave Tyndarus is actually Hegio’s second son. As has been already explained to the audience in the prologue, when Tyndarus was a young child he was abducted by a slave, Stalagmus, and taken to Elis, where he was sold to Philocrates’ father. (There is thus a dramatic reason for Tyndarus to remain behind at Hegio’s house in Aetolia). As stated earlier, the relatively extensive sub–plot (which takes up about one third of the comedy) revolves around the parasite Ergasilus. At the beginning of the play he is having a hard time getting a decent dinner out of Hegio, but by the end, having unsuccessfully sought a new patron elsewhere, his luck has turned for the better: Hegio offers to support him free for the rest of his life.

A stage set with one house On stage there is the facade of only one house, owned by Hegio. This is very unusual by the standards of both Greek New Comedy and Roman Comedy, which generally call for two buildings on stage, and occasionally three. Plautus’ Amphitruo is the only other surviving play of this genre to employ the facade of a single house. Yet that is exceptional in other ways too, since it re–enacts a myth rather than narrating everyday story; the hero’s house substitutes for the palace and royal oikos usually represented in mythological tragedies. By contrast, Greek New Comedy and Roman Comedy generally centre on two ordinary households. In the Captivi mention is also made of a second house in Elis, belonging to Philocrates’ father Theodoromedes, which is the off–stage destination of three characters, Philocrates, Tyndarus and Hegio’s hostage son Philopolemus. Spectators are also informed that Hegio’s former slave Stalagmus sold the kidnapped boy Tyndarus to the same house. ⁵

 Another house mentioned in the text is that belonging to Hegio’s brother, where some captives from Elis including Aristophontes are held. The house serves the dramatic purpose of separating

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Nevertheless, all that is visible on stage is a single house. In my view this symbolises the undisputed power and influence of Hegio, on whom all of the remaining characters in the play depend.⁶ Although the senex is deprived of his two sons, and might give the impression of being helpless, the audience is well aware that this is only a temporary situation, and one which he takes pains to reverse. Hegio’s house is also the place where both ‘plays’ are enacted, thus holding them together. At the end of the comedy, Tyndarus and Ergasilus’ entrance into the house under a new status signifies the completion of meaning in both ‘plays.’

Repeated scenes: Tyndarus’ identity The Captivi is outstanding for the symmetrical arrangement of its component scenes. There are three repeated scenes concerning the identity of Tyndarus; each one poses the same question about who he is, to which a range of different answers are given: he appears by turns to be an enslaved master, a slave and a free citizen. In all of these scenes the same two characters, Hegio and Tyndarus, engage in dialogue with a third character who is different in each case. Thus, in the first scene (251– 360), henceforth scene A, we have Philocrates; in the second, scene B (515 – 658), Aristophontes;⁷ in the third, scene C (954– 1028), at first Stalagmus and then Philocrates. Although in scene C two characters converse with Hegio rather than one, the more important one is Stalagmus, without whom the question of whether Tyndarus was of free descent would never have been raised and answered.⁸ All three characters fulfil the same function: they persuade

Tyndarus from Aristophontes, so that when the two of them meet, ignorance of Aristophontes will generate laughter and simultaneously expose Tyndarus’ scheme.  Ketterer 1986, 115 observes that Hegio is ‘the owner of everybody except Ergasilus.’ Cf. Franko 1995, 172, who holds that Hegio is ‘the central character around whom the others orbit, for everyone in the play is his dependent (slave, child or parasite).’ The dominance of Hegio is also shown by his name (it derives from the Greek verb, hēgeomai, ‘I command, rule’) and is further demonstrated by the chains of the war prisoners, which simultaneously symbolise the difficulty and danger of their attempt to deceive him.  The entrance of Aristophontes, a relative of Philocrates, is adequately motivated; he was also a captive. Though he only appears in one scene, his role is not inorganic; as Prescott 1920, 271 remarks, he is ‘temporary without being at all loosely attached.’  Scholars have generally criticised the implausible story of Stalagmus’ meeting with the recently freed Philopolemus in Elis, which led to the former’s apprehension (no explanation is given as to how and under which circumstances the latter recognised the former after such a long time). See, for example, Hough 1942, 31– 32 and Viljoen 1963, 55 – 58; nevertheless, the latter

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Hegio to believe in each of Tyndarus’ identity changes; and it is precisely because they give different answers to this notorious question of identity that the plot can be moved forward in scenes A and B and come to its resolution in scene C, as shown in the following schema: Scenes concerning Tyndarus’ identity Scene A (251– 360) Hegio, Tyndarus and Philocrates converse together. Tyndarus poses as Philocrates’ master from Elis. Scene B (575 – 658) Hegio, Tyndarus and Aristophontes converse. Tyndarus is revealed to be a slave. Scene C (954– 1028) Hegio converses in turn with Stalagmus, Philocrates and Tyndarus. Tyndarus is revealed to be a free citizen of Aetolia, and Hegio’s abducted son.

It should be noted that in each of scenes A and B there is an intrigue (the first successful, the second failed) involving the identity of Tyndarus and the identity of the third character. But while in scene A Hegio is deceived by the identity switch between Tyndarus and Philocrates (both have had time while on stage to rehearse their scheme),⁹ in scene B Hegio is not persuaded by Tyndarus’ dis-

argues that from a dramatic point of view the lack of plausible reports and explanations is irrelevant, since the details of Stalagmus’ apprehension by Philopolemus should not be revealed before the anagnorisis of Tyndarus in the last scene of the play, an anagnorisis in which Stalagmus plays a significant role. In my view, Stalagmus’ awkwardly motivated entrance is to some degree due to the unusual stage set: his place of departure cannot be represented on stage.  The staging of both the Prologue and Act I present insoluble problems. There is a lot of discussion on the masks worn by Tyndarus and Philocrates. See recently: Moore 1998, 185 – 6, holds that the actors wear slave’s and master’s mask respectively, and offers a series of options on the question of their switching; Marshall 2006, 150 – 1, sees them both wearing masks of adulescentes throughout the play. There is also disagreement as to whether the tableau of the shackled Tyndarus and Philocrates is prolonged through the Act I or whether the two chained men are taken into Hegio’s house after the completion of the prologue; see the detailed discussion by Lowe 1991, 28 – 30, who explains the difficulties of staging as the result of Plautus’ changes to what he views as a more coherent Greek model; cf. Thalmann 1996, 120. Recently, however, de Melo 2011, 515 has suggested that the two captives exit along with the prologue speaker. I tend to incline with the view that the prisoners remain on stage throughout Act I; I also favour the view expressed by Dombart and Lowe that the overseer changes their chains to lighter ones on stage (see Lowe 1991, 32– 4). This point is supported by the demonstrative pronoun istos (110) or the more indicative stage directions hidden in Hegio’s utterance: nam eccum hic captiuom adulescentem Aleum, 169 (‘Look here at the young prisoner from Elis’—my translation; for the quotations from the text of the Captivi I use de Melo 2011). It might be

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missal of Aristophontes as a madman (Tyndarus has not had the chance to explain the intrigue to Aristophontes). ¹⁰ In scene C there is no intrigue, since we have the anagnorisis. The three repeated scenes with Tyndarus, which prolong the anxiety of the audience as to how and when exactly true Tyndarus’ identity will be revealed, culminate in the final recognition scene. Hegio and Tyndarus only arrive at the truth after having spent most of the play blundering up blind alleys. And this is precisely what the repeated scenes show: a son and a father who are continuously groping towards mutual recognition, without realising that what they seek is before their eyes.¹¹ To the best of my knowledge, this is the only example in Greek and Roman Comedy of a recognition process where the two people involved meet each other for the first time at the very beginning of the play, repeatedly come into contact throughout the action, and yet only recognise each other at the conclusion.¹²

Repeated scenes: Ergasilus’ identity The symmetry of the comedy is also reinforced by the fact that the parasite Ergasilus puts in an appearance before each of the repeated scenes with Tyndarus. In two repeated scenes, scene a (129 – 94) and scene c (768 – 908)¹³ Ergasilus converses with Hegio. The parasite undergoes continual changes of role.¹⁴ These

possible for the captives to enter the house for a short while once the overseer has exited, since Hegio tells the lorarius that their new chains could enable them to walk foris or intus (114).  For Aristophontes’ role in disclosing the intrigue of Tyndarus see Frangoulidis 1996a, 144– 58.  Even Ergasilus’ sub–plot ends when he delivers the joyful news of Stalagmus’ apprehension, which will lead to the reunion of father and lost son. Thalmann 1996, 121 writes that ‘the slave and the parasite plots intersect when Ergasilus assumes the stock comic role of the seruus currens.’  In the Heauton timorumenos Terence makes an interesting parody of a recognition scene: he shows an encounter between a son and his parents, who already know each other (1024– 44) ― but this is of course a different situation. In Plautus’ Epidicus, Stratippocles and Telestis, who already know each other, eventually discover that they are brother and sister; but they themselves have only met in the past, before the comedy begins, and see each other again towards the end of the play (622 ff.).  For scene b see below.  As Leach 1969, 287– 8 has observed, Ergasilus compares himself to various stock characters, as well as to other people, and even to animals: initially he likens himself to a scortum (69, 74), mus (77), coclea (79) and various types of dog (85 – 7); gradually he moves on to being a discarded parasite (463, 492– 3); then he appears as a seruus currens (778 – 9) and regum rex

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scenes contrast with each other in two ways. In scene a the atmosphere in Hegio’s house is one of misery, and Ergasilus is an unwelcome self–invited guest who receives only a meagre dinner (while the son is away obviously there cannot be any great show of hospitality¹⁵). In scene c, with the return of Philopolemus, Hegio’s misery turns to joy, and now Ergasilus finds himself transformed into a welcome guest who, for the rest of his life, will enjoy lavish dinners at Hegio’s table. Although Ergasilus’ identity is never directly questioned, both he and Tyndarus undergo changes of social role. Tyndarus’ new identity corresponds to a different social status each time: as slave he belongs to Theodoromedes and can only hope for liberation; as Hegio’s son he is a free man. Similarly, the changes of Ergasilus’ social status can be seen as identity scenes. It should be noted that in the middle of the comedy (461– 98) Ergasilus makes another appearance, delivering a monologue (scene b) which is not followed by an encounter with Hegio. The reason given by the plot for this deviation is that Ergasilus has arrived at the wrong time, i. e. not at the time specified by Hegio in their first conversation (temperi, 191). In this scene Ergasilus appears despondent―he has just been round the whole city in a desperate but vain search for a patron more generous than Hegio; eventually he realises that he has not tried his luck in the port area, and so heads off in that direction. Later he returns to bring Hegio the good news on the arrival of his son (together with information on the abductor of his second son). ¹⁶ The following diagram shows Ergasilus’ identity scenes:

regalior (825); lastly, he identifies himself as several gods (863 – 5) before finally reverting to being a parasite again, though now one held in high regard.  Viljoen 1963, 54 implies that Hegio’s offer of meager fare to the parasite is a result of the fact that the former has little money to spare after his expensive purchase of the prisoners. Leach 1969, 289 criticises what she regards as the dismissive attitude of Hegio towards Ergasilus, while, by contrast, McCarthy 2000, 197 praises Hegio for showing strength of character when he ignores Ergasilus’ attempts to get a dinner out of him by flattery. My own view is that things are simpler: it is probably unlikely that a father would have any desire for lavish meals at a time when he was ignorant of the fate of his only remaining son. This view is supported by the fact that as soon as Hegio is informed of his son’s arrival he is so overjoyed that he not only invites the parasite to dinner, but even appoints him overseer of his storeroom.  See the discussion by Frangoulidis 1996b, 228 – 9, n. 16 about the correct arrival time for Ergasilus.

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Scenes concerning Ergasilus’ identity Scene a (129 – 94) Ergasilus and Hegio discuss the absence of Philopolemus and the consequent meagre supply of food for the parasite. Scene b (461– 97) Ergasilus grumbles about his starvation diet. Scene c (768 – 908) Ergasilus anticipates restitution of a better fortune. He and Hegio have a joyful conversation about the arrival of Philopolemus and the consequent generous provisions made available to the parasite.

Two ‘plays’ with symmetrical scenes and prologues It seems as if we have two ‘plays’ here: the main one on Tyndarus, and a minor one about Ergasilus. Most interestingly, these ‘plays’ unfold in parallel: the identity scenes discussed are arranged in consecutive alternation: Ergasilus as unwelcome parasite Tyndarus as Philocrates’ master Ergasilus as parasite in danger of losing his persona Tyndarus as Alean slave Ergasilus as privileged parasite (cellarius) Tyndarus as a free Aetolian.

It is significant that these repeated scenes take up almost all of the comedy (fewer than 200 of the 1028 verses lie outside this diagram). The argument for two inter–related plays is enforced by the existence of two different prologues, one for each. In the first, conventional prologue the speaker explains everything about Tyndarus’ scheme and the happy ending with the reunion between father and sons. It seems however that this prologue is followed by a second one, Ergasilus’ first monologue (69 – 109), since the parasite informs the audience yet again about the house they can see, the region where it is located, its owner, the ongoing war, and Hegio’s tactic of buying prisoners. Why should the spectators be treated to a repetition of what the prologue speaker told them just a few verses earlier? The second prologue is not redundant, since it offers a new perspective on the action: Ergasilus ignores everything concerning the scheme of the two captives. His presentation of Hegio’s domestic situation centres on the repercussions on his own situation as parasite, which quite

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naturally is of no concern to the prologue speaker. Actually the parasite himself is not included in the list of characters mentioned by the prologue speaker. It must be stressed that although Tyndarus and Ergasilus never converse together on stage,¹⁷ Hegio serves as a connecting link between them – when he appears on stage, he is almost always in conversation with one or the other of them. Thus unlike Ergasilus and Tyndarus, Hegio appears in every repeated scene with the exception of Ergasilus’ monologue in 461– 98; generally speaking, Hegio’s almost continual presence on stage further serves to emphasise his authority. His absence from this one repeated scene shows that the symmetry argued for thus far is not a mechanistic one; yet, the argument for an overall symmetry easily perceived by the audience is still valid. With respect to Hegio, it should also be added that both Tyndarus and Ergasilus are at his mercy, and both are temporarily punished by him. When Tyndarus’ scheme was exposed, he opposed the infuriated Hegio saying that he is ready to lay down his life for Philocrates, and to win the acclaim of future generations for his heroism in rescuing his young master from the enemy (682– 90); as a result of his self–sacrifice, Hegio condemned him to do hard labour in the quarry. On the other hand, Ergasilus is threatened with starvation or at best with having to make do with a few crumbs from Hegio’s table―and in either case he risks losing the persona of a parasite.¹⁸

Ergasilus and Tyndarus, contrasting characters In literary texts opposition and contrast are means of parallelism (similitudo per contrarium). In addition to the symmetry produced by the repeated scenes and the creation of two contrasting ‘plays,’ the audience perceives two diametrically different characters acting on stage, a noble slave and a parasite obsessed with obtaining food. As Hegio’s captive, Tyndarus is immobile for almost all of the play: first he is bound by heavy chains, then by lighter ones (112– 3), then ―after being freed for a short time (Philocrates’ complaint about his fetters and guards is characteris-

 It is only likely that they both appear simultaneously at the beginning of the comedy, though they do not come into contact with each other, since Tyndarus is probably ‘frozen’ (see my n. 9).  As regards the fortunes of Ergasilus, we may note a contrast with the fate of the parasite Gelasimus in another Plautine play, the Stichus. Gelasimus loses his place as parasite in the houses of the main characters, despite bringing good news about the return of their families’ heads. This shows that Plautus adapts and changes stock characters and plots from play to play, so as to serve his varying aims.

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tic: ita uinclis custodiisque circummoeniti sumus, 254) ―he is again shackled, and at the end of the play is so heavily chained that a blacksmith has to be summoned to release him (1028). Tyndarus’ immobility in front of the house shows the spectators (who are aware of his true identity) that he is ‘at home’ right from the beginning of the play. In this light, his transference to the quarry seems a wrong decision on Hegio’s part, since Tyndarus is removed from the only place he really belongs. On the other hand, Ergasilus is constantly in motion on and off stage. Not only does he approach Hegio’s house three times and move away from it twice;¹⁹ he pretends to have a long walk among people (and animals) who supposedly get into his way (791– 822); he spends much of his time wandering around the forum trying to cadge a dinner invitation (pergo ad alios, uenio ad alios, deinde ad alios, 488); later, when this is unsuccessful, he goes off to the port (496) to try his luck there, and, as it happens, witness the arrival of Philopolemus and Stalagmus. Thus, Ergasilus uses both stage exits (the left one to the harbour and the right to the city centre).²⁰ To sum up, the two ‘plays’ in the Captivi bind together through the links established by the character Hegio and his house, and their thematic similarity: the disclosure or restoration of the protagonist’s identity, which passes through various stages until it is finally established. Ergasilus manages to secure his role as parasite when he is appointed cellarius of Hegio’s storeroom. On the same day Tyndarus is liberated from his captivity and proven Hegio’s son, and so a free citizen of Aetolia. Thus both ‘protagonists’ improve their social status: Ergasilus is newly employed as official parasite and Tyndarus is a newly free man: loss of freedom was never an issue for Ergasilus, yet, like Tyndarus, his social status improves remarkably. The above links between Ergasilus and Tyndarus, as well as the pattern of repeated scenes involving them alternatively, provoke a sense of watching a mainly serious ‘play’ in parallel with a comic one. The plot centring on Ergasilus is more than a comic interlude inserted in a serious play, since the two plots run parallel. The twofold dramatic structure of the Captivi, ingenious and consistent, is intended to produce a bitter–sweet double effect: bitterness is generated by Tyndarus’s self–sacrifice, heroic attitude and punishment, whereas comedy is

 His last trip to the house ends with his exiting stage into it.  The necessity of Ergasilus’ visit to the port has been questioned by Hough 1942, 34 but Viljoen 1963, 58 – 9 has explained it as one more attempt by Ergasilus to find something better than the cena aspera which Hegio has promised him.

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provoked by Ergasilus’ gluttony and his unsuccessful attempts to secure lavish dinners.

Bibliography Benz, L. (1998), ‘Der Parasit in den Captivi’, in: L. Benz and E. Lefèvre (eds.), Maccus barbarus: Sechs Kapitel zur Originalität des Plautus, Tübingen, 51 – 100. Clark, J. R. (1976), ‘Structure and Symmetry in the Bacchides of Plautus’, in: TAPhA 106, 85 – 96. Damen, M. L. (1990), ‘Structure and Symmetry in Terence’s Adelphoe’, in: ICS 15, 85 – 106. De Melo, W. (2011), Plautus: Amphitryon, The Comedy of Asses, The Pot of Gold, The Two Bacchises, The Captives, Cambridge. Frangoulidis, S. A. (1996a), ‘Counter–Theatricalization in Plautus’ Captivi III. 4’, in: Mnemosyne 49, 144 – 57. —. (1996b), ‘Food and Poetics in Plautus’ Captivi’, in: AClass 65, 225 – 30. Franko, G. F. (1995), ‘Fides, Aetolia, and Plautus’ Captivi’, in: TAPhA 125, 155 – 76. Galinsky, G. K. (1966), ‘Scipionic Themes in Plautus’ Amphitruo’, in: TAPhA 97, 203 – 35. Hough, J. N. (1942), ‘The Structure of the Captivi’, in: AJPh 63, 26 – 37. Hunter, R. L. (1985), The New Comedy of Greece and Rome, Cambridge. Juniper, W. H. (1936), ‘Character Portrayal in Plautus’, in: CJ 31, 276 – 88. Ketterer, R. C. (1986), ‘Stage Properties in Plautine Comedy: II.’, in: Semiotica 59, 93 – 135. Konstan, D. (1983), Roman Comedy, Ithaca & London. Leach, E. W. (1969), ‘Ergasilus and the Ironies of the Captivi’, in: CM 30, 263 – 96. Lindsay, W. M. (1900), The Captivi of Plautus. Edited with an Introduction, Apparatus criticus, & Commentary, London. Lowe, J. C. B. (1991), ‘Prisoners, Guards, and Chains in Plautus’ Captivi’, in: AJPh 112, 29 – 44. Maurice, L. (2005), ‘A Calculated Comedy of Errors: The Structure of Plautus’ Menaechmi’, in: SyllClass 16, 31 – 59. —. (2007), ‘Structure and Stagecraft in Plautus’ Miles gloriosus’, in: Mnemosyne 60, 407 – 26. Marshall, C. W. (2006), The Stagecraft and Performance of Roman Comedy, Cambridge. McCarthy, K. (2000), Slaves, Masters, and the Art of Authority in Plautine Comedy, Princeton, NJ. Moore, T. J. (1998), The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience, Austin, Texas. Prescott, H. W. (1920), ‘Inorganic Roles in Roman Comedy’, in: CPh 15, 245 – 81. Saylor, C. F. (1977), ‘Periplectomenus and the Organization of the Miles gloriosus’, in: Eranos 75, 1 – 13. Steidle, W. (1975), ‘Probleme des Bühnenspiels in der neuen Komödie’, in: GB 3, 341 – 86. Τaladoire, B. A. (1956), Essai sur le Comique de Plaute, Monaco. Taplin, O. (1978), Greek Tragedy in Action, Berkeley & Los Angeles. Thalmann, W. G. (1996), ‘Versions of Slavery in the Captivi of Plautus’, in: Ramus 25, 112 – 45. Viljoen, G. van N. (1963), ‘The Plot of the Captivi of Plautus’, in: AClass 6, 38 – 63. Vogt–Spira, G. (1991), ‘Stichus oder ein Parasit wird Hauptperson’, in: E. Lefèvre, E. Stärk, and G. Vogt–Spira (eds.), Plautus barbarus: Sechs Kapitel zur Originalität des Plautus, Tübingen, 163 – 74.

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Wilner, O. L. (1930), ‘Contrast and Repetition as Devices in the Technique of Character Portrayal in Roman Comedy’, in: CPh 25, 56 – 71. This paper uses the same approach to Plautus’ dramaturgy firstly applied on the Mostellaria (‘Contrasting Houses, Contrasting Values. An Interpretation of Plautus’ Mostellaria Based on Mirror Scenes’ in: Drama 8, 67 – 112). I wish to express my gratitude to S. A. Frangoulidis and Niall W. Slater for their comments on an earlier draft of it. I also thank the editors for inviting me to contribute to this volume in honour of Professor D. Raios.

N. W. Slater

Gods on High, Gods Down Low: Romanizing Epiphany Abstract: Despite difficulties of reconstruction, Plautus’s references to the gods on the Roman tragic stage provide a background to understand his play with divine epiphany in comedy. Prologues to other comedies (notably Poenulus, Captivi, and Rudens) offer ways into the metatheatrical games of not just Mercury’s opening monologue in Amphitruo but also the participation of the gods in the play’s action. Mercury makes it very clear that this play will be spatially unlike any comedy the Roman audience has ever seen, as Plautus plays with established visual codes of performance. Mercury and Jupiter’s duplicated stage level epiphanies threaten to theatricalize divinity but ultimately lead on to novel double dei ex machina. Keywords: Amphitruo, deus ex machina, epiphany, metatheatre, prologue, Rudens In a wonderful book that still repays reading, the late Walter Kerr, then drama critic at the New York Times, put it this way: So far as we know, comedy never has come first. It is something like the royal twin that is born five minutes later, astonishing everyone and deeply threatening the orderly succession of the house…comedy is tragedy’s private diary. It records what may have been concealed, and quite properly concealed, while we were trying so desperately to maintain a social relationship with the gods.¹

The linguistic debt of Roman comedy is clear, certainly by its second generation on the Roman stage. Eduard Fraenkel notes the genetic similarity, while allowing for the sibling rivalry as well, thus: The cantica in Roman comedy derive from those in tragedy; the traces of this origin did not disappear when Plautus began to write comedies, the first Latin poet to do so exclusively.²

Yet the consideration of Plautus in relation to his Roman literary environment can often stop at this level of language. In part this is a function of the exiguous survival of Roman Republican tragedy: we can trace the echo of a word or two,

 Kerr 1967, 20, 26.  Fraenkel 2007, 240 [= 1922, 356].

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but we are hard–pressed to reconstruct enough of the plot of lost Roman tragedies to make larger–scale comparisons productive. Moreover, the knowledge that most examples of comoedia palliata were adapted from Greek comedies exerts a powerful pull on most readers’ minds, encouraging them to look backward to explain the functioning–or with unfortunate frequency, the malfunctioning, in their view–of the surviving scripts of Plautus. My purpose here is to examine Plautus’s innovations in staging the gods and against the background of Roman tragic performance, insofar as the faint remaining traces of the latter allow. Unsurprisingly, the focus will be on the Amphitruo, but while touching on some issues of the linguistic inheritance, it may be possible to recover more of the visual novelty of this and other plays and therefore Plautus’s performative dialogue with tragedy. It is no easy task to reconstruct the resources available for staging the gods in the Roman Republican theatre. It is worth thinking briefly about the conventions and resources in the Greek theatre both before and after the introduction of the mechane or stage crane, probably in the third quarter of the fifth century. Gods could and certainly did appear on the Attic stage before the invention of the mechane. Aeschylus allowed his gods to appear on the same level as mortal characters, as his Eumenides clearly shows: Apollo enters with Athena and Orestes for the trial scene at the end and probably enters beside Orestes from the shrine at Delphi at the play’s beginning.³ Yet the opening of Sophocles’ Ajax (perhaps before 440 BC) strongly suggests that Athena appeared on the top of the scene building in her dialogue with Odysseus in the prologue. It seems likely therefore that Attic tragedy was developing a visual vocabulary for divine epiphanies before the introduction of the mechane, and their appearance ‘on high’ in the prologue or epilogue of the play was becoming the standard. The invention of the stage crane seems revolutionary, and for a generation or two it makes possible quite new and different interventions of gods and divinely aided mortals in the plays. Medea takes flight at the end of her play, along with Bellorophon in the midst of his, and the gods can even break in during the action. Euripides’ Heracles (c. 416 BC) offers one of the clearest examples with the double arrival of Iris and Lyssa, heralded by the chorus as φάσμ᾽ ὑπὲρ δόμων (818, ‘an apparition visible above the house’).⁴ Iris immediately identifies herself and her companion, Lyssa, the goddess of madness, at the same time reassuring  Brown 1982, 29 – 30 suggests that Apollo appears above at the beginning of the play, when invoked by Orestes, and while Sommerstein and Mastronarde 1990, 285 argue against this staging, it is not wholly implausible.  Texts and translations of Euripides from D. Kovacs’ Loeb editions, unless otherwise noted.

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the chorus πόλει γὰρ οὐδὲν ἥκομεν βλάβος (824, ‘We have not come to hurt the city’). The novelty here is two–fold: not only do we see an intervention in the course of the action, rather than at beginning or end, but the two figures then move in opposite directions and to different purposes. Iris uses the crane for a spectacular departure to Olympus, while Lyssa descends into the house to join directly in the action by inflicting madness upon Heracles (872– 3). The resulting catastrophe, of course, takes the play’s action in an entirely new direction. Greek Old Comedy, however, quickly challenged its rival for the use of the mechane, and in Aristophanes’ Peace Trygaeus becomes the next Bellerophon, flying to Olympus on the back of a giant dung beetle. Peisthetairus in the Birds then inverts the power dynamic, halting Iris in flight when she tries to violate the airspace of Cloudcuckooland. Though no ancient source tells us this, it seems eminently possible that comedy’s assault by expropriation on tragedy’s use of the mechane resulted in limiting its usage in the latter. We hear of no further innovations in the use of the crane after the fifth century. By the time Aristotle is formulating his principles for tragedy, it has been pushed to the periphery: φανερὸν οὖν ὅτι καὶ τὰς λύσεις τῶν μύθων ἐξ αὐτοῦ δεῖ τοῦ μύθου συμβαίνειν, [1454b] καὶ μὴ ὥσπερ ἐν τῇ Μηδείᾳ ἀπὸ μηχανῆς…⁵ ἀλλὰ μηχανῇ χρηστέον ἐπὶ τὰ ἔξω τοῦ δράματος, ἢ ὅσα πρὸ τοῦ γέγονεν ἃ οὐχ οἷόν τε ἄνθρωπον εἰδέναι, ἢ ὅσα ὕστερον, ἃ [5] δεῖται προαγορεύσεως καὶ ἀγγελίας: ἅπαντα γὰρ ἀποδίδομεν τοῖς θεοῖς ὁρᾶν. ἄλογον δὲ μηδὲν εἶναι ἐν τοῖς πράγμασιν, εἰ δὲ μή, ἔξω τῆς τραγῳδίας, Clearly therefore the ‘denouement’ of each play should also be the result of the plot itself and not produced mechanically as in the Medea…The ‘god in the car’ should only be used to explain what lies outside the play, either what happened earlier and is therefore beyond human knowledge, or what happens later and needs to be foretold in a proclamation. For we ascribe to the gods the power of seeing everything. There must, however, be nothing inexplicable in the incidents, or, if there is, it must lie outside the tragedy. (Poetics 1454a 37–b2, transl. Fyfe)

The key issue lies in the phrases ‘what happened earlier’ (ὅσα πρὸ τοῦ γέγονεν)⁶ and ‘what happens later’ (ὅσα ὕστερον). By the fourth century, the use of divine

 I omit here the phrase καὶ ἐν τῇ Ἰλιάδι τὰ περὶ τὸν ἀπόπλουν (‘and the incident of the embarkation in the Iliad,’ transl. Fyfe). The transmitted text has given problems–why should Aristotle suddenly revert to discussing epic at this point? The proposal of Else 1957, 470 – 3, however, to emend ἐν τῇ Ἰλιάδι to ἐν τῇ ἐν Αὐλίδι has not won widespread approval.  Aristotle, or the student who took notes on his lectures, does not explain fully when he says that ‘what happened earlier…is therefore beyond human knowledge’ (ὅσα πρὸ τοῦ γέγονεν ἃ οὐχ οἷόν τε ἄνθρωπον εἰδέναι). In principle the past is in no way humanly unknowable. Divine

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prologues and epilogues is so well established for philosopher and audiences alike that there is no impetus to challenge their use–but it looks like intervention within the course of the play’s action has become too disruptive.⁷ Fourth century comedy was even less charitable than the philosophers. In a justly famous fragment from the play called Poetry by the Middle Comedy writer Antiphanes, someone, quite possibly the goddess Poetry in a prologue,⁸ while complaining about how much tougher it is to write comedy than tragedy, suggests that the only place for the mechane is at the end: μακάριόν ἐστιν ἡ τραγωιδία ποίημα κατὰ πάντ᾿, εἴ γε πρῶτον οἱ λόγοι ὑπὸ τῶν θεατῶν εἰσιν ἐγνωρισμένοι, πρὶν καί τιν᾿ εἰπεῖν· ὥσθ᾿ ὑπομνῆσαι μόνον δεῖ τὸν ποιητήν… ἔπειθ’ ὅταν μηθὲν δύνωντ’ εἰπεῖν ἔτι, κομιδῆι δ’ ἀπειρήκωσιν ἐν τοῖς δράμασιν, αἴρουσιν ὥσπερ δάκτυλον τὴν μηχανὴν καὶ τοῖς θεωμένοισιν ἀποχρώντως ἔχει.

5

15

Tragedy’s a cushy art altogether, since first of all the spectators know the plots already,

prologues, however, tend to tell us things or pull together things that no individual human could know.  Plato dismisses such writing as the result of aporia and failure of invention, as an offhand comparison in the Cratylus shows: εἰ μὴ ἄρα βούλει, ὥσπερ οἱ τραγῳδοποιοὶ ἐπειδάν τι ἀπορῶσιν ἐπὶ τὰς μηχανὰς καταφεύγουσι θεοὺς αἴροντες, καὶ ἡμεῖς οὕτως εἰπόντες ἀπαλλαγῶμεν, ὅτι τὰ πρῶτα ὀνόματα οἱ θεοὶ ἔθεσαν καὶ διὰ ταῦτα ὀρθῶς ἔχει. unless you think we had better follow the example of the tragic poets, who, when they are in a dilemma, have recourse to the introduction of gods on machines. So we may get out of trouble by saying that the gods gave the earliest names, and therefore they are right. (Plato, Cratylus 425d, transl. H. Fowler) In his Ars Poetica Horace, formulating the theory for writing drama long after the Greek practice, sees it more as a matter of scale: nec deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus inciderit (Ars Poetica 191– 2) Neither let a god interfere, unless a difficulty worthy a god’s unraveling should happen (transl. Smart and Buckley) He leaves it to his reader to determine when the ‘knot’ of the plot might be worthy of such intervention.  On this intriguing fragment and the history of comedy, see briefly Handley 1985, 411– 3, Olson 2007, 172– 3, and (much more fully) Konstantakos 2003 – 2004, esp. 11– 3 and 21– 30.

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before anyone speaks–all the poet has to do is remind them… And when the poets can’t come up with anything and have said absolutely everything in their plays they lift the crane just like a finger and the spectators get their money’s worth.

5

15 (Antiphanes fr. 189. 1– 5, 13 – 6 K–A)

Logistics as well as aesthetics may have played a role in changing practices. The growth of a touring theatre industry would have tended toward the effective elimination of the mechane as well. The Artists of Dionysus began to appear throughout the Greek world, taking the classic tragedies of the fifth century along with contemporary New Comedies to increasingly remote venues, such as Magna Graecia. Despite the vigorous imagination of Mary Renault, we know very little of the mechanics of touring productions, but it is by no means unreasonable to assume that the theatres or even improvised performance spaces of the Greek hinterland lacked the resources for heavy–duty stage effects–and even if a local theatre could build a mechane, a touring actor might not want to trust his life to the skills of a local crane operator. The crane never disappeared, and presumably made something of a comeback in the large Hellenistic and imperial theatres of the east. Pollux knows of it: The mechane shows gods and heroes that are in the air like Bellerophon or Perseus, and it stands beside the left parodos, higher than the stage building. (Onom. 4. 128?, transl. Csapo and Slater)

The curious specificity about the position of the crane in the imperial theatre may be confirmed by a scholion on a passage in Lucian, Lover of Lies 29. When a character arrives like a deus ex machina,⁹ the scholion explains: μηχανῶν δύο μετεωριζομένων ἡ ἐξ ἀριστερῶν θεοὺς καὶ ἥρωας ἐνεφάνιζε παρευθὺς ὥσπερ λύσιν φέροντας τῶν ἀμηχάνων. Of the two machines suspended in the air the one on the left makes gods and heroes appear suddenly, as bringing solutions to hopeless problems. (transl. Csapo and Slater¹⁰)

 Lover of Lies 29: καὶ τὸ τοῦ λόγου, θεὸν ἀπὸ μηχανῆς ἐπεισκυκληθῆναί μοι τοῦτον ᾤμην ὑπὸ τῆς Τύχης.  Csapo and Slater 1995, 270, n. 77I (although they misnumber the Lucian reference).

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One would dearly love to know what the machine on the right did! This long excursus, however, has been the background to a claim that the practices of the Greek theatre of southern Italy and therefore those of the theatre the Romans adapted from that model had come to have a more restricted visual vocabulary of the gods than we might imagine either from the practices of the late fifth century or from the later imperial theatres. We have no reason to believe either used the mechane. Old plays whose original productions might have hoisted the gods on high either made do with an appearance on the theologeion–or were not revived at all. Comedies seem to have confined the gods to the prologue position, even if that prologue might be delayed. Another question worth raising, even for the second generation of Roman theatre audiences, is how clear their generic expectations were when they came to a performance. We have no evidence, as we do for Athens, for a festival structure that always placed tragedy at one point in the program, comedy in another. For the more sophisticated audiences members, of course, titles would be important clues: an Asinaria or Mostellaria would always sound like comedies– but what about an Amphitruo? Plautus seems to play with generic and performative expectations in other plays. One obvious example is the Poenulus prologue,¹¹ which begins: Achillem Aristarchi mihi commentari lubet: ind’ mihi principium capiam, ex ea tragoedia. ‘sileteque et tacete atque animum aduortite, audire iubet uos imperator’ – histricus, I feel like performing Aristarchus’s Achilles: that’s where I’ll take my start, from that tragedy: ‘Be silent, be still, and give heed; To hear is the order of your general’ – stage manager.

The prologue announces that he is in the mood to perform a tragedy, the Achilles, almost certainly Ennius’s Latin version of the Greek play of Aristarchus. Depending on how the actor plays the lines, his words could leave the audience wondering if they are in fact in for a tragedy–until he arrives at histricus, and the misquotation turns it into the first joke on the audience, who should now be relieved to be in the right place. A very lengthy prologue follows, tossing in lots more reassuring jokes before detailing the play’s extensive backstory. The prologue to the Captivi shifts the balance a bit but not the overall strategy. This uncharacterized prologue speaker interlaces his earlier exposition of

 See further Slater 1992, esp. 135 – 7.

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the story of the two chained captives standing before the audience with banter and jokes about people still finding their seats, but near the end of his speech, he is at pains to reassure the audience, who are figuring out they have not come to a typical comedy, that it is still worth their attention: profecto expediet fabulae huic operam dare: non pertractate facta est neque item ut ceterae: neque spurcidici insunt vorsus inmemorabiles; hic neque peiiurus leno est nec meretrix mala neque miles gloriosus; ne vereamini quia bellum Aetolis esse dixi cum Aleis: foris illi extra scaenam fient proelia. nam hoc paene iniquom’st, comico choragio conari desubito agere nos tragoediam.

55

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It’ll definitely pay to pay attention to this play: it’s not written in standard style or just like the rest: no smutty verses or ones you can’t repeat; here’s no lying pimp or whore with a heart of lead, no bragging soldier. Don’t be afraid because I said the Aetolians were at war with the Eleans: the battles will be fought offstage over there. It would be really wrong for us, dressed for a comedy, suddenly to try staging a tragedy.

The prologue speaker has been trying to stretch the audience’s expectations for the play in terms of theme and subject matter, but the reassurance he offers at the end of his speech, the proof that they are going to see a comedy after all, lies in the features of the performance they can already see: the comico choragio, the costumes and any other stage props that say ‘comedy.’ One more different angle on playing with audience expectation comes from Plautus’s tale of seaside salvation, the Rudens. Its lengthy and remarkably serious–sounding prologue is delivered by a novel divinity: the star Arcturus. He certainly looked different, with something about his costume or mask representing him as a star (ita sum ut videtis splendens stella candida, 3) Where other Plautine prologues work to warm up the audience and establish a reciprocity through various kinds of jokes, Arcturus seems pretty much all business: a citizen of the celestial city (civis civitate caelitum, 2), a servant of the imperator of gods and men, Jupiter (named three times in the first 23 lines), working by night among the gods in heaven and strolling among men on earth by day (inter mortalis ambulo interdius, 7). Perhaps there is some intended humor in his description of himself as a hard–working divine bureaucrat, writing down the names of those who cheat in court to deliver to Jupiter (referimus nomina exscripta ad Iovem, 15), while Jupiter

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himself keeps a separate written account of the good men (bonos in aliis tabulis exscriptos habet, 21). Even when he gets around to detailing the background to the play, though, attributing it to Diphilus, there are still no overt jokes: instead, we learn the complicated plot of an exiled Athenian father, his lost and enslaved daughter, the pimp who is trying to take her away, and the young man who is in love with her–all brought together again on this shore by Arcturus, who raised a storm at sea to prevent the pimp’s escape. When after 82 lines he finally exits, the audience who came to hear a comedy of Plautus may well be wondering if they have come to the right performance. Only with the appearance of a slave do we finally hear anything resembling a joke–and it is a remarkably metatheatrical one: SCE. pro di inmortales, tempestatem quoiusmodi Neptunus nobis nocte hac misit proxuma! detexit ventus villam – quid verbis opu’st? non ventus fuit, verum Alcumena Euripidi, ita omnis de tecto deturbavit tegulas;

85

SCE. By the immortal gods, what a storm Neptune hit us with last night! The wind unroofed the house–why say more? That was no wind, it was really Euripides’ Alcmene– it blew every tile off the roof!

The joke here works on at least two levels: it reminds the audience of another production they may have seen recently–and it implies that the prologue the audience has just listened to was as much of a blowhard as one would find in tragedy! Commentators have disputed just what background Plautus’s audience might have brought to the theatre to understand this joke. Was the Alcumena of Euripides a Greek production touring in Rome? Despite Sceledrus’s words, that seems unlikely: Fraenkel argues that, despite the attribution to Euripides, this must have been a Latin adaptation played for the Roman audience.¹² A dozen or more fragments from the Euripidean Alcmene survive, but they are not as helpful for the plot as one might wish. The plot reconstruction by Cropp and Collard in their recent Loeb edition of the Euripidean fragments suggests that the play was set on the day after Alcmene gave birth to her twins, Heracles and Iphicles.¹³ Her husband Amphitryo, knowing that his wife has slept with another, is enraged enough to kill her. Alcmene takes refuge at an altar, Amphitryo tries to drive her from it by lighting a fire near her–and Zeus

 Fraenkel 2007, 50 – 1 [= 1922, 68 – 9].  Collard and Cropp 2008, 100 – 3.

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rescues her by sending a rainstorm to extinguish the fire, followed by a deus ex machina speech (though scholars argue whether Zeus himself appeared or sent Hermes). Some think the fire at the altar would have been too difficult or dangerous to represent on stage,¹⁴ but some vase paintings seem to represent water being poured down by divine figures to extinguish the flames. These, however, are just details: whether it was a windy speech or a windy special effect, Sceledrus’s joke only works if a good portion of the audience had a tragic performance in mind, not just a name. My attempt so far has been to destabilize the notion that we know what a Roman audience in Plautus’s day knew and expected when a god showed up on stage–let alone a god who might not quite look the part, as we find in turning to the Amphitruo. A modern translation tends to settle enormous questions with a short stage direction: de Melo in his Loeb simply writes ‘Enter Mercury, dressed as a slave.’ Is it really so simple? Mercury’s opening lines do seem to take it for granted that most of the audience will recognize him as a god, even as he begins contract negotiations with them. That contract is one 16–verse sentence, with a number of subclauses. We begin with a parenthetical insertion that is actually his first claim to divine identity himself: (nam vos quidem id iam scitis concessum et datum mi esse ab dis aliis, nuntiis praesim et lucro): haec ut me voltis adprobare, adnitier lucrum ut perenne vobis semper suppetat, ita huic facietis fabulae silentium itaque aequi et iusti hic eritis omnes arbitri.¹⁵

15

(for you already know that I was put in charge of messages and profit by the other gods), as you want me to bless you in these matters and to try my best so that you always have constant profit, you will keep silence during this play and you will all be fair and just judges. (transl. de Melo)

The casual reference to other gods firmly characterizes the speaker as one of them, with a particular brief for communications and profits. Framing his appeal for silence as a contract with benefits for the audience reinforces that character. So far, then, this could be any divine prologue to a Roman comedy, and the au Producing a fire effect on stage was apparently not beyond the resources of the 5th century theatre, as the reference to Hekabe and a stage chaff fire in Aristophanes Banqueters fr. 234 K–A shows (καὶ τὴν Ἑκάβην ὀτοτύζουσαν καὶ καιόμενον τὸν ἀχυρόν).  The text of Amphitruo is cited from Christenson 2000, the translations from de Melo 2011, unless otherwise noted.

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dience might simply await more details–or is there any visual dissonance to undermine a unified divine identity? The next lines start hammering this divine identity home–but then take a turn: nunc quoiius iussu venio et quam ob rem venerim dicam simulque ipse eloquar nomen meum. Iovi’ iussu venio: nomen Mercurio’st mihi: pater huc me misit ad vos oratum meus; tam etsi pro imperio vobis quod dictum foret scibat facturos, quippe qui intellexerat vereri vos se et metuere, ita ut aequom est Iovem; verum profecto hoc petere me precario a vobis iussit leniter dictis bonis. etenim ille quoius huc iussu venio, Iuppiter non minu’ quam vostrum quivis formidat malum: humana matre natus, humano patre mirari non est aequom sibi si praetimet; atque ego quoque etiam, qui Iovis sum filius, contagione mei patris metuo malum.

20

25

30

Now I’ll tell you on whose command and for what reason I’ve come, and at the same time I’ll tell you my name. I’ve come on Jupiter’s command. My name is Mercury. My father sent me here to plead with you. He did know that you were going to do what you were told by way of command, since he realized that you revere and fear him, as one should Jupiter; still, he’s told me to ask you for this by way of entreaty, mildly, with kind words. Well, that Jupiter on whose command I’m coming here is no less afraid of a thrashing than any of you. He’s born of a human mother and a human father; so it wouldn’t be fair to be surprised if he’s afraid for himself. And I too, who am Jupiter’s son, have caught the fear of a thrashing from my father.

He mentions his own name once–and his father Jupiter no less than four times. Yet a key transformation occurs at the only point where Jupiter is the subject of a main verb–and that is to tell us that Jupiter is afraid. Once again the translator is happy to explain this with the wisdom of hindsight, footnoting ‘that Jupiter’ as ‘i. e., the actor, not the god,’¹⁶ but would the audience in the theatre tumble to this explanation so immediately? At the original performance, it seems much more likely that most of them will be quite confused by the claim that the Jupiter they have yet to meet is, in an elegantly balanced line, humana matre natus, humano patre (28). It is true that, quite near the end of the prologue, Mercury will tell the audience not to wonder at his appearance:

 So de Melo 2011, 15.

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nunc ne hunc ornatum vos meum admiremini, quod ego huc processi sic cum servili schema: (116 – 7) Now don’t be surprised at this costume of mine, since I’ve come here thus in a slave’s guise. (transl. Slater)

Yet we have no positive evidence they were much disturbed by this beforehand. Instead, he clues the audience in to a very small visual signal, undoubtedly present from the beginning but presumably theretofore unremarked, for them to use in differentiating doubles: nunc internosse ut nos possitis facilius ego has habebo usque hic in petaso pinnulas; tum meo patri autem torulus inerit aureus sub petaso: id signum Amphitruoni non erit. ea signa nemo homo horum familiarium videre poterit: verum vos videbitis.

145

Now in order that you can tell us apart more easily, I’ll have these little wings on my hat throughout. And my father will have a golden ribbon under his hat; Amphitruo won’t have this mark. No one of the household here will be able to see these marks, yet you will see them.

But that lies at the end of the prologue’s long process of induction, of drawing the audience into the complicated world of this particular play, and one of those conundra is precisely whether they should take him as a standard divine prologue, or one who is about to behave very differently. After his early reference to ‘other gods,’ Mercury names some of his fellow gods, and they turn out already to have a place–in the theatre: nam quid ego memorem (ut alios in tragoediis vidi, Neptunum, Virtutem, Victoriam, Martem, Bellonam commemorare quae bona vobis fecissent) quis benefactis meu’ pater, deorum regnator, architectu’st omnibus?

45

Well, why should I mention – as I’ve seen other deities mention in tragedies what good things they’d done for you, namely Neptune, Courage, Victory, Mars, and Bellona – well, why should I mention the good deeds my father, the king of gods, has devised for all of you?

Certainly there is a potential ambiguity here. Are the alios in tragoediis other gods who appear in another genre, tragedy, or does Mercury share with them the genre of tragedy? The subtle metatheatrical note that Mercury has been an

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audience member for these previous performances does not really settle the question. A few lines later, Mercury famously seems to decide: he offers them a tragedy, then in response to negative audience reaction, promises to turn it into a comedy–or rather something else: post argumentum huius eloquar tragoediae. quid? contraxistis frontem quia tragoediam dixi futuram hanc? deu’ sum, commutavero. eandem hanc, si voltis, faciam ex tragoedia comoedia ut sit omnibus isdem vorsibus. utrum sit an non voltis? sed ego stultior, quasi nesciam vos velle, qui divos siem. teneo quid animi vostri super hac re siet: faciam ut commixta sit; tragicomoedia; nam me perpetuo facere ut sit comoedia, reges quo veniant et di, non par arbitror. quid igitur? quoniam hic servos quoque partis habet, faciam sit, proinde ut dixi, tragicomoedia.

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Then I’ll tell you the plot of this tragedy. What? You’re frowning because I said this was going to be a tragedy? I’m a god, I’ll change it. If you want, I’ll immediately turn this same play from a tragedy into a comedy with all the same verses. Do you want it to be one or not? But I’m being silly, as if I didn’t know what you want: after all, I’m a god. I know what your feelings in this matter are: I’ll make sure it’s a mixed play: it’ll be a tragicomedy. Well, I don’t think it would be appropriate to turn completely into a comedy a play where gods and kings come on stage. What then? Since a slave has a role here as well, I’ll make it, as I said, a tragicomedy.

Of course at the same time he both undercuts and reaffirms his own divine status, wondering what the audience wants, then claiming he already knows:¹⁷ they want a comedy, but he will compromise with a generic hybrid, the tragicomedy. It is unacceptable in Mercury’s view for gods and kings to appear in a pure comedy. Since there is a slave in it–as he says while wearing a slave’s costume, as we noted above–it must be a generic mixture. Nor are we done with Jupiter yet. Mercury now declares Jupiter is concerned with fair competition in the theatres and hints that should apply to politics as well. But then comes something surely meant as a surprise for his audience, even for those who might generally know the story of Amphitruo:

 Although as Hanson 1959, 100 has shown, the evidence from Plautus does not clearly attribute omniscience to their gods: ‘The stock epithets of the gods postulate their immortality and their power, but seldom their justice and never their omniscience.’

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mirari nolim vos quapropter Iuppiter nunc histriones curet; ne miremini: ipse hanc acturu’st Iuppiter comoediam. quid? admiratin estis? quasi vero novom nunc proferatur Iovem facere histrioniam; etiam, histriones anno quom in proscaenio hic Iovem invocarunt, venit, auxilio is fuit. praeterea certo prodit in tragoedia. hanc fabulam, inquam, hic Iuppiter hodie ipse aget et ego una cum illo.

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I wouldn’t want you to be surprised that Jupiter cares about actors now. Don’t be surprised: Jupiter himself is going to act a part in this comedy. What? You are surprised? As if something new were brought on now, Jupiter taking up the dramatic art. Last year, when the actors called upon Jupiter here on stage, he also came and brought them help. What’s more, he certainly appears in tragedy. This play, then, Jupiter will act himself here today, and I together with him.

The tragicomedy has suddenly reverted to a straightforward comedy (line 88) at the very moment Mercury announces that Jupiter will appear in it. The justification for this is twofold. Last year he helped the actors ‘here on stage.’ If hic specifically means a comic stage, Jupiter’s help did not necessarily involve a personal appearance–it might even mean that he gave success to the play itself that called upon him. Secondly, he definitely has appeared on stage–in tragedy. Now it seems both that ‘here’ is definitely not a tragic stage and that the audience might be a little surprised to know that Jupiter shows up personally in tragedies. Is this a point for the ‘learned’ in the audience? We know, of course, essentially nothing about the tragedies immediately contemporary with this play of Plautus,¹⁸ but appearances by Zeus in Greek drama were apparently quite rare: perhaps in Aeschylus’s Psychostasia and a few others. It seems likely that his stage turns in Roman tragedy were equally rare and equally memorable, so the example that Mercury here appeals to should be recent, spectacular, and almost unquestionably an appearance ‘on high’ at the tragedy’s end. Mercury is making it very clear that this play will be spatially unlike any comedy the Roman audience has ever seen. The spatial novelties continue as Mercury concludes his prologue: sed Amphitruonis illi[c] est servos Sosia: a portu illic nunc huc cum lanterna advenit. abigam iam ego illunc advenientem ab aedibus.

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 For a brief consideration of the possibility that this play was the performance of an adapted Alcumena referred to in Rudens, see Christenson 2000, 3 and 136 ad 91– 2.

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adeste: erit operae pretium hic spectantibus Iovem et Mercurium facere histrioniam. (151– 152) But there is Amphitruo’s slave Sosia; he’s coming here from the harbor with a lantern now. This instant I’ll drive him away from the house, as soon as he gets here. Pay attention; it’ll be worthwhile for you to see Jupiter and Mercury take up the histrionic art. (transl. de Melo)

Mercury does what no other divine prologue¹⁹ in Greek or Roman tragedy or comedy does: he becomes a part of the stage action by first eavesdropping on, then confronting directly Sosia, Amphitruo’s servant whom he is dressed and masked to resemble exactly. Yet the transition is gradual: Mercury remains unobserved for a long time while Sosia entertains the audience with not only important background details for the story but a lengthy narrative of the great victory in battle his master Amphitruo has just won. Battle descriptions are of course a generic marker for tragedy, as we saw from the Captivi prologue above (58 – 60), and Sosia’s narrative has all the stylistic features of tragic language.²⁰ This tragicomedy then offers its audience one of the standard pleasures of tragic performance–before turning into a very different kind of comedy. Sosia wraps up his speech by declaring this is the story he will tell to Alcumena, and Mercury’s asides suggest the confrontation is imminent, but there is one more delay, carefully pointed out to us by Mercury: MER. …sed quid illuc est? caelum aspectat. opservabo quam rem agat. SOS. certe edepol, si quicquam’st aliud quod credam aut certo sciam, credo ego hac noctu Nocturnum obdormivisse ebrium… credo edepol equidem dormire Solem atque adpotum probe; mira sunt nisi invitavit sese in cena plusculum. MER. ain vero, verbero? deos esse tui similis putas? ego pol te istis tuis pro dictis et male factis, furcifer, accipiam; modo sis veni huc: invenies infortunium.

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MER. …But what’s that? He’s looking at the sky. I’ll observe what he’s up to. SOS. If there’s anything I believe or know for sure, I certainly do know that this night Nocturnus has fallen asleep drunk… I think Sol is asleep, after some heavy drinking. It would be strange if he hasn’t drunk his own health a bit much at dinner.

 And no other prologue speaker of any kind, with the curious exception of Charinus in Plautus’s Mercator, who both offers background information on the play and then joins the action himself.  Fraenkel 2007, 122 – 4 [= 1922, 181– 4]; cf. briefly Manuwald 2011, 317– 8.

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MER. Do you really say so, you thug? Do you think the gods are similar to you? Well, for those words and for that bad behavior of yours I’ll give you a reception, you criminal. Just come here, will you, and you’ll meet trouble.

The question Mercury poses at 284 is both deeply comic and deeply disturbing: deos esse tui similis putas? The rest of the play, both verbally and visually, is at some level working out the answer to that question. As Florence Dupont has argued in a splendid article,²¹ the Amphitruo is neither a parody nor a burlesque, but a tale of duplication. The play not only intermingles gods and mortals repeatedly but makes the gods both actors and impresarios. Their duplicated stage level epiphanies threaten to theatricalize divinity– but I will argue that these epiphanies lead on to double dei ex machina who divinize theatre. The process begins with the god as clever slave stealing the real slave’s identity from him before our very eyes. Intriguingly, he proves that he already possesses Sosia’s memories before he allows Sosia to examine him and see they are visually identical: SOS. certe edepol, quom illum contemplo et formam cognosco meam, quem ad modum ego sum (saepe in speculum inspexi),²² nimi’ similest mei; itidem habet petasum ac vestitum: tam consimile’st atque ego; sura, pes, statura, tonsus, oculi, nasum vel labra, malae, mentum, barba, collus: totus. quid verbis opust? si tergum cicatricosum, nihil hoc simili’st similius.

445

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 a 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’s full of scars, there’s nothing more similar than this similarity.

There are multiple theatrical ironies here. Everything listed down to ‘totus’ is in fact costume or mask. The stock phrase quid verbis opust on one level just closes out the list–but Plautus often reanimates a frozen phrase such as numquid vis by answering the question–and perhaps we should here also. What need of words? Well, the words make the theatrical reality of the comparison: the words are

 Dupont 1976.  Would a slave in fact have looked at himself in the mirror regularly, or is this meant to get a laugh too? Mirrors were expensive luxuries, owned by the elite, and perhaps more often women, such as Philematium in the Mostellaria. It seems unlikely that Amphitruo owned a mirror for himself. Was Sosia likely to have access to a mirror owned by Alcumena–and should he have looked at himself in it often (saepe)?

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the mirror image. And what escapes beyond the reach of the mirror? The body hidden inside costume and mask, the actor’s body that might or might not be scarred, might or might not be a slave’s body–but in any case will not have the mirror image of scars it should to match Sosia’s body. Physically and verbally defeated, Sosia leaves with one more joke about bodily identity: ibo ad portum atque haec uti sunt facta ero dicam meo; nisi etiam is quoque me ignorabit: quod ille faxit Iuppiter, ut ego hodie raso capite calvos capiam pilleum.

460

I’ll go to the harbor and tell my master how this happened; that is, unless he doesn’t know me either. May Jupiter up there do so, so that today I can shave my head and take the freeman’s cap as a bald man.

de Melo’s translation of ille…Iuppiter as ‘Jupiter up there’ may go a bit beyond the strict limits of the text. Mercury, however, had mentioned Jupiter a few lines before, telling Sosia that not even by climbing into Jupiter’s chariot was he likely to escape (quadrigas si nunc inscendas Iovis, 450). The notion that the Jupiter who could rescue him by freeing might be ‘up there’ does not seem too distant. Even more important is the demonstration that Sosia can be taken apart theatrically– and the advantage would be that his own master would not know him, a reference to the essential feature of Roman manumission when the master no longer ‘recognized’ him as his slave–thus freeing him by ignoring him. Yet if human identity can be disassembled, disintegrated in this way, why not divine identity as well? We need not trace every mistaken identity in detail throughout the course of the play. Amphitruo arrives, denouncing Sosia for fabricating such an unbelievable story about another Sosia–but when Alcumena comes out to greet him, he discovers another Amphitruo has been at work as well, one who not only knew everything about his victory in battle but also gave her the gold patera he was awarded as a prize of victory. This scene thus plays an interesting variation on the idea of the recognition token, familiar from both tragedy and comedy: the items of clothing or jewelry left with an abandoned child that later proves identity and family connection (as in the Ion). Here, however, the token seems to show the opposite, as Alcumena already possesses this golden bowl: ALC. quid verbis opu’st? em tibi pateram, eccam. AMP. cedo mi. ALC. age aspice huc sis nunciam tu qui quae facta infitiare; quem ego iam hic convincam palam. estne haec patera qua donatu’s illi? AMP. summe Iuppiter, quid ego video? haec ea est profecto patera. perii, Sosia. SOS. aut pol haec praestigiatrix mulier multo maxuma est

780

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aut pateram hic inesse oportet. AMP. agedum, exsolve cistulam. SOS. quid ego istam exsolvam? opsignata’st recte, res gesta est bene: tu peperisti Amphitruonem alium, ego alium peperi Sosiam; nunc si patera pateram peperit, omnes congeminavimus.

785

ALC. What need is there for words? Here’s the bowl for you, look. AMP. Give it to me. ALC. Go on, look here now, will you, you who deny what’s happened. Now I’ll refute you openly here. Isn’t this the bowl you were presented with there? AMP. Great Jupiter, what do I see? That is indeed the bowl. I’m done for Sosia. SOS. Either this woman is by far the greatest trickster or the bowl ought to be in here. AMP. Go on, open the chest. SOS. What should I open it for? It’s sealed correctly, everything’s perfect. You’ve given birth to another Amphitruo, I’ve given birth to another Sosia. Now if the bowl’s given birth to a bowl, we’ve all doubled.

Amphitruo’s chest, however, in which he had sealed the bowl originally is now empty: he has lost the tokens of his own identity, and while he accuses Sosia of having stolen it and somehow given it to Alcumena, he is clearly in dire trouble. He must resort to human testimony and decides to fetch an eyewitness who can testify that he, Amphitruo, was on shipboard the night before and not yet home with his wife. With this unsatisfactory appeal, Amphitruo leaves for the harbor and Alcumena retreats inside. The stage is thus empty for Jupiter’s return, and his speech initially seems designed to confuse the audience further–is the play ending or continuing? IUP. ego sum ille Amphitruo, quoii est servos Sosia, idem Mercurius qui fit quando commodum’st, in superiore qui habito cenaculo, qui interdum fio Iuppiter quando lubet; huc autem quom extemplo adventum adporto, ilico Amphitruo fio et vestitum immuto meum. nunc huc honoris vostri venio gratia, ne hanc incohatam transigam comoediam;

865

IUP. I am that Amphitruo who has a slave Sosia who becomes Mercury when it’s convenient; I live in the upper attic and from time to time become Jupiter when I feel like it. But as soon as I make my appearance here, I become Amphitruo immediately and change my clothes. Now I’m coming here out of regard for you, so as not to bring this comedy to a premature end.

This superiore…cenaculo (upper storey) has naturally been much discussed. It certainly has an epic ring; Ennius Annales fr. 51 refers to the cenacula maxima caeli. A gesture might make clear a much more specific theatrical reference: could Jupiter mean the upper level of the theatre where a deus ex machina–

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with or without flying harness–might appear? If so, he is pointing out that he is not in the right position to end the play, even as he claims to be arriving in order not to leave the comedy unfinished. His way to accomplish that is not, however, the method of tragedy–at least not yet–but the duplicative method of comedy. He will play Amphitruo again–making even more confusion in the short term but promising help in good time (in tempore auxilium, 877) in the end. He summons Mercury to the stage to play Sosia again with a very curious speech: nunc tu, divine Sosia, huc fac adsies, (audis quae dico, tam etsi praesens non ades), face iam Amphitruonem advenientem ab aedibus ut abigas; quovis pacto fac commentu’ sis. volo deludi illunc…

980

Now, divine Sosia, do come here (you can hear what I’m saying, even if you’re not physically present); drive Amphitruo away from the house when he comes. Come up with something in any way you like. I want him to be fooled…

As Christenson puts it in his commentary, here ‘Jupiter communicates his wishes telepathically to Mercury’²³–but why? There is no obvious practical reason they could not appear together–the actor playing Mercury does not need time for a costume change, as far as we can tell. It may make Jupiter a more typical comic prologue for the new duplicated comedy, because it does leave the stage completely empty again, focusing every bit of attention on Mercury’s self–conscious arrival as a running slave: MER. concedite atque apscedite omnes, de via decedite, nec quisquam tam avidax fuat homo qui obviam opsistat mihi. nam mihi quidem hercle qui minus liceat deo minitarier populo, ni decedat mihi, quam servolo in comoediis?

985

MER. Get away and get out, all of you, get off the street; let no one be so bold as to stand in my way. Why should I, a god, not be allowed to threaten people if they don’t get out of my way just as much as some paltry slave in comedies?

Yet within another 20 lines, Mercury is no longer content with the role of running slave. In order to carry out the wishes of Jupiter to make a ludus out of Amphitruo, he needs to take on a new role: sed eccum Amphitruonem, advenit; iam ille hic deludetur probe, siquidem vos voltis auscultando operam dare.

 Christenson 2000, ad 976.

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ibo intro, ornatum capiam qui potis decet; dein susum ascendam in tectum ut illum hinc prohibeam. But look, Amphitruo’s coming. He’ll be made fun of properly this instant, if you’re willing to make the effort to listen. I’ll go inside and pick an outfit suitable for those who are drunk. Then I’ll go up onto the roof in order to keep him away from here.

Mercury is then a third prologue, who leaves promising to become an epilogue. Mercury will not only put on a new costume in order to play his role better but also, in an action so far unparalleled in Roman comedy, seize the upper level of the stage, presumably the place whence the gods in tragedy speak, in order to abuse and humiliate Amphitruo. It is most unfortunate that we have lost the ending and perhaps the bulk of this scene between Mercury and Amphitruo (along with as many as three more scenes). This is in effect the apotheosis of the servus callidus on the Roman stage, as the role–playing servant on high mocks the discomfited king down low. The last exchange before we are reduced to relying on fragments is this: AMP. cum cruciatu tuo istaec hodie, verna, verba funditas. MER. sacrufico ego tibi. AMP. qui? MER. quia enim te macto infortunio. (1033 – 4) AMP. You’ll suffer for pouring out these words today, slave. MER. I’m making a sacrifice to you. AMP. How? MER. Because I’m giving you an offering of blows.

Words and staging are in virtually blasphemous contrast here, as the god on high, clearly known to the audience as such, mocks the mortal by offering a ‘sacrifice’ of punishment to him. On most reconstructions the lost scenes of the play included a confrontation between Amphitruo and Jupiter and a demand that Blepharo, a soldier and comrade of Amphitruo, determine which of the two really is Amphitruo–but he cannot.²⁴ As the manuscript resumes, Blepharo offers this Solomonic advice: vos inter vos partite; ego abeo (1035, ‘You two can share her between you. I’m going away’). Jupiter re–enters the house, and Amphitruo tries to charge in, shouting:

 Either Amphitruo or Jupiter (or perhaps for even more comic effect both) speaks fr. 19: qui nequeas nostrorum uter sit Amphitruo decernere.

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neque me Iuppiter neque di omnes id prohibebunt, si volent, quin sic faciam uti constitui. pergam in aedis nunciam. (1051– 2) Neither Jupiter nor all the gods will prevent me, if they want to, from doing as I’m resolved to. I’ll continue on my way into the house now.

but he is struck down by Jupiter’s thunderbolt. The maid finds him, revives him, and announces both the birth of the twins and a message from Jupiter claiming the paternity of Hercules. When Amphitruo declares he will consult Tiresias about appropriate sacrifices, thunder heralds the final divine epiphany. We have no evidence that Plautus’s theatre had any version of the mechane, so it may be more likely, despite his very last words announcing his departure for heaven (ego in caelum migro, 1143), that Jupiter simply appears on the roof of the stage building, therefore just where Mercury stood earlier. His first words claim both authority and identity: IUP. bono animo es, adsum auxilio, Amphitruo, tibi et tuis: nihil est quod timeas. hariolos, haruspices mitte omnis: quae futura et quae facta eloquar multo adeo melius quam illi, quom sum Iuppiter. (1131– 4) IUP. Take heart, I’m here with help for you and your family, Amphitruo: there’s no reason to be afraid. Forget all about seers and soothsayers. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen and what has happened more reliably than they; after all I’m Jupiter.

The Roman context of this speech is worth considering for just a moment. Jupiter here rejects not just the harioli, private soothsayers mocked in other Plautine plays, but the official state seers, the haruspices, as well.²⁵ Despite a less than gallant reference to taking out a loan of Alcumena’s body (Alcumenae usuram corporis, 1135), Jupiter establishes his sole authority in the situation along with his knowledge of all past and future events (quae futura et quae facta, 1133)– thereby becoming precisely the kind of divinity Aristotle prescribed, knowing ὅσα πρὸ τοῦ γέγονεν…ἢ ὅσα ὕστερον (Poetics 1454a 37–b2). Just as the language of the Amphitruo jumbles comedy and tragedy together, so too does Plautus’s use of the visual codes of performance. Mercury originally arrives as both slave and god, speaking first as a prologue but soon and disturbingly as a prospective participant in the ongoing action. When Jupiter appears, he is already disguised as Amphitruo, emerging moreover from the interior of the house to play a domestic scene with both wife and slave (though asides to Sosia hint at his real identity). Only when Jupiter returns to the stage, in a delib Slater 2000.

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erately isolated scene, does he speak clearly as a god–yet since he enters the house again, it is as though the play begins again with another prologue–followed by Mercury’s arrival as a running slave. Jupiter’s command to Mercury to make a ludus of Amphitruo puts him into a new costume and onto the roof–finally where a god belongs. Jupiter then becomes a player in the ludus, as he and Amphitruo both claim to be the real one. When human knowledge (the appeal to Blepharo to judge) fails, Jupiter makes his escape not via the mechane but into the house–then somehow strikes Amphitruo down with his thunderbolt. It is hard to imagine a bolder challenge to the Aristotelian notion that the gods might reveal the past or future but did not show their hand during the action. And yet all of the furious action, in which Plautus confounds gods and mortals like long–lost twins, ends in setting two gods on high again–Mercury as god of comedy, of course, but also Jupiter who needs no prophets to speak his will, either to cast or audience–and it is Plautus who puts him back on high.

Bibliography Brown, A. L. (1982), ‘Some Problems in the Eumenides of Aeschylus’, in: JHS 102, 26 – 32. Christenson, D. M. (2000), Plautus: Amphitruo, Cambridge. Collard, C. and Cropp, M. (2008), (eds. and transl.), Euripides: Fragments, vol. 7, Loeb Classical Library 504, Cambridge, Mass. Csapo, E. and Slater, W. J. (1995), The Context of Ancient Drama, Ann Arbor. de Melo, W. D. C. (2011), (ed. and transl.), Plautus I: Amphitryon, The Comedy of Asses, The Pot of Gold, The Two Bacchises, The Captives, Loeb Classical Library 60, Cambridge, Mass. Dupont, F. (1976), ‘Significance comique du double dans Amphitryon de Plaute’, in: REL 54, 129 – 41 [abridged translation as ‘The Theatrical Significance of Duplication in Plautus’ Amphitruo’, in: E. Segal (2001), (ed.), Oxford Readings in Menander, Plautus, and Terence, Oxford, 176 – 88]. Else, G. F. (1957), Aristotle’s Poetics: The Argument, Cambridge, Mass. Fraenkel, E. (2007), Plautine Elements in Plautus. transl. T. Drevikovsky and F. Muecke, Oxford. [=Fraenkel, E. (1922), Plautinisches im Plautus, Berlin.]. Handley, E. W. (1985), ‘Comedy’ chapter 12, in: The Cambridge History of Classical Literature, vol. I, Cambridge. Hanson, J. A. (1959), ‘Plautus as a Sourcebook for Roman Religion’, in: TAPhA 90, 40 – 101. Kerr, W. (1967), Tragedy and Comedy, New York. Konstantakos, I. (2003 – 4). ‘This Craft of Comic Verse: Greek Comic Poets on Comedy’, in: Archaiognosia 12, 11 – 53. Mastronarde, D. J. (1990), ‘Actors on High: The Skene–Roof, the Crane, and the Gods in Attic Drama’, in: CA 9, 247 – 94. Olson, S. D. (2007), Broken Laughter: Select Fragments of Greek Comedy, Oxford.

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Slater, N. W. (1992), ‘Plautine Negotiations: the Poenulus Prologue Unpacked’, in: YCS 29, 131 – 46. —. (2000), ‘The Market in Sooth: Supernatural Discourse in Plautus’, in: E. Stärk and G. Vogt–Spira (eds.), Dramatische Wäldchen: Festschrift für Eckard Lefèvre (Spoudasmata 80), Hildesheim, 345 – 61. Sonnenschein, E. A. (1914), ‘Alcumena Euripidi’, in: CR 28, 40 – 1.

S. Frangoulidis

Renewal and Compromise in Plautus’ Mostellaria * Abstract: Comic action in Mostellaria is generated by the servus fallax Tranio, who facilitates a compromise between strict Roman values and a more pleasure–oriented Greek lifestyle. The slave achieves this mediation via the old man Theopropides, whose exit from the stage following the performance of the haunted house ruse is portrayed with a hint of katabasis, converting him from a fierce opponent of comic life into a somewhat grudging supporter of its values. Theopropides’ altered stance, followed by the young men’s similar transformation after exiting the tomb–like house, anticipates the resolution and compromise reached at the play’s end. Keywords: Roman mores, pergraecari, Ars poetica, ghost feast, katabasis, renewal Plautus’ Mostellaria, a Roman comedy set in Athens, dramatises a conflict between Greek and Roman ways of life.¹ The senex Theopropides, a staunch supporter of Roman mores, entrusts the care of his son Philolaches to his slave Tranio before leaving on business. Once the master is away, however, the servant immediately flouts his role as paedagogus and introduces his protégé to a wayward Greek lifestyle. In the play proper, which commences at the moment of Philolaches’ unanticipated return, the resourceful slave devises several ruses to negotiate the conflict arising between the father’s value system and his son’s behavior. In what follows I argue that the play ends in a reasonable compromise, reached after both sides have undergone a process resembling epic katabasis.

* The text of Plautus is from the OCT edition of Lindsay 1910. English translations of Mostellaria are from the Loeb edition of De Melo 2011. I would like to express my thanks to David Konstan for his most helpful comments in reading a draft of this paper. I would also like to thank Eleni Manolaraki, Katerina Philippides and Ben Petre for valuable suggestions; and Ioannis Perysinakis for kindly inviting me to contribute in honour of Prof. Dimitrios Raios.  My approach in this essay is indebted to the work of David Konstan 1983 who assesses Roman comedy as vehicle of social values and ideological tensions, e. g. among family members, between citizens and foreigners, etc., as presented in several plays, though he does not examine the Mostellaria. In a companion volume, Konstan 1995 explores the social institutions and ideology of the classical city–state, as featured in Aristophanic and Menadrean comedy. For the contrasting ideologies in the house of Philolaches and that of his neighbour Simo, see discussion in: Κουνάκη–Φιλιππίδη 2008, 91– 4.

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Tranio first decides to prevent Theopropides from entering his house, where Philolaches is hiding with his friends; they have previously been ordered by the slave to move their feast indoors, and continue it in silence. The ongoing revelry can thus be viewed as a ghost of its former self, devoid of music and dancing – the young carousers are forced to give ground if they are to avoid open conflict with the old man. Likewise, the returning father must undergo a change of heart and mind if the feast is to be allowed to continue in any form. In the performance of the haunted house ruse, the old man is portrayed as being frightened to death; and there is also a hint of katabasis in the way he is driven from the stage. His experience parallels the ghostly retreat of the carousers to the house: what has ‘died’ is the extravagance of the young carousers’ festivities and their extreme ‘Greek’ license. The old man’s reappearance on stage signals his change as a character. His transformation is followed by similar changes in the young men once they leave the haunted house through the back door. The change eventually leads to the compromise reached at the play’s end, when the young men appoint Callidamates as mediator with the father and the old Roman mores he supports: the senex allows his son to continue his comic life in his presence, albeit under certain conditions. In this manner, the chaotic conditions generated by an unconditional surrender to pergraecari are modified. The haunted house ruse has attracted considerable attention. Debbie Felton contextualises it within folkloric tradition, examining the Plautine ghost in connection with Euripides’ Hecuba and Pacuvius’ Iliona. For her, Tranio’s hastily improvised story contains many inconsistencies, and the attempt to account for them creates a great deal of comic tension.² Kristina Milnor points out that Theοpropides’ arrival heralds a new focus on the unknown located within the house, as the space, once familiar, is now inhabited by a foreigner.³ Elsewhere I have discussed meta–dramatic aspects of the play.⁴ Here I focus on the tension between the pleasure oriented–Greek style and strict Roman mores facilitated by means of Tranio’s plotting. Leading up to the on–stage action, the senex assigns Tranio the role of paedagogus to his son before going overseas. However, once the master leaves, Tranio corrupts his charge by introducing him to a licentious foreign lifestyle specifically designated as ‘Greek’ (22 and 64: pergraecari). On his advice, Philolaches also borrows from a moneylender to purchase the freedom of Philematium, a flute girl, who moves into the house with her maid. The girl is grateful for being freed; in her

 Felton 1999a, 123 – 42. See also Felton 1999b, 51– 61 (revised).  Milnor 2002, 19.  Frangoulidis 1997, 21– 75.

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absolute devotion to Philolaches she personifies the ideal univira,⁵ thus investing the relationship with values associated with marriage.⁶ Plautus here rehearses an instance of cultural role reversal, for while a lowly flute girl, associated with free living, is seen to espouse Roman values, her partner has adopted Greek mores. By introducing his charge to a licentious lifestyle, Tranio becomes a plot– maker before the main plot begins. His behaviour is of course that of a perverse paedagogus, and foreshadows more reversals in the play. The opening scene brings out the initial tension between pleasure–oriented Greek living and Roman values. Grumio, the country slave, returns from the fields and accuses his city counterpart Tranio of ruining Philolaches and squandering the family’s wealth on feasting, liberating prostitutes, engaging in merrymaking and supporting parasites (20 – 4; 63 – 5).⁷ He defines this as pergraecari, loose–living and dissipation.⁸ Grumio stands for traditional Roman values, similar to Theopropides, designated as the paragon of Roman morality. Tranio silences the slave with threats and violence (10 and 61) and heads off to Piraeus to buy fish (a typically extravagant luxury), marking the triumph of reckless living over traditional mores. While Tranio is in Piraeus, Philolaches has already begun carousing in front of the house with the meretrix Philematium (I.3), his friend Callidamates and the courtesan Delphium (I.4). Plautus dramatises Philolaches’ feast, which is acted out in full view of the audience; it can easily be deduced that such events have occurred almost daily during Theopropides’ three–year absence overseas. On returning from the port, Tranio spells out the harsh punishment in store for him now that he has witnessed his master’s unexpected return (348 – 62). The play then dramatises this crucial moment, when an unforeseen event adds a new twist to the plot. The old man’s homecoming points to a new threat more real than that earlier posed by Grumio (I.1). Tranio could afford to disregard the accusations of a rustic slave and silence him with threats and violence, but the old man can only be dealt with by trickery.⁹ In the ensuing exchange with Philolaches, Tranio informs him of his father’s return and claims they are both doomed (364): periimus; (366) apsumpti sumus. The comic impact of the scene results from the disarray created on stage when the news is announced to the carousers. Unlike Philolaches and his companions, who remain panic–stricken, Tranio gradually regains his bearings and takes con-

    

Williams 1958, 25 – 7; Rosivach 1998, 90. Williams 1958, 27. Gruen 1996, 153; on scent odours see Stevens 2008, 159 – 60. Gruen 1996, 153; for a definition of the term see also Moore 1998, 55; Segal 2001, 187, etc. Κουνάκη–Φιλιππίδη 2008, 74.

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trol of the situation. He issues various commands to individuals, clearly devising a ruse to deal with the situation as it unfolds, and dramatising the entire process (II.1):¹⁰ the slave orders Philolaches to conceal all signs of the party (371) and instructs Delphium to rouse her drunken partner Callidamates (372). When this proves impossible, he orders Philolaches to drag his friend into the house (385). A fearful Philolaches continues to view himself as dead (387 and 388). However, in promising to eliminate anxiety by reference to the medical term meditabor, Tranio establishes a link between the enactment of the plot and its curative value (388 and 389). From his subsequent commands to Philolaches, once he is left alone on stage, the audience garners some additional information regarding the ruse (398 – 405): the house must be locked from the inside, and the revelers must remain silent as if nobody lives there; they are not to answer the door when the senex knocks. Moreover, the slave asks for the ‘Laconian key.’ This key locks the door from the outside – double locking inside and out is meant to prevent an undesired exit or an unwanted intrusion that would jeopardise the ruse. The slave’s orders function as stage directions, assigning new roles to all characters involved. Though allowed to continue, the feast is now a ghost of its former self: it takes place inside a locked house in total silence. Prior to these developments, Phaniscus escorted his drunken master Callidamates and the courtesan Delphium to Philolaches’ drinking party from another feast, and received instructions from his master to escort him home in due time (313 – 4). Phaniscus must have seen the preparations and heard the noise from the music girls in front of the house. However, when he returns on stage to see his master home, he is unable to explain the absence of any noise associated with revelry (933 – 4): neque convivarum sonitus itidem ut antehac fuit, / neque tibicinam cantantem neque alium quemquam audio (‘there’s no noise from the guests here, as there was before, and I can’t hear a flutist playing or anyone else’). Once moved indoors, the feast can be viewed as a ‘specter’ of its former self, and is thus appropriately represented in anthropomorphic terms as a ‘ghost,’ ‘haunting’ the house. This implies that the house has been turned into a tomb. What has met its demise is the extravagance of the young men’s festivities and their taking Greek license to an extreme. Of course, this representation of the indoor feast in personified terms as a ghost results from the demands of the slave’s meta–dramatic ploy to conceal the foreign mores he has imported into the house, and restore calm from the turmoil he has created.

 For the role of servus fallax in Roman comedy see the influential discussion by Slater 2000.

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In the monologue that follows, Tranio states his Ars poetica and declares that he has assumed the role of poet within the work (407– 15): pluma haud interest, patronus an cliens probior siet. Homini, quoi nulla in pectore est audacia, nam quoivis homini vel optumo vel pessumo, quamvis desubito facile est facere nequiter: verum id videndum est, id viri docti est opus, quae designata sint et facta nequiter, tranquille cuncta et ut proveniant sine malo, ni quid potiatur quam ob rem pigeat vivere. sicut ego ecficiam, quae facta hic turbavimus, profecto ut liqueant omnia et tranquilla sint neque quicquam nobis pariant ex se incommodi.

407– 08 409

415

There’s not a feather’s weight of difference whether the protector or the protégé is cleverer. A man who has no daring in his breast [anyone, the best or worst] can easily mess things up on however short notice. But this requires seeing to, this is the work of a clever man, to make sure that what has been boldly schemed and craftily executed has a happy and harmless ending, so that he doesn’t come in for anything to make him sorry that he was born. Thus I shall bring it about that the mess we’ve created here will actually end in clear and calm weather and won’t create any troubles for us.

In these lines Tranio divorces poetic excellence from social status, associating it with boldness. His courage sets him apart from all other characters, who panic upon hearing the news of Theopropides’ homecoming. The slave declares that the duty of a clever person, doctus, is to restore calm from the turmoil created by introducing a wayward, ‘Greek’ lifestyle and corrupting his charge during Theopropides’ absence. The keyword doctus has literary connotations as it applies to poets and their compositions.¹¹ The literary nuances in the monologue cast his little disquisition on plot and comedy as a miniature Ars poetica. Put another way, Tranio here talks about the need to fabricate a comic fallacia and its values. This ruse will propel comic action and will eventually lead to the resolution and compromise reached at the play’s end. Once the stage is emptied and the house is locked, Tranio assures the theatrical audience that he will produce a trick, the likes of which will not even be  OLD, s.v. doctus, 3.

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seen at the old man’s funeral (427– 8): ludos … faciam. The term ludus may refer both to the ridicule someone is exposed to and to the theatrical performances of the ludi funebres, held on the occasion of a funeral.¹² At the end of the inset play the senex is frightened stiff and figuratively descends to the Underworld (508 – 9). Given its association with funeral games, Tranio’s ruse may be read as an inset play produced for the master’s figurative death, allegorically suggesting his death as an opponent of ‘Greek’ life. There are hints of katabasis in the way the senex is driven from the stage, scared to death. The practical effect is that Tranio can prevent the old man from entering the house and discovering his son’s wanton lifestyle. The performance of the ruse begins as soon as Theopropides enters the stage, followed by his baggage porters. The senex knocks on the door of his house, but is surprised to find it locked. His knocking resembles an assault, as becomes clear from the military expressions employed (453): paene confregi hasce ambas (‘I almost broke both halves of the double door with my knocking’); also 456: pultando … paene confregi fores (‘I almost broke the door with my knocking’).¹³ This imagery is reinforced when Tranio describes the house as besieged and brings his companions out through the back door (1049): ex opsidione in tutum eduxi (‘After I led all my comrades from siege to safety’). He then emerges from hiding to greet his master, thereby interrupting the siege.¹⁴ In the entire exchange that follows, the slave sets out to scare his master with the haunted house device. The slave seeks to find out whether his master has touched anything, in a clear attempt to frighten him, and discourages him from entering the house on the grounds that no one set foot there since their move seven months ago. Having ensured that no one is eavesdropping, he relates the crime allegedly committed in the house long ago: the previous owner violated hospitium and killed his guest to take his gold. The slave also offers an eyewitness account of how they became aware of the crime: one day Philolaches returned from dinner so late that he forgot to put out the lamp; a ghost then appeared in his sleep and told him the long story of his death and burial in the house (497– 504): ‘ego transmarinus hospes sum Diapontius. hic habito, haec mihi dedita est habitatio. nam me Accheruntem recipere Orcus noluit, quia praemature vita careo. per fidem

 Hunter 1985 13 – 4; see also De Melo 2011, 360.  Κουνάκη–Φιλιππίδη 2008, 75.  Κουνάκη–Φιλιππίδη 2008, 75.

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deceptus sum: hospes me necavit isque me defodit insepultum clam in hisce aedibus, scelestus, auri causa. nunc tu hinc emigra. †scelestae hae† sunt aedes, impia est habitatio.’ ‘I am a guest from overseas, Diapontius. I live here, this dwelling place has been allotted to me: Orcus did not want to receive me into the Underworld because I lost my life before my time. I was deceived in violation of the obligations of hospitality: my host murdered me here and he secretly put me underground in this house without due rites, for the sake of gold, the criminal. Now move out from here. This house is under a curse, this dwelling place is defiled.’

In this speech, the ghost identifies himself as Diapontius, ‘coming from overseas,’ and relates how he was murdered and buried.¹⁵ Orcus refused him entrance into the Underworld because of his premature death; he thus haunts the house as a ghost and, on seeing a lighted lamp in the night, appeared to Philolaches in his sleep, instructing him to abandon the polluted house.¹⁶ Felton, who discusses the ghost from a folkloric perspective, establishes a parallel between Diapontius and Theopropides, given that both come from overseas.¹⁷ This comparison, she argues, carries a tacit threat to the senex: he may end up like Diapontius if he is not careful.¹⁸ Though this is true enough, we should also bear in mind that the ghost is no more than a figment of Tranio’s imagination. In this sense, Diapontius may be alternatively viewed as the equivalent of the carousers (presently the only ‘ghosts,’ inside the house) or the ‘foreign’ mores that Tranio has imported and defends. Theopropides is the true proprietor of the house, and the one person most likely to put an end to the ‘Greek’ misdemeanours inside his property. Indeed, after his arrival the merrymaking is reduced to a ghost of its former self, especially when compared to the earlier feast and probably all others that took place during his three–year absence. At 727– 30, Simo comments approvingly on the stylish life of Tranio and Philolaches: musice hercle agitis aetatem … / vino et victu, piscatu probo, electili / vitam colitis (‘You spend your time stylishly … you’re leading your lives with de-

 See Sonnenschein 1907, 109, s.v. 497, observes that the name Diapontius is invented by Tranio to suit the occasion [διαπόντιος=transmarinus].  Felton 1999a, 131 argues that ‘The lost souls who haunt houses were thought to be drawn to the light, which they hoped would show them the way out of their predicament.’  Milnor 2002, 19; Felton 1999a, 129 – 30; Felton 1999b, 54, and further bibliography there.  Felton 1999a, 130.

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cent wine and food and fine fish’). This implies that Simo must have seen the festivities outside Theopropides’ house. Tranio, however, points out to him that this kind of merrymaking has ended with the arrival of the old man from abroad (742). In this feast what is lacking is the extravagance of the young men’s behaviour. There are several plot similarities between Tranio’s fabula and the ghostly feast that is driven indoors and hidden from the play’s audience. First, Diapontius is supposedly a figure coming from overseas (transmarinus, 497). This feature may appear in relation to the comic life of Philolaches, which is modelled on the Greek style, pergraecari, alien to Theopropides’ traditional mores. Second, just as the alleged former owner of the house violates hospitium by murder (501), so the current owner Theopropides is hostile to the alien lifestyle currently being pursued in his house. Third, the former owner of the house kills his guest for the sake of money (auri caussa, 503). This feature echoes the events: Theopropides’ unannounced return cuts the revelers off from their decadent lifestyle. Fourth, the ghost appears to Philolaches in his sleep. This recalls Tranio’s ‘dreamlike’ story, which is a trick of the mind, unconnected to reality. Fifth, the ghost is called mortuus (520). In a like manner, Tranio refers to the carousers, identifying them as mortui inside (pax mihi est cum mortuis, 514 and 524), although the senex is unable to figure out the double entendre and thinks that the slave is referring to the ghost (520). Sixth, just as the ghost appears to Philolaches in his sleep and orders him to leave (504), so Tranio qua poet exhorts the senex to run away from the infested house, claiming it is polluted by the ghost, though in truth by the ‘mortui’ inside (460; 461; 512– 3; 523, 527). Furthermore, Orcus refuses to grant Diapontius entry into the Underworld on account of his untimely death (504). This creates a parallel with Tranio: as a figurative new Orcus, he blocks a kind of entrance into the Underworld, by preventing the festivities from coming to an end and ordering instead that they continue inside the house in total silence. Orcus’ refusal to receive the dead man in the netherworld due to his untimely death also prefigures the continuation of a foreign–inspired life approved by the old man, albeit in renewed form. Finally, the ghost is buried inside the house, thus turning the family property into a sepulcher. In a similar way the carousers, who are defined as mortui (514, 524), are presently inside the same house, and their presence there thus renders the family property a tomb. This explains why Tranio asks the revellers to remain in total silence once inside the house, as if no one is living there (401, 402). What is more, the audience is no longer able to see through an open door of the stage house into its interiors. Through the above parallels, Tranio’s ghost device reflects Philolaches’ indoor feast on a metaphorical level, representing the ongoing revelry inside the

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house as a ghost. The representation of the party as a ghostly feast suggests its demise in relation to its former self. For most of the ruse the senex is portrayed as alarmed. This becomes clear from the pattern of questions the old man directs at his slave regarding the ghost story, indicative of his mental anguish:¹⁹ 475, 477, 481, 489, etc. Following Tranio’s eyewitness account of the ghost, the old man is frightened almost to the point of death and thinks that the mortui are calling him to Hades (508 – 9): guttam haud habeo sanquinis, / vivom me accersunt Accheruntem mortui (‘I don’t have a drop of blood! The dead are taking me to the Underworld while I’m still alive!’). In retrospect, Tranio’s ruse could be seen as an inset play produced on the occasion of this figurative death. It is on his advice that the old man covers up his head as a sign of alarm and runs away from the house, praying to Hercules (528): Hercules, ted invoco. The latter is protector of travelers, especially of those descending to the netherworld:²⁰ in Aristophanes’ Frogs Hercules is visited by Dionysus, who wishes to learn the best way to get to the Underworld. Taken together with Theopropides’ self–portrayal as dead, the appeal to Hercules could be seen as framing his exit from the stage in terms of katabasis. This forms a structural parallel with the entry of the carousers into the house, figuratively portrayed as a tomb. His withdrawal from the stage further reverses the initial dramatic situation: upon hearing the news of Theopropides’ unexpected return the revelers declare themselves as dead from fear (364, 366); but following the ruse, meta–dramatically produced as an inset play, the carousers themselves end up sending the old man away in terror. I would argue that the old man’s figurative descent suggests the ‘death’ of his former self as an opponent to ‘foreign’ living. Ηis exit creates a parallel with the carousers themselves and/or the ghostly feast inside the house, devoid of music and dancing; but this time what has died is also is the extravagance of the young men’s festivities, which took Greek license to extremes. The old man’s subsequent reappearance on stage signals his conversion from staunch opponent to (partial) supporter of his son’s values. This transformation becomes clear in at least three ways, and is the result of Tranio’s poetics. First, the old man meets with the former owner of his house, who denies that the building was ever haunted. All the same, the senex fails to piece together the actual events, and seeks the advice of his servant (547– 59). Second, in order to account for the debt Philolaches owes to the danista, Tranio devises a new ruse:

 See Hunter 1985, 49, who observes that Plautus’ verbal devices of alliteration, repetition and imaginary metaphors are particularly well suited to expressing mental anguish.  Merrill 1972, 88, s.v. 528.

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he pretends that his young master has borrowed the sum of forty minae in order to buy a neighbouring house belonging to Simo, since the family property is haunted. The senex is pleased with his son’s business deal and wants to inspect the goods. There are some similarities between Simo’s residence and Philolaches’ wayward life that point to their interconnection: the house is as elegant and expensive to maintain as the young man’s lifestyle;²¹ and the amount ostensibly paid in deposit is the same as that he has borrowed to continue living as before. The difference is that Simo is married to an uxor dotata who has ample resources, whereas Philolaches lives on borrowed money and relies on his father’s fortune.²² The old man expresses his great admiration for Simo’s ‘Greek’ dwelling (III.3),²³ in a manner that is surprising given his austere Roman mores. His reaction may suggest a newly found appreciation of Greek values and cultural aesthetics, thus foreshadowing the compromise reached at the play’s end. Third, the senex takes a page from Tranio’s book in fabricating a fallacia and constructing a ruse once he discovers the truth about his son’s wanton lifestyle from Callidamates’ two slaves (IV.2).²⁴ This is meant to be produced as an inset play, and

 For an excellent discussion of the architectural features in Simo’s Greek house see Leach 1969, 324– 8.  These parallels may be seen as complementing the earlier house simile, in which Philolaches likened his pursuit of a wayward, ‘Greek’ life to a formerly well built house near collapse (I.2).  See further Leach 1969, 329, who points, ‘In making him wish to own Simo’s elegant house, Tranio has accomplished a much greater deception than his simple plan of protecting his younger master had intended.’ On a discussion of the emphasis on vision in the Theopropides’ tour of Simo’s house, see Sharrock 2009, 101– 5.  This development occurs earlier on, when Phaniscus, Callidamates’ servus bonus, arrives on stage to escort his master home (IV.1). He is joined by Pinacium, another slave of Callidamates (IV.2). The two slaves initially engage in a dispute, which can be seen as reenacting the fight between Tranio and Grumio at the opening of the play (I.1). The connection becomes stronger as in both scenes the dispute involves a fight between a good slave and a bad one: Grumio and Tranio (I.1) // Phaniscus and Pinacium (IV.2). Besides, in both cases the stage is empty before the characters enter. The reoccurrence of a dispute suggests that in the second instance the play begins afresh, but with entirely different results: in the opening scene Tranio silences the rustic slave and then goes to Piraeus to buy food supplies for the upcoming feast, thus signaling the victory of the alien mode of life over the traditional ideology that Grumio represents. By contrast, in IV.2 Callidamates’ two slaves end up going together to escort their master home, thus foreshadowing the end of the drinking party. Upon their arrival at Theopropides’ house the two slaves meet the old man, but fail to recognise him (IV.4). They then unwittingly disclose details of the current feast, as well as all of Philolaches’ previous behaviour. There is also a strong element of irony here: Phaniscus and Pinacium both belong to Calladimates, who is in favour of the alien mode of life, yet they are the ones who disclose the details of the current feast and Philolaches’ wayward behaviour. In meta–poetic terms, the exposure of the actual events helps

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involves having the slave arrested and punished for his deeds (V.1), Unlike Tranio’s ruse, however, the ploy founders on the old man’s lack of poetic skills in fabricating a fallacia. His change as a character paves the way for the resolution reached at the play’s end. The old man’s symbolic rebirth is replicated by a similar change of character observed in the young carousers as a result of Tranio’s comic poetics. Following his return from the tour of Simo’s house, Tranio allegedly goes to meet Philolaches in the fields, but in truth heads to the family garden by a back alley and leads the carousers to safety through the back door (1043 – 47). He convenes a meeting to consult on further action, but finds himself excluded by the former carousers (1050). Granted that the house is represented as a tomb, the exit from it may be read as symbolising renewal; following the expulsion of Tranio from the meeting, the young men select the now sober Callidamates as their spokesman (1126 – 7). This decision is a sign of maturity, based on the realisation that the former extravagancies can no longer continue in the old man’s presence. Such a change of stance is an inversion of the old man’s more relaxed attitude to things Greek following his ‘katabasis,’ and may go some way towards explaining the partial compromise reached at the play’s end. The resolution comes about when Callidamates approaches the senex to make peace with him. His arrival suggests that the revelers now wish to come to terms with the father and old Roman mores through a mediator. The youth begs the old man to pardon Philolaches, who is too ashamed to approach him, and further promises that the carousers will pay all expenses. On hearing Callidamates, the old man immediately pardons his prodigal son. What is more, he even allows the revelry to continue in his presence, albeit on three conditions: he must be present at any future events; Philolaches must show true remorse; and he and his friends must pay any further expenses.²⁵ On Callidamates’ insistence the old man also pardons his ‘evil’ slave, because he accepts the rationale that another opportunity will soon arise for punishment. On a meta–poetic level, this gesture intimates that the servus fallax will not abandon his role as to characterise Theopropides’ allegations regarding the haunted house as a play within a play. The two slaves also tell of the alien ways introduced by Tranio, and of how the family wealth was squandered during the old man’s absence. On this see Frangoulidis 1997, 54– 62.  The fact that Philolaches allows his son to continue his life with the meretrix Philematium offers a variant on the standard ending of comic plot, which usually ends with a festive celebration and news of the happy couple’s forthcoming marriage. However, this ending may not be viewed as significantly different from the concluding scenes of other plays if we consider that in her devotion to Philolaches, Philematium is presented as univira. Furthermore, the promise of pay bears some affiliation with the dinner practice de symbolis in which each participant paid for their own expenses.

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poet in the play’s extra–dramatic events. Nevertheless, the slave’s chances of misconduct in the future are limited, if one takes into consideration the fact that the young men have already earlier expelled him from their meeting. Thus the senex reconciles his son’s lifestyle with the Roman mores of shame and parsimony, ensuring the renewal of the feast and therefore comic ideology. In other words, what has been eliminated is the extravagance of the young men’s festivities and their taking Greek license to an extreme. This development of comic plot is only rendered possible via Tranio’s poetics. The resolution reached at the play’s end shows that the old man has dealt with the ‘ghost’ of his son’s alien life. On a literal level, the haunted house ruse has also previously been exposed in the encounter of the senex with Callidamates’ two slaves (IV.2). Thus the old man can gain entry to his house, from which he was cut off for the duration of the play. The above discussion leaves no doubt as to the fact that the initial tension between Greek and Roman values has now been resolved. This development is made possible due to Tranio’s poetics, exactly as he states in his miniature ars poetica prior to assuming the role of poet within the work. Through the performance of his haunted house ruse Tranio drives the old man away. Just as the removal from stage is presented with hints of katabasis, thus suggesting the demise of his former self, so the young carousers’ feast is reduced to a ghost of its former self, driven indoors and continued in utter silence. Following his reappearance on stage, the senex adopts a more open stance towards Greek values and cultural aesthetics. His change as a character, followed by a similar transformation occurring in the young men, paves the way for the final reconciliation between the two sides. The resolution implies renewal of comic life, free of the extravagances of the past. Thus Tranio avoids punishment for perverting his role as paedagogus, and maintains the values he upholds within the play.

Bibliography De Melo, W. (2011), (ed., tr.), Plautus: The Merchant, The Braggart Soldier, The Ghost, The Persian, v. III, Cambridge. Duckworth, G. (1952), The Nature of Roman Comedy: A Study in Popular Entertainment, Princeton. Felton, D. (1999a), ‘Folkloric Anomalies in a Scene from the Mostellaria’, in: QUCC 62, 123 – 42. —. (1999b), Haunted Greece and Rome: Ghost Stories from Classical Antiquity, Austin TX. Frangoulidis, S. (1997), Handlung und Nebenhandlung: Theater, Metatheater und Gattungsbewusstein in der römischen Komödie, Drama. Beiträge zum antiken Drama und seiner Rezeption 6, Stuttgart.

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Grimal, P. (1976), ‘La Maison de Simon et celle de Theopropides dans la Mostellaria,’ in: Mélanges offerts à J. Heurgon, v. 1, Rome, 371 – 86. Gruen, E. S. (1996), Studies in Greek Culture and Roman Policy. Berkeley and Los Angeles. Hunter, R. L. (1985). The New Comedy of Greece and Rome, Cambridge. Konstan, D. (1983), Roman Comedy, Ithaca and London. —. (1995), Greek Comedy and Ideology, New York. Κουνάκη–Φιλιππίδη, Κ. (2008), Επαναλαμβανόμενες σκηνές στις κωμωδίες του Πλαύτου, Diss. Rethymon. Leach, E. W. (1969), ‘De exemplo meo ipse aedificato: An Organizing Idea in the Mostellaria’, in: Hermes 97, 318 – 32. Lindsay, W. M. (1910), (ed.), T. Macci Plauti Comoediae, Oxford. Merrill F. R. (1972), Titi Macci Plauti Mostellaria. Edited with Introduction, Notes and Vocabulary, London. Milnor K. (2002) ‘Playing House: Stage, Space, and Domesticity in Plautus’s Mostellaria’, in: Helios 29, 3 – 25. Moore, T. J. (1998), The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience, Austin. Rosivach, V. J. (1998), When a Young Man Falls in Love: The Sexual Exploitation of Women in New Comedy, London and New York. Scafuro, A. C. (1997), The Forensic Stage: Settling Disputes in Graeco–Roman New Comedy, Cambridge. Segal, E. (2001), The Death of Comedy, Cambridge, MA. Sharrock, A. (2009), Reading Roman Comedy: Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence, Cambridge. Slater, N. W. (2000), Plautus in Performance: The Theatre of the Mind, Amsterdam. Sonneschein, E. A. (1907), (ed., comm.), T. Macci Plauti Mostellaria. Edited with Notes Explanatory and Critical, Oxford. Stevens, B. (2008), ‘The Scent of Language and Social Synaesthesia at Rome’, in: CW 101, 159 – 71. Williams, G. (1958), ‘Some Aspects of Roman Marriage Ceremonies and Ideals’, in: JRS 48, 16 – 29.

Part II: Plot and Language

M. Fontaine

A Note on Philolaches’ Simile of the House in Plautus’ Mostellaria Abstract: A pun on τέκτονες, ‘builders,’ and τεκόντες, ‘parents,’ lies behind Philolaches’ comparison of fabri to parentes in Mostellaria 103 – 36. The creative inspiration behind Philolaches’ simile of the house (84– 156), and the accessory idea of strict education with which it is bound up (as documented by Leach 1969), are thus due not to Plautus but to the Greek author of Phasma. Keywords: Anaxilas, creativity, Koestler, Mostellaria, Phasma, pun The famous first scene of Plautus’ Mostellaria ends with two slaves, Tranio and Grymio, going their separate ways—Tranio into the house, and Grymio off to the country. Soon after, in comes a young man. It’s Philolaches, the master’s son. Breaking the dramatic illusion, he turns directly to us and begins singing an arresting song (84– 156). In it he explains that after a long period of reflection, he has finally figured out what he can best compare a man to. It’s a house, as he goes on to explain. And as E. W. Leach (1969) has documented, the simile is closely bound up with a conservative approach to education. But whose education—Greek, or Roman? And how can we tell? If it is true that the dominant concern of Plautine studies is to trace Plautus’ ‘creative originality’ (meaning his independence from his models), and if we want to determine how original a simile such as Philolaches’ is, it is helpful to begin our investigation with a simple question: What is creativity? The Hungarian polymath and journalist Arthur Koestler (1905 – 1983) argued that it consisted of the bilateral association, or ‘bisociation,’ of ‘two matrices of thought.’ As Koestler argued, great insights—breakthrough thinking, or eureka moments—consist in the sudden discovery of a common element or hidden similarity that unites two things, systems, ideas, or so on, that theretofore had not been seen as related. The most compact form of such creativity is the pun, which Koestler defines as ‘two strings of thought tied together by a purely acoustic knot’ (1964, 65, 179, and 314). An example from the Greek middle–comic poet Anaxilas succinctly illustrates Koestler’s contention. In the following fragment a speaker seizes on the accidental linguistic similarity of the Greek words kolakes (flatterers) and skolekes (worms) to develop an extended metaphor. In it he brings to light a number of surprising similarities linking worms and false friends (fr. 32 KA (incert.) = Athenaeus 6.254c, tr. Muecke/Drevikovsky in Fraenkel 2007, 114):

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οἱ κόλακές εἰσι τῶν ἐχόντων οὐσίας σκώληκες. εἰς οὖν ἄκακον ἀνθρώπου τρόπον εἰσδὺς ἕκαστος ἐσθίει καθήμενος, ἕως ἂν ὥσπερ πυρὸν ἀποδείξῃ κενόν. ἔπειθ’ ὁ μὲν λέμμ’ ἐστίν, ὁ δ’ ἕτερον δάκνει. Flatterers are worms in the property of the wealthy. Each one slipping into a man of guileless character settles down and eats him until he makes him as empty as a wheat stalk. Then the one is left a husk, while the flatterer bites the other.

Here the speaker boldly states his primary contention—a jingle–jangle pun— which he then develops with secondary metaphors (here underlined) that help to animate, strengthen, and lock the identification in place: οὐσίας, ‘a person’s essence’ and ‘property,’ ἐσθίει ‘consumes’ and (literally) ‘eats,’ and δάκνει, ‘bites’ and ‘stings.’ (Roman rhetoricians called these secondary metaphors verba adcommodata, ‘words that do double duty’ and they taught their use in schools.¹). Precisely because our modern scientific terminology refers to certain worms as ‘parasites,’ it is very hard for us to think backwards and realise that with this pun Anaxilas had had a eureka moment. His metaphor has for us become standard terminology, but to him it was a bold and highly original ‘bisociation’ of two ideas that until that moment had probably seemed entirely different. These preliminaries throw new light on the simile that Plautus’ Philolaches elaborates. Before turning to the Latin text, I quote part of it in the prose translation by Jack Lindsay (1965, 40 – 2): Philolaches (entering, rather drunk) Now there’s a matter, it’s long been on my mind, an argument I’ve been having with myself, it’s been revolving in my head, I mean, if I’ve got one, you get my drift, I’ve been debating, you might say reasoning about it for a long time, as time goes, I mean, you see it’s this, what the hell a man is like. You get me, when he’s born, what is he? what’s he like? Well, the point is that I just got it clear. A new house. That’s what I make him out. When he’s born, I mean. He’s like a new house. … As soon as it’s all complete, you know, finished off, fixed up to the last bit of what–you–may–call–it, what do they do? They compliment the builder and say what a good house it is. Everybody asks the owner to let him have a copy of the plans, everyone wants the same house for himself, and he won’t spare himself any cost or trouble. Just so. But when some slug of a slacker with a damn–all household, some slovenly bag of lazybones moves into that wonderful house, then the house suffers for it, being a good house still, but badly looked–after. And then it often happens that a storm blows up and smashes the tiles and the gutters. Then the damn–all owner won’t do a thing to repair

 Rhetorica ad Herennium 4.48.61, adduced in connection with Philolaches’ monody in Mostellaria by Perutelli 2000, 25.

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them. Down comes the rain, down it runs into the walls, down it oozes into them, down it rots the woodwork and ruins all the builder’s hard work. And so the houses grow the worse for wear. And it’s not the builder’s fault at all. It’s just the way that most people go on. If a thing can be mended for sixpence, they put it off and put it off, and don’t do anything about it, till at last the walls crash in, and the whole place has to be rebuilt. Well, that’s enough about houses. Now I want to pass on to tell you why I think men are just like houses are. In the first place, parents are the builders of their children, eh? They lay the foundations of their children’s lives. They rear ’em, do their best to get ’em into shape, solid shape, and don’t think about cost–charges while they’re trying to turn ’em into useful and ornamental men and citizens, eh? Money spent on all that they don’t count expense. They lay on the finishing touches, teach ’em literature, jurisprudence, law, spare no cash or labour so that others may pray for their sons to be like theirs. And so, fully constructed, they send ’em into the army, now giving ’em as a sort of buttress some of their kinsmen. Well, the job’s done. The lads leave the builders’ hands. And after they’ve served a campaign, there’s signs coming up as to how the building will wear and tear. Take myself. Up to that point—while I was in the builders’ hands, I was always a steady serious sort of bloke. But after I was left to my disposition, I ruined all the work. Did it immediately and made a thorough job of it. Idleness settled down on me, and that was my storm. Coming up on me heavy with hail, beating down without a warning. It stripped me of my poor coating of modesty and morals. And after that I was too careless to put a new cover on. And, soon enough, the rain came. That was love. It went on dripping, dripping into my bosom, drenching my heart out. And I’ve lost everything—cash and credit, reputation, character, and good name, the whole damn lot. And myself I’ve become very much the worse for wear. Yes, by heaven, these timbers of mine are all soaked and rotting. And I just somehow can’t get round to repairing my house in time—stop it from crashing right in and falling into everlasting ruin, foundations and all, and not a living soul can help me. It makes me feel sick to think what I am, and what I was. Not one of our young chaps trained harder or had a better name as an athlete. Disc–throwing, spear, ball, running, fencing, riding—that was all the high life I wanted—an example of strict and simple living for the others. Why, the best lads of all tried to make me their model. And now I’m a worthless clod—but I can’t complain, it’s my own make–up that’s done it for me.

Just as Anaxilas’ character argues that flatterers are like worms, so Plautus’ Philolaches argues that men are like houses—they can both be ‘models’ (exempla, 103) for others if they are ‘raised’ well. And again, as with Anaxilas’ speaker, in Philolaches’ Latin it’s easy enough to pick out the verba adcommodata, or double–duty words, that help strengthen the metaphor and convince us of its validity. They include expolire in 101, 126, ‘polish, finish, educate well’ and parare in 101, 122. One reason we might overlook this highly creative element is easy to see. It is because, as with Anaxilas’ ‘parasites,’ the language Philolaches employs has so completely infiltrated our vocabulary today that we can hardly avoid using build-

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ing metaphors when we discuss child rearing and education.² So we speak commonly of ‘edification’ and ‘raising’ children (not ‘rearing’ them) and ‘instruction’ or ‘unreconstructed’ (cf. ‘construction’). It is usually thought that Philolaches’ simile of the house is almost entirely the result of Plautus’ florid, creative elaboration of a bare–bones sentiment in the Greek original.³ This influential view goes back to Eduard Fraenkel, who in 1922 wrote (Fraenkel 2007, 118 – 9, with my own retranslations and adjustments for clarity, and emphasis added): If the Greek poet set up the comparison between the fate of the decayed building and that of the young man for the sake of a melancholic reflection, it was surely not his intention to then identify the parents with the fabri (‘builders’), as happens in Plautus: v. 120 parentes fabri liberum sunt (‘the parents are the builders of the children’), an image reprised in 134: in fabrorum potestate dum fui (‘while I was under the power of the builders’)…. That would have been drastic and gone against the mood of the whole.

I must dissent. The fragment of Anaxilas cited above suggests exactly the opposite is true, for as that extended metaphor grew out of a pun on kolakes and skolekes, just so, I suspect, Philolaches’ metaphor grew out of a pun on τέκτονες (= fabri, builders) and τεκόντες (= parentes, parents), which in their genitive forms were quite close: τεκτόνων vs. τεκόντων. Moreover, this is no trivial point; and while the evidence for my contention is indirect, convergent, and cumulative, on the whole it is strong. Consider what, according to Philolaches, are the two tertia comparationis of the simile: first, that the child is equivalent to the aedificatio/aedes, and second, that the parents are equivalent to fabri liberorum. In this connection it is striking that the word faber appears repeatedly in the simile and in rapid succession (vv. 103, 112, 114, 120, 131, 134, 136): faber is, that is, a catchword. The Greek word for faber, ‘builder,’ is regularly τέκτων, ‘builder, craftsman, carpenter’ (e. g. Matthew 13:55 and Mark 6:3, of Joseph), and one indirect indication—a scar of translation, as it were—that τέκτων was the original word for  This phenomenon seems to be an inheritance not of Greek or Latin but of biblical metaphor. It is not clear whether aedificatio in Most. 132 and related words elsewhere are actually intended in a double meaning or not. The normal meaning is ‘building, edifice’ but by the time of the Vulgate the meaning ‘moral instruction, edification’ is also found to render οἰκοδομή (1 Cor. 14.3; 14.12; 14.26; 14.12). The metaphorical meaning in Greek, however, of it and related words seems first to appear only in the Bible, so to interpret aedificatio in Plautus as a similar metaphor may be anachronistic.  So e. g. Leach 1969 (with an older doxography on p. 319 and n. 1) and Moore 1998, 207 and n. 8. Perutelli 2000 is less clear, though he rightly attributes (pp. 26 – 27) the highly rhetorical underpinnings of Philolaches’ simile to the Greek comedy.

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faber in the simile appears in Tranio’s word architectonem in v. 760. Remarkably so, the slave’s words here hark back to Philolaches’ simile of the house (101– 4 ~ 760 – 63, ed. Leo): 101– 4: aedes quom extemplo sunt paratae, expolitae, factae probe examussim, laudant fabrum atque aedes probant, sibi quisque inde exemplum expetunt, sibi quisque similis volt suas, sumptum operam parcunt suam. 760 – 3: nam sibi laudavisse hasce [sc. aedes] ait architectonem nescio quem exaedificatas insanum bene; nunc hinc exemplum capere volt, nisi tu nevis. nam ille eo maiore hinc opere ex te exemplum petit,

Amid the great similarity of theme, the close repetitions of language (laudant ~ laudavisse, exemplum expetunt ~ exemplum petit) indicate close, if probably unselfconscious, translation on Plautus’ part, and in this context the mismatch between fabrum (103) and architectonem (760) stands out sharply. But it can be easily explained. In Latin faber is the regular word for a craftsman, but already in Plautus a master craftsman, or architect, is regularly called by the Greek loanword architecto or architectus (Miles 901, 902, 915, 919, 1139 [bis], and Poenulus 1110 in a transferred sense). The slight awkwardness that results from this anomaly is nicely illustrated in Miles Gloriosus 919, atque architecto (dative) adsunt fabri ad eam rem haud imperiti. This situation suggests that the Greek original of Most. 103 had τέκτων, thus drawing a tighter connection, point, and echo between it and Tranio’s words later at 760, where the Greek original probably had ἀρχιτέκτων. (I will come back to this connection later.) Of more immediate import is that since τέκτων was probably the word for faber in Most. 103 (and everywhere else in the simile), it probably was used to pun on τεκών, aorist participle of τίκτειν, which is often found in the meaning pater, parens, ‘father,’ and, in the plural τεκόντες, ‘parents.’ If we examine the seven Latin lines in which faber appears, we can envision the kind of language the Greek original would have had—and also the progression that made the pun increasingly obvious: 103: laudant fabrum atque aedes probant (τέκτονα) 112: tigna putefacit, perdit operam fabri: (τέκτονος) 114: atque haud est fabri culpa, sed magna pars (τέκτονος) **120: primumdum parentes fabri liberum sunt (τέκτονες, τεκόντες)

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*131: abeunt a fabris. (ἀπό τῶν τεκτόνων suggesting τεκόντων) *134: in fabrorum potestate dum fui (τεκτόνων suggesting τεκόντων) *136: perdidi operam fabrorum ilico oppido. (τεκτόνων suggesting τεκόντων)

The pun first appeared, I suggest, as an explicit parechesis, or jingle–jangle paronomasia, in v. 120—which is the first and only time in the simile that the parents are explicitly named and identified. One possible reconstruction of the line is: πρῶτον τεκόντες τῶν τόκων οἱ τέκτονες.

This reconstruction is purely exempli gratia, but in devising it I am influenced by the sententious quality and pun of Menander Epitrepontes 319, οὐχ εὕρεσις τοῦτ’ ἔστιν ἀλλ’ ἀφαίρεσις ‘this isn’t discovery, it’s robbery.’ Similarly rhetorical puns in the mild Menandrian style are also found in Most. 51 (invidere ~ videre) and 257 (adsentatrix ~ adversatrix), which are probably merely translated from the Greek. Anyhow, barring unusual articulation, on this reconstruction the two words do not sound especially alike (τεκόντες, τέκτονες). More interestingly, however, in all of the last three cases that follow the application of the simile (131, 134, 136), the pun in the original seems all but necessary—because in these last three cases neither the word parentes nor pater recur; instead, fabri is used as simply a metaphor for ‘parents.’ Moreover, it is in these same three cases that the closest pun probably appeared, for in the genitive plural τεκτόνων differs from τεκόντων only in the placement of the tau. In that case the former word can most easily evoke the latter. In my view, then, it was this pun (ex hypothesi) on tektones and tekontes that linguistically knotted these two thoughts together, and, like Anaxilas’ pun on kolakes and skolekes, the inspiration out of which Philolaches’ entire simile was developed. Does this conclusion rob Plautus of some ‘creative originality’? Yes. But if we want to understand Plautus’ originality and thus (perhaps) artistic intentions in their proper proportion, we must begin by trying to understand the sort of material he was likely working from in the first place.

Bibliography Fraenkel, E. (1922), Plautinisches im Plautus, Berlin. —. (2007), Plautine Elements in Plautus, transl. F. Muecke and T. Drevikovsky, Oxford. Koestler, A. (1964), The Act of Creation, New York.

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Leach, E. (1969), ‘De exemplo meo ipse aedificato: An Organizing Idea in the Mostellaria’, in: Hermes 97, 318 – 32. Lindsay, J. (1965), Ribaldry of Ancient Rome: An Intimate Portrait of Romans in Love, New York. Moore, T. (1998). The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience. Austin. Perutelli, A. (2000), ‘Il Tema della Casa nella Mostellaria’, in: Maia 52, 19 – 34.

J. T. Welsh

The ‘Fragments’ of Plautus’ Captivi Abstract: Most sources that preserve fragments of Roman republican drama were interested not in dramatic plots, themes, action, or characterisation, but in matters of language and syntax that were odd or unfamiliar, compared to the speech of their own day. The present paper seeks to assess the reliability of such fragments as witnesses to the shape of the plots and action of republican drama. By assembling the thirty ancient quotations of Plautus’ Captivi and attempting a ‘reconstruction’ of the Plautine plot on the basis of that material, I show how much—or how little—one could reasonably expect to recover of a play from scattered ancient quotations. The results of this thought experiment show that there are grounds for optimism when working with such material, but that many gaps, some undetected, necessarily remain in any reconstruction. Keywords: Republican drama, comedy, fragments, Plautus, methodology, reconstruction Complete scripts of the fabulae palliatae of Naevius, Caecilius Statius,¹ and Turpilius, of the 109 non–Varronian comedies circulating under the name of Plautus that were known, at least by reputation, to Aulus Gellius,² of the tragedies and fabulae praetextae of Ennius, Pacuvius, and Accius, of the fabulae togatae, the Atellanae, and the mimi did not survive the end of antiquity.³ Only the scripts of the twenty–one Varronian plays of Plautus and those of the six comedies of Terence fared better. Before the scripts of republican drama were lost, however, readers with grammatical interests mined them for items of syntax and diction that seemed unusual when compared to contemporary patterns of speech. Other readers of a more literary bent sifted the works of republican literature for material that would throw light on the writings of later authors, especially Virgil and Terence. Readers such as these, focusing on points of language rather than of dramatic substance, left behind a detailed record of the language em But Herculaneum has revealed a copy, heavily damaged of course, of part of Caecilius’ Obolostates siue Faenerator. Preliminary discussion in Kleve 1996, Kleve 2001; see further, Carosi 2007.  Noct. 3.3.11.  Priscian had access to some scripts of republican drama while composing a treatise on Terence’s comic metres; see Jocelyn 1967 (and for other instances where late antique readers can be shown to have read republican literature at first hand, see Jocelyn 1967, 62). Nonius Marcellus could consult a voluminous collection of republican drama; see Lindsay 1901.

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ployed on the republican stage.⁴ On the strength of that record we can distinguish, with considerable precision, aspects of style and language that are characteristic of tragedy and serious drama from those in evidence in light comic drama or farce, to select but one way of separating the linguistic registers of republican drama. But a full understanding of the variety and diversity of republican dramatic performance—of what made an Atellan farce something ‘different,’ in the eyes of spectators and later readers alike, from a fabula palliata or a fabula togata, to say nothing of the more serious genres—depends not just on how language and style were modulated in those performances, but also on the very content of the plays. The student of the republican tragedies that were adapted from Athenian models can take as an imperfect guide to their contents the mythological stories that provided their foundation as well as, in some instances, the Athenian model itself.⁵ Students of the lighter dramatic genres find no comparable guides to aid in understanding the shape of those plays. The scripts of the comedies of Plautus and Terence provide some assistance in understanding the metrical character, linguistic diversity, and performative styles of republican light drama, but other questions about the action represented in the fragmentary genres remain unanswered. For there is little reason to expect, and still less justification for assuming, that the comedies of Plautus and Terence provide a framework on which to hang a secure understanding of the scripts of Afranius or Pomponius. Except where some bit of external evidence about the content or characters of a play survives, the only indications of what went on in a particular Atellan farce or a fabula togata or a comedy of Turpilius necessarily come from the extant fragments of the script. A disquieting question arises from the fact that most of the individuals who copied out those quotations, whether at first hand from a complete script or, at some degrees’ remove, from an earlier scholarly source, preserved this material not out of any interest in the plot and action of a republican comedy, but instead because of an interest in language.⁶ Since they were reading for words rather than for plot, just how reliable a witness to the plot of any particular play are its extant fragments? Can we hope to gain an accurate sense of the plot of Afranius’ Privignus, for example, or of Turpilius’ Epiclerus

 See especially Karakasis 2005 for the language employed in Roman comedy; Jocelyn 1969 remains essential on tragic language.  Jocelyn 1969 and Schierl 2006 show how such material can be of use for reconstructing the events dramatised in the fragmentary tragedies of Ennius and Pacuvius.  The situation is a little different for republican tragedy, for many fragments and testimonia of more serious plays survive out of a desire to illustrate the content of a particular tragedy.

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from the snippets of it that later lexicographers, grammarians, and commentators saw fit to transcribe? One answer to that question, which will strike readers variously as pessimistic or realistic, is simply that such material cannot hope to be representative. That answer sounds an important note of caution, since inevitably some part or parts of any given play could escape the nets of learned readers as they accumulated their quotations, such that it is impossible to understand all the twists and turns of a play from its extant quotations. This is, to be sure, quite true. It is important to remember that we are dealing with no more than parts of a plot, and that other, perhaps quite significant, aspects of the action may be lost from view.⁷ From another perspective, however, one might ask not whether, but how much of a plot can be recovered from fragmentary quotations. Thus in the case of Afranius’ Divortium, known to us now only as 13 quotations from the lexicon of Nonius Marcellus, should we assume that we have in that material a fairly complete outline of the plot, which centred on a father who compelled his two daughters to divorce their husbands, and some scheming to circumvent that plan?⁸ Or should we instead assume that this conflict was but one episode of a much larger and more convoluted plot that is now lost? Once one acknowledges that some material inevitably and irretrievably escaped the notice or interest of the individuals who preserved the fragments, questions about representativeness and completeness become much more difficult to answer. The present essay attempts to provide, through a thought experiment, a point of comparison for understanding what survives of truly fragmentary plays.⁹ Let us suppose that the complete script of Plautus’ Captivi had not sur-

 As but one example, it is noteworthy that there is only one ancient quotation of the choragus’ speech from Plautus’ Curculio, and that quotation (of verse 463 halophantam aut sycophantam magis esse dicam, at Nonius p. 120.8) gives no indication of the contents of that speech.  See Welsh forthcoming.  For similar thought experiments in other genres, see Dover 2000, and Mastronarde 2009 (and the brief experiments in Athenian tragedy cited at Mastronarde 2009, 63, n. 2); Wright 1974, 10 – 3 sketches the first scene of Plautus, Most. from its ‘fragments,’ but his interest is in language. Each set of fragments poses its own problems, making it impossible to generalise from, for example, what can be said about fragments of Athenian drama or more remote genres; good discussion of this issue is available in the papers in Most 1997. Apart from the problems that the different sources of fragments of Athenian drama and Roman comedy pose, there is an even more basic problem of representativeness. Dover is compelled to select at random just fifteen fragments of Aristophanes’ Frogs to produce a useful sample for understanding fragmentary old comedy, while Mastronarde’s ‘first edition’ gives him 53 fragments and eleven different testimonia from which to reconstruct Euripides’ Phoenissae. While those samples are valuable for

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vived in manuscripts, and therefore that only the bits of the script that could have been gleaned from the indirect tradition were available to us. In that situation, what impression would we now have of the Captivi, and how would that impression compare to the extant script? This essay assembles the ‘fragments’ of that play—that is, the ancient quotations of it—and sketches its plot, such as could be recovered from that material, in order to understand how much we would know about it, and how much would remain beyond our ken. Some initial remarks about this experiment are in order. The Captivi was not selected at random. Most truly fragmentary comedies survive in a small number of fragments. Of the best represented plays, such as Afranius’ Vopiscus or Caecilius’ Plocium, there survive at most 50 verses, which is exceptional in comparison to most fragmentary scripts. No one will imagine that the single fragment of Iuventius’ Anagnorizomene or of Pomponius’ Concha will reveal the plot of its play to us, but between the extremes of feast and famine there fall many comic plays represented by between ten and thirty fragments with a significant number of complete verses. Thus this experiment can only be useful if it is conducted on a play with a comparable number of ‘fragments.’ The scripts of Terence were quoted frequently in antiquity and those quotations would give a much fuller idea of their play’s plot than we can hope to recover in the case of truly fragmentary authors.¹⁰ Many of the twenty–one Varronian scripts of Plautus similarly were quoted too often in antiquity to be useful for the present exercise.¹¹ By comparison, Plautus’ Captivi is only moderately well represented in ancient quotations, with 30 ‘fragments,’ which compares well with truly fragmentary plays. In assembling the ‘fragments’ of the Captivi I gathered the material from editions of the grammarians and lexicographers, and checked the collection for completeness against Lindsay’s (1900) large edition of the play. I have excluded four quotations that occur without indication of the play’s title, since, lacking

their respective genres, the student of the fragments of republican comedy has much less material available.  Terence’s status as a school author led to his outsized representation in the indirect tradition, well illustrated by a glance at the entry for Terence in the index scriptorum at Keil, Gramm. VII 622– 629. From Nonius and the grammarians alone we have 72 quotations of the Hecyra, a number that rises as high as 216 in the case of the Andria.  Because Nonius Marcellus possessed two copies of each of the Amph., Asin., and Aul. and excerpted the second copy rather intensely, those plays are over–represented in the indirect tradition; cf. Lindsay 1904, 25. Some other plays are rather sparsely quoted and could have been recruited instead of Capt. for this exercise: Cas., Cist., Epid., Mer., and Most. are each represented by fewer than thirty ancient quotations.

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the complete script, we would not know to assign them to the play.¹² Conversely, one quotation attributed to the Captivi in antiquity has been retained here even though it does not appear in the complete script.¹³ I have set aside Osbern of Gloucester’s quotations of thirty–five verses of the play, and those found in similarly late authors, since they depend upon a survival of the complete script that does not apply to truly fragmentary authors. In redacting the fragments, I have eliminated any correction to their text that stems from comparison of the quotation with the complete script. Where deficiencies of metre or sense could be corrected easily, however, I have adopted a correction that I feel would have been proposed by earlier scholars, had they been compelled to know the Captivi only through such a collection; each of these changes is appropriately signalled.¹⁴ The 30 fragments of the play are roughly arranged according to the chronology of the sources that preserve them, as follows: (1) (2) (3)

(4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13)

rem de conpecto gero neminis misereri certum est, quia mei miseret neminem sartor sa[r]torque scelerum et messor maxume. :: non occatorem prius audebas dicere? nam semper occant prius quam sariunt rustici. prius quam pulsando assulatim foribus exitium dabo tum igitur ego deruncinatus, deartuatus sum miser deartuasti dilacerauisti atque opes confecisti ossa atque pellis sum miser macritudine[m] quid? tu una nocte postulauisti et die recens captum hominem, nuperum, nouicium maximas op[t]imitates opiparasque offert mihi nucleum amisi, retinui pignori[s] putamina dum . . rurant homines, quos ligurriant uerum enimuero nulla adaeque est Acherons atque ubi ego fui pilleum, quem habuit, deripuit eumque ad caelum tollit . . .

 These occur at Nonius, p. 184.2; Diomedes, Gramm. I 365.4; Donatus, Gramm. IV 393.31; and Servius auctus, Verg. Aen. 10.559.  Fragment 13 below.  I have not edited or emended the fragments beyond diagnosing the plainest errors (e. g., frag. 10 is un–metrical and nonsensical without the two simple corrections made in it), or making corrections based on secondary material from antiquity (e. g., correcting the transmitted optimitates in frag. 9 on the basis of Gell. Noct. 6.17.12), all of which, I am fairly confident, would have been gleaned by an editor of such fragments.

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(14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30)

(1) (2) (3)

(4) (5) (6)

salue, Tyndare. :: et tu, cuius causa hanc aerumnam exigo. id ut scias, Iouem supremum testem laudo, Hegio qui per uirtutem perit, at non interit iam maritimi omnis milites opus sunt tibi proin tui tu cotidiani uicti uentrem ad me adferas †ille alter potitus hostis est† †fac fidele† caue fidem fluxam feras uidi in publica celoce[m], ibidem illum adulescentulum nam meus est ballista pugnus; cubitus catapulta est mihi quorum odos subbasilicanos omnes adegit in forum †dicam seni curet sibi aliud penus† tantus uentri commeatus meo adest in portu cibus citissime ausculta, tum scies: ego me amitti, donicum ille huc redierit . . . . . utroqueuorsum rectum est ingenium meum quasi cum caletur †cocli . . . . . . . . . . latent †nec hi sycophantes† nec fucis ullum mantelum obuiam est¹⁵

I am acting according to plan I won’t show pity for anyone, since no one shows pity for me. hoer, sower, and greatest harvester of crimes! :: Didn’t you mean to say ‘harrower’ before? Country–folk always harrow before they hoe. before I bring destruction on the door by pounding it to smithereens! so, poor me, I’ve been cut down and dismembered you’ve dismembered and ripped to shreds and destroyed (my?) opes ¹⁶

 It has not seemed worthwhile to print the grammatical contexts of these quotations, which may be read at: (I) Charisius p. 256.21; (II) Charisius p. 203.21, Diomedes, Gramm. I 333.33, Exc. Bob. Gramm. I 561.17, Charisius p. 175.10, Nonius p. 143.14, Priscian, Gramm. II 207.7; (III) Nonius p. 7.24; (IV) Nonius p. 72.22; (V) and (VI) Nonius p. 94.17; (VII) Nonius p. 136.1; (VIII) Nonius p. 143.10, Priscian, Gramm. II 96.2; (IX) Nonius p. 146.5; (X) Nonius p. 157.30, Donatus, Ter. Adelph. 796.2; (XI) Nonius p. 164.17; (XII) Nonius p. 191.27; (XIII) Nonius p. 220.12; (XIV) Nonius p. 291.17; (XV) Nonius p. 335.12; (XVI) Nonius p. 422.4; (XVII) Nonius p. 481.36; (XVIII) Nonius p. 484.10, Priscian, Gramm. II 258.15; (XIX) Nonius p. 498.25; (XX) Nonius p. 512.29; (XXI) Nonius p. 533.2; (XXII) Nonius p. 552.7, Anon. de dub. nom., Gramm. V 587.12; (XXIII) Priscian, Gramm. II 31.19; (XXIV) Priscian, Gramm. II 170.13; (XXV) Priscian, Gramm. II 258.23; (XXVI) Priscian, Gramm. III 74.11; (XXVII) Priscian, Gramm. III 58.2; (XXVIII) Priscian, Gramm. III 75.22; (XXIX) Exc. Bob., Gramm. V 648.14; (XXX) Filargirius, Verg. Georg. 4.376 (it is entirely possible that the same verse lies behind Festus p. 118.15).  In the absence of context it would be hazardous to translate opes, though ‘resources’ would have been an obvious guess.

The ‘Fragments’ of Plautus’ Captivi

(7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30)

157

I’m skin and bones, poor me, from thinness What? You expected in one night and one day … a man recently captured, new, a novice … he brings me great and splendid prosperity I’ve lost the nut and kept the shells as security while … people live in the country, whom they could feed upon there’s truly no underworld equal to the place I was he snatched off the cap which he had and raises it to the sky Hello, Tyndarus. :: Hello to you, for whose sake I’m enduring this suffering so that you’ll know it, I’ll call upon the supreme Jupiter as my witness, Hegio the one who dies because of his valour does not perish now you need all the soldiers from the shore so bring me an appetite for your everyday food †that other man has been captured by the enemy† †behave faithfully† make sure you don’t let your loyalty be fleeting … I saw in an official ship, and in that same place that young man … for my fist is my ballista, my elbow is my catapulta whose smell drives all the basilica–loungers into the forum †I’ll tell the old man to take care of other food for himself† such a great supply of food for my stomach is in the harbour very quickly listen, then you’ll know: I … that I be sent away, until he returns here my talent is directed in both directions like, when it is hot, †snails(?)† hide †neither these sycophants† nor for bamboozlings is any cloak at hand

In what follows, I shall develop an idea of what could be said about the Captivi from this material. This experiment proceeds in two stages. In the first, I work under the restriction of assuming that the other twenty scripts of Plautus had similarly been lost, and are therefore not available as a guide to reconstructing the Captivi. This is the position of the student confronted with fragments of Pomponius and Afranius (and of other fragmentary dramatists), who cannot rely upon a complete example of their works in re–imagining a script from its fragments. Subsequently I shall loosen the restrictions slightly, and consider the material as though only the Captivi had been lost to time, but the other twenty scripts remained available to guide the study of the fragmentary script; such is the situation of those who would make sense of the fragmentary plays attributed in antiquity to Plautus. My aim is to see what could be said about Captivi, and thereby to offer some insight about what can and should be said by students of fragmentary republican comedy, who seek to read not (just) for language, but for the plot. The title attached to these quotations suggests that the script included or touched on the issue of prisoners of war, a subject that is also hinted at in the

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heavily corrupted fragment 19. Of the characters involved, we would know the names Tyndarus and Hegio (frag. 14 and 15). Tyndarus seems, to judge from his reply in fragment 14, to be one of the prisoners, and we might guess that Hegio was a senex, on the basis of the characters who bear the same name in Terence’s Adelphoe and Phormio. ¹⁷ One theme in particular stands out in this collection of quotations; since food, hunger, and related ideas are mentioned in fragments 7, 11, 18, 24, and 25, we could suspect, at the very least, that a parasite was involved in the plot. The verb ligurriant (frag. 11) would support that conclusion, since elsewhere in republican Latin it is a marked element of the vocabulary of parasites;¹⁸ so too would the imagery of nuts and shells in fragment 10 and the description of odours emanating from, we might guess, the fish–market in fragment 11.¹⁹ So far, reasonably so good: prisoners of war, someone who might be a senex, and a parasite. As to the actual events of the plot, still more can be observed. We may begin from the parasite. Two fragments suggest a central role for that character, when they are read together. In fragment 21, someone reports seeing a young man on a ship,²⁰ and in fragment 25, it could only be a parasite who gleefully crows that there is ‘so much food’ in the harbour. The language of both famine (frag. 7) and feast (frag. 9 and 25) suggests that the parasite enjoys a reversal of circumstances within the play. Although there would be just enough room to permit interpreting in portu (frag. 25) literally, indicating that the parasite’s meal is in fact at the harbour,²¹ one could perhaps more easily understand the parasite to mean that his meal is guaranteed by the presence of someone or something in the harbour. Some support for that conclusion comes from fragment 18, in which the speaker seems to disappoint a wish for a lavish meal by promising nothing but ordinary fare. Much would therefore support connecting the parasite’s glee at his sudden change of circumstances with the arrival of the young man in the harbour, and it would be hard to escape the inference, if equally difficult

 The corrupt text of frag. 24 could also be recruited for such a guess.  Cf. abligurrierat in the mouth of the parasite Gnatho at Ter. Eun. 235, and abligurias in the description of a parasite’s behaviour at Ennius, Sat. 17 Vahlen ( = Donatus, Ter. Eun. 255).  Generally from Terence, Eun. 255 – 7 and more specifically from the quotation of Plautus, Rud. 979 – 981 at Priscian, Gramm. II 332.1.  More precisely, that person sees someone or something else on the ship, and (presumably also sees) ‘that young man’ in the same place, but the manner in which the text has been excerpted leaves some room for doubt about the verb governing illum adulescentulum.  Compare Accius 371 socium in portu est copia. It would perhaps have been tempting to interpret portus in the Plautine quotation in the sense warranted by Ulpian, Dig. 50.16.59 ‘Portus’ appellatus est conclusus locus, quo importantur merces et inde exportantur: eaque nihilo minus statio est conclusa atque munita. inde ‘angiportum’ dictum est.

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to prove, that that young man was one of the titular prisoners of war. That one or more prisoners in fact appeared on stage has already been seen in Tyndarus’ reply in fragment 14, and could have been inferred as well from fragment 12, which could describe the horrors such a prisoner would endure. Thus far we have a parasite who plays a prominent role in a situation where circumstances change for the better because of the arrival in port of an adulescentulus who has probably been taken as a prisoner of war, and Hegio, about whom little is yet known. From this material it would also be clear that there was a deception plot in the play, although its precise nature does not emerge from the quotations. Utterances like those in fragment 1, where someone seems to comment that he or she is following the agreed–upon plan,²² or in fragment 20, where the speaker enjoins someone to act loyally, or in fragment 27, where the speaker comments that his or her ingenium is put to work in two directions at once, suggest such a plot. That this was a plot to trick someone is revealed by the colourful language of fragment 29, in which the speaker comments on the absence of a means to conceal the tricks.²³ Every comic deception needs an agelast, and given the constellation of characters in this play’s fragments, one would naturally expect that the captor filled that role. The hard–hearted utterance of fragment 2, in which no pity is offered since none has been shown, and the comments about enduring horrible torments would corroborate, but not quite put beyond doubt, that inference. Fragments 5 and 6, in which the speaker laments that he has been thoroughly bested, and fragment 13, in which a character raises the pilleus, the cap symbolic of freedom, to the sky, suggest that the plot was successful.²⁴ Although the twists and turns of this plot would remain unknown, it would perhaps be possible to speculate that Hegio was the target of that deception, for fragment 15 brings on a speaker who swears by Jupiter in front of Hegio in order to lend credence to what he says; such a situation, although not demonstrably part of such a plot, would be a logical component of a deception.

 With this fragment illustrating de compecto we have Iulius Romanus’ note on conpacto (see Charisius p. 256.11), citing Afranius 90 te facere conpacto omnia. From this and from later usages of the simple ablative (e. g. Cic. Scaur. 8.5 itaque compecto cum matre Bostaris consilium cepit) the implications of the phrasing would have been clear.  Despite the corruption at the beginning of the Virgilian commentator’s quotation (and it is in any case not unreasonable to think that someone would have divined sycophantiis from hi sycophantes), the metaphorical meaning of fucis would have been clear from (e. g.) Ter. Eun. 589 or Hor. Sat. 1.2.83.  The noun is allegedly masculine here, but the text of the fragment is difficult and may be corrupt.

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It would thus be possible to gain some sense of the structure of the Captivi, which involved young prisoners of war and their captor; a scheme to deceive the captor could be recognised if not well described, and it would have been clear that a parasite played a central role in, and enjoyed the success that followed, the return of a young man. Although it would be possible here and there to push these observations further, it will be more useful to examine precisely where the limits of such evidence lie. In two fragments in particular the interests of the sources who preserve this material are plain to see, and the impact of those interests on our ability to understand the structure of the fragmentary play is significant. The fragmentary Captivi is not exceptional in this regard, for in many cases the interests of our sources impinge upon what can be known about a play. Thus in fragment 8, the speaker refers to some unreasonable expectations about a new captive and what he would do within just one day and one night. Readers of the fragmentary script would indeed like to know about those expectations, but since Nonius Marcellus is at this point interested only in the meaning of the adjective nuperus, he does not quote the rest of the sentence and thus leaves us in doubt about those expectations. In the same way, the incomplete (but still sufficient to illustrate the use of the word donicum) thought of fragment 26 frustrates the interpreter who would want to know more about the speaker who will not be, or cannot be, or doesn’t want to be sent away—the possibilities are numerous—until someone returns. In situations such as these the problems of our evidence become most palpable, for if our ancient sources had different interests, we might have been able to make better sense of the plot. In the first part of this exercise I have proceeded as though the other twenty scripts of the Varronian comedies of Plautus had perished along with the Captivi, as a means to throw light upon the situation of the interpreter of fragmentary drama. In the second part, I shall shift the assumptions, and shall reconsider what might be said about the fragmentary Captivi if those other twenty scripts had survived. In such circumstances it would have been an attractive inference that the Captivi included a seruus currens from the evidence of fragment 22 (although the connection between that role and the parasite would not have been recoverable). Confronted with a play involving captives, a parasite who might be scheming, and a young man arriving or returning to the city on stage, and working with the evidence of the other twenty comedies, one might have come to the conclusion that the Captivi was a play comparable in its plot and action to the Menaechmi or to the Stichus. Indeed, one might be tempted into making some incorrect guesses about the fragments of the Captivi based on the characters and actions observable in those scripts. For every lucky guess about, for example, the parasite of the Captivi based upon the behaviour of Peniculus in the Me-

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naechmi, though, we should expect that there would be an unlucky guess that made the reconstruction of the Captivi a little more like the Stichus. The reader who can delight in the complete scripts of both the Captivi and the Stichus will know how different their two styles of comedy are, and thus how inaccurate it would be to use the (complete) Stichus to fill in gaps in our knowledge of the (fragmentary) Captivi. Setting aside the fictions now, it will be worthwhile to reconsider the ‘fragmentary’ Captivi and how it compares both to other truly fragmentary plays and to the extant script. First, compared to those of many fragmentary comedies, the ancient quotations of the Captivi are an inhospitable bunch, inasmuch as the 29 quotations give us remarkably few opportunities to grasp the essential structure of the plot. For many well–preserved fragmentary comedies (that is to say, those with a comparable number of quotations), there is often a fragment that reveals the essential conflict of the play and provides a basic framework for a reconstruction. Thus in the case of Afranius’ Divortium, a play mentioned earlier in this paper, one fragment in particular provides considerable insight into the plot and its conflicts (Afranius 52– 4): o dignum facinus! adulescentis optumas bene conuenientes, concordantes cum uiris repente uiduas factas spurcitia patris!²⁵ Oh, how awful! Excellent young women, getting along well and of one mind with their husbands, suddenly made husband–less by their father’s wickedness!

No comparably informative item can be found in the ancient quotations of the Captivi, and so if the reader feels that the present exercise has produced disconnected pieces of the puzzle rather than an accurate outline of the plot, that impression is in fact an accurate one. Yet we would have been quite close to being able to connect those pieces, and perhaps some clever scholar of the past would have divined what had gone missing from fragment 26 and thus filled in the gaps. Here is the Plautine passage, with the ancient quotation underlined (Plautus, Capt. 338 – 41): TYND. ausculta, tum scies. ego me amitti, donicum ille huc redierit, non postulo. uerum te quaeso aestumatum hunc mihi des, quem mittam ad patrem ut is homo redimatur illi.

 On the text adopted here, see Welsh forthcoming, n. 32.

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TYND. Listen, then you’ll know: I don’t ask that I be sent away, until he returns here. But I ask you to give me this man on bail, so that I can send him to my father, so that this man can be ransomed.

Priscian, as we have seen, left the utterance he quoted grammatically and logically incomplete. But if he had added even nothing more than non postulo from verse 339 (or if such a supplement had been produced by conjecture), the situation dramatised in the play would have been considerably clearer. For then it could have been inferred that these words were spoken by one of the prisoners of war, who does not expect to be released by his captor before a third individual returns to the city represented on stage. Thence the presence on stage of at least two prisoners could be inferred, as could the departure and return of one of them within the action of the play. Although Priscian’s quotation leaves some of this information in doubt, it is nevertheless important to remember that we are not always so betrayed by our sources for truly fragmentary plays. Yet much of the texture and nuance of the Captivi would indeed remain beyond our grasp, for from fragments we can recover at best an outline of a plot, perhaps only parts of a plot. In the case of the fragmentary Captivi, there would indeed be gaps. From the ancient quotations of the Captivi we would not be able to identify the role of Aristophontes and the part he plays in unmasking the deception to Hegio and causing Tyndarus to be sent to the quarries. Although the existence of a deception as an important part of the play would have been obvious, it would not have been possible to specify what those tricks were, or what their goal was. Many other gaps remain, for it is the nature of fragmentary evidence that it normally can tell us only what (probably) occurred in the play, and not what was not found in the script. Thus, for example, it would have been impossible to determine from the ancient quotations that the Captivi included no female characters and no romantic plot. And as every reader of fragmentary texts well knows, the absence of context means that we miss much of the subtlety of the original. The lines quoted as fragment 12 are indeed spoken by a captivus about the torments that he has suffered at the hands of his captor, but the fragment in isolation reveals nothing of the poignant irony that Tyndarus was consigned to toil in his own father’s quarries. Similarly, the verse quoted as fragment 16 falls flat in isolation, betraying the power of Tyndarus’ assured self–confidence in the face of Hegio’s threats and giving little indication of its importance in the complete script. With truly fragmentary evidence, the same limitations apply, for we necessarily miss the comic subtlety and nuance that is left behind when a quotation is excerpted from its script. Just as is the case with truly fragmentary republican drama, different readers will doubtless see different things in this collection of ancient quotations. In the

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present exercise I have sought to give one example of (one reader’s assessment of) what could have been said about the fragmentary script of the Captivi, had Fortune been as unkind to it as she was to the scripts of Afranius and Pomponius and Turpilius. Unsurprisingly, the results seem slight when read with a full knowledge of the Captivi. And yet there is no cause for complete despair when it comes to reading such quotations, since a considerable part of the essential comic conflict can be inferred from a group of thirty quotations produced by readers more interested in language than in comedy. Such a sketch of the Captivi offers a useful point of comparison for truly fragmentary comedy, for from it we can see that a considerable gap will inevitably remain between any reconstruction from fragmentary evidence and the full script, that it is easy to be misled by errors in our ancient quotations, by inferences from extant comedies, and by the omissions and oversights of our sources. Despite those problems, though, the situation is not entirely hopeless for those interested in the lost plots of fragmentary republican drama.²⁶

Bibliography Carosi, G. (2007), Cecilio Stazio e il PHerc. 78: Obolostates sive Faenerator, Diss., Bologna. Dover, K. (2000), ‘Foreword: Fragments’, in: D. Harvey and J. Wilkins (eds.), The Rivals of Aristophanes: Studies in Athenian Old Comedy, London, xvii–xix. Jocelyn, H. D. (1967), ‘The Quotations of Republican Drama in Priscian’s Treatise De Metris Fabularum Terentii’, in: Antichthon 1, 60 – 9. — (1969), (ed. corr.), The Tragedies of Ennius, Cambridge. Karakasis, E. (2005), Terence and the Language of Roman Comedy, Cambridge. Kleve, K. (1996), ‘How to Read an Illegible Papyrus. Towards an Edition of PHerc. 78, Caecilius Statius, Obolostates sive Faenerator’, in: Cronache Ercolanesi 26, 5 – 14. — (2001), ‘Caecilius Statius, The Money–lender (PHerc. 78)’, in: Atti del XXII Congresso Internazionale di Papirologia, Firenze 1998, Florence, 725. Lindsay, W. M. (1900), The Captivi of Plautus, London. — (1901), Nonius Marcellus’ Dictionary of Republican Latin, Oxford. — (1904), The Ancient Editions of Plautus, Oxford. Mastronarde, D. J. (2009), ‘The Lost Phoenissae: an Experiment in Reconstruction from Fragments’ and ‘Appendix’, in: J. R. C. Cousland and J. R. Hume (eds.), The Play of Texts and Fragments: Essays in Honour of Martin Cropp, Leiden, 63 – 76, 461 – 96.

 An early version of this argument was presented at the 2011 meeting of the American Philological Association, and I thank the audience on that occasion for their comments and suggestions. This paper could not have been completed without the assistance of Dr Cillian O’Hogan, for which I am deeply grateful. Work on this project was supported by a grant from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.

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Most, G. (1997), (ed.), Collecting Fragments – Fragmente sammeln, Göttingen. Schierl, P. (2006), Die Tragödien des Pacuvius, Berlin. Welsh, J. T. (forthcoming), ‘Roman Women in the Fabula Togata’, in: D. Dutsch, S. L. James, and D. Konstan (eds.), Women in the Drama of the Roman Republic, Madison. Wright, J. (1974), Dancing in Chains: The Stylistic Unity of the Comoedia Palliata, Rome.

Part III: Plot, Language, and Reception

A. Sharrock

Reading Plautus’ Trinummus: Who’d Bother? Abstract: Plautus’ Trinummus is not everyone’s first choice from the corpus of Roman comedy. Once admired for its moral seriousness and edifying displays of amicitia and fides, its best chance of gaining a hearing in the modern world is to be taken as a parody of seriousness. The idea that this ‘boring’ play is deliberately boring in order to make a point, however, is not much comfort to the reader ploughing through it. I suggest that we use an alternative roadmap to guide us through the text, the markers of which are greater appreciation of the play’s relationship with the Roman comic tradition. The play’s interaction with Plautine norms is wickedly creative, since it presents familiar comic features but always a little bit askew. Then in the next generation, Terence was a particularly astute close reader of Trinummus, which I suggest we can see in the development of a number of his characters and scenes. Keywords: Plautus, reading, reception, trickery, dowry, treasure, Terence, property, morality Among the twenty–one extant plays of Plautus, Trinummus can hardly be said to be the most read, performed, or loved today. One might say that most people feel that it lacks the exuberant comic interest of Pseudolus, Casina, or Miles Gloriosus, the Shakespearean interest of Menaechmi and Amphitruo, the Menandrian interest of Bacchides or Aulularia,¹ or the social interest of Captivi. No doubt a contributory factor to its poor standing today is the famous judgement of Wilamowitz of the play as so boring as to be dangerous for reading by schoolboys, in case they were put off Plautus for life.²

 Not, as once thought, the direct descendant of Menander’s Dyskolos, but still closely linked to it in the critical imagination, no doubt with the help of Molière.  It is indeed customary, as Hunter 1980, 216 says, to begin any discussion of this play with a repetition of Wilamowitz’s judgement. A more expanded account can be found in Lefèvre 1993, 178; see also Lefèvre 1995, 64– 5; Reimer 1996, 35. Anderson 1979 opens in a similar way. Indeed, almost every article begins with some version of the story, but often with a remarkable degree of variation as to the timing of the change of opinion (see first footnote in Muecke 1985), and even the interpretation of some of the big players, such as the founder–hero Lessing (compare Lefèvre 1993 and Anderson 1979). Substantial recent studies of the play are in Anderson 1993, Lefèvre 1995, and Reimer 1996.

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Of itself, the plot seems innocuous enough. A young man, Lesbonicus, wastes his family resources on women and wine, so his father, Charmides, goes abroad in order to recoup some of the losses. Before he leaves – but this information we only ascertain gradually – he hides a pot of gold in his house and entrusts his family (said wastrel son and marriageable daughter) to a friend, Callicles, telling only the latter about the gold. While Callicles is briefly in the countryside, Lesbonicus puts the family home up for sale in order to pay for his excesses (and, as we hear from a couple of brief mentions, to give support to a friend in need who turns out to be a bad bet).³ Callicles buys the house in order to avoid the treasure being lost, and moves his own family there, taking in also Lesbonicus’ sister to live along with his, Callicles’, daughter. (Lesbonicus goes on to live in an outhouse round the back.⁴) Lesbonicus’ neighbour and close friend, Lysiteles, wants to marry Lesbonicus’ sister without a dowry, in order to help his friend. This offer is rejected by Lesbonicus, but brings him to his moral senses. He is determined to give as the dowry a piece of land which, according to his sidekick slave, Stasimus, is all they now have to live on. Callicles wonders how to arrange for a monetary dowry to be taken from the treasure without Lesbonicus becoming aware of its existence (and therefore, in the eyes of all the old men, spending it all on further excesses). His friend Megaronides, who early on in the play had accused Callicles of bad behaviour in buying the house from their friend Charmides’ son, suggests a trick: they will hire a suitable likely lad and dress him up as a traveller. He will come with letters purportedly from Charmides, one for Lesbonicus telling him to arrange the marriage and informing him that money for the dowry will be given to Callicles, the other to Callicles himself, purportedly bringing the money. But just as this trick is being put into place, Charmides himself arrives home and enters into a playful scene with the sycophant in which the tricker is tricked – he is led into exposing his lack of knowledge of the true Charmides, and the entire trick is exposed.⁵ Now that the father has returned, the ruse is unnecessary in any case, and Charmides betrothes his daughter to Lysiteles properly, with a monetary dowry. Lysiteles then prevails upon his prospective father–in–law to forgive Lesbonicus for his excesses, which Charmides does, on the condition that the young man grows up and marries the daughter of Callicles. Lesbonicus readily agrees (albeit with a brief and, I think, irrelevant misogynistic joke),

 Whether Lesbonicus had the legal right (Greek or Roman) to sell the house, or indeed give his sister in marriage, and what Callicles’ legal rights might have been, has been the subject of much debate. See Karakasis 2003, 200 – 4.  See Hunter 1980, 217– 8 on the posticulum.  See Reimer 1996, 49 – 50.

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which is entirely appropriate since he has in fact already begun the process of growing up, almost from the beginning of the play. He has taken his responsibilities seriously, accepting and regretting his previous folly, and is now ready to join respectable society. It only remains to mention Lysiteles’ father, who makes a show of being a stern father but is actually willing to go along with whatever his son wants, including not only allowing him to marry Lesbonicus’ sister without a dowry, but even himself going and opening negotiations on his son’s behalf. So we have a story where everyone is good. Even the slave, Stasimus, manages to be loyal to both old and young master, but also entertaining.⁶ What’s not to like? Well, perhaps the very fact that everyone is good, and moreover the fact that everyone is extremely pompous about his goodness. It is a play which it would be easy to take as engaging with serious moral issues, around the themes of amicitia (friendship), fides (loyalty), the right use of money, and fama (reputation).⁷ Moreover, it seems to be written in soundbites. As a result, it has had extremely varied fortunes through the ages, being much liked in periods when its moralising is regarded as uplifting rather than sickening, and when a primary duty of literature is to produce soundbites to be used as the occasion demands, rather than with much regard to their original context. I might suggest, then, that this play is particularly subject to the vagaries of reception – it will be better and worse regarded as society’s expectations and desires fluctuate over the years.⁸

 He is particularly unwilling to run away, as perhaps his name suggests. Fantham 1977, 407, n. 5 takes it as a speaking name indicating his loyalty, steadfastness, which may well be the primary indication, but I would take it less metaphorically, especially in Charmides’ commentary on Stasimus’ moderately magnificent running–slave monologue, when he says non fugitiuost hic homo, commeminit domi (‘this man isn’t a runaway, he remembers his home,’ 1027).  See Fantham 1977, for one of the more recent straight readings of the play’s morality, albeit in the form of a reflection on Philemon’s play. The play was popular in later antiquity, for example with Cicero, as noted by Segal 1974, 264, n. 38.  Lefèvre 1993, 177– 81 gives a very nice, if implicit, account of how the play’s lovers and haters are affected by the moral fashions of their own day. See also Lefèvre 1995, 67: ‘[m]an geht nicht fehl, wenn man feststellt, dass ihre Rezeption von dem Zeitgeist der Jeweiligen Epoche bestimmt wurde.’ Stein 1970, for all that this article will begin the process of undermining ‘probity,’ by showing the play doing so (‘this preoccupation with moral uprightness takes frivolous forms until, at the end of the play, probity is rather meaningless,’ 7), opens very much in the style of the first half of the century: ‘Decent and honourable conduct is a central concern in Plautus’ Trinummus.’ The whole article is magnificently metacritical: ‘they greet each other politely, and only after extended banter about their wives do they speak of Callicles’ misconduct’ (7). I think he is quite right about ‘extended banter’ – the misogyny and male bonding of early–to–mid 20th–century humour is exactly in keeping with that of the Roman Republic.

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Why might we read it, now, when moral seriousness of this type is suspect, and when a primary duty of literature is to mean something slightly different from what it seems to mean? Several critics have interpreted the play’s moralising as parody of the positions it holds.⁹ There is, I would say, always a tendency towards parody in comic moralising, and especially Plautine, but I would be loath to go as far as Anderson in taking the view that the play is meant to be boring in order to expose the moral weakness of the people and positions presented.¹⁰ This seems like a risky game to play on the part of the playwright, since if its message is not received then the play simply remains boring. Moreover, I doubt that many of the moral statements expressed in the play would of themselves do other than resonate positively with the contemporary audience. But that doesn’t mean that they can’t also laugh at them. One of the ways in which the play is funny (and it does also have some more conventionally funny scenes)¹¹ is that it sometimes almost seems to talk in maxims. This style can itself be a source of humour without necessarily undermining the content of the maxims. The play is full of examples one could offer to illustrate this point. I limit myself to one. When Philto is attempting to persuade Lesbonicus to give his sister without a dowry, trying, perhaps, to recoup some of the moral high ground in regard to the right use of wealth which he lost to his own son in the earlier scene, he makes a fine statement about mortality, morality, and wealth: di diuites sunt, deos decent opulentiae et factiones, uerum nos homunculi, salillum animai qui quom extemplo emisimus,

 See Stein 1970 and still more Anderson 1979, 334: Plautus creates ‘an emphasis that mocks all the self–righteous moralists.’ Maurice 2003, 180: Plautus makes ‘true mockery of these ideals’ because both sets of friends suffer more than they benefit from the friendship, it being Plautus’ metatheatrical purpose to parody idealised representations of friendship. Lefèvre 1993 makes the strong argument that Plautus is using this play to make a comic attack on Cato, his stubbornness, and his double standards. This is not quite the same as suggesting that the play undermines the morality it purports to express, because accusing someone of failing to live up to their moral statements could just as well, if not more probably, be an affirmation of those moral statements.  Anderson 1979, 341. Segal 1974 takes a view which could be an extension either of the moralist reading (but with negative valuation) or of the ironic reading, when he describes the play as not comedy but myth, in the sense that ‘fides and mos maiorum are great mythical attempts at moral re–armament’ (264), which Plautus supports in the play for propagandistic (and therefore financial) reasons.  Of which the sycophant scene is traditionally thought to be the greatest, e. g. Lofberg 1920: ‘one of the best dialogues in all Latin comedy’; see also Reimer 1996, 43 – 4.

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aequo mendicus atque ille opulentissumus censetur censu ad Accheruntem mortuos. (Plaut. Trin. 490 – 4) The gods are rich. Sumptuousness and factionalism behove the gods, but we little men are such that, when we have poured out the salt cellar of our soul, the beggar and the richest man are judged equally by judgement in the underworld when dead.

Alliteration, repetition, aggrandising manipulation of words (diminutive, superlative), a moralising metaphor (reading salillum, with Lindsay’s OCT),¹² mention of death – these things make a fine statement to laugh at, as we are encouraged to do by the (aside) interjection from Stasimus, acting, as he often does, as audience to interlocutors: ST. mirum quin tu illo tecum diuitias feras. ubi mortuos sis, ita sis ut nomen cluet. (Plaut. Trin. 495 – 6) ST. It would be surprising if you didn’t take your riches with you to there. When you are dead, you may be such as your name announces.

Stasimus wants his master to accept the offer, so his suggestion that Philto’s name reflects his widespread charity is not wholly satirical, but the implication that the old man is such a miser as to want to take his money with him when he goes also nicely undercuts the philosophical speech. But for all that, I would not imagine that many members of the audience would, if pressed, disagree with the content of what the old man says. Another aspect of the play which makes it, in my view, worthy of reading is its creative relationship with Plautine norms. At times it almost seems like a kind of cento of Plautine comedy, with bits and (set) pieces thrown in for the fun of it. I would describe it as a parody, if that term could be used without an implication of negative valuation. Trinummus has many of the common devices of Plautine comedy, but most of them are a little bit askew. Some, indeed, almost seem thrown in for the sake of it rather than fully integrated – though that itself could be held to be a Plautine feature. It contains a running slave routine for no particular purpose (Stasimus’ entry at 1008); a door–knocking scene where no one answers (870); a repetition set piece (583 – 91), based on i modo as it is

 salillum in 492 is printed by Lindsay. The reading of A is satillum, which would, I presume, be the diminutive of satis, with animai as partitive genitive, would create a different joke, but would also work. See Lefèvre 1995, 98, n. 405 on salillum.

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on licet in Rudens;¹³ a young man amans et egens whose specific amatory complications are downplayed by comparison with the generality of excess (cf. Mostellaria); a clever slave (sort of) who tries to serve his young master’s ‘true’ interests (and therefore his old master’s interests), without being stupid; a slave– sidekick and a dissolute young man who positively desire and then rejoice in the return of the father; a father who is neither fierce nor a rival to his son (or rather, two fathers, one of whom pretends to be fierce but isn’t); a trick, as we shall see later, performed by the most unlikely of tricksters; the lover of a citizen girl who has no barrier to his marriage except his own refusal to accept a dowry, and presents himself like the most unfeeling of Romans, interested only in doing the right thing and not in personal emotion; and finally, a remarkable interest in the buying and selling of houses, picked up from perhaps its closest relative, Mostellaria. ¹⁴ In this regard, I would suggest that there is the following difference between appreciating Trinummus and appreciating one of the Plautine greats, such as Pseudolus or Casina: the greats can generally be appreciated in isolation (though they are much enhanced by greater knowledge of the rest of the corpus, and would no doubt be even further enhanced if more plays both of palliata and of Greek New Comedy were available to the would–be appreciator), but Trinummus, at least to a modern audience, needs the help of a knowledge of other plays, in order that its games can be appreciated. An original audience, of course, would not need years of scholarship to achieve this blessed state. One of the greatest of Plautine devices is what I termed the architectus. ¹⁵ This is the character, in its purest form a slave, who controls the action and stands in a metatheatrical relationship with the poet himself. It would usually be the case that the senex would be placed at the opposite corner of the comic economy from the architectus, except when playing the role of a senex lepidus (e. g. in Miles), when his role is as an admirer and supporter of the architectus. It is the role of the architectus to play the trick, the role of the senex to suffer it. Sometimes the architectus role is taken by or shared with a parasite (Curculio), sometimes by a woman (Casina, Truculentus). But in Trinummus it is, most unusually, taken by a senex, or rather a group of senes. One of those old men also plays an oddly intrusive role in the beginning of the play, but one which is essential for exposition. As the prologue blythely informs us, the old men who will

 Sharrock 2009, 175 – 8.  Reimer 1996, 63 – 5, 82– 3, 114. Segal 1974 also discusses the connection between Trinummus and Mostellaria in the metaphorical effects of the house–motif. Both Buck 1940 and Enk 1937 date Trinummus significantly after Mostellaria, as is indeed generally assumed by commentators on Trinummus.  Sharrock 2009, 16 – 7.

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come out next will tell us the argumentum, and then Megaronides enters with his speech about the difficulty of telling off a friend. During the following interaction, Megaronides might seem to be the kind of protactic character who appears at the beginning of the play merely for the purposes of exposition (such as the two prostitutes at the beginning of Hecyra), but he will surprise us by having more to do than that.¹⁶ In fact, we might feel that it is Megaronides who kicks the play into action, and then Megaronides again who masterminds the play’s intrigue. When Callicles discovers what he believes to be Lesbonicus’ plans to marry off his sister without a dowry, he rushes off to his old friend Megaronides to look for a plan. I would suggest that Megaronides plays a sort of metatheatrical role as a cipher for the poet, appearing only twice but commanding considerable presence when he does. Moreover, the language in which Megaronides formulates his plan is exactly that of the architectus. When Callicles comes to him in despair, and a series of more normal responses to such a situation are considered and rejected, Megaronides says: sed uide consilium, si placet (‘but look at the plan, if it pleases,’ 763). I have argued previously that consilium is a special word in Roman comedy, denoting the plot, and specifically the trick which constitutes the plot.¹⁷ In addition, the invitation to consider and make a judgement of the plan, in parody of senatorial language,¹⁸ is in keeping with the behaviour of more conventional architecti. When Milphio explains his plan to Agorastocles in Poenulus, the latter responds consilium placet (Poen. 180). The nearest parallel to our situation, however, comes from Epidicus. Here, two old men know they are in need of a plot, but the eponymous architectus Epidicus (one of the greats of the genre) teases them with false modesty about his plotting capabilities, in order to manipulate them into asking for his consilium, which will turn out to be a complex intrigue for the sake of his young master, rather than the old man. The point for us, however, is that this is a matter of old men seeking a plot, and that Epidicus uses similar language, likewise with a hint at serious debate:

 Reimer 1996, 104– 11 describes Megaronides as a kind of double protactic character, because of his surprise late role, but hypothesises (112) that in Philemon’s play Megaronides was probably nothing more than a single protactic character. He, with many, regards the main intrigue of the play and the character of the sycophant as Plautine inventions. Lefèvre 1995, 88 – 91 removes Megaronides’ entrance monologue entirely from Philemon’s play, and drastically reduces the dialogue with Callicles, with the old men’s return to business at 66 signalling also Philemon’s. I am entirely agnostic about the content of Philemon’s play, but I am happy to take the support for a reading of Plautine playfulness.  Sharrock 2009, 11– 6.  See e. g. Mos. 687– 8, Epid. 159 – 60, Sharrock 2009, 14.

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EP. immo si placebit utitor, consilium si non placebit, reperitote rectius. (Plaut. Epid. 263 – 4) EP. If you like my plan, use it; if you don’t, find a better one yourselves.

Callicles’ response to Megaronides’ offer is typical of Plautine characters in need of help, with its series of excited but ignorant questions: ME. sed uide consilium, si placet. CA. quid consilist? ME. scitum, ut ego opinor, consilium inueni. CA. quid est? ME. homo conducatur aliquis iam, quantum potest, quasi sit peregrinus. CA. quid is scit facere postea? ME. is homo exornetur graphice in peregrinum modum, ignota facies quae non uisitata sit, mendaciloquom aliquem— CA. quid is scit facere postea? ME. falsidicum, confidentem— CA. quid tum postea?

765

(Plaut. Trin. 763 – 70)¹⁹ ME. But have a look at the plan, if it’s pleasing. CA. What plan is it? ME. I have invented a cunning plan, in my opinion. CA. What is it? ME. Let’s hire a man, anyone as far as possible, as if a foreigner. CA. What does he know to do then? ME. Let this man be expertly dressed up in foreign guise, his appearance unknown such as has never been seen, some smooth liar—CA. What does this man know to do then? ME. a false–speaker, a con–man— CA. What then?

The ideal candidate must clearly meet the job description for Plautine tricksters, but two further matters are of particular interest in this passage. The bold statement in 764 uses the language of invention, which may be poetic invention, and describes the consilium as scitum. When Pseudolus is testing the credentials of the sycophant–character whom they propose to hire to impersonate Harpax and so get the girl, the same language is used, with typical Plautine comic repetition:²⁰ PS. ecquid is homo scitust? CH. plebi scitum non est scitius. (Plaut. Ps. 748) PS. Is this man cunning in any way? CH. A plebiscite is not more insightful.

 Following Lindsay’s OCT.  Similar language is used by the errant senex amator Lysidamus, at Casina 522– 5, when he is persuading his neighbour to provide a suitable environment at the latter’s house for the former’s assignation with the supposed slave.

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A few lines later (783), Callicles will respond to the plan with the exclamation scite hercle sane! (‘very clever!’), in the manner of many such responses, including, eventually, Charmides’ own response to the trick (1147). The situations in Pseudolus and Trinummus are distinctly similar. Their similarity in relating to the hiring of an impostor introduces the second point of interest in the Trinummus passage, which is that conducatur aliquis (765), someone should be hired. The word conducatur here echoes the very opening of the action, when Megaronides described the act of castigating a friend when necessary as utile/et conducibile (‘useful and profitable,’ but the word also means ‘hireable,’ 24– 5), and then the word is repeated ten lines later (ita uincunt illud conducibile gratiae, ‘and so reciprocal friendships overcome that which is useful/ contracted for/hireable,’ 36). We should throw into the mix the description of the required plot in the Epidicus scene just mentioned: Apoecides says reperiamus aliquid calidi, conducibilis consili (‘let’s find some piping hot, useful/hireable plot,’ 256). It is then that Epidicus says that he would have given them consilium catum/quod laudetis (‘a cunning plan, which you will approve,’ 258 – 9) were he not too modest. Something which can be hired, therefore, is something especially programmatic to the workings of comedy, and these old men are having a good try at being comic tricksters. They have no architectus but themselves.²¹ But the joke is that the plan doesn’t work. Charmides comes home, exposes the sycophant, and sorts out a proper dowry.²² The old men, or rather Callicles and Charmides, have a nice chuckle over the attempted trick (1142– 7), but really, within the Plautine comic economy, old men can’t be allowed to form successful intrigues. In fact, we could state this more strongly: this post–eventum reflective chuckle is unique in extant comedy, which may suggest that the old men are taking a share in the role of playwrights and audiences. If critics are correct who construct Philemon’s Thesaurus without the trick with the sycophant, the case is even more marked.²³ Plautus brings in old men as tricksters, makes them fail because they can’t really play the role of architectus, but reminds them that they are really in that most powerful of positions, the audience.²⁴ Their fail-

 Reimer 1996, 102– 4 points to Megaronides’ phrase me uide as an example of his role as trickster.  Reimer 1996, 65 – 8, 86; Muecke 1985, 174: the intrigue is characterised ‘not so much [by] its lack of success as the fact that it is programmed to fail.’  On this see Reimer 1996, 39. Lefèvre 1995 has the scene much developed by Plautus, rather than invented. On the two old men’s interchange, rarely noticed by the critics, see Reimer 1996, 86.  For the old man as audience, see Pseudolus 345.

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ure brings only pleasure, because, as masters, controllers, and audience, they don’t have to worry too much, since they can order or buy themselves out of the situation.²⁵ What about Stasimus? Does he have a go at being Pseudolus? He is undoubtedly the controlling voice in his interactions with his young master, like Palinurus in Curculio, for example in their first scene when Lesbonicus despairingly wonders where all the money has gone. After enumerating various extravagant expenses, Stasimus jokes about the sum of which he has defrauded his master (413). Lesbonicus’ reaction is in the same vein (em, istaec ratio maxumast, ‘yes, that account is the biggest,’ 413), which makes it clear that it is taken as a joke, but the impression left is certainly that Stasimus is in control.²⁶ It is, moreover, Stasimus who speaks the most explicitly metatheatrical lines in the play, when he takes on the role of audience in the interchange between Lysiteles and Lesbonicus: ST. non enim possum quin exclamem: eugae, eugae, Lysiteles, πάλιν! facile palmam habes: hic uictust, uicit tua comoedia. (Plaut. Trin. 705 – 6) ST. I can’t stop myself from shouting out hooray. Hooray, Lysiteles, encore. You easily win. He has conquered. Your comedy triumphs.

His own attempt at a trick, however, is lacking something compared with the magnificent ruses of the Plautine greats.²⁷ It occurs when Lysiteles’ father, Philto, first requests Lesbonicus’ sister’s hand for his son, without a dowry, and Lesbonicus insists on giving them the farm which is his only remaining property. Stasimus is horrified at the idea that Lesbonicus will give away the source of livelihood for the remaining family, so he, off his own bat, calls Philto aside and makes up a story about the field being disastrously unhealthy, and Lesbonicus being desperate to get rid of it. For the moment, this seems to work, in that Philto now says that he has to leave the matter of the dowry to his son (569 – 70).  The oddity of old men playing the role of architectus is indicated in the text by one of the old men himself (quamquam hoc me aetatis sycophantari pudet, ‘although I am ashamed to play the sycophant at my age,’ 787), as has been regularly noticed by critics. See Muecke 1985, 173 and n. 27, and further bibliography mentioned there.  See Hunter 1980, 228 – 9 on Stasimus and his money, also Lefèvre 1995, 78 – 80.  Analyst criticism would make this passage a ‘Plautine edition’: see Jachmann 1931, 225, and e. g. Stein 1970, 10. Lefèvre 1995, 99 has a beautifully Plautine expression of the Plautinity of Stasimus’ attempted trick: ‘[s]ie ist inhaltlich von phantastischster Phantastik, dramaturgisch von sorglosester Sorglosigkeit.’ Reimer 1996, 87– 90 discusses Stasimus’ inability to be a proper Plautine slave.

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So what is it lacking? Well, for one thing the trick is not done in order to further the erotic plans of the young master, or to avoid the anger of the old master. In fact, it is done as much for the slave’s own sake (he fears that otherwise Lesbonicus will go off as a mercenary and he will have to accompany him, an idea which does not please him) as for that of his young master. A crucial aspect of the classic Plautine architectus is that he does not work for himself. Secondly, Stasimus does not celebrate the greatness of his idea in front of his young master and the audience, nor does he show us any part of his planning.²⁸ Finally, one might consider that the trick has completely failed, in that the next–but–one scene will feature exactly the same argument between the two young men, so Stasimus’ trick has actually gone nowhere. Moreover, we might wonder whether Philto is really taken in, not only because of the way he sidesteps the issue at the end of his discussion with Lesbonicus, but also with the patriotic Italian joke with which he counteracts Stasimus’ attempts to scare him off (545 – 6). Philto remarks ironically that the farm sounds like a good place for criminals. Although Stasimus thinks that he has acted like a suitable Plautine trickster (558, 560), Philto’s enigmatic reply to Lesbonicus’ question as to what it was all about, that Stasimus is just after his freedom, indicates that the old man has kept control of the situation, so Stasimus’ attempts to be a Plautine clever slave have not really worked. Not only does Plautus mess about with his norms for slaves and masters in Trinummus, but also he plays games with expectation and exposition, theatrical moves that we normally associate with Terence. The opening scene is a marvellous piece of contaminatio, mixing Plautine ‘hysterically deliberate’ opening with Terentian false leads in exposition.²⁹ The prologue is spoken by the personified Luxuria, accompanied by her daughter Inopia, who enters the house at line 3, in order to symbolise the comeuppance awaiting the financially careless. This is a nice piece of metaphorical theatre, although, as the pedants may note, Inopia has actually been there for some time and the movement of the play is in fact towards the healing of Lesbonicus from his decadence. But to open a play and scene with i intro (‘go inside,’ 3), rather than ending it, is quite an elegant trick: Inopia might be the telos of decadence, but here her entry–exit serves to begin the play. The hint (15) that she might be a bride brought into her new husband’s house, or perhaps a prostitute sent by her mother–procuress, develops the symbolism further, while also serving as a programmatic hint that a young man has been rather too much in-

 Cf. e. g. Bac. 640 – 61, Mos. 407– 30, Ps. 574– 93.  See Sharrock 2009, ch. 2; Reimer 1996, 29.

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volved in prostitutes and will be reconciled to citizen marriage at the end of the play. While Inopia is busy inside, her mother entertains the audience with a bit of literary history about the origins of the play and Plautus’ wishes for it when he uortit barbare (‘translated it into barbarian–Latin’ 19), but tells us nothing useful beyond the fact that there is a decadent young man who has used up his father’s wealth. Even the unusual name, Trinummus, is offered to us just as something that Plautus would like, if it’s okay by us for the play to have this name (20 – 1). From the (Latinised) Greek name Thensaurus (18), we ought to guess that there will be some sort of pot of gold in this play, and we might perhaps hear the name Trinummus as a joking degradation of the treasure.³⁰ As Luxuria promises us, the old men who come out first tell us about the story – eventually. Their efforts to offer us exposition in agendo are, however, frequently interrupted by anti–narrative comic devices. There is plenty of the moralising which characterises this play, but there are also jokes which get in the way of narrative progress, thus serving to amuse but also to frustrate the audience and whet their desire to know what’s going on. The longest joke sequence is a fine example of misogynistic humour.³¹ Megaronides has arrived at the newly–bought house of his friend Callicles, intending to complain about some perceived bad behaviour on the latter’s part. Callicles himself enters in comic fashion, talking back to his wife inside the house, telling her to adorn it appropriately for good fortune – which, he concludes when she is out of earshot, would include her own death as soon as possible (39 – 42). The seed germinates and soon grows up as a joke sequence between the two old men about good wishes and the health of wives (51– 65). Callicles must be determined to be nasty if he hopes his friend’s wife is well; Callicles’ wife is immortal; Megaro-

 Most scholars, including Anderson (e. g. 1993, 36 – 7), date Trinummus significantly after Aulularia. See conveniently Duckworth 1943 on dating. On the name ‘Trinummus,’ see e. g. (it has been much discussed) Muecke 1985, 168, n. 5: ‘if “Trinummus” is a play on “Thesaurus”, it is so rather obliquely.’ I think it’s a brilliant self–deprecating joke. Reimer 1996, 50 also sees the contrast between ‘treasure’ and ‘three nummi’ as reflecting a similar contrast to that between Luxuria and Inopia in the prologue. See also his 71– 9 on games with names.  Anderson 1979, 335 sees the book–ending misogynistic jokes – there is a second one in the closing moments of the play, when Lesbonicus offers to take any wives father wants him to, but one is deemed trouble enough – as blots on the ethical seriousness of the play (undermined, in Anderson’s reading). Many recent(ish) scholars are, I suggest, too much affected by the inheritance of chivalry and romanticism to be able to accept the presence of misogynistic jokes without feeling that they completely undermine the love plot. Unfortunately, misogynistic jokes were as prevalent in the 1950 s, and indeed the 1850 s, as they were in the second century BC – it is just that they were usually kept in a different discursive environment. These jokes delay and so enhance both beginning and end, and create realistic psychological bonds between men.

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nides piously hopes she lives on to give support to Callicles’ life; Callicles hope so too – if she is married to Megaronides; so why don’t they swap? Actually, better the devil you know… And then Megaronides says it is time to stop joking and talk seriously. I would suggest, contrary to popular opinion, that this exchange ends up less unpleasantly abusive than are many such jokes in Roman comedy. It just is a standard part of comedy that young men are desperate to marry and are in love with their future wives, while old men purport to despise their wives and cheat on them wherever possible, or to abuse them to their faces and to others. In this case, however, the climax of the routine with a refusal to part with the wife, albeit hedged around with negative valuation, and still more the description of the jokes as ridicularia (66), makes explicit the non–serious nature here of this standard comic topos. The routine serves also as a bonding device between the two old men, which is programmatic for the theme of friendship in the play, as well as partially softening the aggression of the coming accusation. Joking aside, Callicles wants to know what’s going on, and Megaronides wants to push the plot forward. Before doing so, he plays the old deny–the–audience game: ME. numquis est hic alius praeter me atque te? CA. nemost. (Plaut. Trin. 69 – 70) ME. Is there anyone here other than you and me? CA. No–one.

As ever, this serves to draw the audience forward to listen in on this private conversation, which is bound to tell us something of what the play is about. But again we are cheated, because all we get is moralising generalities about good characters going bad, and a discussion as to whether a friend who suspects his friend of bad behaviour is morally obliged to confront him with it. Again the exposition is deferred. Eventually (106), we hear about one Charmides, clearly the subject of Megaronides’ anxiety. Callicles at last tells us the story: Charmides went abroad in order to make good financial losses incurred through his son’s decadence, but before he went he entrusted both the badly behaved son and a proper daughter (adultam, 110, so the play must be going to tell us about her marriage) to the care of Callicles. But that wasn’t the bit Megaronides wanted to know – rather, why on earth did Callicles buy the house of the very man he was supposed to be protecting? And isn’t giving the young man money tantamount to providing a suicidal person with a sword? There is a reason, but before we are allowed to hear it Callicles has a crack at the deny–the–

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audience trick. The great revelation is hedged around by delaying tactics and protected by a metaphorical veil to stop anyone seeing the secret: CA. subigis maledictis me tuis, Megaronides, nouo modo adeo, ut quod meae concreditumst taciturnitati clam, fide et fiduciae, ne enuntiarem quoiquam neu facerem palam, ut mihi necesse sit iam id tibi concredere. ME. mihi quod credideris sumes ubi posiueris. CA. circumspicedum te ne quis adsit arbiter nobis, et quaeso identidem circumspice. ME. ausculto si quid dicas. CA. si taceas, loquar. quoniam hinc est profecturus peregre Charmides, thensaurum demonstrauit mihi in hisce aedibus, hic in conclaui quodam—sed circumspice. ME. nemost.

140

145

150

(Plaut. Trin. 140 – 52) CA. You are forcing me with your complaints, Megaronides, in a novel way to such an extent that I have to entrust to you what was entrusted secretly, in faith, to my silence and loyalty, that I should not tell anyone about it nor make it open. ME. Whatever you entrust to me you will take up from wherever you put it. CA. You must look around in case there is any overseer present, and again please look around. ME. I’m listening to whatever you say. CA. If you shut up, I’ll speak. When Charmides set out from here to go abroad, he showed me a treasure in this very house, here in a certain hole—but look around. ME. There’s no–one.

All this serves rather to draw the audience in. At one level, that of the rational outsider, we knew there would be a pot of gold to hear about, but at the level of our proper comic role as audience, we are teased and enticed into a great desire to look into the pot in its hole in the ground inside the house. So we now know that there is a pot of gold hidden in house, which must be kept from a young man who would spend it all on his girlfriend. The old men leave the stage open for entry by young man (classic comic structural balance) who enters singing mournfully of the damaging effects of love, which he contrasts with respectable (Roman) restraint in financial matters (223 – 75). This is in fact Lysiteles, not the dissolute son of the absent Charmides, but that one’s neighbour and friend. Eventually, we will realise that he was talking about his friend, but right through this long song, and the following scene for a consider-

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able time (I suggest), we think this is Lesbonicus.³² He sings passionately about the power of love to separate a man from his wealth, which is exactly what the previous scene has prepared us for. He attempts to construct a divorce from Amor (266),³³ but he does nothing to make us think that this is not the lover himself. When in the next scene his father appears, we realise that this cannot be Lesbonicus, since his father could hardly arrive without signs of having been travelling, and without some surprise on the son’s part. Even now, however, although we will eventually find out the truth, I think we are encouraged to hear irony where none is in fact present. It is not until many lines later that we start to realise that we are meant to take this young man’s protestations of ‘goodness’ at his word. If we are playing the role of first–time reader properly, we still take him as a lover, whom we expect to be exposed at some point in the play. This is just what happens for example in Terence’s Heauton Timorumenos and Adelphi. Just to take a few examples, Lysiteles’ opening words surely do not ring true after what we have just heard and after what we know of comic young men: LY. pater, adsum, impera quiduis, neque tibi ero in mora neque latebrose me aps tuo conspectu occultabo. (Plaut. Trin. 276 – 7/8) LY. I am here, father, command whatever you like, and I’ll never keep you waiting nor will I hide myself away from your sight in hiding places.

Yeah right… Even when Philto pontificates in true pater durus style about good behaviour and not consorting with young men behaving badly, Lysiteles’ responses sound insincere (301– 4, 313 – 7) without really saying anything. He looks like he is buttering his father up – which he is, but not to try and cover up for dissolute behaviour, rather to work his way round gradually, by means of a show of magnificent altruism in helping a friend in need, which puts his father on the back foot  I have found little support in the literature for the idea that the audience might be initially tricked into thinking that the young man singing mournfully about love and wealth is Lesbonicus, rather than Lysiteles, perhaps because critics do not expect tricks of this nature from Plautus. I note, however, that Hunter 1980, 221, on the same page as his discussion of Lysiteles’ song, mentions the potential confusion in Asinaria between Diabolus and Argyrippus, when a lengthy opening dialogue is followed by a lover on his own. I would mention also that Leo 1913, 116 comes close to making this point, in comparison between Trinummus and Mostellaria, which he says have been handled in a similar way, with exposition in dialogue followed by a long monody by a young man, ‘nicht des Liebhabers sondern seines Freundes,’ and on the same theme.  Karakasis 2003, 197.

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as regards the moral high ground, and a paradoxical joke about not giving but taking (370), to mentioning his desire to marry the girl next door, without a dowry (374– 5). Now we know where we are in the comic economy. It has been a long scene, indeed two long scenes with Lysiteles’ monody beforehand with which it is closely connected, but if we engage with it against the background of generic expectation, and ask ourselves always where we are and what we expect, it can be a lot of fun. We can laugh at pomposity of both father and son, appreciate the potential for one moral position to get one over another supposedly moral position, and at the same time pat ourselves on the back when we realise where this is heading – not money to buy a prostitute, but citizen marriage.³⁴ Terence became the master of this kind of manipulation of the audience. Indeed, I suggest that Trinummus holds a particular place in Terence’s intertextual world. The argument is that this play had a significant influence on Terence’s own poetic development, in that it displays features which are important for the Terentian corpus but exist in the extant Plautine corpus only, or predominantly, in Trinummus. Terence is a subtle reader of Plautus, who develops his comedy in a highly self–aware intertextual nexus, with the Umbrian at its centre. The result is that the now little–known and less–loved Trinummus turns out to play a significant role in the development of one of the two most distinctive Terentian dramatic features, the double plot.³⁵ All six plays of Terence feature a double love–plot. The classic version involves two young men who are friends and possibly relations, one of whom is in love with a prostitute, whose affair will achieve some degree of temporary consummation, and the other in love with a citizen, known or unknown, whose affair will be consummated in marriage. Only Hecyra deviates from this structure, and that play also is deeply, if problematically, bound up in the double plot, with one young man playing both roles.³⁶ So powerful is this notion of the double plot that it is known to appear in descriptions of the (non–existent) generic Roman comic plot, even though in fact it is almost unknown in the much larger corpus of Plautus. In the table below, I have attempted to show that, despite a great deal

 Anderson 1979, 336 regards this scene as ‘the most outrageous point of distortion’ which Plautus has made to Philemon’s play.  I would suggest that the other distinctive feature is the Terentian prologue and its concomitant effects on exposition, a feature also to some degree shared with Trinummus. On Terence as a reader of Plautus, see Sharrock forthcoming a.  See Sharrock 2009, 233 – 49; Sharrock forthcoming b.

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of doubling,³⁷ there is relatively little in the way of precedent for the Terentian double plot. PLAUTUS Play Am.

some duality

Yes: two lovers of Alcumena (one of them Jupiter in disguise), supported by two slaves (one of them Mercury in disguise) As. Yes: father and son rivals for same prostitute Aul. No (except in extended sense that we could see some duality between the girl and the pot) Bac. Yes: two prostitute sisters, loved by two young men Capt. Yes: two young men, one master one supposedly slave, who swap places Cas. Yes: father and son rivals for the same prostitute, but this time with slaves who take vicarious role Cist. Sort of: there are two girls, and even a third if you count the bride planned for Alcesimarchus (lover of central girl) by his father, but she has no role, and the second girl is a prostitute with no particular lover in the play. This is a straight recognition play, with a remarkable lack of duality. Terence would probably have written up the planned bride and married her off to an invented friend of Alcesimarchus, as in Andria, or have a friend of Alcesimarchus in love with the prostitute. Cur. Barely: there is a kind of doubling between slave and the parasite, and there are two rivals for the girl, but no double plot Epid. Not exactly: there are multiple girls, or only one, depending on how you look at it, and

full–blown double love–plot No

No No

No No No, although one could interpret it as a kind of allusion to the norm, if the norm existed then³⁸ No

No

No

 See Sharrock 2009, ch. 4.  The same girl is both treated as a sexually available slave courted (so to speak) by a man who is only looking for immediate gratification, and also turns out to be a citizen, who will marry the young man who never appears – so you could say that there is a prostitute plot and a citizen plot.  See Sharrock 2009, 117– 30 and Slater 2000.

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PLAUTUS Play

some duality

multiple rivals, or not, depending on how you look at it³⁹ Men. Yes: twin brothers, and both a wife and a prostitute, but the doubling in the plot isn’t really anything to do with anything erotic/ romantic Mer. Yes: father and son rivals for the same prostitute Mil. Yes: soldier and young man rivals for the same prostitute, who also doubles as her own twin sister Mos. Minor: two old men; two dissolute young men with prostitutes – all upstaged by Tranio Per. No

full–blown double love–plot

No

No No

No

No: there are two girls in the play (plus an ancilla), but they are not doubles of each other and they are not involved in an erotic plot Poen. Yes: two brothers, although one has died Possibly: the young man Agorastocles is in love with the older sister and will marry her some years before the play begins (Poen.  – ); two girls again, sisters; two after she is recognised; a miles, who is distinctly gloriosus (Poen.  – ), is the lovers, a young man and a soldier; and there is a kind of doubling–up in the intri- lover of the younger daughter, but is gue, where Hanno is asked to play a role cheated of her by the leno and demands a which is his actual life, but that’s a differ- replacement or his money back ent kind of doubling Ps. No: only in the extended metatheatrical No sense Rud. Sort of: young man loves pseudo–prosti- Sort of: perhaps we might call it a subplot rather than a double plot, because it is not tute who is recognised and so can be married; his slave contrives his own free- really intertwined with the main plot dom and that of her friend, whom he will then marry St. Yes: two sisters are married to two broth- No: no plot of any sort⁴⁰ ers, and two slaves are friends and sort of very friendly rivals for one female slave Trin. Yes: two young men, friends, one of whom Yes: much like Ter. Hau. wants to marry the sister of the other, who himself is involved in relationships with

 See Sharrock 2009, 98 and 179 – 80.

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PLAUTUS Play

Truc.

some duality prostitutes, but in the end will have to marry a citizen girl. More on this below. Tripling: one powerful prostitute controls three different lovers

full–blown double love–plot

Sort of: hidden in the depths, behind the threefold erotic manipulations of Phronesium, is the pre–marital rape, fatherhood, and necessary marriage of one of the three, a classic adulescens, with a barely mentioned citizen girl, but there was no real plot to that element

(Vid.) Too fragmentary to tell TERENCE An. Two young men, friends, one of whom is involved with a pseudo–prostitute who will be recognised and married to him, while the other wants to marry the girl whom the first young man is being forced to marry (the first transmitted ending implies, and the second ensures, that he does). Hau. Two young men, friends, both involved with prostitutes; one is a pseudo–prostitute who will be recognised and married, while the other is paid and so reciprocates during the play, and at the end of the play the lover is forced to marry an insignificant other. Eu. Two young men, brothers, one of whom is in love with a prostitute and the other with a pseudo–prostitute: the latter marries his girl (after an in–play rape, unusually) when she is recognised, while the former ends the play in the lucky position of enjoying the prostitute without having to pay. Ph. Two young men, cousins, one of whom has already married, but without his father’s permission, a poor young woman, who will turn out to be his half–cousin and exactly the person his father and uncle want him to marry; the other is in love with a music–girl, whom the principals acquire during the play. Hec. As explained above. Ad. Two young men, brothers and cousins (by adoption), one of whom is in love with a poor citizen girl, whom he will marry, and the other with a prostitute, who is acquired for him before the beginning of the play.

From this table, it can be seen that there is a certain shape of plot which is central to Terence’s dramaturgy, but which is displayed in the Plautine corpus only in embryonic snippets. Trinummus is not the only play of Plautus to exhibit significant elements of the pre–Terentian double plot, since we must note the hints especially in Rudens and Truculentus, but it is the most developed.⁴¹ Especially  Maurice 2003 argues for seeing the duality created by the ‘helpful friend’ as a significant element in Plautus, but one which she notes is only visible in one play of Menander (Dis Exapaton), in our current state of knowledge. From my point of view, her argument overplays the significance of the proto–double plot in Plautus, in that while it is noteworthy that five of

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significant in this regard is the fact that the starting point is two adulescentes who are close friends and whose lives are mutually intertwined. One of them, Lysiteles, wants to marry a citizen girl, and will succeed in doing so at the end of the play. It has to be admitted that Lysiteles is notorious for his absence of apparent personal desire for the girl, such that commentators have imagined that Plautus must have played down a romantic aspect to the relationship which would have been present in Philemon’s Thesaurus. ⁴² Nonetheless, the fact remains that Lysiteles is determined to marry Lesbonicus’ sister, even when the return of Charmides renders any purely altruistic marriage unnecessary. We can see this quite clearly in his speech of celebration and hope, when he hears that the father has returned; instead of thinking that his magnanimous offer was unnecessary, he now hopes that he is more likely to succeed: Hic homost omnium hominum praecipuos, uoluptatibu’ gaudiisque antepotens: ita commoda quae cupio eueniunt, quod ago adsequitur, subest, supsequitur, ita gaudiis gaudium suppeditat. …

1115

nunc mi is propere conueniundust, ut quae cum eius filio egi, ei rei fundus pater sit potior…

1122 (Plaut. Trin. 1115 – 23)

This man is the most special of all men, outstanding in pleasures and joys: thus everything that I want is coming out right, what I drive forward follows me closely, is close at hand,

Plautus’ plays contain double friends, the situations are all considerably different and not necessarily closely entwined with a particular shape of plot. Anderson 1993, 41– 5 analyses Lysiteles (and Eutychus in Mercator) according to the Apuleian stock character (34) of the helpful friend. His discussion is a good example of the more confident end of reconstruction of Philemon. See also Reimer 1996, 34.  See Lefèvre 1995, 94. Reimer 1996, 33, n. 72 is a recent example of reading Lysiteles as devoid of any romantic feeling. Anderson 1979, 336: ‘[e]qually drastic is Plautus’ treatment of Lysiteles. Philemon set him up as a foil to Lesbonicus… Lysiteles, on the other hand, loves a good Athenian girl who has everything to recommend her except that, as Lesbonicus’ sister, she has been the innocent victim of his extravagance and apparently lacks the money for a dowry and proper marriage.’ I note the parenthesis which follows the lines just quoted: ‘(Terence liked to adapt plays that involved similar pairs of adulescentes.)’ The other alternative is that this was a development made by Terence, in part following Trinummus. The relatively under–developed nature of his first attempt, Charinus in Andria, would suggest that Roman originality, rather than ‘lost Hellenistic original’ is responsible for this pattern. Jachmann 1931, 227, apropos ‘homo sum,’ is a good example of the latter mode of reading.

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follows right up under me, and so joy supplies my needs with joys. … Now I must hurry up and meet him, so that as regards those things which I have done with the son, the father may provide a more sure foundation.

While Charmides and Callicles discuss the current situation, Lysiteles is as nervous as any comic adulescens, despite having no real reason to be so: CH. est ita ut tu dicis. sed ego hoc nequeo mirari satis, eum sororem despondisse suam in tam fortem familiam. CA. Lysiteli quidem Philtonis filio. LY. enim me nominat. CH. familiam optumam occupauit. LY. quid ego cesso hos conloqui? sed maneam etiam opinor, namque hoc commodum orditur loqui. (Plaut. Trin. 1132– 6) CH. It is as you say. But I cannot admire it enough, that he has promised his sister into such a fine family. CA. Indeed to Lysiteles, the son of Philto. LY. It’s me he’s naming. CH. He belongs to an excellent family. LY. Why do I delay speaking to them? But I think I should wait, for a convenient topic of conversation is being embarked upon.

After a small break while Charmides tells the anecdote of the impostor, and the two old men have a good laugh over the (failed, and now unnecessary) trick, Lysiteles finally plucks up courage to speak: LY. quid ego ineptus, dum sermonem uereor interrumpere, solus sto nec quod conatus sum agere ago? homines conloquar. (Plaut. Trin. 1149 – 50) LY. Why do I, like a fool, stand here alone, fearing to interrupt their conversation, nor do I pursue the matter which I have attempted to undertake? I’ll address them.

He still has a go at refusing a dowry (1158), since it would look pretty shabby if he didn’t, but his scruples are quickly overcome and the engagement is formalised within a few lines. I think we can be fairly confident, therefore, in reading Lysiteles as the respectable lover of a citizen girl. The erotic aspect to Lesbonicus’ behaviour is likewise somewhat downplayed by Plautus.⁴³ The stress throughout the play is very much on his deca Again, critics have guessed that Philemon might have made the prostitute–plot more explicit. Lefèvre 1995, 69 – 75 argues that the house was never sold in Philemon’s original, but that the treasure was buried in the field, and the issue is a potential sale of the field, rather than the house. There was also no question of dowry in the original, but rather the money was needed in

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dence and dissolution, rather than on a specific prostitute–mistress. Nonetheless, he conforms quite well to what Terence will turn into the stock character of the lover of a prostitute. As a character initially, he might seem to have most in common with Philolaches of the Mostellaria, drunk early in the day (Trin. 812, although this is an unfair accusation), spending money on prostitutes, and completely under the control of his slave. But the action of the play, perhaps the arrival of Inopia, brings him the salvation which never reaches most Plautine decadent lovers of prostitutes, but does reach Terentian ones, especially at the end of the play. He regrets his previous profligacy and is determined to do the right thing by his sister. Nonetheless, he is clearly characterised as a lover of prostitutes. In the first rehearsal of his characterisation, before we meet him in person, he is described by Megaronides explicitly as a lover when he expresses the folly of giving money to amanti homini adulescenti (‘a young man who is a lover,’ 131). And when, in the argument over who can be most honourable with regard to the dowry, Lysiteles pulls no punches in pointing out Lesbonicus’ errors to his friend, it is again precisely love affairs which are deemed to be the root of the problem. Lesbonicus is accused of putting his love (amorem, 648, surprisingly, in the singular) ahead of virtue. Perhaps most interesting for both young men, however, is a later moment in this argument, when Lysiteles tries to persuade his friend by praising his ingenium…ingenuom, with an extended expression of understanding of how love can lead one astray (665 – 78). At this point, we are reminded of Lysiteles’ first speech, which tricked us into thinking that he was in fact the dissolute lover himself. The point is that both young men are lovers, but the lover of prostitutes is juxtaposed and contrasted with the hopeful husband in a more extreme and apparently heartless way than will be developed by Terence. Terentian also is the final acceptance by the prostitute–lover of entry into the adult world of citizen marriage. If we are astute readers, we might have guessed when we first heard that Lesbonicus’ sister was being cared for along order to buy Lesbonicus’ prostitute–mistress (80 – 3). The belief that Philemon wrote a play where both young men were explicitly lovers goes back at least to Leo 1913, 117. Lefèvre 1995 is the strongest reader of Plautine originality in Trinummus, leaving almost nothing left of Philemon’s play, but he is not alone among modern critics in assuming considerable change from Greek to Latin. See Fantham 1977, 407 for a contradictory view. Many modern scholars follow the conventional line that Plautus has largely stripped out Philemon’s love plot(s), forgetting, it seems, that this is based on reconstruction. See for example Muecke 1985, 169. I would say, rather, that Plautus has downplayed the love plots relative to many other manifestations of the individual motifs in Greek and Roman comedy, but that it is not until Terence that we see a full development of what such double love plots would look like.

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with Callicles’ own daughter, that there would eventually be a marriage between Lesbonicus and that daughter. That indeed occurs in the final moments of the play, when forgiveness for Lesbonicus is sought and given on condition of improved behaviour. Lesbonicus hardly takes it seriously, readily agreeing to marry her and indeed anyone else whom his father bids him take (1183 – 4). Trinummus, then, is the only extant play of Plautus to feature two young men who are connected with each other and who pursue these two diametrically different kinds of erotic relationship, but almost every play of Terence is structured in this way.⁴⁴ Critics of the previous generation would probably have said that this connection depends on the Greek originals, with Plautus having regularly undermined Greek plots, but it seems to me worth considering whether it is rather evidence of Terence as a careful reader of Plautus. Another characteristic aspect of Terentian style which arises out of Plautus but has a particular connection with Trinummus is the ne ex(s)petetis… motif, where some character playfully tells the audience that they won’t hear what they expect to hear. For Terence, the motif has programmatic force, in that his hallmark is cheating of expectation, or perhaps rather confusion of expectation.⁴⁵ In Trinummus, the motif appears in the prologue: sed de argumento ne exspectetis fabulae: senes qui huc uenient, i rem uobis aperient. (Plaut. Trin. 16 – 7) But don’t expect the plot of the play. The old men who will come here, they’ll open it up.

These lines are directly alluded to in the prologue to Terence’s last play, Adelphi: de(h)inc ne exspectetis argumentum fabulae, senes qui primi venient i partem aperient, in agendo partem ostendent. (Ter. Ad. 22– 4) But don’t expect the plot of the play. The old men who come out first, they’ll open up part of it, and they’ll show another part in the acting of it.

 Reimer 1996 identifies a number of ways in which Trinummus is exceptional within the Plautine corpus, or indeed New Comedy. One such is the unanswered knocking at the door, on which see 60 – 5.  The extreme case is Hecyra, on which in this regard see Sharrock 2009, 233 – 49.

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So close is the parallel that Deufert⁴⁶ has argued that the Plautus passage must be an interpolation based on that from the Adelphi, but it seems to me far more likely that Terence is picking up an unusual aspect of Plautus here. While there are several other instances of the ne exspectetis device in Plautus, all of them playfully metatheatrical, none of the others refers to the absence of exposition in the prologue and its production in dialogue in the opening scene.⁴⁷ As I have suggested elsewhere, the joke here is that ‘the last thing the audience would expect from the prologue would be an exposition of the argumentum.’⁴⁸ My point now is that it is Plautus’ Trinummus which has given Terence the launchpad for his metatheatrical games. Nor are the double plot and dramaturgical narrative the only dramatic elements to link the Terentian corpus with Trinummus. The worst aspect of our play, according to most modern readers, is the excessive moralising of almost all its characters, including the self–satisfied and misjudged interference of Megaronides in Callicles’ affairs. There is a strong parallel here with the opening of Terence’s Heauton Timorumenos, with its better–known busybody, Chremes.⁴⁹ In both plays, it is the busybody who opens the action, after the prologue. Megaronides opens the action of Trinummus with a brief reflection, in monologue, on the awkwardness of his perceived duty to correct his long–time friend. He begins: Amicum castigare ob meritam noxiam inmoene est facinus, uerum in aetate utile et conducibile. nam ego amicum hodie meum concastigabo pro commerita noxia, inuitus, ni id me inuitet ut faciam fides. (Plaut. Trin. 23 – 7)

 Deufert 2002, 28.  Although Casina 64 does come from the prologue, what we are told not to expect is the arrival of the young man who will eventually marry Casina. Two other examples refer to the endings of plays (Cist. 782 and Ps. 1234), with strong closural implications, while the remaining one features a miles gloriosus pretending not to be (Truc. 482).  Sharrock 2009, 71– 2.  The connection is noted by Hunter 1980, 219, but presented as an example of comic koine rather than a direct allusion. On the polypragmōn as a comic type, see Hunter 1980, 219, n. 19; Jocelyn 1973, 23 and n. 69. On the fame of this opening scene of nosy–parkering in antiquity, see Jocelyn 1973, 37– 8, who gives a full account both of the contextualised relationship of the famous line, homo sum… (Hau. 77), with contemporary philosophy and contemporary rather suspicious attitudes to that philosophy, and also of the manner in which the line has been interpreted in different ages.

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To castigate a friend because of harm that has deserved it is an unpleasant task, but useful and profitable in life. For today I shall castigate my friend because of the harm which has richly deserved it, unwillingly, did not good faith call me to do it.

He continues for several more lines in this vein, drawing on moral commonplaces such as the metaphor of sickness, and a further metaphor of the growth of a whole crop of bad morals. When Callicles comes out of his newly acquired house, Megaronides accosts him, as ‘someone well disposed towards you’ (tui beneuolentis, 46), and informs him that he is behaving badly. Chremes likewise opens the action of Heauton Timorumenos with a long speech addressed to his hard–working neighbour Menedemus, informing him that his behaviour also is wrong: Quamquam haec inter nos nuper notitia admodumst (inde adeo quod agrum in proxumo hic mercatus es) nec rei fere sane amplius quicquam fuit, tamen vel virtus tua me vel vicinitas, quod ego in propinqua parte amicitiae puto, facit ut te audacter moneam et familiariter quod mihi videre praeter aetatem tuam facere et praeter quam res te adhortatur tua.

55

(Ter. Hau. 53 – 60) Although this acquaintance of ours is still recent (since you have only just bought the field next door) and there has been almost nothing more of the matter, nonetheless either your virtue or the proximity, which I regard as close to friendship, causes me boldly and familiarly to advise you that you seem to me to be acting beyond your age and beyond what your affairs require.

The nature of the offence is quite different. Plautus’ busybody is objecting to his lifelong friend having bought the house of a mutual friend, to the detriment of this last. Terence’s busybody is, in a rather less morally impressive manner, objecting to his new acquaintance, whom he regards as a friend, pursuing too energetically the Roman ideal of the hard–working farmer.⁵⁰ I would suggest that this is a Terentian joke on Plautus. He has taken the Plautine situation, which

 Jocelyn 1973, 29 sees the distinction between the leisured Chremes and the workaday Menedemus as a matter of the former accusing the latter of activity beneath him, but this is part of a paradox in Roman values. Wealth is honoured but so is poverty, while farming activity and toughness are at the heights of old–fashioned good behaviour, even if this is something of a fantasy, although the maintenance of class distinctions between owners and workers is also regarded highly. Cicero clearly recognises the problem and explains it away by claiming that Chremes is not trying to dissuade him ab industria but only ab inliberali labore (Fin. 1.1).

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acts programmatically for the moral seriousness – or moral po–facedness – of the play, and downgrades it into something far less morally upstanding and far more shamefacedly busybodyish. Moreover, the famous line which Chremes is about to utter, and which will become probably the most quoted of all lines of Terence, itself has a link to Trinummus: ME. Chreme, tantumne ab re tuast oti tibi aliena ut cures ea quae nil ad te attinent? CH. homo sum: humani nil a me alienum puto. (Ter. Hau. 75 – 7) ME. Chremes, have you got so much leisure that you should concern yourself with the affairs of others, which have nothing to do with you? CH. I am a man: I consider no human affair not my business.

Heauton Timorumenos 77 has often been quoted out of context, and it is no doubt the case that Terence’s audience would not hear it as quite such a positive declaration of universal humanity as later ages have assumed,⁵¹ but neither would it entirely fail to register with the audience. A few people, Terence’s ideal readers, might actually have noted how close the situation is to the scene in Trinummus when Philto is attempting to persuade Lesbonicus to marry his sister to Philto’s son without a dowry: LE. hau nosco tuom: bonis tuis [in] rebus meas res inrides malas. PH. homo ego sum, homo tu es: ita me amabit Iuppiter, neque te derisum aduenio neque dignum puto. (Plaut. Trin. 445 – 8) LE. I don’t recognise your behaviour. In your good affairs you mock my bad affairs. PH. I am a man, you are a man: as Jupiter will love me, I do not come here to deride you nor do I think you worthy (of such treatment).

In each case, the declaration of common humanity is provoked by a complaint about the interlocutor’s behaviour in social interaction. A further connection between the two openings, if it is needed, comes in the fact that each situation depends on a recent purchase of real estate, explicitly referred to at Heauton Timorumenos 54 (Chremes’ second line) and eventually revealed, after much deferral, as the nub of the argument at Trinummus 124. The

 Jocelyn 1973.

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allusion to Trinummus highlights the inappropriate behaviour of Chremes, creating a contrast with the lifelong relationship in the Plautine play and the potential seriousness of the matter in hand. It also, perhaps, acts as an indication of how Terence read Trinummus – not so much as straightforward moral greatness, but with more than a hint of parody. A final example of Terence reading Trinummus is that strange moment in the Phormio, when the supposedly super–clever schemer and eponymous hero suddenly forgets the name of the pseudo–invented father who is crucial to his intrigue, right in the middle of the act of trickery (Ph. 384– 90). It is an odd moment in a play which so much celebrates the cleverness and quick thinking of its hero. Part of its point in context is to impress the name on the audience, since it will be important later for the resolution of the play’s problem, but it is also a comic device which Terence may have learnt from Plautus. The humour, of course, is that of (safe) danger, in that the audience sees that the grand plan teeters on the edge of disaster. The greatest of Plautine slave–heroes almost falls into a similar trap, but in this case his vicarious trickster, Simia, actually doesn’t know the name, rather than having forgotten it (Ps. 984 – 91). A pupil and rival of his master Pseudolus, Simia thinks quickly and resolves the situation by turning the suspicion of identity on to Ballio. Even closer to the Terentian lapse, however, is that which occurs in Trinummus, when the trickster–sycophant at the crucial moment forgets the name of the man who is supposed to have entrusted him with the letters – and is in fact his unknown interlocutor (906 – 12). In this case, however, the slip is just one of several errors made by the sycophant, who had recently placed Arabia next to Pontus (933 – 4), as well as other geographical solecisms. He has also just claimed that the man who entrusted him with the letters is much taller than Charmides (903). The humour for the audience, who know that this is the real Charmides, is mostly at the expense of the sycophant, while they must guess that his errand is now largely redundant. They will nonetheless enjoy the literalising joke with which the sycophant papers over his error: SY. satin inter labra atque dentes latuit uir minimi preti? CH. ne male loquere apsenti amico. SY. quid ergo ille ignauissumus mihi latitabat? CH. si appellasses, respondisset, nomine. (Plaut. Trin. 925 – 7) SY. What was the wretch doing, hiding between my lips and my teeth? CH. Don’t speak badly of a friend in his absence. SY. Why then did the lazy coward hide away from me? CH. If you had called him by name, he would have responded.

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In the context of other mistakes in a farcical and delightfully redundant scene, the lapse might be held to be well integrated into Trinummus, whereas Phormio’s error is not well integrated into his play. We could say that Terence has not learnt the lesson, but this would seem unlikely, given Terence’s exceptionally careful and subtle construction of plays. I would suggest that Terence is making an explicit allusion in order to make his ideal reader think of the Trinummus sycophant and compare Phormio with him, for good and ill.⁵² Terence, I suggest, read Trinummus carefully. When we appreciate its surprising and challenging connection with the Plautine corpus, I think we can see why.

Bibliography Anderson, W. S. (1979), ‘Plautus’ Trinummus: The Absurdity of Officious Morality’, in: Traditio 25, 333 – 45. —. (1993), Barbarian Play: Plautus’ Roman Comedy, Toronto. Buck, C. H. (1940), A Chronology of the Plays of Plautus, Baltimore. Deufert, M. (2002), Textgeschichte und Rezeption der plautinischen Komödien im Altertum, Berlin. Duckworth, G. E. (1943), Review of: A Chronology of the Plays of Plautus, by Charles H. Buck, Jr., in: AJPh 64, 348 – 52. Enk, P. J. (1937), Handboek der Latijnse Letterkunde, II, 1, Zutphen. Fantham, E. (1977), ‘Philemon’s Thesauros as a Dramatisation of Peripatetic Ethics’, in: Hermes 105, 406 – 21. Hunter, R. L. (1980), ‘Philemon, Plautus and the Trinummus’, in: MH 37, 216 – 30. Jachmann, G. (1931), Plautinisches und Attisches, Berlin. Jocelyn, H. D. (1973), ‘Homo sum: humani nil a me alienum puto (Terence, Heauton Timorumenos 77)’, in: Antichthon 7, 14 – 46. Karakasis, E. (2003), ‘Legal Language in Plautus with Special Reference to Trinummus’, in: Mnemosyne 56, 194 – 209. Lefèvre, E. (1993), ‘Politics and Society in Plautus’ Trinummus’, in: R. Scodel (ed.), Theatre and Society in the Classical World, Michigan, 177 – 90 —. (1995), Plautus und Philemon, Tübingen. Leo, F. (1913), Geschichte der Römischen Literatur: I, Berlin. Lofberg, J. O. (1920), ‘The Sycophant–Parasite’, in: CPh 15, 61 – 72. Maurice, L. (2003), ‘Amici et sodales: An Examination of a Double Motif in Plautus’, in: Mnemosyne 56, 164 – 93.

 Muecke 1985 offers a good metatheatrical reading of the sycophant scene, in which she describes the eponymous character as not just acting a role but trying to act a role (176). For discussion of names, and the forgetting of names, see 179 – 82. On the connection with Phormio, see also Reimer 1996, 73 – 82, where he expresses a clear distinction between Trinummus and Phormio on the one hand, and Pseudolus on the other (79).

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Muecke, F. (1985), ‘Names and Players: The Sycophant Scene of the Trinummus (Trin. 4.2)’, in: TAPhA 115, 167 – 86. Reimer, P. (1996), Das Spiel im Spiel: Studien zum plautinischen Agon in ‘Trinummus’ und ‘Rudens’, Stuttgart and Leipzig. Segal, E. (1974), ‘The Purpose of the Trinummus: For J. Arthur Hanson’, in: AJPh 95, 252 – 64. Sharrock, A. R. (2009), Reading Roman Comedy: Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence, Cambridge. —. (forthcoming a), ‘Terence as Reader and Innovator’, in: S. Papaioannou (ed.), Terence Interpreting / Interpreting Terence, Newcastle upon Tyne. —. (forthcoming b), ‘Introduction’, in: M. Dinter (ed.), Cambridge Companion to Roman Comedy, Cambridge. Slater, N. W. (2000), Plautus in Performance: The Theatre of the Mind, 2nd edn., Amsterdam. Stein, J. P. (1970), ‘Morality in Plautus’ Trinummus’, in: CB 47, 7 – 13.

E. Karakasis

Cicero Comicus – Catullus Plautinus. Irony and Praise in Cat. 49 Re–examined Abstract: Plautine Comedy may function as an intertext of Cat. 49 and, accordingly, shed light to its coded and largely undeciphered meaning. Catullus praises Cicero in a poem crucially harking back, mainly through the ‘polyptoton’ of esse in vv. 2– 3, to two comic passages, Plaut. Bacch. 1087 and Pers. 777; through this intertextual allusion, the Catullan persona is linked with Plautine characters at the moment they acknowledge the comic ruse of a servus fallax. It may, therefore, not be a coincidence that in his Pro Caelio, Cicero not only resorts to several staple comic features in terms of both themes and diction but also, significantly, fashions himself as a comic hero, namely a smart slave. By adopting a comic style and through comic intertexts, Catullus seems to be nodding towards Ciceroʼs ʽcomic strategyʼ in defense of Caelius, which resulted into Clodiaʼs (his ex loverʼs, i. e., Lesbiaʼs) denigration and defamation. From this perspective, Catullusʼ self–disparagement in v. 5 as the worst of all poets may be read as an ironic intratextual quotation of Lesbiaʼs similar claim in c.36, evoked only to be rejected: Lesbiaʼs accusation does not hold true, as it comes from a person whose wickedness has been exposed by Cicero; thus, through syntactic coordination, the claim that Cicero is the most excellent advocate of all and sundry (v. 7) is similarly devaluated. Keywords: intertextuality, intratextuality, Plautus, Cicero, Catullus, Caelius, Clodia, comedy, comic hero / servus fallax Recent years have witnessed a growing interest in the influence of Roman Comedy on Catullan poetry;¹ from this perspective, the aim of the present paper is to apply the hermeneutic tools offered by comic intertextuality for decoding the meaning of the Catullan text. Cat. 49 will serve as a case study. Unless one agrees with Wiseman 1985, 188 – 9 that nostrum Valerium at Cic. Fam. 34.2 [S.B.] refers to Catullus, poem 49 of the Catullan corpus constitutes the only extant contemporary literary source attesting to the contact between two leading figures of the late republican period, namely Catullus and Cicero.² Catul-

 Cf. e. g. Agnesini 2004, Polt 2010 and the relevant bibliography cited there.  Cf. Fredricksmeyer 1973, 268, McDermott 1980, 75, Tatum 1988, 179 and n. 2, Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 131 and n. 1, Kilpatrick 2002, 269 and n. 12, Stroup 2010, 226.

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lus’ 49, therefore, has long attracted the interest of a large number of scholars;³ however, the poem has been read mainly from two conflicting perspectives, i. e., either as a true and sincere ‘thank–you poem’ addressed by Catullus to Cicero or, inversely, as an ironic account (be it harsh or good–natured) aiming to undermine Cicero. Let us have a closer look on Catullus’ seven hendecasyllables: Disertissime Romuli nepotum, quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli, quotque post aliis erunt in annis, gratias tibi maximas Catullus agit pessimus omnium poeta, tanto pessimus omnium poeta quanto tu optimus omnium patronus. Most skilled in speech of the descendants of Romulus, all who are, and all who have been, Marcus Tullius, and all who shall be hereafter in other years, to thee his warmest thanks Catullus gives, the worst of all poets; as much the worst poet of all as you are the best advocate of all. (transl. by Cornish (Loeb), 57 with modifications)

Trends in the readings of the poem (aims and methodological tools of the present paper) Before embarking on the analysis proper, however, a concise review of the extended literature on the subject is in order, with a view to setting in context the approach to be followed here. Three are the main reasons accounting for an ironic reading of the poem. First of all, there is the hyperbolic praise of Cicero, set in the same level with Catullus’ extreme self–disparagement, when calling himself, in vv. 5 – 6, pessimus omnium poeta (‘the worst of all poets’); since Catullus could not possibly have had this idea of himself, it follows that his description of Cicero as the best of the legal advisors is not to be taken seriously either, or, worse, is to be turned on its head.⁴ Ambiguity is also created by the ambivalent syntactic function of

 Cf. Romano 1954, 222.  Cf. e. g. Deroux 1985, 234– 5, Ferguson 1988, 30, Godwin 1999, 168, Holzberg 2002, 59.

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omnium in the last line of the poem; the genitive could either be construed as a partitive complement to the superlative form optimus (‘the best of all advocates’) or, alternatively, an objective genitive as a complement to patronus (‘the best advocate of all’). In this last case, despite the positive associations of the syntagm, when used of Cicero by A. Caecina at Fam. 237.4 [S.B],⁵ ironic undertones have also been detected (see below, pp. 216 – 7). The ironic reading initially put forward by G. T. Clumper, in: Annotationes in Catulli Epigrammata. Miscellanea Philologica et Paedagogica, Fasc. II, Amstel. 1850, 146 – 50, won the approval of many scholars already from the middle of the nineteenth century⁶ and, eventually, became the dominant view.⁷ Most of the ironic readings have tried to reconstruct an extra–textual occasion in order to account for the genesis of the poem and, thus, to decode its meaning, although readings disassociating the poem from a particular, specific occasion are not missing altogether.⁸ For example, it has been seen as a sneer at a conceited and arriviste Cicero,⁹ here mockingly addressed as a descendant of Romulus, v. 1 (since, for Roman nobility and his enemies, the orator is often an inquilinis civis (Sal. Cat. 31.7– 8), a Romulus Arpinas ([Sal.] In Cic. 7.4.))¹⁰ or as an expression of scorn for Cicero’s old fashioned manners.¹¹ Alternatively, the specific circumstances which may have given rise, either by themselves or in concentration, to this ‘bitter statement’ of Catullus, as suggested by the major discussions of the poem, include: i) Cicero’s personal erotic life, namely an alleged (in all probability made–up) personal involvement of Cicero with Clodia Metelli. This on the basis of Terentia’s, i. e., Cicero’s wife, supposed suspicions concerning her husband’s relations with the (in)famous Lesbia / Clodia (cf. Plut. Cic. 29.2– 4);¹² ii) the unprincipled advocacy allegedly offered by Cicero without consideration of moral standards. Schmidt 1914, 273 – 4¹³ has seen here a disparaging comment on Cicero’s attitude towards Vatinius, whom

 Cf. e. g. Batstone 1993, 158.  See the concise, yet informative, account of the scholarship on the poem by Adamik 1989, 67– 8 and n. 1.  For a literature review, although not exhaustive, cf. also Pascal 1916, 135 – 7, Melichar 1933, 127, Romano 1954, 222– 3 and n. 2, Thomson 1967, 225 – 7, Dinoi 1968, 5 – 9, Fredricksmeyer 1973, 268 – 73, Basson 1980, 45 – 7, Deroux 1985, 221– 30, Kilpatrick 2002, 267– 70.  Cf. e. g. Batstone 1993, 171 and n. 70: ‘the voice [of the poem] is not univocal or occasional.’  Cf. Tatum 1988, 179 – 84, Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 134.  Cf. Funaioli 1921, 148, Gagliardi 1967, 227– 8, Dinoi 1968, 18, Buchheit 1970, 40, Deroux 1985, 224, Ferguson 1988, 30.  Cf. Godwin 1999, 168.  Cf. Ferguson 1966, 872. For a criticism of this view, see Fredricksmeyer 1973, 271– 2.  Cf. also Collins 1952, 11– 7, Goold 1983, 245, Konstan 2007, 81; see also Ferguson 1966, 871.

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the orator defends in August 54 against Calvus and frees him from charges of bribery, whereas two years earlier it was Cicero who had attacked the very same man; this change of attitude on the Roman statesman’s part triggers Catullus’ specific negative reaction to Cicero’s indiscriminate legal advice and support; iii) a reaction to some kind of literary criticism; although Catullus clearly emphasises Cicero’s oratorical merits and does not mention his poetic aspirations at all, the following possible incidents have also been put forward: a) Catullus’ reaction to Cicero’s probably unfavorable,¹⁴ condescending¹⁵ or even complimentary¹⁶ remarks on his poetry or to the statesman’s negative view of Catullus’ character as a Neoteric man¹⁷ , b) inversely, unsympathetic criticism of Cicero’s poetry on Catullus’ part.¹⁸ It is a well–known fact that Cicero’s poetic favourites included mainly traditional poetry in the line of Ennius, and, what is more, the statesman was, as early as the late sixties BC, a ‘literary opponent’ of the ‘poetic ideals’ cherished by new poets¹⁹ to whom Catullus crucially belongs and who, in turn, also significantly fashion themselves as ‘Callimachean deniers’ of traditional epic and its values. Although the evidence we have may not suggest hostility between Cicero and the new poets,²⁰ it is beyond any doubt that a basic difference in literary principles and tastes existed well before Catullus’ death²¹ and thus, if the poem is really the result of some kind of negative poetic criticism, one may plausibly detect here, if not utter sarcasm, an overall ironic touch at least. However, Catullus’ evident stress on Cicero as a disertissimus orator (v. 1) as well as a patronus (v. 7)²² and not a poeta detracts significantly from such a reading; the poem seems to operate in terms of legal and not literary criticism.

 Cf. Schmidt 1914, 273 – 4, Schuster 1948, 2369, Knoche 1958, 153– 4, Della Corte 1977, 277, Basson 1980, 50; see also Westendorp–Boerma 1969, 435 – 6.  Cf. Friedrich 1908, 229 – 32 for Cicero’s hypothetical criticism of Catullus’ epyllion (64); for a refutation, cf. Jurenka 1916, 178.  Cf. Goold 1983, 245.  Cf. Gagliardi 1967, 230.  Cf. Gugel 1967, 686 – 8, Laughton 1970, 1– 7. See also Thomson 1967, 225 – 30, 1998, 322– 3 who reads the poem as half ironical, i. e., detects here a light Catullan irony of Cicero’s poetic style, for the poet was sent a poem of the statesman for criticism. What Catullus appears to be insinuating is that Cicero excels at oratory (he is the best!), but as to poetry, his achievements are less satisfactory.  Cf. Ferguson 1966, 871, Deroux 1985, 225; see also Romano 1954, 223 – 4, Monbrun 1972, 36.  Cf. Gruen 1967, 225, Kilpatrick 2002, 269 – 71.  Cf. also Basson 1980, 50  Cf. Deroux 1985, 224; see also Bione 1946, 111– 2.

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What is more, the rather solemn and typified language of the poem (the high–flown apostrophe at the beginning, the formal vocative, the syntax in the expression of thanks, the mannerism in the designation of both the poet and the lawyer) as well as the structure²³ and the rhythmic patterns of the poem’s metre have puzzled some scholars, who occasionally perceive an ironic dimension, on the basis of the linguistic and rhythmical structure of the poem.²⁴ An alleged deprecatory function of disertus, used of Cicero in v. 1, as opposed to eloquens, applied to an orator of higher oratorical skills (cf. Cic. de Or. 1.94, Quint. Inst. 8.pr.13 – 4), has also been used as an argument by the partisans of the ironic reading.²⁵ Similar (rather unconvincing) mocking connotations have also been ‘detected’ in the use of optimus, bonus and patronus, on the basis of the ironical tone these words may exhibit in some Ciceronian

 Tromaras 1989, 19 – 32 reads the poem as a combination of a laudatio (Cicero) and a vituperatio (Catullus), both belonging to the genus demonstrativum, and, accordingly, a transformation / inversion of their function culminating in a ψόγος of Cicero.  Cf. Goold 1983, 245; see also Funaioli 1921, 147, Ferrero 1955, 24, Basson 1980, 49, Selden 2007, 496 – 7. Wormell 1963, 60 detects a satirical tone on the basis of the assonantal rhyme of vv. 2 and 4, whereas Ferguson 1988, 30 similarly finds the rhyme –mas Catullus / Marce Tulli as ‘grotesque;’ see also Fitzgerald 1995, 129. Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 131– 8, on the other hand, more interestingly contextualises the poem within the opposition of Asianism vs. Atticism; from his perspective, Catullus, a dear companion of the Atticist Calvus, makes fun of Cicero’s old– fashioned (less Attic) rhetoric, crucially in a poem with pompous style and markers of the Assianic style; see also Adamik 1989, 70 – 1. It is true that the Atticists shared with the poetic Neoteric movement a common interest in stylistic ‘elegance and ‘slenderness’’ (cf. Wisse 2002, 367). However, the alleged ‘tumid’ stylistic markers (mock–heroic effect, solemn style, use of the third person singular) may not be read only as imparting a non–Attic colouring to the poem but also as pointing, in their concentration, to the comic intertextual associations of the poem (see below, pp. 207– 8).  For the view that irony is generated by means of an antithesis between disertus and eloquens, cf. Adamik 1989, 67– 70. For Cat. 49 as a reaction to the publication of De Oratore (55 BC), in which Cicero seems to claim for himself, through the historical example of Crassus, the highest rhetorical qualification, i. e., eloquens, cf. also Monbrun 1972, 29 – 39, Deroux 1985, 227– 8; see, in addition, Funaioli 1921, 149 – 50, Dinoi 1968, 17, Westendorp–Boerma 1969, 434, Buchheit 1970, 40, Basson 1980, 47– 8, Newman 1990, 387. However, for disertus = eloquens often in the Ciceronian oeuvre, see Thomson 1967, 226, Gagliardi 1967, 227, 231 and n. 4; cf. also Harnecker 1882, 474 (claiming a passing distinction on Cicero’s part, not endorsed by mainstream oratorical discourses), Jurenka 1916, 177, Romano 1954, 226 and n. 1, Rivarola 1977, 79 – 80, Bellandi 2007, 390 – 1. In any case, as Kilpatrick 2002, 271 and n. 27 rightly remarks, eloquentissime could not scan here. Kilpatrick 2002, 272– 5, as Pascoli before him (cf. Gagliardi 1967, 231 and n. 3, Dinoi 1968, 7), also associates the poem with a Ciceronian speech, namely Pro Archia, and suggests a reading of the poem (p. 273) ‘as an expression of pleasure and surprise, perhaps spiced with some irony at the expense of both the great man and himself.’

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passages.²⁶ However, it should always be borne in mind that the tenor of a statement is determined by its contextual setting and the occasion of each specific utterance, as different linguistic and social environments may significantly diversify the semantics of a specific enunciation. Extra–textual reconstruction of the data is not absent from readings accepting a sincere tenor in the poem. Catullus’ personal life,²⁷ a Ciceronian defense speech for the Veronese poet or a friend of his,²⁸ as well as the political dynamics in the late republican period²⁹ are among the occasions the ‘sincerity school’ brings into the discussion of the poem. Some readings presuppose, on the other hand, a speech, which was, in all probability, sent to Catullus by Cicero. In this vein, for Kroll 1968, 88, the gratiarum actio is the result of In Vatinium probably sent to Catullus as a gift, as Vatinius is crucially not only an enemy of Cicero but also of Calvus, i. e., one of Catullus’ dear friends. For Schwabe

 On the basis of Cic. Att. 260.1 [S.B.], where the expression optimum consulem used of Cicero by Brutus is considered by the former as an open insult, Ferguson 1966, 871 claims possible ironic undertones in the use of optimus in Cat. 49 as well; in a similar vein Westendorp–Boerma 1969, 435 adduces further parallels of an ironic usage of both optimus and bonus (cf. Cic. S. Rosc. 104, Cael. 63); see also Funaioli 1921, 150, Dinoi 1968, 19 and n. 80. It has also been maintained, chiefly on the basis of Cic. Brut. 332, that patronus may not function as a complementary qualification (cf. Ellis 1876, 135, Paratore 1942, 41, Gagliardi 1967, 228, 232 and n. 12, Dinoi 1968, 20 and n. 81, Basson 1980, 49, Syndicus 1984, 249 and n. 12 and a compelling refutation by Thomson 1967, 227, Tatum 1988, 181– 2, Setaioli 1986, 216). Another suggestion is that Catullus’ accumulated superlatives may also function as a parody of a similar elevated style of the Ciceronian speeches, cf. Paratore 1942, 41, Syndicus 1984, 249; for Ciceronian imitation here, see also Adamik 1989, 70 – 1, Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 132.  Westphal 1870, 240 – 2 invents a scenario whereby Catullus thanks Cicero for the assistance he was given by the orator in his love–story with Lesbia, after, of course, Cicero put an end to his love–affair with Clodia due to his wife’s intervention. It has thus been claimed that Cicero could have facilitated the love–affair of Catullus with Lesbia by lending them his house for their erotic trysts (cf. Basson 1980, 46); however, see the reservations of McKay – Shepherd 1969, 227.  For Ellis 1876, 134 Catullus may express his thanks to Cicero for ‘some oratorical effort in behalf of a friend.’ For an alleged Ciceronian speech Pro Catullo, against a prosecutor of the Veronese poet, cf. also Pleitner 1876, 129 (a thesis refuted by Gagliardi 1967, 228); see also Rettig 1868, 12 who suggests a Ciceronian intervention, protecting Catullus against a likely legal procedure. For the poem as an expression of gratitude for Cicero’s defense of Cornelius (possibly Catullus’ friend of c.102) against the accusations of C. Cominius de maiestate (65 BC), cf. Romano 1954, 227– 9; the persecutor is, in all probability, the Cominius for whom Catullus writes the invective of c.108. This defense speech is known as Corneliana (pro Cornelio) and parts of it are attested by Asconius Pedianus.  Fredricksmeyer 1973, 273 – 8 sees a genuine expression of gratitude for Cicero’s intervention on behalf of Catullus and his help towards an amelioration of the latter’s relationship with Caesar; for a criticism of this view, cf. Deroux 1985a, 133 and n. 15.

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1862, 127, on the other hand, and more importantly for my thesis, Catullus expresses his thanks for defending Caelius against Clodia in Pro Caelio; complementing Schwabe’s view, Baehrens 1893, 251– 3 claims that Catullus is thankful for the fact that Cicero does not mention his name in the speech and calls himself the worst poet of all, when he compares the idealised image of Lesbia as delineated in his poems with the real picture of the woman as depicted in the Ciceronian discourse. Pro Caelio is a speech in defense of yet another unlucky lover of Lesbia’s, with whom Catullus may plausibly be sympathising at the moment, after, of course, he breaks off his relationship with Clodia and despite the Catullan invective against this very Caelius, as evidenced in poems written when the love affair of Caelius with Lesbia was flourishing. This view, however, generated criticism,³⁰ from Deroux 1985, 237– 8, and Setaioli 1986, 211– 7, esp. 215, to mention two of the most important modern critics of the Catullan poem, who, on the other hand, see Catullus’ poem as resulting from the distress the poet felt, as a consequence of this speech against his former sweetheart (Setaioli) and in favour of a scoundrel (‘canaille’), like M. Caelius Rufus, despite Cicero’s expectations for the opposite (Deroux 1985, 245 – 6; see, however, below, pp. 212– 3).³¹ Here again, irrespective of how one understands and interprets the data, the basic problem remains unresolved: what is the factual evidence for these scenarios? As we are at pains to guess the date as well as to reconstruct the facts associated with the poem either directly from the poem itself or from relevant accounts of the poem’s contextual setting, which could have been found elsewhere in texts of the period (e. g. Cicero’s letters) or later on, I believe that a key to the unraveling of the poem’s unresolved meaning could be offered by subtler literary signs offered by the poem, namely significant structures, favoured stylistic turns and intertexts that Cat. 49 shares with other texts of the period, especially of Cicero, whom Catullus crucially addresses in this poem. Intratextuality, i. e., evidence drawn from other poems of the Catullan corpus which contain the same or similar (literary) markers may function as implemental to the research method proposed.

 See Sellar 1889, 432, Fordyce 1961, 213, Quinn 1970, 234– 5.  Setaioli 1986, 211– 7, in particular, reads the poem as an ironic counter–charge against Cicero by means of a syntagm (omnium patronus), calqued on Cicero’s amicam omnium used of Clodia by Cicero at Cael. 32, suggesting ‘oratorical prostitution’ on Cicero’s part (cf. also Schöll 1880, 481 and n. 15, Quinn 1970, 235; 1972, 198, Deroux 1985, 240 – 1, 246, Adamik 1989, 72, Godwin 1999, 169, Gee 2013, 102). Adamik 1989, 71– 2 claims that Catullus is here offended, because, in denigrating Clodia, Cicero is using language the poet himself has also used of Lesbia.

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Comic intertexts After the solemn apostrophe to Cicero as the most skilled of all Romulus’ descendents, Catullus complements his statement by means of a syntagm consisting in the triple anaphora of the relative adjective quot followed by the present, the perfect and the future indicative of the verb esse; the coordination of quot + esse syntagms involves the particle que (vv. 2– 3) and develops in apposition to its referent: quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli, quotque post aliis erunt in annis

This stylistic choice (i. e., appositional construction with the relative in anaphora and a ‘polyptoton’ of esse – term as used by Agnesini 2004, 76) is quite infrequent in Roman literature, and, apart from Plautus and Catullus, is crucially unparallelled in Latin literature (cf. also Agnesini 2004, 75 – 8).³² The Plautine colouring of the stylistic option in question is crucially suggested by Fraenkel 1922 (2007), 10, when discussing Plaut. Bacch. 1087 and Pers. 777 as typical specimens of Plautine re–working of Greek comic material.³³ Thus the exceptional character of the construction, which (although modified) occurs in two other Catullan poems (21 and 24) as well, has attracted the attention of various commentators and critics of Catullus, who, significantly, give as parallels Plaut. Pers. 777 and Bacch. 1087.³⁴ What is more, ironic readings of the poem have claimed its parodic nature, also invoking the fact that this syntagm, apart from its presence in other two tongue–in cheek Catullan poems (see above), comes from these ‘ironically

 Another instance of a similar ‘polyptoton,’ consisting in a triple anaphora of the relative pronoun followed by present, perfect and future indicative forms of the verb esse (without the coordinative que though), occurs in a further mock–solemn passage of rather comic character (dated 43 BC though), namely Cic. Fam. 411.1 [S.B.]: homini nequissimo omnium qui sunt, qui fuerunt, qui futuri sunt; the letter, however, significantly deals with yet again a rather comic situation, namely the squandering of Segulius’ fortune, which, what is more, is brought up by means of imagery, common in Plautine comedy: the notion of ‘eating up a fortune’ (2) through the verb comedere in particular (cf. Plaut. Bacch. 743, Most. 12– 4, Trin. 360, 417, 753).  See Polt https://.  Cf. Ellis 1876, 54, Funaioli 1921, 148 – 9, Fordyce 1961, 215, Gagliardi 1967, 228, 232 and n. 8, Dinoi 1968, 8, 15 – 6, Newman 1990, 387, Polt 2010, 146. See also Granarolo 1967, 257 and n. 4, Monbrun 1972, 33, Rivarola 1977, 83; Plaut. Amph. 553 – 4, Trin. 1125, Truc. 699 and Vid. 81– 2, occasionally adduced as parallels, do not fall in the same category; see Agnesini 2004, 78.

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coloured’ passages of the comic genre.³⁵ Whatever linguistic ancestry one is willing to trace this particular syntagm back to,³⁶ the stylistic option in question appears, in several cases, to be perceived by Roman literature through Plautine lens, i. e., as a distinct Plautine routine.³⁷ Such a stylistic similarity may, therefore, not be read as coincidental and, thus, particular attention should be paid to the relation of the comic intertexts mentioned above with the Catullan instance in question, as the comic passages may provide us with an intertextual key for unlocking the hermeneutics of the Catullan text. In his thought–provoking thesis, Polt 2010, 144– 51, 172– 8 is the first scholar to call significant attention to the highly interpretative potential of the comic intertextual associations of the Catullan syntagm and, accordingly, to read the present Catullan poem on the basis of the meaning produced through its comic intertexts. Polt is absolutely right in employing these comic models as a means for shedding light on the poem’s undecided meaning, especially if one takes into account the significant influence Roman Comedy, in general, as well as Plautus, in particular, have exercised on both Catullus and late republican literature and culture. In particular, Polt argues that the Catullan speaker adopts the mask of the servus callidus and, accordingly, sets out to make fun at Cicero’s expense. For Polt, the narrator exhibits what he calls ‘Plautine Heroic Badness’ (for the term, cf. also Anderson 1993, 88 – 106) and, as socially inferior, makes an effort to control a social superior, such as Cicero. I would also like, however, to explore here the potential these comic intertexts may have in allowing a reading of the poem as a sincere thanksgiving. As will be stressed below, Catullus or the persona of the poem in any case is not identified with an intertextual servus callidus, but adopts instead the stylistic means a comic character employs, when struck by the realisation of a ‘smart slave’s’ deception. The first Plautine intertext comes from Bacch. 1087– 9: quicumque ubi sunt, qui fuerunt quique futuri sunt posthac stulti, stolidi, fatui, fungi, bardi, blenni, buccones, solus ego omnis longe antideo stultitia et moribus indoctis.

 Cf. Paratore 1942, 53, Ferguson 1966, 872, Syndicus 1984, 248, Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 132 and n. 4, Polt 2010, 142– 78 (vs. Romano 1954, 229 and n. 1). Buchheit 1970, 41– 2 considers the syntagm in question, common in three Catullan poems (21.1– 3, 24.1– 3, 49.1– 3), as a parody of sacral diction; for a compelling criticism of such a view, cf. Rivarola 1977, 83 – 6.  Cf. Agnesini 2004, 76 (with further bibliography).  See also Polt 2010, 146 and n. 231.

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Of the fatheads, the fools, the dullards, the dolts, the babblers, the blundering blockheads, the mushrooms there are in the world, they have been, or are going to be in the future, I far and away surpass the whole lot in stupidity and in slowness of wit. (transl. by Barsby 1991, 85)

Here one of the ‘bungling characters’ of the play, namely the senex Nicobulus, i. e., the father of an adulescens in amore, Mnesilochus, and master of the ‘clever slave’ Chrysalus, the servus callidus par excellence of Roman Comedy, delivers an ‘entrance monologue,’ in which, in a particularly animated emotional state, he communicates awareness of the comic ruse played out by his slave Chrysalus, who succeeds, according to the comic generic rule, to cheat the old man out of his money. Nicobulus has learnt from the soldier that the wife he allegedly was married to in reality was not his spouse and, thus, comes to realise that he was tricked out of the sum he paid for buying his son off from his affair with the soldier’s imaginary wife. One should also take into account here the linguistic / stylistic mannerism adopted by the deceived senex, upon learning the truth; in a series of long anapestic metres, often characterised in Plautine drama by linguistic artificiality, full of markers of staple Plautine stylistic elaboration (alliterative synonyms and assonance, passionate rhyme, repetition and balance of the linguistic structure), the senex iratus rails against his thickheadedness. The passage, despite its comic character, is clearly lofty in tone and displays mock–elevated use of stylistic favourites, associated with contemporary Roman tragic diction.³⁸ A similar and parallel dramatic scenario is developed in the second Catullan intertext, namely Pers. 777– 8: qui sunt, qui erunt quique fuerunt quique futuri sunt posthac, solus ego omnibus antideo facile, miserrumus hominem ut vivam. In living as the most wretched man I alone easily surpass all those who live, who will live, who have lived, and who are going to live hereafter. (transl. by de Melo (Loeb), 547)

Another ‘agelast,’ namely the pimp Dordalus, uses a similar syntagm to express his distress at having discovered his deception by another servus fallax, Toxilus, who, in this peculiar Plautine comedy, also functions as the adulescens in amore. Toxilus swindles the pimp out of his money, by having Dordalus believe that a parasite’s (Saturio’s) daughter is a kidnapped lady from Arabia, whom the leno

 Cf. esp. Barsby 1991, 182– 3.

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buys from Toxilus’ fellow–slave Sagaristio, dressed up as a Persian slave–dealer, without the necessary legal security; thus, when Saturio claims his daughter back, a free–born Athenian citizen, Dordalus is obliged to return the girl without recompense. After realising the tricks played upon him, Dordalus uses the ‘polyptoton’ in question for expressing his misery; the long anapestic lines combined with stylised language and Plautine figures of sound again impart a mock–elevated tone to the narrative (cf. Bettini 1989, 267). The structural and thematic similarities of the two Plautine passages are quite clear: a comic character is making in both cases use of high–flown diction and linguistic stylisation to express distress at having been duped by the tricks of a ‘clever slave.’ A similar stylisation of language is easily discerned in poem 49 and has occasionally been viewed, as previously remarked, as a sign of Catullus’ ironic statements: the grandiose apostrophe in v. 1, (Disertissime) Romuli nepotum, felicitously described by Fordyce 1961, 214 as ‘solemn quasi–heroic’³⁹ and most likely aiming to please Cicero, who, despite his provincial background, likes fashioning himself as an eminent historical figure of Rome, the address Marce Tulli (v. 2), i. e., a formal combination of the praenomen and nomen (cf. e. g. Cic. Cat. 1.27, Mil. 94) in the manner of the ceremonial addresses in the Senate,⁴⁰ as befits the tastes of a former consul,⁴¹ the epanalepsis, the balanced structure and the figures of sound, especially in the last three lines, constitute well–known features of artificial, formal, mock–heroic/official language characterising mock–elevated passages like the two comic monologues which function as the Plautine intertexts of the present Catullan poem. The third–person formal expression of thanks in vv. 4– 5 (gratias tibi maximas Catullus / agit), also interpreted as ironical, cold and giving a sense of Catullus’ detachment,⁴² may yet

 See also Kroll 1968, 89, McKay – Shepherd 1969, 227. For the phrase as a mock–solemn feature, cf. Westendorp–Boerma 1969, 434, Ross 1969, 99, Quinn 1970, 234, Onetti 1976, 64, Basson 1980, 48, Syndicus 1984, 248, Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 132. Deroux 1985a, 136 – 8 is, in addition, of the view that by means of this syntagm Catullus aligns Cicero with rigidi Catones, hostile to otium and its occupations, cherished, on the other hand, by the Neoterics, Catullus included.  Cf. Merrill 1951, 82, Paratore 1942, 51, Fordyce 1961, 215, Kroll 1968, 89, McKay – Shepherd 1969, 227, Westendorp–Boerma 1969, 435, Quinn 1970, 234, Basson 1980, 48, Syndicus 1984, 249, Tatum 1988, 182– 3, Batstone 1993, 158, Godwin 1999, 168.  Cf. Kilpatrick 2002, 271; see also Funaioli 1921, 148, Gagliardi 1967, 228, 232 and n. 7, Dinoi 1968, 18, Batstone 2007, 249. Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 132– 3 also sees in the address disertissimus, the apostrophe Marce Tulli and the thanksgiving formula an imitation of Ciceronian style.  Cf. Wormell 1963, 59 – 60, Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 133 vs. Thomson 1967, 226 – 7; see also Quinn 1970, 234, Basson 1980, 48, Stroup 2010, 227 speaking of an ‘echo of Republican political

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again be understood as a further comic dramatic device, as comic characters occasionally use a ‘pretentious’ combination of the third person of a verbal form with their proper name instead of first–person verbs with or without the pronoun of the first person, cf. e. g. Plaut. Bacch. 243, Ter. Eun. 925, or, in any case, employ their name instead of forms of the personal pronoun, cf. Plaut. Bacch. 687, Ter. Phorm. 1027.⁴³ Is there any evidence, from Ciceronian texts in particular, that could help us understand why Catullus has opted to express his thanks to Cicero as a legal advisor by means of a stylistic option intertextually harking back to comic texts and associated with the discourse of comic deception?

Cicero and comedy: the case of Pro Caelio On 3 – 4 April of 56 BC a trial against M. Caelius Rufus, accused by L. Sempronius Atratinus de vi for five different charges,⁴⁴ took place in Rome’s forum, in front of the praetor Gnaeus Domitius Calvinus. The charges brought against Caelius were mostly related to the efforts of Ptolemy the twelfth, also known as Auletes, to secure Roman assistance in his efforts to regain the throne of Egypt, from which he was dethroned in 58 BC, and to impede an envoy of a hundred Alexandrians, led by the Academic philosopher Dio, eventually murdered in 57/6 BC, to plead their case against Ptolemy in front of Roman authorities. Cicero who spoke last, in all probability during the second day of the trial, after Caelius and M. Licinius Crassus, chiefly dealt with Clodia’s allegations. Cicero thus delivers a speech, in which he disparages the morals of Clodia, i. e., the woman who, in all likelihood and according to the communis opinio,⁴⁵ Catullus had had an affair with (i. e., Lesbia), and with whom he bitterly broke up (ca. 59 BC), before Pro Caelio was ‘performed.’ After he returned from Africa where he served under Q. Pompeius Rufus, Caelius rented a house from Clodius, Clodia’s brother, in the high–class area of the Palatine and thus become acquainted with Clodia, his neighbour. Their affair, i. e., the reason for Catullus’ attacks against Rufus (of poem 77 at

commentarii’ and Cicero’s own political / poetic commentary, i. e., his De Consulato Suo, in particular.  Cf. Barsby 1999, 257, Maltby 2012, 206.  In particular: a) de seditionibus Neapolitanis, b) de Alexandrinorum pulsatione Puteolana, c) de bonis Pallae, d) de Dione, e) de veneno in Clodiam parato; for a concise account of these charges, cf. Austin 1960, 152– 4, Kiselewich 2004, 4– 9.  Cf. Nelis 2012, 26 and n. 92; see also Dyck 2013, 14 with the bibliography given there.

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least),⁴⁶ almost certainly his erotic rival, lasted for two years (ca 59 – 8/7), but ended with Clodia accusing Caelius of criminal intention. A main charge against Caelius was that he was involved in an attempt against Dio’s life, when the latter was staying at L. Lucceius’ house; Caelius is supposed to have taken from Lesbia an amount of gold in order to bribe the servants who would commit the crime, but when, later on, Clodia realised the truth, he attempted to poison her.⁴⁷ In the exordium of his speech (1), Cicero explicitly acknowledges the occasion of the trial, which takes place during the Ludi Megalenses, i. e., a period of time dedicated to festivities, when legal procedures are postponed, unless they relate to serious charges (de vi). L. Atratinus has probably accused Caelius under this specific law, so that the trial takes place as soon as possible and is not deferred for religious reasons. Atratinus intervened on his father’s behalf, namely L. Calpurnius Bestia, who must have been running for an office, a candidature, however, put in danger by Caelius’ second charge against L. Bestia, which, nonetheless, did not go to court because of L. Atratinus’ interference. Cicero presents the imaginary foreigner of his προοίμιον as sympathising with the members of the jury who are dragged to court for a minor case, intentionally brought about under the law de vi, instead of rejoicing in the festivities of the ludi, which crucially involved comic dramas as well; Cicero thus introduces the comic dimension of his speech.⁴⁸ As in the case of Catullus, the influence of the Roman comic tradition on the Ciceronian oeuvre has received considerable attention; however, despite various comic intrusions one comes across in Cicero’s work,⁴⁹ Ciceronian scholarship (Geffcken 1973, Arcellaschi 1997, 78 – 91, Guillaumont 1997, 25 – 32, Leigh 2004, 300 – 35 most notably) has compellingly shown that the speech in defense of Caelius stands out within the Ciceronian rhetorical opus for being particularly informed, in terms of language, structure and basic motifs, from the Roman

 Cf. Austin 1960, 148 – 50.  For a reconstruction of the historical background of the trial and its ‘protagonists,’ cf. esp. Austin 1960, v–viii, 151– 7, Dyck 2013, 2– 17.  Cf. Geffcken 1973, 11– 4, Salzman 1982, 299 – 302, Wiseman 1985, 77– 8, Hollis 1998, 561, Leigh 2004, 303 and n. 18.  Cf. esp. Wright 1931, esp. 39 – 43, 54– 6, 61– 72, Arcellaschi 1997, 80 and n. 1 (with bibliography), Damon 1997, 238 – 44, Hughes 1998, 570 – 7; 2005, 155 – 61 (with further bibliography), Sussman 1998, 114– 28, Benferhat 2007, 63 – 70, Dalsasso 2010 (for a bibliographical guide), Manuwald (forthcoming 179 and n. 1 with bibliography); see also Hanses in this volume. What is more, the well–known view of oratory as a ‘performance’ is also evidenced by the Ciceronian rhetorical discourse as well (cf. e. g. Cic. de Or. 1.18).

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comic genre.⁵⁰ Linguistic and structural comic features in the Pro Caelio include: various comic fragments (drawn from both Caecilius, 224– 35 W (cf. 36 – 8), and Terence, Ad. 120 – 1 (cf. 38)),⁵¹ cited in the course of Cicero’s argumentation, parodic use of tragic language in the comic manner, as is the case with the lines from Ennius’ Medea exsul (18),⁵² as well as the προσωποποιίαι (prosopopoeiae) of the speech (esp. of Appius Claudius Caecus and Poplius Clodius Pulcher), which constitute a further major theatrical marker.⁵³ What is more, the persons involved in the trial are often recast as typical comic characters; thus Caelius is depicted as a (comic) adulescens (cf. 1, 3, 5 – 6, 9 – 11, 15, 28 – 30, 34, 36, 39, 48 – 50, 70, 75, 78 – 80) in the clutches of Clodia, presented, in turn, as a meretrix (cf. 1, 37, 48 – 50, 57) who, as often in comedy, develops a liaison with the adulscens, through the proximity of their residence (Caelius and Clodia are notably presented as neighbours in the area of the Palatine, cf. 18, 36 – 7, 75).⁵⁴ It is, however, the meretrix, Clodia, who is presented as falling in love at first sight with her handsome object of affections (Caelius), thus appropriating the love practice of the comic adulescens (36, cf. Ter. Haut. 772– 4).⁵⁵ What is more, this meretrix is mala (procax ⁵⁶), of the kind chiefly exemplified by Plautine courtesans and not the Terentian meretrix interdum non mala. In this way Cicero, up to a point, discredits Clodia’s allegations, for prostitutes were penalised with infamia and thus could not bear witness, according to the lex Iulia de vi for example.⁵⁷ Caelius, in particular, is re–appropriated as the adulescens Aeschinus of the

 Cf. also Dumont 1975, 425 – 6, Gotoff 1986, 124, 126, 129, Gaffney 1994– 5, 423 – 31, May 1988, 105 – 16, 1994– 5, 433, Newman 1990, 368, Goldberg 2005, 92– 3, Benferhat 2007, 70 – 3, Clark 2009, 9, 13, Skinner 2011, 97; for Pro Caelio’s theatrical dimension, see also Moretti 2006, 139 – 64, Bianco 2007, 119 – 20, Dyck 2013, 11– 2 and 59 who speaks of an ‘ersatz theatrical experience.’  com. pal. inc. 72 R3 cited in 36 seems also to be a quotation from Caecilius; for the comic quotations, cf. also Arcellaschi 1997, 85, Guillaumont 1997, 28, Monda 1998, 23 – 39, De Nonno 2006 – 7, 305 – 7, Clark 2009, 13, Dyck 2013, 119, 121– 3.  Cf. Narducci 1981, 145 – 6, Arcellaschi 1997, 83, Guillaumont 1997, 27– 8, Goldberg 2005, 93, Clark 2009, 12.  See Leigh 2004, 318, De Nonno 2006 – 7, 304, Clark 2009, 10 – 2; cf. also Dufallo 2001, 119 – 42, esp. 127– 9 (on the para–tragic colouring of ‘the very act of ‘‘conjuring’’ Appius from the underworld’ (p. 128)), Goldberg 2005, 93 and Gamberale 2005, 849 – 61 for the view that the comic element results from the contrast of the two prosopopoeiae in question (Cic. Cael. 33 – 6). For a ‘re–enactement’ here of the well–known motif of ‘Hercules at crossroads,’ deconstructed by Cicero in the course of his Pro Caelio, cf. Moretti 2007, 289 – 308.  Cf. also Cavarzere 1987, 30, Vasaly 1993, 178, Arcellaschi 1997, 80 – 1, Leen 2000 – 1, 146, Leigh 2004, 309 – 10, Dyck 2013, 119.  Cf. Dyck 2013, 119.  Cf. Austin 1960, 109.  Cf. Dyck 2013, 13.

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Adelphoe, who, therefore, should be treated in the line of the educational principles supported by Micio, the lenient father of the Terentian comedy, against Demea, although the former also appears to be seriously concerned with his son’s behaviour, as evidenced by the Ciceronian intertext (cf. 38; see also 28 – 9, 39 – 43) of Micio’s soliloquy (cf. Ter. Ad. 120 – 1, 141– 54, Leigh 2004, 322).⁵⁸ Be that as it may, the excerpt from the Adelphoe Cicero makes use of seems to be promoting leniency over comic strictness in the way Caelius should be handled.⁵⁹ Clodia is a comic female version of the miles gloriosus type (Geffcken 1973, 37– 8) as well as a meretrix mala of the elder type, to whom younger lovers are attached (e. g. in the Bacchides; Arcellaschi 1997, 87); however, in opposition to her doubles of the comic genre who are conscious of their comic generic role, i. e., their eventual separation from their lovers, she fails in the end to function within comic generic standards and, therefore, cannot accept Caelius’ eventual walking out on her (Leigh 2004, 315 – 6, 323).⁶⁰ Clodius is, accordingly, presented as a comic advisor (a praeceptor amoris in particular) giving his sister the advice to look out for another lover, for this is what New Comedy courtesans generically do; he is also notably assigned a line scanned as a trochaic septenarius, i. e., a common comic metre (cf. 36: quid clamorem exorsa verbis parvam rem magnam facis?).⁶¹ Finally, Caelius’ accuser, L. Herennius Balbus, is presented as an austere pedagogue, i. e., as a yet another stock comic blocking character, played by Lydus in Plautus’ Bacchides, or as a stern parent (senex durus), well exemplified by Demea in Terence’s Adelphoe (Geffcken 1973, 43 – 4, Leigh 2004, 317, 323 – 4).⁶² Meta–dramatic catch–words, like persona, used both of a person and a stage–figure (cf. 30, Gaffney 1994 – 5, 427), staple comic motifs as that of a disrespectful youngster in debt, who is, however, still under the authority of his paterfamilias (cf. 17), or of the typical comparison of a youth’s passion with wine and its fermentation (cf. 43, see also 77; Leigh 2004, 323, Dyck 2013, 130), as well as common comic diction (syntagms consisting of the interrogative quid with cum + ablative of person – quid tibi cum Caelio (34), the future perfect videro instead of the simple future (35), the impersonal construction in tibi dolebit (37), the proverbial expression hinc illae lacrimae (61), drawn from Ter. Andr. 126⁶³)

 Cf. also Arcellaschi 1997, 86 – 7, Guillaumont 1997, 28, Dyck 2013, 124.  Cf. May 1994– 5, 434, 437– 8, 441, Leigh 2004, 328, Manuwald 2007, 135– 9; see also Vasaly 1993, 176 – 7, Dufallo 2001, 130 – 1, Christenson 2004, 67– 8.  Cf. also Dyck 2013, 120.  Cf. Hollis 1998, 561, Goldberg 2005, 94 and n. 18.  Cf. also Dyck 2013, 99.  Cf. Austin 1960, 92, 95, 100, 123.

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complement the overall comedic tone of the speech. Last but not least, as a means of denigrating Clodia, Cicero crucially associates her with theatre and stage productions in general; at Cael. 64 the orator may refer to Clodia as a composer of comic dramas (plurimarum fabularum poetriae),⁶⁴ while her accusations against Caelius are, in a similar vein, characterised as a failed drama without the right plot (sine argumento), as a mime without the ending of a comic fabula (65 – the theatrical diction employed here is notable, mimus, fabula, clausula, scabilla, aulaeum tollitur). What is more, in Pro Sestio (116) as well, delivered in early March – 56 BC, Clodia is yet again presented as an expert at theatrical embolia. ⁶⁵ Cicero thus eventually insults Clodia by means of theatrical devices, at which she purportedly excelled. In her highly influential Comedy in the Pro Caelio 1973, K. A. Geffcken has also persuasively suggested that Cicero, up to a point, functions as a comic servus callidus, in his role as the comic hero with the jury as his accomplice (cf. pp. 47– 8 in particular); Cicero as a servus fallax eventually manages, as is often the goal of a ‘smart slave’s’ comic action, to get his adulescens, Caelius, out of a difficult situation. As I have previously argued, however, Catullus in poem 49 adopts the mask of a character commenting upon the tricks of a smart comic slave and, thus, from this perspective, Schwabe’s view concerning the extra–textual surroundings of the poem (see above, pp. 202– 3) seems all the more appealing.⁶⁶ The impact of the speech on the social circles in Rome was wide and led to Clodia’s defamation and her eventual withdrawal from public life. It is highly probable then, even if Catullus was not sent a copy of the speech by Cicero himself, that he had heard of it and must have been acquainted with its basic comic strategies. Catullus, therefore, appears to be adopting here the comic intertexts described above to nod to Cicero’s noticeable comic techniques in this speech, especially the latter’s strategy as a comic slave / hero and to be acknowledging consciousness of the latter’s ‘comic scheme’ which he purportedly experiences; in opposition, however, to the father and the pimp of the Plautine intertexts, who express their anger and grief for the comic deception through the esse–‘polyptoton,’ the Veronese poet makes use of a similar stylistic option to express his thanks for Cicero’s comic tricks. Comic deception is now equivalent to legal aptness, craftiness and efficiency and is no longer harmful and lamentable for the user of this comic routine, for Cicero has revealed Clodia’s real self, who is now the target of the poet’s irony and severe criticism,

 Cf. Austin 1960, 126 – 7, Guillaumont 1997, 29.  Cf. Skinner 2011, 124, Dyck 2013, 158 – 9.  Cf. also Batstone 1993, 172 and n. 79.

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as evidenced from the poems addressed to her after the ending of their love affair, where, just as Cicero in the Pro Caelio, he does not hesitate to depict his old beloved as a meretrix ⁶⁷ (see, for example, poems 37, 58 and the obscene sexual abuse of the renuntiatio amoris in poem 11, written around 55/54 BC).⁶⁸ From this perspective, the extreme and pompous thanksgiving addressed to Cicero may be seen as sincere, for Cicero has shown Clodia’s true colours and saved Caelius from her malice. Caelius, although his rival in the past (see poems 69, 77), is no longer considered a villain by the poet, when, in poem 58, Catullus shares with him⁶⁹ the sad news of Clodia’s debauchery. Geffcken 1973, 44 has also persuasively suggested that prosecutors in Pro Caelio are associated with comic blocking characters; thus Catullus’ assimilation of a comic blocking character’s routine, in a eulogistic function, also marks this transition of his from his former state, namely of Lesbia’s friend (i. e., an agelast in comic terms) to a champion of the defendant and his comic ruse, i. e., his legal expertise. If so, it may not be a coincidence that the only other instance of a similar, though not identical, appositional ‘polyptoton’ of esse (present, future and perfect forms), introduced by the relative qui (without its repetition in anaphora and coordination through a triple que though), in the period between Plautus and Catullus, comes from a Ciceronian speech, namely the one delivered on the occasion of the statesman’s return from his exile in Thessalonika, due to the machinations of Clodius, i. e., Clodia’s depraved brother, (57 BC); here, Red. Pop. 16, Cicero uses this stylistic option in order to express his thanks to Pompey (vir omnium qui sunt, fuerunt, erunt, virtute sapientia gloria princeps),⁷⁰ crucially for having rescued him from Clodius’ traps, whom the orator also attacks in the Pro Caelio along with his sister. Thus in his sincere, in my view, thanking poem in honour of Cicero, Catullus appears to be using a syntagm, which may simultaneously allude both to Cicero’s heartfelt thanks to Pompey and to the comic intertexts, mentioned above; in both cases an association of the Catullan expression with Ciceronian discourse related to Clodius, Clodia and their vicious actions is discernible.  Cf. Gaffney 1994– 5, 431.  I do not think that a counter–argument (cf. Deroux 1985, 238) based on a psychological perception of a Catullus crediting himself only with a license to abuse his former lover can detract from my argument.  As plausibly claimed by Wilamowitz, Ellis, Della Corte, Quinn; see Tromaras 2001, 413 for an account of the literature on the identity of Caelius in poem 58, cf. also Ciraolo 2010, 221. For Rufus of c. 69, 71, 77 as M. Caelius Rufus, cf. Skinner 2011, 135.  Cf. also Rivarola 1977, 86. What is more, for Cat. 49 as mocking Cicero’s extreme thanks– giving after his return from exile (post reditum, 57 BC), and the hyperbolic praise of Pompeius in particular, cf. Dinoi 1968, 13 – 5, 17– 8.

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Self–disparagement It is true, on the other hand, that the self–disparagement expressed by Catullus in this poem is quite unusual; especially if one takes into account that, in several instances, Catullus accuses his poetic opponents as very bad poets using a phraseology similar to the one he appears to be using in poem 49 for characterising himself as the ‘worst of all poets.’ For instance, Ceasius, Aquin(i)us and Suffenus of poem 14, old–fashioned poets of un–Callimachean / non–Neoteric trends, as evidenced by their designation as venena (v. 19), i. e., by means of a catch–word of the Neoteric jargon clearly denoting non–Neoteric poetic aspirations, are described as pessimi poetae (v. 23), whereas in poem 36 Catullus applies this characterisation (pessimus poeta, v. 6) to Volusius, a further anti–Neoteric poet, the author of a cacata charta (vv. 1, 20), in all probability a historical / chronographical poem⁷¹ of the kind attacked by the Neoterics (see also poem 95). What is more, although not described by means of these very words (poeta pessimus), Suffenus of poem 22, also an anti–Neoteric poet, as suggested by his designation by the term caprimulgus (v. 10), denoting anti–Neoteric rusticity and lack of Callimachean urbanity,⁷² is also considered as a very bad poet; this is also the case with Mamurra of c.105, thrown down by the Muses, when he sets out to climb the holy mountain of poetic inspiration.⁷³ Is it possible then that Catullus fashions himself, even in a context of self– degradation for laudatory reasons, by means of qualities and linguistic syntagms elsewhere in his poetry associated with his literary opponents, the target of his poetological satire? Poem 36, chronologically preceding carmen 49, and its ambiguous use of the term pessimus poeta ⁷⁴ may elucidate Catullus’ self–presentation in c.49:⁷⁵ Annales Volusi, cacata charta, votum solvite pro mea puella: nam sanctae Veneri Cupidinique vovit, si sibi restitutus essem desissemque truces vibrare iambos, electissima pessimi poetae scripta tardipedi deo daturam

 Cf. Tromaras 2001, 355.  Cf. Papanghelis 1995, 114.  Cf. also Westendorp–Boerma 1969, 433 – 4, Buchheit 1970, 42, Rivarola 1977, 88, Basson 1980, 48, Deroux 1985, 222 and n. 3, 1985a, 126, Svavarsson 1999 – 2000, 135.  Cf. also Stoessl 1977, 136 – 7, Batstone 1993, 170 and n. 60.  Cf. also Harmecker 1882, 474– 5.

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infelicibus ustulanda lignis. […] nunc, o caeruleo creata ponto, […] acceptum face redditumque votum, si non illepidum neque invenustumst. at vos interea venite in ignem, pleni ruris et infacetiarum annales Volusi, cacata charta! Chronicle of Volusius, shitty sheets, discharge a vow on behalf of my love; for she vowed to holy Venus and to Cupid that if I were restored to her love and ceased to dart fierce iambics, she would give to the lamb–footed god and choicest writings of the worst of poets, to be burnt with wood from some accursed tree: […] Now therefore, o thou who the blue sea bare, […] record the vow as received and duly paid, so surely as it is not out of taste nor inelegant. But meanwhile, into the fire with you, you bundle of rusticity and clumsiness, chronicle of Volusius, shitty sheets! (transl. by Cornish (Loeb), 43)

Lesbia is here presented as having made a vow to the deities of Love (Venus and Cupid), i. e., to burn, as a sacrifice, the best work of the worst of the poets, if the couple is reunited and Catullus ceases producing invective poetry against her; by means of her pessimus poeta (v. 6) Lesbia understands Catullus, whereas pessimus is here used by Clodia in a moral sense, i. e., in the sense of ‘wicked,’ ‘wretched.’⁷⁶ Catullus, however, on purpose understands the qualification pessimus poeta as relating to Volusius, the representative of the historical epic, the old–fashioned poet of traditional poetological beliefs, as censured by both himself and the Neoteric movement in general.⁷⁷ The ambivalent semantics of the expression in poem 36 may commend its collocation to the ambiguities generated

 Cf. also Gagliardi 1967, 232 and n. 22, Østerud 1978, 141, Krostenko 2001, 246 – 7; see also Setaioli 1986, 216.  Cf. Fordyce 1961, 179.

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by poem 49 as well,⁷⁸ clearly availing itself of Alexandrian techniques and creating as sense of witty ambiguity. From this perspective and, as the poem is here understood as a Catullan eulogy of Cicero for having revealed Clodia’s moral wickedness, Catullus’ self–disparagement may be read as an ironical rendering of Lesbia’s utterance. In other words, this line may be viewed as an ironical counterfactual of Catullus’ bad morals brought up only to be immediately dismissed, as coming from somebody, whose immorality has been clearly demonstrated by the recipient of the present poem, which functions, in turn, as a frank expression of thanks for this revelation of Clodia’s mischievousness. What is more, pessimus in the sense of ‘wicked’ commonly occurs in comedy, especially in Plautus, as a term of abuse (cf. Plaut. Cas. 645, Men. 488, 1061, Pers. 221, Stich. 245, Truc. 120; see also vv. 152– 3, 1017 of the ‘Plautine’ Eunuchus of Terence⁷⁹) and the overall intertextual comic / Plautine colouring of the poem’s linguistic structure may led further weight to the hypothesis of ethical moral meaning of this word in the Catullan instance. Although not ironical in its totality, part of the poem may, thus, be understood as such (see also below, pp. 216 – 7), as it appears that not only one but ‘further voices’ and perspectives are brought together in this poem.

optimus omnium patronus: syntactic ambiguity The two last verses, following v. 5, may also reinforce this ironical reading of the line; as remarked earlier, scholars have been baffled as to the exact syntactic function of omnium in the final line, v. 7: quanto tu optimus omnium patronus (partitive or objective genitive?). Reasons of structural symmetry have been put forward for an understanding of the last omnium as a partitive complement of the superlative form. Omnium in the middle of pessimus…poeta (v. 6) is unquestionably partitive in nature and, thus, for reasons of balance, this has been claimed to be the case with the genitive of the following line (cf. Merrill 1951, 83, Romano 1954, 225 and n.2, Tatum 1988, 180). Yet one could, inversely, also claim with some justification that symmetry may not be such a decisive factor in terms of the general ambivalence generated by the poem; symmetry may be thus be read as creating expectations only to be deconstructed, especially if one reads these final lines as ironic counterfactuals.  Cf. also Gee 2013, 102– 3. Gee, however, reads an ‘ironic displacement’ of the qualification pessimus poeta from Catullus to Cicero, on the basis of Cat. 36, where Volusius is substituted for Catullus as the worst poet.  Cf. Karakasis 2005, 164.

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The ironic message the objective genitive conveys (optimus omnium patronus)⁸⁰ chiefly relates to Cicero’s occasional assumption of the legal defense of people who were previously attacked by the orator as their persecutor or vice versa. Thus, as already elaborated, Schmidt has discerned here a Catullan ironic posture, because of Cicero’s volte–face towards Vatinius, whom the orator defended in 54 BC, although two years earlier he acted as his accuser. This attitude of Cicero, i. e., his indiscriminate legal support may have been the cause of wide– spread criticism, as the orator himself crucially felt, at some point, the need to justify his practice of functioning as the advocate of all people without discrimination (cf. Cic. Fam. 24.4 [S.B]; see also above, p. 199).⁸¹ If an interaction with Pro Caelio is to be understood here, one should then date the poem earlier than 54 and, accordingly, associate it with another Ciceronian ‘change of heart’: in the case of the Pro Caelio as well, Cicero is the patronus of Caelius against L. Atratinus and, thus, ultimately against L. Bestia, who instigated this trial, when only a few weeks earlier (11 February 56 BC) Cicero was the defendant of Bestia charged by Caelius with electoral malpractice. Be that as it may, the criticism one may discern in the syntagm of an objective complement is that Cicero was the legal defendant of all and sundry, without the necessary selectivity. Thus, if one reads pessimus omnium poeta (vv. 5 – 6) as an ironical quotation of Lesbia’s claims, then one should also read here, through the correlatives tanto…quanto in vv. 6 – 7, omnium patronus, if used of Cicero in the sense of ‘everybody’s advocate,’ as a further ironic counterfactual; in other words, the poet says to Cicero: ‘you are an immoral defendant of everybody, as much as I am the wickedest poet of all (which I am not!); Clodia said so, but thanks to your highly professional abilities as a patronus, you managed to disclose her depraved real self and I thank you very much for that.’⁸²

 For the possibility omnium in the last line to refer to poets and thus Cicero to be hailed as ‘the finest patron of all poets,’ cf. Kilpatrick 2002, 272.  Cf. Fredricksmeyer 1973, 270 – 1; see also Funaioli 1921, 150, Dinoi 1968, 16 – 7.  I am fully aware, however, that if omnium is a partitive genitive, then one might be right to read an obvious irony in Catullus’ statement, since, in this vein, the poet is actually saying the following: you are the best lawyer as much as I am the worst poet, which I am not; this is simply what Clodia once blamed me for. If, however, the poem as a whole is not related to Lesbia and the hostile relations between her and Cicero, what is the purpose of the poet in quoting Clodia’s statement in this context, namely within a poem addressed to Cicero? Hence, if Lesbia’s view is to be read here as a counterfactual, i. e., as an observation crucially not endorsed by the poet but brought up only to be dropped, it is more plausible, I think, to understand this statement as a means of praising and not denigrating Cicero.

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Conclusions Cicero’s Pro Caelio has plausibly been read as the orator’s comic speech par excellence, as Roman Comedy and its generic rules largely inform both the structure and the meaning of the oration. Cicero adopts here the comic function of a ‘trickster slave’ and tries, as imposed by Roman comic, especially Plautine, generic standards, to secure the welfare of his young client, Caelius, notably depicted as a comic adulescens. Cicero thus, as a smart slave, defends the adulescens Caelius against charges, brought up by Clodia, also significantly re–appropriated as a comic character–type, i. e., as a meretrix mala. Although absolute conviction may never be reached in a poem of so rich a stylistic, syntactic and intertextual ambiguity of meaning, Catullus’ 49 is viewed in this paper as an expression of thanks Catullus addresses to Cicero, which avails itself of comic, mainly Plautine, stylistic markers. Pro Caelio deals with issues, evidently of significant importance to Catullus, as it is about the uncovering of Clodia’s / Lesbia’s malice, with whom the poet had had in the past a chequered love–affair, which ended with bitter sentiments on the poet’s part. The adoption by Catullus of a persona associated with the comic intrigue of a servus callidus may thus be plausibly viewed as a refined device Catullus makes use of in order to pay his respect and express his sincere thanks to Cicero, for having managed to expose Clodia’s true self by functioning as a comic slave. Therefore Catullus acknowledges the ‘comic scheme’ by a Plautine stylistic routine, which, although used in the comic models by characters bemoaning the comic ruse, is here inversely employed for the praise of Cicero’s, also ‘comic,’ scheme. Within this particular frame of mind, Catullus’ self–deprecating presentation as the ‘worst of all poets’ may be seen as an ironical quotation of Clodia’s similar remark in poem 36, where pessimus poeta is used by Lesbia as a charge against Catullus’ alleged badness of character; a counterfactual reading of the two following lines equates the accusation that Cicero is an ‘indiscriminate defendant of everybody’ with the obviously false claim that Catullus is an evil poet; since the last statement is only a sarcastic quotation not endorsed by the poet (Cicero has instead managed to shed light on the malice of Catullus’ accuser), accordingly, the former allegation is, through syntactic coordination, simultaneously devaluated and ultimately dropped. Criticism of Cat. 49, an ambivalent and elusive text, will definitely never stop. The present discussion, however, hopes to have demonstrated the potential (as well as the limitations) of an approach based on Plautine intertextuality as a means for decoding a text of the late republican period, informed by comedic discourses.

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Bibliography Adamik, T. (1989), ‘Catullo e Cicerone: il Carme 49’, in: ACD 25, 67 – 72. Agnesini, A. (2004), Plauto in Catullo, Bologna. Anderson, W. S. (1993), Barbarian Play: Plautus’ Roman Comedy, Toronto. Arcellaschi, A. (1997), ‘Le Pro Caelio et le Théâtre’, in: REL 75, 78 – 91. Austin, R. G. (1960), M. Tulli Ciceronis Pro M. Caelio Oratio, Oxford. Baehrens, E. (1893), Catulli Veronensis Liber, Leipzig. Barsby, J. A. (1991), Plautus: Bacchides, Warminster. —. (1999), Terence: Eunuchus, Cambridge. Basson, W. P. (1980), ‘The Riddle of Catullus 49: Some Notes on its Interpretation’, in: AC 23, 45 – 52. Batstone, W. W. (1993), ‘Logic, Rhetoric, and Poesis’, in: Helios 20, 143 – 72. —. (2007), ‘Catullus and the Programmatic Poem: The Origins, Scope, and Utility of a Concept’, in: M. B. Skinner (ed.), A Companion to Catullus, Malden, Oxford, Victoria, 235 – 53. Bellandi, F. (2007), Lepos e Pathos. Studi su Catullo, Bologna. Benferhat, Y. (2007), ‘L’ Avocat, sa Cible et les Comiques (Cic. Pro Caelio)’, in: VL 177, 63 – 76. Bettini, M. (1989), Plauto. Mostellaria, Persa, Milan. Bianco, M. M. (2007), ‘Il tirocinium adulescentiae’, in: T. Baier (ed.), Generationenkonflikte auf der Bühne. Perspektiven im antiken und mittelalterlichen Drama, Tübingen, 113 – 26. Bione, C. (1946), Catullo Poeta, Palermo. Buchheit, V. (1970), ‘Literarische Kritik an T. Annius Cimber (Verg. Cat. 2), Cicero (Cat. c. 49) und Sestius (c. 44)’, in: W. Wimmel (ed.), Forschungen zur römischen Literatur. Festschrift zum 60. Geburtstag von Karl Büchner, Wiesbaden, 37 – 45. Cavarzere, A. (1987), Cicero: In Difesa di Marco Celio, Venice. Christenson, D. M. (2004), ‘Unbearding Morality: Appearance and Persuasion in Cicero’s Pro Caelio’, in: CJ 100, 61 – 72. Ciraolo, S. (2010), Cicero. Pro Caelio, Mundelein, Illinois. Clark, A. (2009), ‘The Pro Caelio: Cicero’s Dramatic Tapestry’, in: Classicum 35.2, 9 – 14. Collins, J. H. (1952), ‘Cicero and Catullus’, in: CJ 48, 11 – 7, 36 – 41. Cornish, F. W., Postgate, J. P., and Mackail, J. W. (1995), Catullus, Tibullus, Pervigilium Veneris, revised by G. P. Goold, Cambridge, Mass. Damon, C. (1997), The Mask of the Parasite: A Pathology of Roman Patronage, Ann Arbor. De Melo, W. (2011), Plautus. The Merchant, the Braggart Soldier, the Ghost, the Persian, vol. 3, Cambridge, Mass. De Nonno, M. (2006 – 7), ‘Due Casi di Allusività Ciceroniana’, in: ITFC 6, 299 – 311. Della Corte, F. (1977), Catullo, le Poesie, Milan. Deroux, C. (1985), ‘Catulle et Cicéron, ou les Raisons d’une Silence’, in : LEC 53, 221 – 46. —. (1985a), ‘Le Plus Mauvais de Tous les Poètes et le Meilleur de tous les Avocats’, in: M. Renard and P. Laurens (eds.), Hommages à Henry Bardon. Publiés sous les Auspices de L’ Institut de Latin de L’ Université de Poitiers, Brussels (Collection Latomus 187), 124 – 38. Dinoi, A. (1968), ‘Il Carme 49 del “Liber Catullianus”’, in: Vichiana 5, 5 – 20. Dufallo, B. (2001), ‘Appius’ Indignation: Gossip, Tradition, and Performance in Republican Rome’, in: TAPhA 131, 119 – 42.

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Electronic resources Dalsasso, P. (2010), ‘Cicerone e il Teatro – Rassegna Bibliographica’, http://www.google.gr/ url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=web&cd=2&ved=0CDIQFjAB&url=http%3 A% 2F%2Fwww.tulliana.eu%2Fdocumenti%2FDalsasso_Teatro.pdf&ei=8FUCU6T4LKmQ0AXf1I GoCw&usg=AFQjCNGxHibd2enNjqV7fqzq9bj_F64lvg Polt, C. B. (https://), ‘Pervert, Prostitute, Politician, Prankster: Plautine Allusion in Catullus 21, 24, and 49’, https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&q=cache:bMPWmpvrAk8 J:www. camws.org/meeting/2010/program/abstracts/07 A2.Polt.pdf+plautus+in+catullus&hl= el&gl=gr&pid=bl&srcid=ADGEESgJ1HEqlig6lwxMCiLxIRcZY To9QbY3SvX8Bggbgy3XrHKNCFurJPp6 t7LKDA0sgBxiAuEzE_fLwnRjBYTPGVUdh6cB206Xk3kE-r4ofY8i7tbbwp56n6XoAvfEBdW10EboIB-&sig=AHIEtbTw nyy2cs49zkdRPLl0uAxva2JhjQ

M. Hanses

Plautinisches im Ovid: The Amphitruo and the Metamorphoses * Abstract: Not unlike Plautus’ tragicomic Amphitruo, Ovid’s Metamorphoses intersperses genuinely funny passages with unsettling hints at the pains its characters have to endure for the sake of our entertainment. In a sampling of passages ranging from the epic’s Birth–of–Hercules episode to its programmatic proem, I will show how Ovid alludes to that original tragicomoedia to achieve this effect. Even as he exploits Plautine humour for comic relief, Ovid recreates the play’s tension between comic and tragic elements. The true bleakness of his worldview comes into focus if we realise that where his Plautine model (in spite of all darkness) preferred a last–minute happy ending, Ovid’s resolutions tend to embrace tragedy more fully. Keywords: Ovid, Plautus, Amphitryon, Alcmene, Mercury, reception, epic, comedy, tragicomedy, performance, genre Ovid’s Metamorphoses is tragicomic. As regards genre affiliation, this label may be misleading, but it does provide an apt descriptive of the epic’s mood. Seneca is the earliest critic on record to make this observation. At Q Nat. 3.27.13 – 4, he marvels at the grandeur (magnitudo) of Ovid’s oeuvre even as he complains about the ‘childish absurdities’ (pueriles ineptiae) that contaminate it.¹ And yet, Ovidian scholars have not paid much attention to the Metamorphoses’ engagement with the first and only surviving work of ancient literature to identify

* This paper grew out of a presentation at the 106th CAMWS Annual Meeting in Oklahoma City, OK (2010). I am deeply grateful for the encouragement and productive feedback I received then and since from Alessandro Barchiesi, Caleb Dance, Laurel Fulkerson, Julia Hejduk, Ariana Traill, Colin Webster, Gareth Williams, and Evangelos Karakasis, who kindly agreed to include this piece in the present volume. My warmest and special thanks go to Antony Augoustakis and Katharina Volk, who tirelessly commented on drafts and supported this project from start to finish. The text of Plautus’ plays is taken from Wolfgang de Melo’s Loeb editions. Ovid’s Metamorphoses is cited as presented in William S. Anderson’s commentaries (1972 and 1997). Quotations of other texts follow the standard editions, usually the OCT or the Teubner. All translations from ancient languages are my own.  Compare Anderson 1997, 11– 2; Edmunds 2001, 56. A sustained reading of the Metamorphoses’ oscillations between the funny and the serious can be found in Tissol 1997.

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itself as a tragicomedy, that is, Plautus’ Amphitruo. ² The very term tragicomoedia stems from the play’s prologue (Plaut. Amph. 59, 63), and while darker undertones are far from uncommon in Plautine drama, this palliata takes its twin affiliation with both comedy and tragedy more seriously than most.³ On the one hand, Jupiter and Mercury impersonate Amphitryon and his slave Sosia to great comic effect. After fathering Hercules with the Theban general’s already expectant wife, Jupiter continues to take sexual advantage of an unsuspecting and visibly pregnant Alcmene, but leaves the real husband to deal with the aftermath. Much Plautine hilarity and erotic innuendo ensues amid confused identities. To reassure the audience of a fortunate outcome, Mercury promises a happy ending early on (474– 5, 493 – 5), and Jupiter himself reaffirms the play’s comic side at Amph. 868. Accordingly, Alcmene delivers the twins speedily and painlessly, and in the final lines, the father of the gods resolves all remaining tension ex machina (1131– 45). Yet on the other hand, he does so as an enraged Amphitryon is on the brink of slaying every member of his household, and throughout the play, Plautus has his duped mortals express their distress in ways that leave a bitter aftertaste. In light of an at times quite elevated style, particularly on Alcmene’s part, scholars have in fact suggested that the playwright may here have been adapting a Greek tragedy (like her Euripidean name play) for the Roman comic stage.⁴

 Recent examinations of drama in the Metemorphoses include Gildenhard and Zissos 1999 on tragedy; Wiseman 2002 on tragedy, praetexta, togata, and particularly mime; Lada–Richards 2013 on pantomime, all with bibliography.  The most obvious candidate for comparison is the POW drama Captivi, where the prologue speaker explicitly points out the seriousness of the subject matter (55 – 8). Yet unlike in the Amphitruo, ‘true’ tragedy is here banished off stage (nam hoc paene iniquom est, comico choragio / conari desubito agere nos tragoediam, ‘because this would almost be unfair, to suddenly try to stage a tragedy in our comic get–up,’ 61– 2). To mention just two additional, memorably sinister scenes: the pimp Ballio quite shockingly abuses his slaves and prostitutes in the Pseudolus (133 – 229), and a canticum in the Mercator bewails the double standards that contribute to female oppression (817– 29). Of course, happy endings that reaffirm social norms are a generic requirement in Roman comedy, but in Plautus, they are sometimes reduced to an afterthought; compare, e. g., Arnott 1975, 36 – 7; Tatum 1983, 3 – 5; Lefèvre 1995 on the Mercator; and Andrews 2004 on the Casina. For tragic potential not just in Plautus, but also in Terence, see, e. g., Hunter 1985, 114– 36; Sharrock 2013, 55 – 61; and Hanses 2013.  E.g.: Stewart 1958; Stärk 1982; Lefèvre 1982, esp. 26 – 33; de Melo 2011, 6 – 7; Pelliccia 2010/11. For bibliography on the wide range of the Amphitruo’s possible sources (from Rhinthon’s Phlyakes via Middle Comedy or Plato comicus to 5th–century tragedies), see the historiae quaestionis at Lefèvre 1982, 6 – 8, 21 and Christenson 2000, 45 – 55. Past scholarly testimonies to Alcmene’s ‘tragic’ quality preface Jane Phillips’ discussion of the character’s humorous side (1984/85, 121). Segal 1987, 171– 91 rightly cautions against overlooking the Amphitruo’s humour

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The Metamorphoses shares this interest in physical transformations, illicit sex, and ruthlessly self–indulgent gods, and like the Amphitruo, the epic oscillates between compassion and mockery as it investigates questions of selfhood and identity. In the following pages, I posit that this similarity of content and presentation is no accidental parallel. Rather, Ovid deliberately employs allusions to the Amphitruo to conjure up the comic cosmos’ burlesque qualities as he sets the tone both for the Metamorphoses as a whole and for some of its constituent episodes.⁵ Yet in the process, he also makes clear that his world—while certainly funny—is grimmer than Plautus’. Roman theatregoers could indeed catch glimpses of true tragedy amid Plautine frivolities. Yet Ovid moves this tragic element front and centre as he further highlights the sufferings his characters undergo at the hands of the immortals. This interpretation emerges from an ongoing trend to re–examine the reception of Plautus in Latin literature of the Republic and Empire. It has been well documented that long after the death of Plautus and Terence, the palliata remained an intertext to be reckoned with. In the first century B.C.E., amid a boom in Plautine research that made scripts available for private perusal, Varro established the definitive canon of the playwright’s ‘authentic’ dramas (see, e. g., Gell. 3.3).⁶ At least two of the scholar’s acquaintances, Caesar and Cicero, wrote poems on the life of Terence (Suet. Vita Ter. 7), and the latter alluded to palliata stock types throughout his oratorical career.⁷ In turn, Catullus’ persona in the Lesbia poems constitutes a variation on the Plautine adulescens in love,⁸ whom Lucretius has to acknowledge even as he voices his disapproval.⁹

amid its tragic resonances. Schmidt 2003 delivers a careful and balanced reading of the play’s alternations between tragic and comic effects; he also reports on earlier, similar approaches to the subject (esp. 98 – 9, n. 77). Marshall 2006, 192 describes the debate’s current status quo. On the Amphitruo’s ‘two’ endings—first several hints at tragedy, then a comic resolution—see also Sharrock 2009, 255, 288 – 9. Her study includes the suggestion that, considering the play’s likely staging at a religious festival, it may have constituted a ‘hymn’ to Hercules (60 – 3, with further bibliography). For proof that Plautus at least knew (of) Euripides’ Alcmene, see Rud. 83 – 7.  For this effect, compare Thomas 1986, 177– 82.  See Goldberg 2005, esp. 52– 86. I do not, however, agree that the wide(r)–spread distribution of Plautine scripts coincided with a marginalisation of stage performance (see below).  On the Pro Caelio’s famous palliata–based passages, see Geffcken 1973; Leigh 2004. Cicero brings up New Comic stock types as early as Rosc. Am. 46 and in speeches as vicious as In Pisonem, on which see Damon 1997, esp. 238 – 44; Hughes 1992 and 1998. Hughes 1997 discusses many other instances of comic allusion in Cicero.  Recent work includes Goldberg 2005, 113; Uden 2006; O’Bryhim 2007, all with bibliography.  For discussions of Plautine and Terentian debts throughout book four of the De rerum natura, see Rosivach 1980 on Lucr. 4.1123 – 40, and Brown 1987, 101– 43 along with his detailed commentary on Lucretius’ rejection of the adulescens amans. On the connection between the ex-

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The Epicurean poet also provides a memorable account of a Roman comedy in performance uniting audience members of all social strata in laughter (corrident, 4.83).¹⁰ Perhaps more importantly, elegy—a genre well known to have left a strong impression on the Metamorphoses—is heavily indebted to the palliata’s character constellations.¹¹ In Amores 1.15, Ovid himself testifies to New Comedy’s immortality,¹² noting that its continued influence parallels that of epic or tragedy. Perhaps we might still be tempted to think that Roman Imperial authors would have solely read the ‘Menandrian’ originals, rather than both read and seen its Latin adaptations. Since we are going to focus on some details of staging, it is therefore important to stress that during the early Principate, actors still donned masks and starred in re–performances of Plautine classics.¹³ Suetonius attests that Augustus himself saw to it that the greats of Latin comedy were included in dramatic festivals;¹⁴ Horace in fact complains that too many eager fans

clusus amator ridiculed by Lucretius (4.1177) and the paraclausithyron scene in Plautus’ Curculio, see Goldberg 2005, 97– 9.  Lucretius’ main concern in the passage is with the light effects produced by the uela covering the performance space. On the play’s likely nature, see Marshall 2006, 45 – 6.  Explicit references to Menander are at Prop. 2.6, 3.21, 4.5 and Ov. Am. 1.15.17– 8. See also n. 12, as well as James 1997 (esp. the bibliography assembled at 63, n. 12) and 2012; and now Herrmann 2011. For discussions of elegiac elements in the Metamorphoses, cf. Knox 1986, 1– 26; Holzberg 1997, 123 – 6; and the bibliography assembled at Volk 2010, 134, 137– 8.  Ov. Am. 1.15.17– 18: dum fallax seruus, durus pater, improba lena / uiuent et meretrix blanda, Menandros erit (‘as long as his deceitful slave, his harsh father, his wicked madam, and his flattering prostitute will survive, Menander too will live’). For my choice of possessive adjectives in the translation, compare McKeown 1989, 402– 3. See also nn. 16 and 17.  Roman comic actors may initially have performed Plautine plays unmasked, but it was at the latest by the time of the great 2nd/1st–century comoedus Q. Roscius Gallus that this was no longer the case. See the evidence assembled at Beare 1964, 303 – 9 and the recent discussion of masks in Roman comedy at Marshall 2006, 126 – 58.  Suet. Aug. 89.1: sed plane poematum quoque non imperitus, delectabatur etiam comoedia ueteri et saepe eam exhibuit spectaculis publicis (‘yet [Augustus] was clearly also a connoisseur of poetry, he even took delight in Old Comedy and often staged it at public festivals’). Some have taken comoedia uetus to refer to Greek comedy, others think Suetonius means its Roman adaptations (e. g., Fantham 1984, 303 – 4). I would like to note that already the Casina prologue, written on the occasion of a later re–performance of the play, conceives of Plautine drama as ueteres fabulas (6, 8; also 13: antiquam comoediam) far superior to supposedly worthless nouae comoediae (9). Compare also Ter. Eun. 25: Plauti ueterem fabulam. Similarly, the term denoting a revived New Comedy in the Greek East is παλαιά (see, e. g., Jones 1993, 43). It is therefore certainly possible to take Suetonius’ words as referring to performances of classic palliatae. On continued stagings in general, cf. also Duckworth 1952, 68 – 71; Shero 1956; Christenson 2000, 71 and n. 20.

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of Plautus, Terence, and Caecilius cram Rome’s theatres and that he has to keep watching ‘reruns’;¹⁵ and Ovid himself speaks of Menander in language suggesting that it is precisely his stock types’ continued presence on the Roman stage that ensures the survival of their ‘sources.’¹⁶ Demonstrating a similar interest in palliata performances, Ovid’s contemporary Manilius describes the astrological influences that ‘will lead a man to compose comic spectacles for the joyful games’ (comica componet laetis spectacula ludis, 5.470 – 6, at 471) like Menander used to before him.¹⁷ Near the end of the first century C.E., Quintilian still quite

 Hor. Epist. 2.1.60 – 2: hos [= Plautum, Caecilium, Terentium et al.] ediscit et hos arto stipata theatro / spectat Roma potens; habet hos numeratque poetas / ad nostrum tempus Liui scriptoris ab aeuo (‘powerful Rome memorizes these playwrights [= Plautus, Caecilius, Terence, and others] and gazes at them crowded into a packed theater; she holds them dear and lists them up to our own day from the time of the writer Livius [Andronicus]’). Pace Goldberg 2005, 58 – 60, who reads these lines differently. Horace’s personal endorsement of Plautus is nowhere near as ringing as his contemporaries’, cf. Hor. Ars P. 54– 5, 270 – 4; Epist. 2.1.170 – 6. On his vocal dislike of humorous classics that continue to be restaged (iterum atque iterum spectanda theatris), see Sat. 1.10.37– 9.  Am. 1.15.17– 18 (see n. 12). Fantham 1984, 302– 3 observes that both this passage and Manilius 5.470 – 6 refer to comedic stock types in a way that recalls Roman plays much more than (what we know of) their Greek sources. They ultimately hark back to the Latin comic poets’ own description of their genre of choice, compare Ter. Eun. 35 – 40: quod si personis isdem huic uti non licet, / qui magis licet currentem seruom scribere, / bonas matronas facere, meretrices malas, / parasitum edacem, gloriosum militem, / puerum supponi, falli per seruom senem, / amare, odisse, suspicari? (‘If he is not allowed to use the same characters [as previous playwrights], then how is it more permissible to write of a running slave, to make matrons good and prostitutes bad, the parasite hungry, the soldier a braggart, have a child be substituted and the old man be tricked by a slave, love, hate, or be suspicious?’) At Sat. 1.10.40 – 2, Horace praises a contemporary palliata playwright in similar words: arguta meretrice potes Dauoque Chremeta / eludente senem comis garrire libellos / unus viuorum, Fundani (‘you, Fundanius, are the only living being who can chatter into existence charming little scripts [libellos, cf. Gowers 2012, 325] with a witty prostitute and Davos tricking old-man Chremes’). See also n. 17.  The passage’s wording emphasises the plays’ staging (spectacula) at the Roman ludi, and in doing so in fact makes use of the programmatic vocabulary (laetis…ludis) Latin comic characters employ to describe the plots they star in, on which see Segal 1987, 42– 69; Leigh 2004, 324– 26; Sharrock 2009, 9 – 17 with bibliography. It culminates in high praise for Menander (474– 6), but it also provides a list of stock types (ardentis iuuenes raptasque in amore puellas / elusosque senes agilisque per omnia seruos, ‘lovesick young men, girls raped out of love, tricked old men and slaves nimble through all of this,’ 472– 3) that has more in common with Plautine trickster plots than with Greek ‘domestic comedy.’ On this assessment, see n. 16. For the seruus callidus as markedly ‘Roman,’ see n. 40. Perhaps Manilius’ thoughts on the man who will compose a play (componet, 471; compare Menander, who did: produxit, 474; ostendit … sacrauit, 476) can even provide a hint that new palliatae were still being written in his day. This seems possible in light of the fact that Cicero’s famous defendant Archias seems to have toyed with the idea of writing a

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matter–of–factly treats Terence’s Eunuchus as a staged script (11.3.182),¹⁸ and Statius’ Achilleid relies strongly on both Greek and Roman comedy in performance.¹⁹ Within the comic repertoire, Plautus’ Amphitruo is renowned for its cantica and unique in its use of special effects like the thunderous divine epiphany that precedes the birth of Hercules. Considering the Roman theatregoers’ ever–increasing appreciation for multimedia spectacle,²⁰ the play could therefore easily have been a popular favourite as Ovid was penning the Metamorphoses. Scholars have also read its Jupiter/Amphitryon as a reflection on power–hungry individuals and families who were on the rise at the time of its original composition.²¹ This theme would certainly have been relevant to Imperial audiences as well. And indeed, there seem to have been re–performances of this specific play at least as late as the third century C.E.²² Before we widen our perspective to this palliata’s role as a model for the epic’s overall ‘programme,’ we will begin by establishing the Amphitruo’s presence in a more self–contained passage: Alcmene’s tale of the birth of Hercules at Metamorphoses 9.281– 325. Ovid here evokes the Amphitruo amid alternative versions of the Hercules myth to modulate the narrative’s tone and have his readers wonder at his own story’s eventual outcome. Ovid recreates the Amphitruo’s tension between comic and tragic components by alluding both to its humour and to the human suffering the play’s characters enact. Yet where Plautus’ Jupiter permitted a last–minute ‘easy’ birth and reconciliation, Ovid extends Alcmene’s birth pangs into a week–long ordeal, at the end of which the gods de-

Latin comedy (Caecilianam fabulam, Cic. Att. 1.16.15) in the late Republic. For the Principate, we have Horace’s praise of his contemporary Fudanius’ stock–type humour at Sat. 1.10.40 – 2, quoted in n. 16 (see also Sat. 2.8, and the reference to comic writers of his own day, nostrum tempus, in n. 15). Later on, the younger Pliny would praise the ‘Menandrian’ comedies of his contemporary Vergilius Romanus, which ‘you should number among those of Plautus and Terence’ (scripsit comoedias Menandrum aliosque aetatis eiusdem aemulatus; licet has inter Plautinas Terentianasque numeres, Ep. 6.21.4).  Compare Müller 2013, 374.  As I myself have sought to show, Hanses, 2015. Another relevant treatment of Plautine comedy and Latin Imperial epic is Hayden Pelliccia’s recent article 2010/11 on the common ancestry of Amph. 531 (non ego te hic lubens relinquo neque abeo aps te, ‘not willingly do I leave you here and go away from you’), Verg. Aen. 4.361 (Italiam non sponte sequor, ‘I do not pursue Italy of my own accord’), and 6.460 (inuitus, regina, tuo de litore cessi, ‘unwillingly, queen, did I depart from your shore’).  Compare most recently Manuwald 2011, 108 – 21 on ‘Revival Performances,’ with bibliography.  On the play’s ‘Scipionic overtones,’ see Galinsky 1966, esp. 209 – 35; Hallett 1996 applies Karl Galinsky’s findings to the Casina.  Arn. Adv. nat. 7.33 with Segal 1987, 171– 91 on the Amphitruo’s enduring popularity.

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prive her of a beloved confidante. By prominently alluding to the Amphitruo, but having his story take a turn the play suggested, but did not realise, Ovid manages to foil his readers’ expectations to memorable emotional effect.

Three Births of Hercules At the beginning of Metamorphoses 6, Ovid ever so briefly touches on Jupiter’s metamorphosis into Amphitryon. The story occurs in a short vignette as Arachne weaves it into her tapestry (110 – 2): addidit, ut Satyri celatus imagine pulchram Iuppiter inplerit gemino Nycteïda fetu, Amphitryon fuerit, cum te, Tirynthia, cepit.

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She added how Jupiter—concealed by the likeness of a satyr—filled Nyteis (= Antiope) up with twin offspring, and how he was Amphitryon when he seized you, Tirynthia (= Alcmene).

Perhaps even this concise glimpse at Alcmene and her plight could have brought the Amphitruo to the Ovidian reader’s mind. The passage condenses two similar myths—a shape–shifting Jupiter causes pregnancies with twins—into a mere three lines. On account of this concision, it seems possible to have the language that technically speaks of Antiope inform our reading of Alcmene’s story as well. Treating lines 6.110 – 2 as a unit, we discover Plautine echoes that go beyond the obvious parallels of subject matter. For example, Ovid’s choice of metamorphic vocabulary (celatus imagine, 6.110), while certainly not unique to this passage, is reminiscent of Plautus’ preferred wording: his Mercury describes Jupiter’s transformation as in Amphitruonis uortit sese imaginem (‘he changed himself into the likeness of Amphitryon,’ Amph. 121) and his own as ego serui sumpsi Sosiae mi imaginem (‘I assumed for myself the likeness of his slave Sosia,’ Amph. 124). The word imago used to describe metamorphosis recurs three more times in the Amphitruo,²³ and—as Niall Slater 2000, 187 has noted  Plaut. Amph. 141 (seruos, quoius ego hanc fero imaginem, Mercury: ‘the slave whose likeness I bear’), 265 (quando imago est huius in me, certum est hominem eludere, Mercury: ‘since I bear his likeness, it is easy to play tricks on the fellow’), and 458 – 9 (nam hic quidem omnem imaginem meam…possidet. / uiuo fit quod numquam quisquam mortuo faciet mihi, Sosia: ‘For that guy bears my exact likeness. What no one will ever do for me when I am dead is happening to me while I am still alive’). Lines 266, 441, 456, 600, and 614 use the term forma instead of imago, cf. Christenson 2000, 129. Schmidt 2003, 81, 92 highlights the use of imago as well and notes that it may recall funereal wax masks, see also n. 31.

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—it is this central term that first introduces the ‘theme of appearance and reality, so essential to the meaning of this play.’ To this similarity we can add that in the Amphitruo’s prologue, Plautus’ Mercury describes Jupiter’s seduction of Alcmene as usuram…eius corporis cepit sibi (‘he seized her body for his enjoyment,’ Amph. 108). Jupiter’s own words, delivered in closing, pick up this wording in ring composition: primum omnium Alcumenae usuram corporis / cepi (‘first of all, I seized Alcmene’s body for my pleasure,’ Amph. 1135 – 6). The most important word here is, of course, usuram, variations of which occur twice more in the play.²⁴ This, Ovid does not repeat. However, the verb capere too bears significance, in that the Plautine divinities twice more use it without the addition of usuram to refer to Jupiter’s rape of Alcmene.²⁵ Ovid’s te cepit (Met. 6.112) could therefore have suggested to the reader that, in a passage involving Jupiter and Alcmene, usuram needs to be supplied. Much more importantly, both the passage’s emotional resonances and the visuals it evokes could have reminded the Roman theatregoer of Plautus. William S. Anderson, in discussing the tone of the relevant lines, notes that ‘Ovid’s effort to incline sympathy for [Alcmene] in the apostrophe is not unusual; Plautus’ comedy accomplishes the same’ (1972, 166). The Plautine Alcmene in fact achieves this emotional effect through a notably multimedia expression of her sorrows: at Amph. 633 – 53, for example, she voices her distress in a famous musical solo to pipe accompaniment. Timothy Moore has recently demonstrated how even this aria’s metre (Bacchiacs)—along with its structural separation from the ongoing comic plot—would ‘encourage spectators to receive the scene as serious rather than parodic.’²⁶ As regards this canticum’s visual side, the actor who played Alcmene seems to have worn a body suit that made the advanced stage of the character’s pregnancy more than obvious. After all, the exaggerated size of Alcmene’s belly, to which we will return below, is a theme of the Amphitruo. ²⁷ Ovid’s own inplerit gemino…fetu (Met. 6.611) specifically emphasises this visual side of the pregnancy by focusing on the women’s ‘filled–up’ state. Not insignif-

 At Amph. 497– 8 (Amphitruo subditiuos eccum exit foras / cum Alcumena, uxore usuraria, Mercury: ‘Behold, the fake Amphitryon is leaving the house with Alcmene, his pleasure wife’) and Amph. 980 – 1 (uolo deludi illunc, dum cum hac usuraria / uxore nunc mi morigero, Jupiter: ‘I want him to be distracted while I have my way with my pleasure wife’).  Amph. 114: illa quacum uolt uoluptatem capit (‘he [= Jupiter] is having his way with the one he wants’); Amph. 472– 3: adeo usque satietatem dum capiet pater / illius quam amat (‘…until my father [= Mercury’s father, Jupiter] has had enough of the one he loves’).  Moore 2012, 280. See also n. 42.  So first Phillips 1984/85.

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icantly, Plautus’ Amphitryon had also repeatedly described his wife as ‘filled up’ (te pulchre plenam aspicio, ‘I see you nicely filled up,’ Amph. 681; corpus suom stupri compleuerit, ‘she filled her body with adultery,’ Amph. 1016). Ovid’s brief description of the rape of Alcmene thus seems to be evoking visuals that are reminiscent of the Amphitruo’s performative side within an apostrophe whose tone and vocabulary also recall the Plautine play. In this context, perhaps even the noun imago (celatus imagine, Met. 6.110) could take on theatrical connotations and be seen as describing an actor’s mask²⁸—maybe this is how we are supposed to visualise the story’s inclusion in Arachne’s tapestry, where the detail that Jupiter is impersonating other characters must somehow have been detectable. And in fact, to a first–century audience,²⁹ this sense of imago would have been in tune with the noun’s earlier usage in the Amphitruo. After all, the gods here envision their costumed impersonation of various mortals as a ‘play within a play.’³⁰ Accordingly, their tricks are repeatedly described as facere histrioniam (‘to assume a role,’ Amph. 89 – 90, 151– 2; compare also 86 – 7 and 91– 2). If Plautus’ characters perceive their deceits as self–consciously metatheatrical ‘play acting,’ then such statements as sumpsi…imaginem (Amph. 124) may point to the masks the actors were in fact using to stage these masquerades. In support of this theory, we can adduce especially lines 458 – 9, where Sosia jokes that by assuming the slave’s likeness (imaginem…possidet), Mercury does him the same honour that freeborn Romans receive when their descendants wear their funereal wax masks.³¹ These allusions to Plautus in performance, visible in nuce at Met. 6.110 – 2, are more fully developed in Alcmene’s own account of the ensuing events in book nine of the Metamorphoses (9.281– 325).³² Here, the evocation of the Amphitruo is more clearly marked, even as Ovid ultimately departs from the Plautine account. Plautus had Alcmene’s aptly–named slave Bromia recall how her mistress was delivered of twin sons in a matter of minutes and without any pain to the sound of a thunder clap. She did so first in a canticum (Amph. 1061– 71), then in a more straightforward report that also includes the new–born Hercules’ fight

 Gildenhard and Zissos 1999, 172– 4 discuss a similar instance of imago recalling a theatrical mask.  On the use of masks perhaps not in Plautus’ own day, but certainly in Ovid’s, see n. 13.  Slater 2000, 181– 202.  Compare also Schmidt 2003 as paraphrased in n. 23, where I cite the relevant lines in full.  While the gap between the two passages is significant, there may be a brief reminder that more Plautine allusion is forthcoming contained in the Philemon–and–Baucis episode of Met. 8.611– 724. Here, the two gods Jupiter and Mercury wander the earth together, and unrecognised, much as they do in the Amphitruo, cf. Green 2003, 46 – 7.

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against two giant snakes (Amph. 1088 – 124). Addressing a pregnant Iole in an account similarly reminiscent of a (tragic) messenger speech,³³ Ovid’s Alcmene remembers the event quite differently (Met. 9.281– 96): incipit Alcmene: faueant tibi numina saltem corripiantque moras tum, cum matura uocabis praepositam timidis parientibus Ilithyiam, quam mihi difficilem Iunonis gratia fecit. namque laboriferi cum iam natalis adesset Herculis et decimum premeretur sidere signum, tendebat grauitas uterum mihi, quodque ferebam, tantum erat, ut posses auctorem dicere tecti ponderis esse Iouem, nec iam tolerare labores ulterius poteram: quin nunc quoque frigidus artus, dum loquor, horror habet, parsque est meminisse doloris. septem ego per noctes, totidem cruciata diebus, fessa malis tendensque ad caelum bracchia magno Lucinam Nixasque pares clamore uocabam. illa quidem uenit, sed praecorrupta meumque quae donare caput Iunoni uellet iniquae.

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Alcmene begins: ‘May the divinities favour you, at least, and may they cut short your contractions when—at the end of your pregnancy—you will call out to Ilithyia, who is entrusted with the care for those who give birth in fear; Ilithyia, whom Juno’s ‘gratitude’ made fickle towards me. For when the birthday of labour–bearing Hercules was already near and the tenth zodiac sign was touched by the sun (= nine months had passed), the pregnancy stretched out my stomach, and what I was bearing was so huge that you could easily tell that Jupiter was the creator of the load that was covered up inside me, and I could not bear the birth pangs any longer. Truly, even now cold terror seizes my limbs as I am telling this, and it is part of the pain to remember it. Tortured through seven nights and just as many days, tired from the pains and extending my arms to the great sky, I kept screaming at the same time for Lucina and the goddesses of birth. Indeed, she came, but she had been corrupted and wanted to dedicate my head to hostile Juno.’

Lucina continues to delay the birth until Galanthis—one of Alcmene’s servants who resembles, but is not identical to, Plautus’ Bromia—tricks her into allowing it. The girl tells Lucina that Hercules has already been born, so the goddess lets down her guard, and Alcmene can actually deliver. To punish the servant for laughing at this feat, the goddess then seizes her violently and transforms her into a weasel. At this memory, Ovid’s Alcmene is reduced to tears (9.324– 5). Although a number of possible ‘sources’ for this episode have been identified, Plautus has so far not played a role in its interpretation. That the reader

 In Bromia’s case, the speech’s paratragic nature is discussed at Christenson 2000, 15, 304– 5.

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is, however, expected to interpret the passage with, inter alia, Plautus’ Amphitruo in mind, is indicated by a number of unambiguous markers. First, we should turn to Alcmene’s exclamation that it is ‘part of the pain to remember it’ (parsque est meminisse doloris, 9.291). Memory is a particularly frequent trope for intertextuality in Ovid’s works. His characters often ‘recall’ events as they were described by other poets.³⁴ If Alcmene, like many others of Ovid’s characters, ‘remembers’ an older version of her story, whose rendition is she supposed to have in mind? The immediate answer is not Plautus. Rather, a remark in Antoninus Liberalis’ Metamorphoses (29) suggests that Ovid’s account is modelled on Nicander’s.³⁵ In Nicander, however, Galanthis at least receives post–transformational honours from Hercules and the Thebans.³⁶ Ovid deprives her of these. His version of the birth of Hercules, then, is slightly darker even than its Hellenistic predecessor. As such, it is indeed quite different from the demigod’s painless and speedy delivery in Plautus’ Amphitruo. Nor should this divergence from the Plautine plot surprise us in light of the greater sensitivity toward women’s sufferings evinced in the Augustan poet’s work.³⁷ What Iole seems to be listening to, then, is Alcmene’s memory (meminisse) of how her Nicandrian, not her Plautine, altera ego went through seven painful days and seven nights of contractions.

 See Haupt 1876, 2.71– 2; Conte 1986, 57– 63; Solodow 1988, 227– 8; Hinds 1987 and 1998, 1– 16, who describes this phenomenon as a sub form of the ‘Alexandrian footnote’; and Miller 1993. Ariadne’s ‘remembering’ (at Fast. 3.473 – 5) what happened to her in Catul. 64, and Mars’ quotation (at Met. 14.812– 15) of a promise Jupiter made in Ennius’ Annales (fr. 54 Sk.), are the most famous examples. For ways of signaling allusion through similar narrative devices, cf. Barchiesi 2001, 129 – 40.  Notes of uncertain provenance that were placed at the chapter headings of this later mythographer’s work point either to the author’s sources or at least to similar renditions of the myths he covers. Chapter 29 features a tale of Galinthias (= Galanthis) that resembles Ovid’s. Its introduction states that ‘Nicander tells this story in book 4 of the Heteroioumena’ (Ἱστορεῖ Νίκανδρος Ἑτεροιουμένων δ’).  Antoninus Liberalis concludes chapter 29 by saying Ἡρακλῆς δ’, ἐπεὶ ηὐξήθη, τὴν χάριν ἐμνημόνευσε καὶ αὐτῆς ἐποίησεν ἀφίδρυμα παρὰ τὸν οἶκον καὶ ἱερὰ προσήνεγκε. ταῦτα νῦν ἔτι τὰ ἱερὰ Θηβαῖοι φυλάττουσι καὶ πρὸ Ἡρακλέους ἑορτῆς θύουσι Γαλινθιάδι πρώτῃ (‘But when Hercules grew up, he remembered her favour and set up a shrine for her next to the house and made offerings. The Thebans observe these rights to this day and before the festival in honour of Hercules they first make sacrifices to Galanthias’). Cf. Bömer 1977, 360 – 4 and Anderson 1972, 436 – 7. Note also other earlier versions of the myth at Hom. Il. 19.119 and Theoc. Id. 24.22.  Within the Ovidian corpus, the Metamorphoses has been found to be less androcentric than the poet’s elegiac works, cf. the literature assembled at n. 11.

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Ovid does not, however, simply ignore the alternative, Plautine account, but alludes to it right before the birth scene proper. The allusion is contained in Alcmene’s at–length description of her pregnant belly toward the beginning of her speech (9.287– 9): tendebat grauitas uterum mihi, quodque ferebam tantum erat, ut posses auctorem dicere tecti ponderis esse Iouem. The pregnancy stretched out my stomach, and what I was bearing was so huge that you could easily tell that Jupiter was the creator of the load that was covered up inside me.

Taken by themselves, these lines are already not devoid of humour.³⁸ Yet it is important to note that this absurdly elaborate description of Alcmene’s abundant belly is indebted specifically to Plautine (tragi)comedy. The Metamorphoses’ many other divinely–‘induced’–pregnancies do not tend to remark on the mother’s ‘circumference.’ Rather, the description’s notably visual quality triggers memories of Alcmene’s unusual portrayal in the Amphitruo, where Hercules’ mother features as ‘the only character in extant Greek and Roman drama to appear pregnant on stage.’³⁹ As regards such ‘non–extant’ Greek and Roman drama as the Amphitruo’s source play, Eckard Lefèvre and others have pointed out that the most explicit (and disrespectful) references to the voluminousness of Alcmene’s pregnancy are assigned to Amphitryon’s slave Sosia, who numbers among the likely Plautine additions to whatever the lost–‘original’–may have been.⁴⁰ Plautus’ Amphitruo, then, was exceptional and therefore memorable in its taboo–breaking inclusion of a pregnant woman in the cast who is, for once, not restricted to crying out to Lucina as she gives birth off–stage.⁴¹

 Cf. Anderson 1972, 438.  Christenson 2000, 38.  Lefèvre 1982, 15, building on Eduard Fraenkel’s seminal discussion of Plautine expansions to the slave’s role, see Fraenkel 1922, esp. 231– 50, and its translation in Fraenkel 1960 and 2007. In the Amphitruo’s prologue, Mercury could in fact be alerting us to the fact that the slave Sosia is a Plautine addition to what may have originally been a tragedy (Amph. 62– 3, cited below, in the discussion of Met. 1). As regards other pregnant women in Greco–Roman drama, Phillips 1984/ 85, 123, n. 5 points to ‘one terracotta of a New Comedy young woman with a padded appearance that suggests she is pregnant’ (illustration in Bieber 1961, 97, fig. 355). If that is, in fact, the suggestion, then a pregnant woman on the stage would still be directly connected to comedy, albeit no longer exclusively to Plautus. That said, the fact that it is difficult to discern if the ‘padded’ woman is indeed pregnant provides further evidence that the enormousness of Alcmene’s pregnancy is markedly ‘Plautine.’  Christenson 2000, 16, 37– 9.

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The words this pregnant woman speaks or sings may, as we noted above, have stirred the audience to pity. Her extravagant costume, however, did not prompt coy and respectful comments from the Plautine characters. That its main effect was humorous becomes apparent from the plethora of lines that mention or, in Sosia’s case, poke fun at the dimensions of Alcmene’s stomach.⁴² At Amph. 499 – 500, the disguised Jupiter is first to remark directly on her looks: bene uale, Alcumena, cura rem communem, quod facis, / atque imperce quaeso: menses iam tibi esse actos uides (‘farewell, Alcmene, keep taking good care of our common interest, and please, take it easy: you see that the months of your pregnancy are completed’). At Amphitruo 664– 8, Sosia jokes that he must have arrived too late for dinner, considering the roundness of his mistress’ stomach. This extended reference to the visibility of her belly continues through line 670, picks back up at 681, and culminates in another joke at 718 – 9: SOS. Amphitruo, redire ad nauem meliust nos. AMPH. qua gratia? SOS. quia domi daturus nemo est prandium aduenientibus. AMPH. qui tibi nunc istuc in mentem est? SOS. quia enim sero aduenimus. AMPH. qui? SOS. quia Alcumenam ante aedis stare saturam intellego. AMPH. grauidam ego illanc hic reliqui quom abeo. SOS. ei perii miser. AMPH. quid tibi est? SOS. ad aquam praebendam commodum adueni domum, decumo post mense,⁴³ ut rationem te ductare intellego … AMPH. et quom [te] grauidam et quom te pulchre plenam aspicio, gaudeo … SOS. Amphitruo, speraui ego istam tibi parituram filium; uerum non est puero grauida. AMPH. quid igitur? SOS. insania.

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SOS. ‘Amphitryon, we had better return to the ship.’ AMPH. ‘Why?’ SOS. ‘Because no one is going to serve us a meal at home when we get there.’ AMPH. ‘Why (do you say that)?’ SOS. ‘Because I take it Alcmene is standing before the house all stuffed.’ AMPH. ‘She was pregnant when I went away and left her here!’ SOS. ‘Oh my, I am done for.’ AMPH. ‘What is wrong with you?’ SOS. ‘I came home just in time to bring her hot water, after nine months, if I understand your calculation correctly.’… AMPH. (to Alcmene): ‘It is a pleasure to see you here, pregnant and nicely filled up.’ … SOS. ‘Amphitryon, I used to hope that she would

 For my reading of Alcmene’s heart–rending song as having a very different effect on the audience than the actor’s costume, compare Moore 2012, 275 – 80, at 275 – 6: ‘There is a decided contrast between the verbal and the visual in this scene. Alcumena sings of virtus and the glory of serving the state, sentiments that are at the heart of mid–Republican ideology. Yet as she sings she is, as Sosia will later point out (667), conspicuously pregnant. Her large belly would both be humorous in itself and would add spicy double–entendres to her frequent references to voluptas (pleasure), and perhaps even to the word virtus… . The song’s metre, however, would encourage a serious rather than farcical effect. If there is parody, it must rely entirely on the visual.’  The similarity between Ovid’s ‘dating’ of the birth to cum…decimum premeretur sidere signum (9.285 – 6) and Plautus’ decumo post mense adds to his allusion to the earlier play, but may be too obviously related to the theme of pregnancy to bear much significance.

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give birth to your son, but she is not pregnant with a boy.’ AMPH. ‘What is she pregnant with?’ SOS. ‘Insanity.’

There are more related gags throughout,⁴⁴ and it is this comically exaggerated version of a pregnant Alcmene that her markedly visual Ovidian description must have recalled. In this context of a joke shared between Plautus and Ovid, the noun auctor— used to describe Jupiter as the ‘instigator’ of Alcmene’s pregnancy at Met. 9.288— gains added significance. First and foremost, its literal meaning of ‘increaser’ adds to the scene’s emphasis on the size of Alcmene’s belly. Yet secondly, we can also read auctor as ‘author’ and understand it as another signpost of intertextuality:⁴⁵ Ovid’s protagonist alerts us that her pregnancy was a literary event ‘written’ by Jupiter and thereby sends us looking for textual parallels. In fact, the word auctor might even be directing us to the specific model Ovid had in mind. As David Christenson has pointed out, Plautus himself likely played the role of Jupiter in the Amphitruo’s original staging.⁴⁶ If that is true, then Ovid might be capping his intertextual invocation of Plautine humour by naming Jupiter/Plautus as the ‘creator’ of Alcmene’s pregnancy. Jupiter/Plautus, after all, ‘created’ the pregnancy both as the author who wrote the play and as the licentious character he portrays. If we accept that the Ovidian Alcmene’s self–description is based on her much–ridiculed Plautine incarnation, then the relevant lines’ immediate effect within this grim tale must have been comic relief. Yet as we have already noted, the Amphitruo is not all comic. As part of the play’s tragic side, there is

 Alcmene’s double pregnancy is referred to at Amph. 103, 109 – 11, 479 – 90, 876 – 9, 1015 – 16, and 1135 – 8. For its funny effect, compare especially Phillips 1984/85.  I am grateful to Julie Hejduk for pointing out the possible existence of an ‘Alexandrian footnote’ in the word auctorem.  Christenson 2000, 1– 2, n. 5: ‘[Friedrich Leo] suggested that Plautus’ career as an actor in Atellan farce is what originally brought him to Rome. If he continued to act in his own plays in Roman theatre—as Livy (7.2.8) asserts playwrights universally did in the time of Livius Andronicus—one supposes that he played the role of Jupiter in [the Amphitruo]. This hypothesis would explain why Amphitryon at the play’s end asks the audience to applaud for Jupiter in particular and also gives additional point to Mercury’s designation of Jupiter as an architectus in the prologue (45).’ On Plautus as an actor, as well as his very name as an allusion to characters he may have played on the stage, see also Leo 1912, 63 – 86; and Gratwick 1973. Following up on Wright 1975, Slater 2000, 97– 120 argues that the playwright’s other roles included Pseudolus (see also Hallett 1993). Hallett 1996, 423 – 4 discusses the possibility that Plautus played the female lead in his Casina. Since this particular matriarch is described as the family’s ‘Juno,’ this role would be an interesting counterpoint to his stint as Jupiter in the Amphitruo.

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also a sense of foreboding that Alcmene might incur precisely the kind of divine wrath we witness in the Metamorphoses. Consider, for example, Amph. 831– 5, where she unwittingly perjures herself, swearing by Juno that she is innocent of adultery.⁴⁷ Ovid’s allusion to Plautus’ Alcmene would have activated these grim associations as well. What we witness at Met. 9.281– 9, then, is how Ovid briefly—and humorously—raises expectations that his story, like Plautus’, could take a turn for the better. Then, he immediately foils these expectations by fully endorsing (and expanding upon) the tragicomedy’s darker undertones. The contrast between the easier, Plautine birth that could have happened, and the Nicandrian pains that Ovid’s Alcmene does suffer, is perhaps most clearly developed in lines 9.292– 4. Here, Ovid shocks his readers by having Alcmene endure seven excruciating days of contractions even as she behaves most clearly like a character of Roman comedy, that is, she calls out to ‘Lucina and the goddesses of birth’ (Lucinam Nixasque pares clamore uocabam, 9.294). The parturient woman’s cry to Lucina, of course, is a stock scene of Roman comedy (e. g.: Plaut. Aulularia 692– 3, Truculentus 476; Ter. Ad. 487, An. 473). If we compare this line to Met. 9.283, where the goddess is called ‘Ilithyia,’ we find an additional hint that Ovid’s choice of the name ‘Lucina’ in the birth scene proper bears significance. By using the goddess’ Latin name where he could have used her Greek alias (as Nicander would have), Ovid reminds us of Plautus’ conflicting account. The resulting contrast between comic vocabulary and tragic events is stark. Its extent becomes more apparent if we consider a structural correspondence between Plautus’ and Ovid’s accounts. In Bromia’s report, the Plautine Alcmene had cried to the gods (nam ubi parturit, deos [sibi] inuocat, ‘for when she went into labour, she invoked the gods,’ Amph. 1061), and the divine epiphany followed immediately (Amph. 1062 – 7, also 1093 – 100). As regards the sequence of events, this is true of the Metamorphoses as well. Yet in the Amphitruo, the god who responds to the call is a benevolent Jupiter now eager to help his unknowing lover. His ultimately benign intentions are stressed repeatedly, both in Bromia’s accounts of the birth and elsewhere.⁴⁸ In Ovid, a malicious goddess appears and Alcmene’s agony is only beginning. It is at this point of intersection between the two works, then, that Ovid seems to be hinting at the deliberate nature of his departure from Plautine tragicomedy. In the Plautine cosmos, the birth of Hercules had been an event to both laugh at and cry about. Ovid quite straightforwardly adopts Plautus’ pregnancy jokes, but when it comes to the birth itself, he decides to abandon the comic side

 Cf. also Amph. 931– 2 with Christenson 2000, 284.  Amph. 479 – 90, 861– 81.

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and expand upon a darker potential not fully realised in the tragicomedy. Appropriately, Alcmene suffers through her birth pangs accompanied by a group of grieving Theban women whose lamentations perhaps not accidentally resemble a tragic chorus (matres Cadmeïdes adsunt, / uotaque suscipiunt exhortanturque dolentem, ‘Cadmeian women are present, swear oaths, and encourage me as I suffer,’ 9.304 – 5). As the narrative now turns to Galanthis, we can note an additional nod to the story’s suspension between the comic and the tragic sides of its tragicomic intertext. Upon Galanthis’ first appearance, she is busily exiting and reentering a building, then notices Lucina seated on an altar (dumque exit et intrat / saepe fores, diuam residentem uidit in ara, Met. 9.309 – 10). This recalls the goings–on in the Plautine theatre, where many entries and exits occur through doors near the back of the stage onto a street equipped, as here, with an altar. In both the Amphitruo and this Ovidian episode, there is only one door, and it belongs to Alcmene’s and Amphitryon’s house. Nor is the door an unimportant prop, in that the play’s plot essentially revolves around the cuckolded Amphitryon’s attempts at reentering his house, and closure is only achieved when he does.⁴⁹ Of course, the single door leading to a stage–like arrangement could recall tragedy just as easily as comedy. This is particularly true since we have already noted the presence of a chorus, which Roman comedy had dispensed with. It has been convincingly argued, however, that tragedies like Euripides’ Alcmene were centred around the nyx makra that resulted in Alcmene’s pregnancy. The conflation of this elongated night with the birth of Hercules is not Euripidean, but Plautus’ contribution.⁵⁰ That we are in fact dealing with lines that have tragicomic—as opposed to exclusively tragic—associations becomes clearer as the Ovidian Galanthis now tricks Lucina into allowing the birth. The servant tells the goddess that she is too late: leuata est / Argolis Alcmene potiturque puerpera uoto (‘Argive Alcmene is (already) relieved of her burden and the woman in labour has had her prayer fulfilled,’ Met. 9.312– 3). This is essentially the tale of an easy birth familiar from the Amphitruo. There, Bromia first acknowledges the conventionality of comedy’s cries to Lucina, then marvels at the ease with which Alcmene gave birth (e. g., Amph. 1092– 100):

 Lowe 2000, 195 and Sharrock 2009, 255, n. 14.  See Stärk 1982, esp. 289 – 303; Collard and Cropp 2008, 100 – 3. The most recent examination of the Amphitruo’s relationship to Euripides’ Alcmene (and other plays, esp. his Protesilaos) is Pelliccia 2010/11.

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ubi utero exorti dolores, ut solent puerperae, inuocat deos immortalis ut sibi auxilium ferant… dum haec aguntur, interea uxorem tuam nec gementem nec plorantem nostrum quisquam audiuimus. ita profecto sine dolore⁵¹ peperit. When the contractions started in her belly, she—as is common for a woman in labour— called upon the immortal gods to assist her … While this was going on, not one of us heard your [Amphitryon’s] wife moan or cry. In fact, she gave birth like this, without pain.

Similarly, Galanthis claims that Hercules’ birth occurred almost immediately after her mistress called out to the birth goddesses. In more ways than one, Ovid has thus turned Galanthis into a Plautine character. First and foremost, she essentially paraphrases the Amphitruo’s nurse. But what is more, she does so with the same motivations as Plautine trickster slaves, who are wont to concoct elaborate fictions in the service of their masters’ pursuits. Within this scheme, Lucina has come to serve as, quite literally, a ‘blocking’ character whose resistance to the plot’s happy resolutions the trickster has to overcome. Yet we need also note that Ovid has already begun to turn these Plautine resonances on their head: Galanthis’ ‘Plautine’ tale is marked as a lie necessitated not by the spirit of frivolity that pervades many of Plautus’ comedies, but by harsh ‘Nicandrian’ realities (mendaci parientem iuuerat ore, ‘she had helped the parturient woman with lying mouth,’ Met. 9.322). This implicitly reduces Plautus’ account to an all–too–benevolent fiction. The metapoetic language that describes Galanthis’ ensuing metamorphosis then makes Ovid’s turn away from the laughs of comedy and to the tears of tragedy explicit (Met. 9.316 – 9): numine decepto risisse Galanthida fama est; ridentem prensamque ipsis dea saeua capillis traxit et e terra corpus releuare uolentem arcuit inque pedes mutauit bracchia primos. They tell me that Galanthis laughed after she deceived the deity, and as she laughed, the savage goddess grabbed her by her very hair, tore her down, kept her from lifting her body off the ground again, and turned her arms into forefeet.

Befitting the ‘comedic’ nature of Galanthis’ trickery, the girl’s first response is laughter. And we might in fact expect that she, like the Plautine trickster slaves,

 Note the significant focus on the presence or absence of dolor in the differing accounts at Amph. 1092/1100 and Met. 9.291, which both connects the two versions and distinguishes them from one another.

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will be rewarded for her loyalty and intelligence. Yet Juno/Lucina and, by association, Ovid do not appreciate such mirth. Galanthis’ transformation into a weasel is notable for its brutality, and it is described as a response not only to her trickery, but also to her laughter (note the repetition of risisse, ridentem at 9.316 – 7). In turn, our narrator, Alcmene, cannot help but moan and cry at the reminder of the servant’s metamorphosis (admonitu ueteris commota ministrae / ingemuit, Met. 9.324– 5; also dolentem, 9.325). Plautus had spared her this response, at least in the end. In an overt instance of metapoetry, Ovid thus completes his embrace of the Amphitruo’s tragic side at the expense of some—though not all—of the tragicomedy’s humour. His grim gods openly punish misplaced ‘comic’ laughter in favour of ‘tragic’ groans and tears.⁵²

Two Metapoetic Prologues If we can now safely assume that Plautine (tragi)comedy numbers among the intertexts to which Ovid alludes in his epic, then we may be ready to take in a wider view. Even if we were unaware (or remain unconvinced) of a specifically Plautine presence, the Birth–of–Hercules passage’s interplay of humorous and sad elements (with a slight preference for the latter) would in some respects still seem representative of the work as a whole. I therefore propose that we now apply our observations to the Metamorphoses’ ‘programme’ in order to arrive at insights on how Ovid’s balancing act between the tragic and the comic plays out in the poem at large. Over the course of this inquiry, we will note that the Amphitruo shines even through the very first lines of the Metamorphoses (1.1– 4): in noua fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora: di, coeptis (nam uos mutastis et illa⁵³)

 For a further hint that Lucina’s behaviour constitutes a turn toward tragedy, we can note that the goddess’ behaviour is outright contradictory. After all, a deity in charge of facilitating birth here goes out of her way to obstruct it (see esp. Met. 9.281– 4). While they do not touch on Alcmene and Lucina in their discussion of tragedy in the Metamorphoses, Gildenhard and Zissos 1999 do posit that precisely such ‘paradox is a vital aspect of the tragic theme–park’ and that ‘some of the most impressive paradoxical fireworks in the Metamorphoses do in fact occur in… episodes deeply implicated in the tragic imagination’ (168).  Part of my interpretation hinges on accepting the variant nam uos mutastis et illa instead of the majority reading nam uos mutastis et illas. Bömer 1969, 13 notes the reading, but prefers illas. William Anderson accepts illa in his Teubner edition of the Metamorphoses, cf. also Anderson 1997, 9, 150 – 1. Richard Tarrant has it in his OCT. Kenney 1976 covers most of the relevant

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adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen. My mind strives to tell of shapes transformed into new bodies. Gods, favour my new undertakings (since you have transformed these as well) and craft one continuous poem from the first beginning of the world down to my own times.

In what follows, we will see how in this notoriously concise proem allusion to Plautus’ Amphitruo blends with resonances of traditional epic, Callimachus’ Aetia, and Ovid’s previous works as the author of the Metamorphoses hints at his poetic programme. He does so while staging the poem’s first⁵⁴ transformation. Ovid had previously been renowned as an elegiac poet, yet it is only once the readers venture beyond the central caesura of the second line that they realise that nam uos mutastis et illa does not scan as the pentameter that constitutes the later half of an elegiac couplet.⁵⁵ Ovid thus embraces the metre of Homer by transforming his poetry into ‘straight–up’ hexameters in what feels like mid sentence.⁵⁶ Yet Ovid immediately calls this new commitment to the Homeric ideal into question. The parenthesis nam uos mutastis et illa (Met. 1.2) recalls the poet’s prior endeavours, even as we realise that we are now reading hexameters.⁵⁷ After all, the half line’s artful combination of metrics and content links back to various metapoetic passages in Ovid’s love poetry. In the opening lines of the Amores, for example, he claims that Cupid stole away a metrical foot from his hexameters and thereby ‘forced’ him to write elegies.⁵⁸ Even as the poet remedies this theft, he thus reminds us that epic is not his only area of interest.⁵⁹

bibliography and refutes all arguments in favour of illas. For more bibliography, cf. also Knox 1986, 23, n. 1 and especially Heath 2011/12.  Heath 2011/12, 191– 2 in fact reads the words mutatas…formas (Met. 1.1) as a transformation of the Greek noun metamorphosis into Latin. Ovid’s own conversion from elegist to epic poet would then be the poem’s second. Compare also Wheeler 1999, 11– 2.  So first Tarrant 1982, 351, n. 35.  On the concept of ‘poetic simultaneity’ that underlies this reading—i. e., ‘the illusion that a poem is really only coming into being as it evolves before the readers’ eyes’ (Volk 2002, 13)—, see particularly Volk 1997. Cf. also the narratological approach of Wheeler 1999, 8 – 33. For poetic simultaneity in the Metamorphoses’ proem, cf. Heath 2011/12.  Cf. Gildenhard and Zissos 2000, 69 – 70.  Am. 1.1.1– 4: arma graui numero uiolentaque bella parabam / edere, materia conueniente modis. / par erat inferior uersus: risisse Cupido / dicitur atque unum surripuisse pedem (‘I was preparing to compose in the heroic mode about weapons and violent wars, and the subject fit my metrics. The second verse was as long [as the first]. Cupid is said to have laughed at this and to have stolen away a [metrical] foot’).

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To this developing tension between two of the Metamorphoses’ constituent genres, we can add Ovid’s similarly ambiguous evocation of another intertext, that is, Callimachus’ programmatic Aetia prologue (fr. 1 Pf.). Before the epic’s opening prepositional phrase in noua is completed at Met. 1.2 by corpora, Ovid seems to be stressing that his endeavour is unprecedented (in noua fert animus translates to ‘my mind strives toward new things’). This can be considered a prominently placed endorsement of Hellenistic poetics. In line four, Ovid then asks the gods to make his work deductum, which strengthens his Callimachean allegiances. After all, the verb deducere (Met. 1.4) had by Ovid’s time become the technical term to describe the composition of ‘fine–spun’ episodic poetry in the Hellenistic mode.⁶⁰ However, in what may seem a contradictory move, Ovid also weaves in an apparent refusal to follow in the Alexandrian’s footsteps. Callimachus had portrayed his opponents as faulting him for spurning the ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεκές (‘one continuous song,’ fr. 1.3) of traditional epic.⁶¹ The perpetuum carmen Ovid embraces at Met. 1.4 is a literal translation of this critical term. By asking the gods to turn his work into an overtly un–Callimachean kind of poem, he puts himself in opposition to his Hellenistic predecessor.⁶² Over the course of the Metamorphoses, this rejection–cum–endorsement of the Alexandrian’s poetics is usually seen to play out as a series of carefully crafted ‘Callimachean’ episodes linked by the broad strokes of epic ‘continuity.’⁶³

 For elegiac elements in the Metamorphoses, cf. n. 11. Gildenhard and Zissos 2000 treat Ovid’s references back to his earlier metapoetical passages. Pace Heath 2011/12, 198, who argues that the opening of the Amores ‘presents us with a quite different scenario.’  For bibliography on the at–times contested significance of λεπτότης (‘fineness’) to Hellenistic poetics, see Hanses 2014, nn. 3 and 4.  For a relatively recent reading of ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεκές as referring to an outdated, Homeric mode of composition, cf. Asper 1997, 217– 24. Alan Cameron understands the term ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεκές as part of an internal debate among elegists about the nature of their poetry, not as a slander against the external genre of Homeric epic. If anything, it faults the cyclic poets’ mode of composition, not the structural choices of the Iliad and Odyssey, cf. Cameron 1995, 339 – 61. The fact remains that Ovid simultaneously embraces two contradictory poetological positions contrasted in the prologue to the Aetia.  On the supposed incompatibility of epic with Callimachus and elegiac metre, see also Ovid’s more explicit comment at Rem. am. 381: Callimachi numeris non est dicendus Achilles (‘Achilles should not be told of in the metre of Callimachus [= elegiac distich]’).  For a similar usage of carmen perpetuum, cf. Hor. Carm. 1.7.6; for a Callimachean call to write a deductum carmen, cf. Verg. Ecl. 6.4– 5, a particularly important intertext since Virgil’s Silenus answers the challenge by singing a song not unlike the Metamorphoses; deducta poemata are at Hor. Epist. 2.1.225; Propertius also uses the words deducta and carmina in the same line at 2.33b.38, although the adjective there does not modify the noun; he does say at tibi saepe nouo deduxi carmina uersu (‘but I often spun songs for you in innovative verse’) at 1.16.41. For this

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Into this mix, I would now like to introduce the Amphitruo. Let us begin by focusing on one Ovidian word that no specific intertext has so far laid incontestable claim to.⁶⁴ Who—we may ask—are the di Ovid apostrophises at Met. 1.2?⁶⁵ They could be Homeric or Virgilian Muses, or the same Amor who originally stole the metrical foot and is now returning it. In the Ars amatoria, Ovid had turned the tables on this winged god and become Cupid’s teacher with some help from Venus.⁶⁶ That goddess too may therefore be a candidate, especially since she reportedly also inspired the composition of Lucretius’ De rerum natura (1.1– 49; right after the proem, Ovid writes of creation, and his language is quite reminiscent of the earlier didact’s discourse). Because of the opening lines’ connection to Callimachus, a prominent position among Ovid’s di has also been ascribed to Apollo, the Alexandrian’s divine interlocutor of preference.⁶⁷ The inclusive plural form of the noun allows for all of these proposals to be true. In fact, a reading that allows for this whole variety of metapoetic deities to be invoked simultaneously would reflect well the multiplicity of genres that are seen to be at play as the Metamorphoses unfolds.⁶⁸ We are therefore hopefully within our rights to suggest that Ovid’s readers could easily have recalled additional gods alongside these other intertextual presences. The divinities of Plautus’ Amphitruo will seem worthy of special consideration once we realise that the metapoetic gods of epic, Hellenistic, and elegiac poetry ‘lag’ in one significant area. While they are all experts at textual metamorphosis, none of them specialises in physical transformation. Yet it is precisely

whole paragraph on (anti–)Callimachean poetics, cf. Bömer 1969, 14– 15; Kenney 1976 = Knox (ed.), 2006, 271– 3; Hopkinson 1988, 91– 2; Anderson 1997, 151; Holzberg 1997, 123 – 6; Barchiesi and Koch 2005, 133 – 45.  Cf. Kenney 1976 = Knox (ed.), 2006, 265: ‘This is an astonishingly brief introduction to an epos over 12,000 lines long; and that very brevity ought to put us on our guard… . We should expect that not a word will be wasted… .’  On the di at Met. 1.2, see most recently Heath 2011/12, with bibliography.  Ov. Ars am. 1.7: me Venus artificem tenero praefecit Amori (‘Venus appointed me the master of tender Amor’), cf. Gildenhard and Zissos 2000, 73. Note also Ov. Ars am. 1.30: coeptis, mater Amoris, ades (‘mother of Amor, assist my undertakings’). The appearance of coeptis here and in the proem of the Metamorphoses supports a connection between the two passages, compare Barchiesi and Koch 2005, 138, but contrast Heath 2011/12, esp. 197– 202.  Callim. Aet. 22; compare Hymn to Apollo 105 – 12. Apollo’s candidacy is also supported by Virgil’s Sixth Eclogue, in which the god pioneers some of the metapoetical vocabulary used in Ovid’s proem and goes on to inspire a ‘metamorphic’ poem, cf. n. 63 and Kenney 1976 = Knox (ed.), 2006, 270: ‘Just as Apollo had intervened to turn Callimachus and Virgil from epic to a different kind of poetry, so the gods—not only Apollo on this occasion but the whole of Olympus… —have saved Ovid from setting his hand to some less auspicious plan.’  See especially Heath 2011/12.

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this dual requirement that the di of the Metamorphoses proem have to meet. After all, Ovid’s concern here is both with the form of his ‘new (poetical) undertakings’ (coeptis, Met. 1.2) and with their subject matter, that is, ‘shapes transformed into new bodies’ (in noua…mutatas dicere formas / corpora, 1.1– 2). We have already seen that the Amphitruo’s gods are experts in the latter, and for precisely the same amorous reasons that will motivate many Ovidian divinities as well. Furthermore, whenever the noun imago (on which see above) is not used to describe their impersonations, forma—present also in the very first line of the Metamorphoses—replaces it, as in Mercury’s explanatory formam cepi huius in med (‘I have assumed his (= Sosia’s) shape,’ Amph. 266, cf. also 441, 456, 600, and 614). An association between the two texts may therefore have suggested itself to readers of the Metamorphoses even from the poem’s very first line. Yet perhaps just as significantly, the Amphitruo not only meets the requirement of featuring ‘physically’ transformative gods. Its divinities also engage with the kind of metapoetic concerns—or ‘textual’ transformations—that are the second ‘requirement’ set by the Metamorphoses’ proem. Like many a comedy, the play opens with a divine speaker who provides the audience with the required contexts. Other Roman examples include the star Arcturus in the Rudens or a Lar familiaris in the Aulularia. The Amphitruo’s Mercury is particularly outspoken about the metapoetic nature of his divine intervention, as he actively converts the play from a tragedy into a comedy and finally into a tragicomedy, much as Ovid notes that his own coepta (Met. 1.2) have been transformed. Before we now turn to the Amphitruo’s prologue and the precise nature of its connection to the Metamorphoses, it is worth noting that the openings of palliatae make for particularly appropriate intertexts amid Ovid’s Callimachean allusions. Alison Sharrock has already pointed out the Ovidian proem’s indebtedness to the language of Terentian prologues. She notes that the comic playwright’s metaphor for beginning a poetic composition, animum…adpulit (‘he dedicated his mind,’ Ter. An. 1), resembles Ovid’s own fert animus (Met. 1.1).⁶⁹ She has also shown how Terence locates himself within the Callimachean tradition, casting himself as the ‘new’ poet to Luscius of Lanuvium’s uetus poeta and describing his compositions as tenuis (‘fine’) and leuis (‘light’), terms that ‘will become significatory motifs of the Roman–‘Callimachean’ poetic programme.’⁷⁰ Comic plays may thus have been the first texts in which Romans engaged in a meaningful manner with Hellenistic poetics. Not unlike the Terentian pro-

 Sharrock 2009, 80.  Sharrock 2009, 75 – 83 (quote at 81) and 2013, 52– 5.

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logues Sharrock discusses, Plautine plays also address their own ‘newness.’ The most relevant example comes from the Amphitruo, where Mercury highlights the unprecedented way in which Plautus has Jupiter appear on stage (i. e., as far more than just a deus ex machina). He then ‘eases[s] the audience into acceptance of [this] novelty’⁷¹ by pointing out that it is certainly an innovation, but not a complete departure from prior theatrical norms (Amph. 89 – 93): quid? ammirati estis? quasi uero nouom nunc proferatur Iouem facere histrioniam; etiam, histriones anno quom in proscaenio hic Iouem inuocarunt, uenit, auxilio is fuit. praeterea certo prodit in tragoedia. What? You are stunned? As though something entirely new were being produced now that Jupiter is assuming a role. Last year, when actors called on him here on stage, he came too and helped them. Furthermore, he certainly appears in tragedy.

Surely, a palliata prologue then has to be taken seriously as a possible metapoetic intertext amid Ovid’s Callimachean echoes. What singles out the Amphitruo’s prologus is not only the play’s concern with enamoured and shape–shifting gods or with ‘Hellenistic’ novelty. Rather, let us take a look at exactly how Plautus’ Mercury performs the kind of generic change that Ovid also describes in the Metamorphoses’ proem. We encounter Mercury as he is about to outline the plot of a play he has just called a ‘tragedy’ (Amph. 52– 63): quid? contraxistis frontem, quia tragoediam dixi futuram hanc? deus sum, commutauero. eandem hanc, si uoltis, faciam ex tragoedia comoedia ut sit omnibus isdem uorsibus. utrum sit an non? uoltis? sed ego stultior, quasi nesciam uos uelle, qui diuos siem. teneo quid animi uostri super hac re siet: faciam ut commixta sit; tragico[co]moedia, nam me perpetuo facere ut sit comoedia reges quo ueniant et di, non par arbitror. quid igitur? quoniam hic seruos quoque partis habet, faciam sit, proinde ut dixi, tragico[co]moedia.

55

60

What? You are frowning because I said this would be a ‘tragedy?’ I am a god, I will transform it. This same play I will turn from a tragedy into a comedy, without even changing the metre. Is that alright or not? But I am being rather foolish, as though I did not know what you want, although I am a god. I get what is on your mind about this matter. I will turn it into a mixed play, into a tragicomedy. After all, I do not consider it fair to have a play that

 Christenson 2000, 156.

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stars kings and gods be a comedy all the way through. What then? Because a slave here also plays a role I will turn it, as I said before, into a tragicomedy.

The two opening passages are connected by both content and word choice. As we have already noted, both the proem of the Metamorphoses and the prologus of the Amphitruo enact a ‘generic’ metamorphosis (from elegy to epic and from tragedy to comedy to tragicomedy, respectively). But what is more, Callimachus’ Apollo only advises such a transformation, while Plautus’ Mercury actively performs it. John Heath has recently argued that it is precisely this active kind of intervention into his poetic endeavour that Ovid highlights with nam uos mutastis et illa, employing as he does ‘an almost accusatorily unnecessary (and thus emphatic) nominative pronoun’ ((2011/12) 200). Matching this initial observation, Plautus’ Mercury and Ovid’s persona employ the same verb to describe the shift in genre, only the later poet supplies the simplex (mutastis, Met. 1.2) for Mercury’s compositum (commutauero, Amph. 53). They also both address the metrical concerns linked to the transformation. Ovid does so via the afore–mentioned strategic placement of nam uos mutastis et illa, Plautus through the ablative absolute omnibus isdem uorsibus (55), also located at line end. And while many other gods may still be included in the group of di addressed at Met. 1.2, we should note that the noun’s presence in the Ovidian line could echo its earlier occurrence at Amph. 61. In both works, the word calls attention to the gods’ double role as enactors of textual and physical metamorphosis and also as actors in the upcoming plot. Readers attuned to complex allusivity could have easily noticed these similarities, particularly if Plautine associations had already been stirred by their memory of Ovid’s prior sojourns in the elegiac genre (which takes its starting point from the New Comic young man unhappily in love) as well as by the Metamorphoses’ overlap in subject matter with the Amphitruo. At this point, we should note that the prominent placement of meis in line three of Ovid’s proem—like the emphatic use of uos—can also factor into a discussion of possible intertexts. There are various, well–established opinions about how the syntax of Met. 1.2b–3a (di coeptis (nam uos mutastis et illa) / adspirate meis) should be construed.⁷² We may take the et of line two as connecting mutastis to adspirate, meaning ‘favour my new beginnings, for you have also transformed them.’ Some prefer to take this et with illa, which would lead us to translate the passage as ‘favour my new beginnings, since you have transformed these as well,’ that is, not just the changed shapes of line one. Or, we

 Cf. Bömer 1969, 13; Barchiesi and Koch 2005, 138 – 40.

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could understand ‘since you have transformed these as well’ to mean ‘not just the opening of the Amores.’ This latter reading would grant particular prominence to the elegiac Amor who enacted prior transformations in Ovidian poetry. Yet none of these options accounts for the special emphasis the possessive adjective meis gains through its enjambment into the next verse and its placement in hyperbaton at the end of its clause. It should be possible to have the et of line two colour our translation of this final word as well. This adjustment would create a contrast between Ovid’s own work and that of another author. Et…meis would then constitute a marker of intertextuality that alerts the reader to an allusion to a text that a) deals with a transformation of genres and b) is external to Ovid’s oeuvre. We would translate ‘favour my new beginnings, since you have transformed these as well,’ that is, ‘not just those of, for example, the Amphitruo.’ Plautus’ ‘active’ Mercury would then not only come close to Callimachus’ ‘inactive’ Apollo in importance, but also to Ovid’s own Amor, who personally enacts transformations, but does so within the Ovidian corpus. As regards its effect, Ovid’s allusion to the Plautine prologue activates the various associations his readership has with the Amphitruo. It thereby helps the poet define the tone of the Metamorphoses. We are made aware that we are entering the world of Plautine mythological farce on top of the realms of Callimachean literary sophistication, Ovidian love stories, and Homeric epic. Ovid evokes the tragicomedy’s ambiguous atmosphere likely to indicate that his stories, too, could turn out either hilarious or sad. Yet at the same time, the poet signposts that, as with any literary model, his endorsement is not complete. The reservations Ovid’s programmatic lines express toward elegy or a Callimachean string of unconnected episodes also apply to Plautine tragicomedy. It is here that we return to verbal parallels between Plautus and Ovid. It turns out that the partial recusatio of Hellenistic poetics expressed in perpetuum deducite…carmen might be as inclusive as the plural di standing in for several gods, or the endorsement of novelty that harks back both to Callimachus and to comic prologues. A rejection of overly strict continuity, after all, plays an important role not only in the Aetia, but in the Amphitruo as well. Accordingly, Ovid’s endorsement of consistency in ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen (Met. 1.4) also contrasts with Plautus’ nam me perpetuo facere ut sit comoedia…non par arbitror (Amph. 61– 2). It is particularly the recurrence of Plautus’ metapoetic adverb perpetuo in Ovid’s perpetuum that suggests a connection between the two passages. Yet the Plautine god does not want the Amphitruo to be a comedy or tragedy perpetuo. He implies that the play, while retaining conspicuous comic features, will oscillate between the two genres before it reaches a supposedly ‘un–tragic’ ending, and he is indeed going to deliver

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on the promise. Ovid, on the other hand, announces that his approach will be more stringent and his tone more consistent throughout. Of course, Ovid does not immediately make clear wherein this greater consistency consists. Readers since Seneca have not been sure whether to laugh or cry at the Metamorphoses. Judging from the intentional ambiguity of the proem, Ovid probably planned to keep us wondering. As is the case with the presence of elegy in the epic, however, the image does sharpen as we venture further into book one. When they evaluate the precise role love poetry plays in the poetics of the Metamorphoses, scholars often focus on Apollo’s infatuation with Daphne. This seems appropriate, since Apollo—like other divinities—is likely included amid the di that populate the proem. And indeed, their comparisons of the primus amor Phoebi (Met. 1.452) to elegy have established that the Ovid of the Metamorphoses pays closer attention to women’s hardships than the authorial persona of his other poems.⁷³ For the influence of tragicomedy, we must also consult a god’s first reappearance. If we accept Mercury’s presence amid Apollo’s transformational ‘colleagues,’ then his return near the end of the first book constitutes a moment of ring composition (Met. 1.668 – 723). We may turn here for greater clarity on the nature of Ovidian tragicomedy. At the point of Mercury’s return, a jealous Juno has dispatched hundred– eyed Argus to prevent all further contact between Jupiter and Io, who has been turned into a cow. Amid several other cases of genre–based intertextuality that inform this passage, Ovid now evokes the Amphitruo to recreate the play’s uneasy balance between comic and tragic components. As regards the tragic side, Ovid has already made us pity Io. In fact, her sorrows have been described as so unbearable as to stir Jupiter into action: nec superum rector mala tanta Phoronidos ultra / ferre potest, (‘and the leader of the gods could not bear the great evils of Io any longer,’ Met. 1.668 – 9). To alleviate the situation, he sends Mercury down from Olympus to liberate the girl (letoque det imperat Argum, ‘and [Jupiter] ordered [Mercury] to kill Argus,’ Met. 1.670). It is Jupiter’s wavering between taking sexual advantage of a mortal lover, recognising the tragic quality of her plight, and, ultimately, involving Mercury in her rescue, that first recalls his sojourn on the Plautine stage. There, Plautus’ Jupiter assured the audience that—as we have noted before—he is aware of Alcmene’s plight and would not allow events to turn out too ‘uncomic,’ even though he sets out to exploit her once again (Amph. 867– 72):⁷⁴

 See n. 11 above, as well as the nuanced discussion of women in Ovid at Volk 2010, 81– 94.  Compare also Amph. 88, 96, 486 – 95.

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nunc huc honoris uostri uenio gratia, ne hanc incohatam transigam comoediam. simul Alcumenae, quam uir insontem probri Amphitruo accusat, ueni ut auxilium feram: nam mea sit culpa, quod egomet contraxerim, si id Alcumenae in innocentiam expetat.

870

I have now come here out of respect for you, lest I leave this comedy unfinished. I have also come to help Alcmene, whom her husband Amphitryon accuses of adultery, even though she is innocent; for it would be my fault—since I have engineered this—if it should haunt innocent Alcmene.

These Plautine echoes intensify as Ovid’s Mercury, like his Doppelgänger on the stage, now dons a costume in service of his father’s interests. While he initially still wears his winged sandals and hat and carries the ‘sleep–inducing’ caduceus (uirgam…somniferam, Met. 1.671– 2), Mercury sheds this traditional dress so Argus will not recognise him. He retains only one identifying feature: tantummodo uirga retenta est (‘he only held on to the wand,’ 1.675). This is reminiscent of his attire in the Amphitruo, where he is disguised to look just like the slave Sosia. Plautus’ Mercury retains only his ability to induce sleep,⁷⁵ as well as some small feathers in his hat that help the audience tell the two characters apart (ego has habebo usque in petaso pinnulas, Amph. 143). Both in Plautus and in Ovid, Mercury’s return in disguise follows upon a prior appearance in an overtly metapoetic opening and is motivated by violence: Plautus’ costumed Mercury spends the play’s first scene elaborately confusing Sosia, beating him up, and ultimately chasing him away.⁷⁶ Similarly, Ovid’s Mercury has put on a costume to commit murder. The resemblances between the two passages may well have been

 Some instances of his putting Sosia (and others) to ‘sleep’ are at Amph. 298 (hic pugnis faciet hodie ut dormiam, Sosia: ‘he will make sure with his fists that I sleep tonight’), Amph. 303 – 4 (iam pridem uidetur factum heri quod homines quattuor / in soporem collocastis nudos, Mercury: ‘it seems to have been a while since yesterday when you robbed four men naked and put them to sleep’), and Amph. 313 (quid si ego illum tractim tangam, ut dormiat? Mercury: ‘What if I work on him for a while until he falls asleep?’). As regards ‘visual’ resemblances between the two Mercuries, Anderson 1997, 214 notes that Ovid favours tegumen over the Plautine petasus when speaking of Mercury’s winged hat. This observation could lead us to assume that Ovid is going out of his way not to evoke comic intertexts in this scene. However, Plautus’ Mercury wears a petasus not as part of his traditional attire, but because it makes him resemble the slave Sosia (see Amph. 140 – 5, 443; note that Amphitryon and Jupiter also wear petasi [Amph. 144– 5]; the word recurs at Plaut. Pseud. 735). At the very least, we should note that the Ovidian and Plautine passages were similar enough to suggest a comparison to W. Anderson, even if he ultimately dismissed any similarities. On the petasus, see also Marshall 2006, 58 – 9.  Amph. 153 – 463. See also Amph. 606, 608, and the quotations in n. 75.

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close enough to suggest Plautine contexts to the Ovidian reader. In particular, I suspect that Ovid’s hexameters activated visual memories of recent re–performances of the Amphitruo, where Augustan audiences could have seen a similarly dressed Mercury star in a tragicomic play. To support our thesis that such an allusion to the Amphitruo could have recreated the play’s tension between tragic and comic components, we can turn to an additional intertext evoked in the relevant lines. Ovid’s costumed Mercury goes on to impersonate a shepherd in ways that recall pastoral poetry in general, and Virgil’s Eclogues in particular. Aside from tending to goats, Mercury notably plays the reed flute (structis cantat auenis, Met. 1.677) familiar from Tityrus’ performance at Ecl. 1.2 (siluestrem tenui Musam meditaris auena, ‘you play a pastoral tune on a slender reed’) and elsewhere in the bucolic poems.⁷⁷ The first Eclogue of course mourns the losers of Rome’s recent civil strife even as it celebrates the city’s brighter future. The result is a suspension between melancholy and optimism that is not incompatible with what we posit is the tragicomic tone that colours both the Amphitruo and this Ovidian episode. Plautine and bucolic echoes could, then, be mutually reinforcing. Befitting his tragicomic intertext, Ovid—who has already elaborated on his story’s sadder side—now moves away from Io’s plight and delivers on his comic promise. The tale of Mercury–in–disguise starts out quite humorous and continues to be metapoetically self–referential. The god assumes the role of the poet and begins an Ovidian tale of a nymph’s metamorphosis. Ironically, he thereby succeeds in putting the monster to sleep (1.689 – 716).⁷⁸ Of course, a trickster’s usurpation of the poet’s role is a standard element of Plautine comedy.⁷⁹ Appropriately, the atmosphere, to this point, is light–hearted, even tongue–in–cheek. We might expect that this particular tragicomedy, like its Plautine predecessor, will now lead to a perhaps still slightly sour, but ultimately acceptable ending. The switch back to the tale’s tragic side is therefore quite sudden and surprising (Met. 1.717– 9): nec mora, falcato nutantem uulnerat ense qua collo est confine caput, saxoque cruentum deicit et maculat praeruptam sanguine rupem.

 See Barchiesi 2006, esp. 410.  See Barchiesi 2006, 411– 3, especially for sleep as a marker of bucolic poetry.  The most famous example of this very common comic feature is in Plautus’ Pseudolus; see Wright 1975; Slater 2000, esp. 97– 120, 139 – 47; Jenkins 2005; and Sharrock 2009, 116 – 62.

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When [Argus] was nodding off, [Mercury] immediately slashed him with his hooked sword, right where the head is attached to the neck, and as [Argus] bled out, [Mercury] pushed him off the rock, and he smeared the steep cliff with blood.

This scene’s brutality contrasts quite strongly with the humour that, in the preceding lines, recalled comedic and bucolic intertexts. Accordingly, the Ovidian narrator goes on to clarify his gloomier perspective with an apostrophe to Argus that again borders on the metapoetic (Met. 1.720 – 1): Arge, iaces, quodque in tot lumina lumen habebas, exstinctum est, centumque oculos nox occupat una.

720

Argus, there you lie, and what light you had in so many eyes is extinguished, and the darkness of one night covers a hundred eyes.

The comic element that ultimately overcame the darker side of Plautus’ tragicomoedia is here upstaged by an authorial call to recognise the greater sadness of Ovid’s poetic world. Of course, the tragic tone of this instructive two liner has at times been questioned. For example, Anderson comments that the narrator ‘does not express any particular grief, but displays funereal wit with an epigram.’⁸⁰ While the passage certainly does not lack intellectual depth, Anderson has omitted that we are dealing with another allusive conflation of source passages. After disappointing our Plautine expectations with the murder of Argos, Ovid casts the end of the episode in Catullan tones. He does so by alluding to the famous uiuamus atque amemus passage of Catullus 5 (4– 6):⁸¹ soles occidere et redire possunt: nobis cum semel occidit breuis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda.

5

Suns can set and rise again, but once our brief light has gone out, there is just one night, and we have to sleep it out forever.

The two passages share a concern with the suddenness of death, prominent light imagery, and a point of direct intertextual contact in the expression nox una. The Catullan call to enjoy even questionable affairs before they are ended by death

 Anderson 1997, 218. Barchiesi and Koch 2005, 227 also focus on the funny side of ‘un gioco etimologico greco.’ The passage’s multivalent phrasing—note, e. g., the various plays on light/ eye(sight) vs. darkness/blindness that are triggered by the opening vocative’s (Arge) etymological connection to the adjective ἀργός (‘bright[–eyed]’)—to my mind manages to alert us to the author’s sophistication without undermining the lines’ rueful tone.  Barchiesi and Koch 2005, 227 also notice an ‘eco distorta di Catullo.’

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thus carries over into Met. 1.721 and comes to serve as a sobering motto for the Ovidian poem. Of course, we might object that Ovid could instead be giving a lighter sense to the Neoteric poet’s gloomy lines by applying them to an inappropriately amusing situation. However, Juno considers the slaughter of Argos gruesome enough to warrant sending a Fury after Io (obiecit Erinyn, 1.725). There is darkness in Ovid’s apostrophe to Argus, then, and the episode as a whole had perhaps best be described as tragicomic. Io’s story does eventually take a turn for the better. She is transferred back into her original form and receives divine honours, as does her father. However, as in the Amphitruo, a bitter aftertaste here most definitely remains. While Plautine allusion contributed to this effect, we do have to note that the sad side of the story has asserted a more consistent (perpetuo / perpetuum) hold on the Ovidian narrative than was the case in the original tragicomoedia: Ovid’s characters have to descend much deeper into tragedy than Plautus’. At the beginning of this paper, we made similar observations concerning Ovid’s Birth of Hercules. We have, then, been able to observe Ovid’s Metamorphoses engage the Amphitruo in a manner both varied and consistent. The poet repeatedly alludes to the drama as he plays a sophisticated (and sustained) game with his readers’ expectations. Starting with his poem’s first lines, Ovid creates a tragicomic tension between his cosmos’ funny and serious elements that sometimes resolves into true humour, sometimes into tragedy. As our expectations are foiled time and time again (and we are entertained), we note that in spite of all similarities of tone between the two tragicomedies, Ovid deliberately outdoes Plautus on the tragic side. If a pregnant Alcmene faces accusations of adultery and outright ridicule from her fellow Plautine characters, then this may, in fact, be quite distressing for her. It does not, however, compare to the ordeal she has to undergo in book nine of the Metamorphoses or such disproportionate violence as the slaughter of Argos. This interplay between sad and humorous elements is, of course, not limited to the lines we have examined here, but representative of the Metamorphoses as a whole. I hope to have shown how Ovid at times relies on allusion to Plautus (amid a multitude of other authors) to effect his epic’s countless shifts in mood, tone, and generic allegiances. In closing, we may therefore wonder if the Amphitruo’s continued popularity and relevance into Ovid’s day could suggest that the play served as more than merely a convenient mine for intertextual allusions. Instead, it could have even been one of the epic’s main sources of original inspiration. Its prominent presence in the Metamorphoses’ proem would support this theory. Ovid could have appreciated the Amphitruo’s distinctive concern with sex and mythological transformations, genre, personhood and identity,

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laughter and tears, and expanded it to ‘epic’ proportions. His own emphases, of course, were slightly different from Plautus’ (perhaps in part because he is an–‘epic’–poet, not a comic playwright), so Ovid made sure to highlight that his poetics more fully embraced the model’s tragic side. As Seneca noticed, this does not mean that Ovid abandoned such Plautine humour as Alcmene’s voluminous pregnancy altogether: significantly, the noun ineptiae that Seneca uses to describe the Metamorphoses’ ‘absurdities’ numbers among the metatheatrical terms that palliata characters use to describe the comic plots they star in. Ancient literature’s first tragicomedy may thus join earlier epic, elegy, and Hellenistic poetry as a text that influenced the Metamorphoses both as a frequent object of allusion and as a model for its general tone and subject matter.

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—. (1998), ‘Invective and Comedic Allusion: Cicero, In Pisonem, fragment 9 (Nisbet)’, in: Latomus 57, 570 – 7. Hunter, R. L. (1985), The New Comedy of Greece and Rome, Cambridge. James, S. L. (1997), ‘Slave–Rape and Female Silence in Ovid’s Love Poetry’, in: Helios 24, 60 – 76. —. (2012), ‘Elegy and New Comedy’, in: B. K. Gold (ed.), A Companion to Roman Love Elegy, Malden. Jenkins, T. E. (2005), ‘At Play with Writing: Letters and Readers in Plautus’, in: TAPhA 135, 369 – 92. Jones, C. P. (1993), ‘Greek Drama in the Roman Empire’, in: R. Scodel (ed.), Theater and Society in the Classical World, Ann Arbor, 39 – 52. Kenney, E. J. (1976), ‘Ovidius Prooemians’, in: PCPS 22, 46 – 53 = Knox (ed.), (2006), 265 – 73. Knox, P. (1986), Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Traditions of Augustan Poetry, Cambridge. —. (2006), (ed.), Oxford Readings in Ovid, Oxford. Lada–Richards, I. (2013), ‘Mutata corpora. Ovid’s Changing Forms and the Metamorphic Bodies of Pantomime Dancing’, in: TAPhA 143, 105 – 52. Lefèvre, E. (1982), Maccus Vortit Barbare. Vom tragischen Amphitryon zum tragikomischen Amphitruo, Wiesbaden. —. (1995), Plautus und Philemon, Tübingen. Leigh, M. (2004), ‘The Pro Caelio and Comedy’, in: CPh 99, 300 – 35. Leo, F. (1912), Plautinische Forschungen zur Kritik und Geschichte der Komödie, 2nd edn., Berlin. Lowe, N. J. (2000), The Classical Plot and the Invention of Western Narrative, Cambridge. Manuwald, G. (2011), Roman Republican Theatre, Cambridge. Marshall, C. W. (2006), The Stagecraft and Performance of Roman Comedy, Cambridge. McKeown, J. C. (1989), Ovid Amores. Text, Prolegomena and Commentary in Four Volumes, vol. 2, Leeds. Miller, J. F. (1993), ‘Ovidian Allusion and the Vocabulary of Memory’, in: MD 30, 153 – 64 = Knox (ed.), (2006), 86 – 99. Müller, R. (2013), ‘Terence in Latin Literature from the Second Century BCE to the Second Century CE’, in: A. Augoustakis and A. Traill (eds.), A Companion to Terence, Malden, 363 – 79. Moore, T. J. (2012), Music in Roman Comedy, Cambridge. O’Bryhim, S. (2007), ‘Catullus 23 as Roman Comedy’, in: TAPhA 137, 133 – 45. Pelliccia, H. (2010/11), ‘Unlocking Aeneid 6.460: Plautus’ Amphitryon, Euripides’ Protesilaus, and the Referents of Callimachus’ Coma’, in: CJ 106, 149 – 219. Phillips, J. E. (1984/85), ‘Alcumena in the Amphitruo of Plautus. A Pregnant Lady Joke’, in: CJ 80, 121 – 6. Rosivach, V. J. (1980), ‘Lucretius 4.1123 – 40’, in: AJPh 101, 401 – 3. Schmidt, E. A. (2003), ‘Die Tragikomödie Amphitruo des Plautus als Komödie und Tragödie’, MH 60, 80 – 104. Segal, E. (1987), Roman Laughter. The Comedy of Plautus, 2nd edn., New York. Sharrock, A. (2009), Reading Roman Comedy. Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence, Cambridge. —. (2013), ‘Terence and Non–Comic Intertexts’, in: A. Augoustakis and A. Traill (eds.), A Companion to Terence, Malden, 52 – 68.

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Shero, L. R. (1956), ‘Alcmena and Amphitryon in Ancient and Modern Drama’, in: TAPhA 87, 192 – 238. Slater, N. W. (2000), Plautus in Performance. The Theatre of the Mind, 2nd edn., Amsterdam. Solodow, J. B. (1988), The World of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Chapel Hill. Stärk, E. (1982), ‘Die Geschichte des Amphitryonstoffes vor Plautus’, in: RhM 125, 275 – 303. Stewart, Z. (1958), ‘The Amphitruo of Plautus and Euripides’ Bacchae’, in: TAPhA 89, 348 – 73. Tatum, J. (1983), Plautus. The Darker Comedies. Bacchides, Casina, and Truculentus, Baltimore. Tarrant, R. J. (1982), ‘Editing Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Problems and Possibilities’, in: CPh 77, 342 – 60. Thomas, R. F. (1986), ‘Virgil’s Georgics and the Art of Reference’, in: HSCPh 90, 171 – 98. Tissol, G. (1997), The Face of Nature. Wit, Narrative, and Cosmic Origins in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Princeton. Uden, J. (2006), ‘Embracing the Young Man in Love. Catullus 75 and the Comic ‘Adulescens’’, in: Antichthon 40: 19 – 34. Volk, K. (1997), ‘Cum carmine crescit et annus. Ovid’s Fasti and the Poetics of Simultaneity’, in: TAPhA 127, 287 – 313. —. (2002), The Poetics of Latin Didactic. Lucretius, Vergil, Ovid, Manilius, Oxford. —. (2010), Ovid, Malden. Wheeler, S. M. (1999), A Discourse of Wonders. Audience and Performance in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Philadelphia. Wiseman, T. P. (2002), ‘Ovid and the Stage’, in: G. Herbert–Brown (ed.), Ovid’s Fasti: Historical Readings at Its Bimillennium, Oxford, 275 – 99 = Wiseman, T. P. (2008), Unwritten Rome, Exeter, 210 – 30. Wright, J. (1975), ‘The Transformations of Pseudolus’, TAPhA 105, 403 – 16.

A. Augoustakis

Plautinisches im Silius? Two Episodes from Silius Italicus’ Punica ¹ Abstract: This paper explores certain Plautine, comic elements and features in two episodes from Silius Italicus’ Punica, in books 7 and 11. Venus’ role in both books is a prominent one: in book 7, the poet narrates the origins of the Trojan war and by extension the Punic wars themselves; in book 11, Venus brings about the downfall of Hannibal, when she sends her sons, the Cupids, to Capua to prolong the stay of the Carthaginians in Campania. The extensive stay of the enemy there will turn the army into a slothful mass and incapacitate them in the last years of the war. Silius exploits stereotypes for the Carthaginians from Plautus’ Poenulus while reversing them. In addition, Silius utilises the central role of Venus in comedies, such as the Poenulus and secondarily the Rudens, as the goddess and her temple are catalysts for the denouement of the plot. Finally, Hannibal’s downfall at Capua is completed when he succumbs to the power of music and song, as the inhabitants of the Capuan city prepare a ludus scaenicus for the entertainment of their new allies. The powerful general turns into a Plautine miles gloriosus, who is ultimately enfeebled and defeated. Keywords: Silius Italicus, Plautus, comedy, epic, ethnic stereotypes, Venus, Hannibal, Capua, Proteus In a famous description of Hannibal’s character at the opening of the narrative of the Second Punic War, Livy paints the portrait of the Carthaginian general with some flattering traits as well as some common stereotypes which one finds proliferated through Latin literature: Hannibal is well-liked by his troops, he is bold and daring (plurimum audaciae ad pericula capessenda, plurimum consilii inter ipsa pericula erat, ‘he was excessively bold in incurring dangers, excessively judicious in the midst of them,’ Liv. 21.4.5), he is tough in withstanding all types of extreme natural conditions, such as hot and cold weather, or needs sustaining the human body, such as sleep and rest or sexual desires. And yet Livy adds one more sentence where Hannibal’s ingentia uitia overturn any uirtutes described above: inhumana crudelitas, perfidia plus quam Punica, nihil ueri, nihil sancti, nullus deum metus, nullum ius iurandum, nulla religio (‘inhuman cruelty, perfidy more than normal for a Carthaginian, no regard for truth, for sanctity, no fear of

 I would like to thank Mathias Hanses for his helpful suggestions.

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the gods, no reverence for oaths, no religious scruple,’ 21.4.9). As D. S. Levene correctly observes in his most recent study of Livy’s narrative of the Second Punic War, the historian is clearly influenced by the portraits of Catiline and Jugurtha as sketched by Sallust respectively in his two historiographical monographs (Cat. 5.1–4 and Jug. 7.4–5);² the Carthaginians, and Hannibal in particular, are stereotyped ‘in terms which assume their distance from proper (Roman) values.’³ The phrase Punica fides exemplifies Punic perfidy and is contrasted to the Roman virtue of fides or πίστις, thus serving ‘most advantagesouly to advance the Romans’ self-image as a people who honoured their commitments and kept to their word, who protected their allies, and took on the role of koinoi euergetai for all.’⁴ Such stereotyping does not originate with Livy, but is encountered, for instance, in the Rhetorica ad Herennium (4.20) and Cicero (Inu. 1.71, Leg. Agr. 2.95, Scaur. 42, Off. 1.38) and can be traced back perhaps to Ennius⁵ and certainly to Plautus’ Poenulus. In the prologue to the Poenulus, the audience is first exposed to Hanno, the Carthaginian in search of his long-lost daughters, an astute man:⁶ ita docte atque astu filias quaerit suas. et is omnis linguas scit, sed dissimulat sciens se scire: Poenus plane est. quid uerbis opust? (Plaut. Poen. 111–3) In this way he looks for his daughters cleverly and smartly. He also knows all languages, but he knowingly pretends not to know: he’s an out-and-out Carthaginian.⁷

Hanno is cast as the benevolent Carthaginian who would do anything to find his daughters, Adelphasium and Anterastilis, even if this means that he has to hire prostitutes and ask each one of them about their background, hoping to be led to an answer concerning his own offspring. Hanno is thus a dissimulator who only

 Levene 2010, 99–103. See also Gruen 2011, 115–40, esp. 132. On the emergence of racism from Greco-Roman imperialist politics, see Isaac 2004, 324–35 on the Carthaginians.  Levene 2010, 216. On Punic crudelitas, calliditas, and fraus, cf. Liv. 22.48.1, 26.17.25, 27.33.9, 30.22.6 with Leven 2010, 216.  Gruen 2011, 115 and n. 1 for further bibliography. As Gruen points out, ‘the concept of Punica fides in Roman thinking emerged late, after the destruction of Carthage, and the phrase itself later still (at least in our extant sources).’  If the expression Poeni foedifragi found in Cic. Off. 1.38 is Ennian; see Skutsch 1985, 781–2 and Gruen 2011, 132–3.  Maurach 1975, 152–3.  For Plautus, I have the text and translation by De Melo 2012; for Silius, I have used Delz for the Latin text and a modified translation from Duff 1934.

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becomes one in order to achieve his goals. In the course of the comedy, Hanno is portrayed as a shrewd man, who understands Latin but hides it carefully and to a comic effect (990–1034).⁸ The expected stereotypical representations of the other in ancient literature are adapted and applied to Hanno too: for instance, the miles gloriosus, Antamynides, describes the Carthaginian as effeminate, smelly, wearing funny foreign attire, and being of low-class (1298–318). In the Poenulus, ethnic slurs against the Carthaginians are partly pronounced by the slave of the main protagonist, Agorastocles, named Milphio. Agorastocles’ slave, accuses Hanno as a ‘swindler and a trickster … double-tongued creature, with a forked tongue like a creeping beast’ (sycophantam et subdolum / … migdilix, / bisulci lingua quasi proserpens bestia, 1032–4). He repeats the characterisation of Hanno as a trickster by aligning the role of the slave as the architectus doli with that of a foreigner, famous for his deception: eu hercle mortalem catum, malum crudumque et callidum et subdolum! ut adflet, quo illud gestu faciat facilius! me quoque dolis iam superat architectonem. (Plaut. Poen. 1107–10) Goodness, a tricky mortal, bad and unfeeling and clever and wily! The way he’s accompanying it with tears so as to make it easier to carry out! Me too, the master builder, he already surpasses with his guiles.

And in 1125, Milphio the slave is again cast as the praestrigiator hic quidem Poenus probust (‘this Carthaginian is a clever trickster’). Moreover, an attack on Hanno’s manliness, which is clearly juxtaposed to the Roman way of real macho men, mares homines, is not at all unexpected, especially coming from the fooled soldier of the play, Antamynides: ligula, i in malam crucem! tune hic amator audes esse, hallex uiri, aut contrectare quod mares homines amant? deglupta mena, sarrapis, sementium, manstruca, halagora, sampsa, tum autem plenior ali ulpicique quam Romani remiges. (Plaut. Poen. 1309–14) You shoelace, go and be hanged! Do you dare to be a lover here, you dregs of a man, or to touch what men love? You skinned sprat, Persian tunic, mantle, sheep-skin coat, salt mar-

 On bilingualism considered as an advantage by the Romans but as a vice when applied to Carthaginians, see Gruen 2011, 128–9, Bettini 2012, 3 – 31 and cf. Virg. Aen. 1.661 and Sil. 16.156–7.

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ket, crushed olive, and more stuffed with common and Phoenician garlic than Roman rowers!

The reader does not fail to notice the use of peculiarly rare words to describe the unique nature of Hanno’s unnatural, in the eyes of the rejected soldier, liaison with a young girl, such as Anterastilis. As Erich Gruen observes, however, Hanno ‘defies the caricatures; he is a man of erudition, understanding, and forgiveness whose determined search for his kidnapped daughters culminates in success, the comeuppance of the wicked, and a happy ending.’⁹ Gruen’s interpretation of Hanno’s character represents one side of modern critical approaches to the play. On the other end of the spectrum, one finds an intensive questioning of the character of the Carthaginian and the values he represents. For instance, in his analysis of the character of Hanno, George Franko has tried to demonstrate that the Carthaginian father is not such an innocent, pious character, the best of the foreigners in Plautine comedy, as it had previously been pointed out.¹⁰ Franko brings to the surface the ambiguities in the portrayal of Hanno by Plautus. Conversely, Lisa Maurice seeks to reevaluate Hanno both as a positive and an ambigously sinister character, one that is fully enmeshed in the theme of deception that runs through the play. Hanno ‘emerges as the supreme victorious figure in the comedy … not because he is virtuous… but because he is clever, crafty and a superb actor, which is exactly what a Roman audience would have expected from a Poenulus whose specialty is tricky deception.’¹¹ To be sure, Hanno is a complex figure, as it has been widely recognised by critics with a more balanced approach to Plautus’ play.¹² Plautus manipulates Greek, Roman, and Punic stereotypes for a comic effect, and the most striking feature of a play like the Poenulus is that the playwright ‘could toy whimsically with such a figure, parodying purported Punic practices while puncturing Roman prejudices, within just a decade of the Hannibalic war.’¹³ Certainly Plautus’ Poenulus is one of the first extant sources for our understanding of Roman perceptions of Carthaginian otherness, and many Latin authors follow in the comedian’s footsteps in offering often an one-sided portrayal of the once powerful people.¹⁴ It is intriguing, however, that such stereotyping persists and becomes rather strong in the first century CE, in the poetry of Silius

 Gruen 2011, 127. See also Waldherr 2000, 210 on the ‘satirisch-komischen Elementen.’  Franko 1996; cf. Maurice 2004, 267–9.  Maurice 2004, 269 and 288.  See, e.g., Starks 2000 and Gruen 2011, 128–9.  Gruen 2011, 128.  Still useful materials are found in Burck 1943, Prandi 1979, and Devallet 1996.

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Italicus, who composes a poem on the Second Punic War, in which he idealises the success of the Romans to conquer the Carthaginians in the heyday of the Roman republic. It is true that Silius follows in a line of Roman epic poets, such as Virgil, Ovid, and Lucan, from whose poems he draws, adapts, and freely changes materials that belong to the high genre of epic poetry. This paper will try to explore certain Plautine, comic elements and features in two episodes from Silius Italicus’ Punica, in books 7 and 11.¹⁵ Venus’ role in both books is a prominent one: in book 7, the poet narrates the origins of the Trojan war, the iudicium Paridis, and by extension the Punic wars themselves; in book 11, Venus brings about the downfall of Hannibal, when she sends her sons, the Cupids, to Capua to prolong the stay of the Carthaginians in Campania. The extensive stay of the enemy there will turn the army into a slothful mass and incapacitate them in the last years of the war. Silius exploits stereotypes for the Carthaginians from Plautus’ Poenulus while reversing them. In addition, Silius utilises the central role of Venus in comedies, such as the Poenulus and secondarily the Rudens, as the goddess and her temple are catalysts for the denouement of the plot. In Silius, however, Venus plays the additional role of the Urmutter of the Romans, and as such she protects their interests; in Plautus, she represents the Greek goddess of love, whose cult of Venus Erycina (Venus, guardian of the prostitutes) is imported in Rome and incorporated into the Roman pantheon. Finally, Hannibal’s downfall at Capua is completed when he succumbs to the power of music and song, as the inhabitants of the Capuan city prepare a ludus scaenicus for the entertainment of their new allies. The powerful general turns into a Plautine miles gloriosus, who is ultimately enfeebled and defeated.

Hannibal’s astus and dissimulatio Just like Hanno, Hannibal is portrayed as the cunning general whose astus is coupled with the lack of fides ¹⁶ and the customary neglect of justice: ingenio motus auidus fideique sinister is fuit, exuperans astu, sed deuius aequi.

 The influence of (Roman) comedy on Roman epic is not easily detected and quite rightfully heretofore neglected by critics: a notable exception is Anderson 1981 on Aeneid 4; see also Hanses in this volume on Plautus and Ovid, as well as his forthcoming work on Statius. Especially on the affinities between Statius’ Achilleid and comic intertexts, given the topic of Achilles’ cross-dressing, see Heslin 2005 passim and Fantuzzi 2012, 71–89.  On Hannibal’s perfidia in Silius, see Thomas 2001; cf. the brothers at 14.287– 91 who combine Tyrian cunning and Sicilian fickleness.

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armato nullus diuum pudor: improba uirtus et pacis despectus honos, penitusque medullis sanguinis humani flagrat sitis. (Sil. 1.56–60) By nature he was eager for action and untrustworthy, a past master in cunning but a strayer from justice. Once armed, he had no respect for the gods: he was brave for evil and despised the glory of peace; and a thirst for human blood burned deep in the marrow of his bones.

Even though astus can be both positive and negative, it is presented here at first as an ambiguous trait, which swiftly acquires dark overtones by means of its coupling with the characterisation deuius aequi.¹⁷ In fact, cunning can be found on both sides of the war. In book 5, for instance, Corvinus advises Flaminius against rush action at Lake Trasimene, which of course the Roman commander does not heed: bellandum est astu; leuior laus in duce dextrae (‘one must fight with cunning; valour is less praiseworthy in a commander,’ 5.100). And furthermore, astus in war is a characteristic of the Greeks as well, as one is reminded by Marus, Regulus’ friend and companion during the First Punic War. In the flashback of book 6, when Marus recounts Regulus’ accomplishments in Africa during the First War, he portrays the Spartan Xanthippus as another Hannibal in terms of his astus: iam Martem regere atque astus adiungere ferro et duris facilem per inhospita ducere uitam haud isti, quem nunc penes est sollertia belli, cederet Hannibali. (Sil. 6.307–10) In the art of war, in combining the sword with cunning, in enduring hardship and contriving to exist in an unfriendly country, he was not inferior to that other one, Hannibal!

The Spartans defeat Regulus on African soil, and Xanthippus’ strategem is conducive to the glory of the Greco-Carthaginian alliance.¹⁸ And yet later in the book, when Silius talks about Fabius’ election to the dictatorship to save the Roman affairs from further destruction after Trasimene, the Flavian poet makes Jupiter modify the Cunctator’s description not as cunning, but as non astus fallax, non praeda aliusue cupido (‘he will be proof against artful devices and desire of plunder or any other passions,’ 6.615). The epithet fallax precisely

 See Spaltenstein 1986, 11–3.  On Regulus’ characterisation in book 6, see Augoustakis 2010, 156–95 and 2014, 255 – 8.

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distinguishes Fabius from Hannibal: the insubordinate Minucius urges absent Hannibal at the end of book 7, after his foolish breaking of the Cunctator’s policy and disastrous engagement with the enemy, to stop his well-known cunning and artful strategems (tuque dolos, Poene, atque astus tandem exue notos, ‘and you, Carthaginian, abandon finally your well-known tricks and deceits,’ 7.744). In the uncertain, dangerous world of the Second Punic War, when alliances are very fickle and short-term, Carthaginian astus and fallacia are easily spread and contaminate even former Roman allies, such as Capua. A certain Pacuvius, who becomes instrumental in having the Campanian city defect to the Carthaginians, utilises cunning to ‘assault’ a city already prone to treachery and averse to loyalty (astu adgressus, 11.55). Finally, because of his insistence on fighting Carthaginian astus through his famous delay tactiques, Fabius denounces Scipio’s intent to attack Hannibal in the last years of the war by means of astus as a non-Roman practice: tu consul abire / a uictore paras hoste atque auellere nobis / scilicet hon astu Poenum? (‘Do you, a consul, intend to leave behind a victorious foe and by this device, of course, to tear the Carthaginian from our throats?’ 16.636–8). It is striking that now Scipio wants to appropriate cunning as one of his methods in order to force Hannibal to leave Italian soil and thus transfer the war to Africa. Astus can have dangerous, potentially disastrous, effects on a campaign. It helps Hannibal prolong his stay and the war for many years, but it can easily be impugned upon those Romans who may want to try another policy to defeat the enemy. Fabius loses, Scipio wins: cunning and calculated manoeuvres finally outsmart even the astute Carthaginian. In fact, as Hannibal’s forces are weakened and the war is swiftly coming to an end, the Carthaginian’s ability to act as dissimulator but also to conceal his true feelings is severely hampered. After the battle at Metaurus and the death of his brother Hasdrubal, one of the most important resources during the final years of the war, Hannibal’s reaction is telling. The Romans, and the general Claudius Nero in particular, display Hasdrubal’s head on a pole and disparage Hannibal with humiliating words, to which Hannibal reacts with dissimulatio:¹⁹ compressit lacrimas Poenus minuitque ferendo constanter mala et inferias in tempore dignas missurum fratri clauso commurmurat ore. tum castris procul amotis, aduersa quiete dissimulans, dubia exclusit certamina Martis. (Sil. 15.819–23)

 On this final scene of the book, see extensively Augoustakis 2003.

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Hannibal suppressed his tears and made the disaster less by bearing it bravely. He vowed under his breath that in due time he would yet sacrifice fit victims to his brother’s shade. In the meantime, he concealed his reverse by inaction, by removing the camp far away and by avoiding the risks of battle.

Inaction (quies) undermines Hannibal’s ability to be an effective dissimulator. The fact that he removes the camp and he himself now becomes a delayer, like Fabius in the past, speaks volumes of the general’s potential to win the war. Silius’ depiction of the Carthaginian’s astus and dissimulatio presents to the reader a steadily weakening Hannibal, who unlike Hanno employs the Punic traits ultimately to his disadvantage.

Proteus and the Judgment of Paris Given that the connection between perfidia and its concommitant characteristics (dissimulatio, astus, fides Punica) is well established is Latin literature, beginning with Plautus and reflected throughout as we have noted above, let us now look at two specific episodes from the Punica where one can detect comic overtones in the presentation of the materials by Silius. The seventh book could be quickly summarised as Fabius’ moment of glory, the result of his famous cunctatio and the salvation of the Roman army from the rush actions of the magister equi, Minucius. As an interlude, Silius inserts an episode that involves a prophecy concerning the immediate future in store for the Romans down to the defeat of Hannibal by Scipio. Terrified by the appearance of Punic quinqueremes in the bay of Naples, the nymphs ask for Proteus’ help (7.409–34) who explains to them the outcome of the war and thus calms them down (435–93). The prophecy is not traditional nor expectedly bound by generic requirements, especially since Jupiter has already exposed to Venus the future in store for the Romans from the Second Punic War to the ascent of the Flavians to power (3.557–629).²⁰ As Joy Littlewood observes, ‘the framing narrative of Proteus and the Nereids has all the characteristics of a metapoetic pastoral… It is clear that Nereus’ antics are a literary game (lusit, 423) in which the seer must appear to have frightened the Nereids before he consents to deliver his vatic message.’²¹ Littlewood correctly identifies the pastoral, epyllic, and epic intertexts for the episode of the Judgment of Paris as narrated by Proteus, especially the Catullan

 See most recently Fucecchi 2012 and Augoustakis 2014 for further bibliography.  Littlewood 2011, 163. Cf. also Perutelli 1997.

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and Virgilian parallels. Proteus’ portrayal, however, resonates with dramatic representations of the god, especially in pantomime: is postquam (sat gnarus enim rerumque metusque) per uarias lusit formas et terruit atri serpentis squamis horrendaque sibila torsit aut fremuit toruo mutatus membra leone… (Sil. 7.422–5) He knew well the cause of their alarm; but first he eluded them by taking various shapes: he frightened them in the likeness of a black and scaly snake; he hissed horribly; again he changed into a fierce lion and roared.

As Littlewood notes, the ‘significant word here is lusit (423) which Virgil uses of his poet-shepherd, Silenus … (Ecl. 6.19).’²² As Thomas Habinek and most recently Ismene Lada Richards emphasise, quoting a passage from Lucian (Salt. 19), Proteus’ transformations resemble the movements made by a pantomime.²³ ‘This is exactly what Silius’ Proteus does when he ‘acts out’ the transformation described by other poets in order to support the validity of his prophetic calling with literary credentials.’²⁴ Proteus’ prophecy itself is loaded with pastoral and elegiac overtones: the bucolic setting of the landscape where ignorant Paris plays his pipes (437–40) is soon upset by the arrival of Venus’ amatory chariot, accompanied by her sons, the Cupids: snow-white swans drag the chariot; one Cupid carries a tiny quiver and a golden bow (443–5), while the other combs his mother’s hair (446), and a third puts the girdle around her robe (447). Venus then addresses her sons and promises them a great victory, in a non-challant way nevertheless: ‘testis certissima uestrae ecce dies pietatis adest. quis credere saluis hoc ausit uobis? de forma atque ore (quid ultra iam superest rerum?) certat Venus. omnia paruis si mea tela dedi blando medicata ueneno, si uester, caelo ac terris qui foedera sancit, stat supplex, cum uultis, auus: uictoria nostra Cypron Idymaeas referat de Pallade palmas, de Iunone Paphos centum mihi fumet in aris.’

 Littlewood 2011, 171.  Habinek 2005, 280 n. 44 and Lada Richards 2013, 118–20.  Littlewood 2011, 171–2.

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‘Behold, the day has come that will prove beyond all doubt your love for your mother. Who would dare to believe that while you still live, the claim of Venus to the prize for beauty is contested? What worse thing remains to happen? If I gave to my children all my arrows steeped in delicious poison, if your grandfather, he who gives the laws to heaven and earth, stands a suppliant before you when so you please, then let my triumph bear back to Cyprus the palm of Idume won from Pallas; let the hundred altars of Paphos smoke for my conquest of Juno.’

Venus’ assertion of power over all beings threatens to uproot cosmic order by mentioning even Jupiter’s subjection to the power of love. This elegiac Venus seems out of place in the martial context of the Punica. And yet the comic effect produced by the presence of the Cupids and an all mighty Aphrodite in charge of the action converge in taking the scene a step further. The judgement of Paris,²⁵ which is itself confined to two hexameters (nec iudex sedisse ualet; fessique nitoris / luce cadunt oculi, ac metuit dubitasse uideri, ‘the judge could not sit still; his eyes, dazzled by the brilliance of her beauty, sank to the ground, and he feared that he might seem to have been ever in doubt,’ 470–1), is the cornerstone towards the creation of the empire: Aeneas will found Rome, and Rome will beat Carthage, in the context of the Punica, itself an epic following in the footsteps of Virgil’s Aeneid (Dido is the connecting link between Aeneas, Rome, and Carthage; 488). Thus Venus of elegy is now appropriated by Venus of epic, as the goddess takes over the role we saw fulfilled by Jupiter in book 3, when in his prophecy he allays his daughter’s fear for the future of the Aeneadae. At the same time, however, the opus grande of epic enterprise is serious undercut by Venus’ comic assertion that the events as they will unfold, with their cosmic repercussions, are ultimately connected with a beauty contest: de forma atque ore (quid ultra / iam superest rerum?). Venus’ power has been threatened, and therefore, she has to reconfirm and stalibise her sphere of control. The goddess resembers the typical Plautine architectus doli, as she promises that victory will be the outcome of her schemes. More precisely, however, beauty is a key-feature in Plautus’ Poenulus, where the two kidnapped girls, Adelphasium and Anterastilis, are led to the temple of Venus to become prostitutes on the very day (265–70) that Hanno re-discovers them.²⁶ When they come back from the temple, Adelphasium reels over the wonderful day experienced by the girls that day:

 On the scene of the Judgment and the prophecy, see Ripoll 2000 and Augoustakis 2014 for further discussion.  On the role of Venus in the play, see Galinsky 1969 and Fantham 2004.

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ADE. fuit hodie operae pretium cuiuis qui amabilitati animum adiceret, oculis epulas dare, delubrum qui hodie ornatum eo uisere uenit. deamaui ecastor illi [ego] hodie lepidissima munera meretricum, digna diua uenustissima Venere, neque contempsi eius opes hodie. tanta ibi copia uenustatum aderat, in suo quique loco sita munde. aras tus, murrinus, omnis odor complebat. hau sordere uisust festus dies, Venus, nec tuom fanum: tantus ibi clientarum erat numerous quae ad Calydoniam uenerant Venerem.

1176a

1179a 1180a

(Plaut. Poen. 1174–81) ADE. It was worthwhile today for anyone who pays attention to beauty to give food to his eyes, for anyone who came there today to see the decorated shrine. I was delighted there today with the really pleasing gifts of prostitutes, worthy of the most charming goddess Venus, and I didn’t despise her powers today; such a great amount of lovely things was there, all put neatly in their place. Incense and the odor of myrrh and everything filled the altars. The feast day didn’t seem mean, Venus, and neither did your shrine: such a great number of female devotees was there, who had come to the Venus of Calydon.

Anterastilis then boasts that the two sisters were the best and stood out in the crowd, when Adelphasium immediately undercuts her assertion to beauty: ANT. ut uolup est homini, mea soror, si quod agit cluet uictoria; sicut nos hodie inter alias praestitimus pulchritudine. ADE. stulta, soror, magis es quam uolo. an tu eo pulchra uidere, obsecro, si tibi illi non os oblitumst fuligine? (Plaut. Poen. 1192a–4) ANT. How pleased is man, my dear sister, if what he does is renowned for victory; just as we stood out in beauty among the others today. ADE. My sister, you’re more stupid than I’d wish. Please, do you consider yourself beautiful just because your face wasn’t besmirched with ash there?

Victoria is the objective set in Anterastilis’ mind by the conventions of the ritual of Venus.²⁷ In a play, in which cupido is in the centre of action, driving forward the plot (cf. Agorastocles’ passion, 196–9), Venus also receives a prominent role in the background: she is the goddess of prostitutes who protects the ‘devotees’

 See Maurach 1975, 364.

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of her temple,²⁸ she is the one who upsets the pimp’s, Lycus’, sacrifices (449–67). Furthermore, the temple of Venus is a key feature in the denouement of the Rudens, where Ampelisca and Palaestra find refuge and protection under the tutelage of the goddess’ priestess, Ptolemocratia. As Eleanor Leach has observed, in the Rudens, ‘the temple first seen from the edge of the sea becomes the centre of the landscape as the goddess herself becomes the central figure in the mythical pattern of the story.’²⁹ If the familiarity of Plautus’ audience with the goddess both as protectress of prostitutes (Venus Erycina) but also as the ensurer of chastity and matronhood (Venus Erycina in Rome, Venus Verticordia), then perhaps Silius’ presentation of the goddess is meant to recall the importation of the the cult of Venus from Sicily to Rome during the Second Punic War (217 and later 181) and the establishment of her worship in the city then, as he does, for instance, in the case of the Magna Mater, whose importation at the end of the war ensures the end of the long strife and Hannibal’s departure for Africa in Punica 17.³⁰

Hannibal at Capua After the destructive battle at Cannae, victorious Hannibal finds refuge in Capua, the city which ultimately defects to the Carthaginian side and provides a safe haven for Hannibal’s soldiers to spend the winter there. Capua, however, proves to be a dangerous location for the Carthaginians, because of its luxurious enchantments, which slowly creep into the hearts of the formerly stout-hearted soldiers to make them slothful and therefore prone to be conquered.³¹ For a while Hannibal loses his epic persona to discover one that is more akin to the pastoral, elegiac world: exin uictor ouans sedato pectore tandem spectandis urbis tectis templisque serenos laetus circumfert oculos et singula discit: quis muris sator, et pubes sit quanta sub armis, quot bello pateant argenti aerisque talenta,

 See Lietz 2012 on the cult of Venus Erycina, protectress of prostitutes, throughout the Mediterranean world (with emphasis on the religious nature of prostitution, in p. 206).  On the role of Venus in the play, see Leach 1974, 920; on Venus in the Rudens, see also Amatucci 1950.  See Augoustakis 2010, 230–7.  On Capua as the place of luxuria and a turning-point towards the defeat of Carthage, see Augoustakis 2010 with further bibliography and (forthcoming).

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nunc qualis frenata acies, nunc deinde pedestris copia quanta uiris. monstrant Capitolia celsa Stellatesque docent campos Cereremque benignam… instituunt de more epulas festamque per urbem regifice extructis celebrant conuiuia mensis. ipse, deum cultu et sacro dignatus honore praecipuis multoque procul splendentibus ostro accipitur sublime toris… stupet inconsuetus opimae Sidonius mensae miles faciemque superbi ignotam luxus oculis mirantibus haurit. uescitur ipse silens et tantos damnat honores esse epulis facilesque coli tanto agmine mensas, donec pulsa fames et Bacchi munera duram laxarunt mentem. tum frontis reddita demum laetitia, et positae grauiores pectore curae. (Sil. 11.259–66, 270–4, 280–7) Thereupon the conqueror’s rage at last sank to rest. Calm and well-pleased, in triumph he turned his gaze upon the buildings and temples of the city, and learned one thing and another–who was the founder of the city, how many men they had under arms, how many talents of silver and copper were available for war, the quality of their cavalry, and lastly the number of their infantry. They showed him their lofty citadel and told him of the Stellatian plain with its bountiful harvests … Then the citizens made a feast as their manner was; the city kept holiday, and banquets were held at tables piled with regal splendour. Hannibal himself, adorned like a god and received with divine honours, was placed high upon a seat of honour covered with far-shining purple … The soldiers of Carthage unaccustomed to such banquets, were astonished and drank in with wondering eyes that unfamiliar scene of lavish display. Hannibal himself kept silence while eating, disapproving the splendour of the feast and the great retinue that ministered to a need so easily satisfied; but, when he had eaten enough, the gift of Bacchus softened his harsh mood. Then at last he regained a cheerful aspect and laid aside his pressing anxieties.

In the Poenulus, as part of the plan to cheat the pimp Lycus of the Carthaginian girls, the overseer Collybiscus is employed as bait. An advocate is called in to witness the pimp’s illegal activities, who pretends to be a foreigner who is led into hospitium to enjoy love: COL. sed ita assimulatote quasi ego sim peregrinus. ADVO. scilicet, et quidem quasi tu nobiscum adueniens hodie oraueris liberum ut commonstraremus tibi locum et uoluptarium ubi ames, potes, pergraecere. (Plaut. Poen. 600–3)

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COL. But pretend that I’m a stranger myself. ADVO. Of course, and that on your arrival today you asked us to show you a free and pleasurable place where you could make love, drink, and live in Greek style.

Collybiscus pretends to be a soldier so that the witnesses catch the pimp Lycus red-handed (non sum nequiquam miles factus, ‘I didn’t become a soldier for nothing’). In fact, in a standard comic fashion, Lycus offers Collybiscus all the comforts available to have a good time at his brothel: COL. ego id quaero hospitium, ubi ego curer mollius, quam regi Antiocho oculi curari solent. LYC. edepol ne tibi illud possum festiuom dare, siquidem potes esse te pati in lepido loco, in lecto lepide strato lepidam mulierem complexum contrectare—COL. is, leno, uiam. LYC. —ubi tu Leucadio, Lesbio, Thasio, Chio, uetustate uino edentulo aetatem irriges; ibi ego te repplebo usque unguentum geumatis; quid multa uerba? faciam, ubi tu laueris, ibi ut balneator faciat unguentariam. COL. I’m looking for the kind of hospitality where I’m taken care of more gently than the eyes of King Antiochus. LYC. Yes, I can give you that charming sort of thing, if indeed you can bear being in a delightful place and fondling a delightful lady in your embrace on a delightfully laidout couch— COL. You’re on the right track, pimp. LYC. —where you can lubricate your life with wine from Leucas, Lesbos, Thasos, and Chios, wine which is toothless from old age. There I’ll keep filling you with tasters of perfumes; what need is there for words? I’ll see to it that where you’ve bathed there the bathman will open a perfume store.

Collybiscus is treated like a typical comic symposiast led to the enjoyment of pleasure, Venus. Like any soldier exposed to the disastrous effects of luxury and the blandishments of comfort, Hannibal gives in, though he first resists what Capua has to offer. Wine becomes a catalyst, and Hannibal’s mollification is brought about by the liquid and Venus’ intervention: nec Venerem interea fugit exoptabile tempus Poenorum mentes caeco per laeta premendi exitio et luxu corda importuna domandi. spargere tela manu passim fallentia natis imperat et tacitas in pectora mittere flammas. (Sil. 11.385–9)

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In the meantime, Venus did not miss the welcome opportunity to destroy the discipline of the Carthaginians by the insidious weapon of pleasure and to tame their fierce hearts by luxury. She bids her children scatter their invisible arrows broadcast and kindle unseen fires in every breast.

In a reversal of roles, Venus now assumes a Juno-esque role from Virgil’s Aeneid and calls upon the Cupids’ aid once again to inspire the Carthaginians with love for luxuria and passive inactivity. Wine is coupled with various pleasures, Silius indicates, as the Cupids make Capua their playground and Hannibal himself their target. Finally the siege of Hannibal and the Carthaginians is finished off by means of a ludus scaenicus: Haec postquam Venus, adplaudit lasciuus et alto mittit se caelo niueis exercitus alis. sentit flammiferas pubes Maurusia pennas, et pariter fusis tepuerunt pectora telis. Bacchi dona uolunt epulasque et carmina rursus Pieria liquefacta lyra. non acer aperto desudat campo sonipes, non ulla per auras lancea nudatos exercet torta lacertos. mollitae flammis lymphae languentia somno membra fouent, miserisque bonis perit horrida uirtus. ipse etiam, adflatus fallente Cupidine, ductor instaurat mensas dapibus repetitque uolentum hospitia et patrias paulatim decolor artes exuit, occulta mentem uitiante sagitta. altera iam patria atque aequo sub honore uocatur altera Carthago Capua, intactumque secundae fortunae ingenium uitia adlectantia quassant. nec luxus ullus mersaeque libidine uitae Campanis modus: accumulant uariasque per artes scaenarum certant epulas distinguere ludo, ut strepit assidue Phrygiam ad Nilotica loton Memphis Amyclaeo passim lasciua Canopo. (Sil. 11.410–31) When Venus spoke thus, her sportive infantry clapped their snowy wings and flew down from high heaven. The Moorish soldiers felt the fiery arrows, and their hearts were melted in a moment by that shower of bolts. They call for wine and dainty food, and for a repetition of song that sounds sweet to the musician’s lyre. No mettled horse now sweats on the open plain; no lance, hurled to a distance, tasks the bare arm. They bathe their limbs, drowsy with sleep, in water heated over the fire; and their stern valour is sapped by the bane of luxury. Even Hannibal, breathed upon by a deceitful Cupid, piles high the festal board and courts the hospitality of eager hosts, until by degrees he grows degenerate and discards the virtues of his race; for his mind was poisoned by the unseen arrow. Capua is now a second

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home to him: he calls it a second Carthage and honours it as much; and the character which victory could not hurt is shuttered by the seductions of vice. For the men of Capua set no limits to the luxury and profligacy of their lives: they went further and further. Using various arts, they sought to set off their banquets by means of stage-plays: so Memphis on the Nile resounds ever with the Phrygian flute and matches Spartan Canopus in its revelry.

Silius set the surrounding landscape according to the generic demands of the elegiac episode: the army of Cupids moves in to suspend epic action: everything lies around dulled; war is out of place, and so become the weapons and horses used to that effect. Then the elegiac trope is continued by the presence of wine and inebriation: this is the moment of the ultimate defeat, when Hannibal himself succumbs to pleasure. But then the stage changes: the doubling of Capua, as it becomes another Carthage, and vice versa, is tragic, as Hannibal becomes a Pentheus who sees double and acts with doubles. Capua is the twin of Carthage and even replaces Carthage in their minds and hearts. And its inhabitants use the art of drama, tragicomedy to complete the surrender: scenarum … ludo. What is this reference here then? The simile that follows makes it clear that Canopus is Spartan, because of Menelaus’ stay in Egypt and Helen’s adventures there as an eidolon, an image (another reference to substitutes). Is this then an allusion to the tragi-comedy Helen of Euripides? Hannibal is taken in and entertained, like a guest in a hospitium. He is enchanted by Capua’s luxuria, uitia, and artes. Rome’s enemy par excellence is portrayed in the stereotypical fashion of the foreigner trapped by civilisation and its concommitant pleasures. As such, he resembles Hanno’s portrait in the Poenulus, but also that of Collybiscus, the Roman slave who plays the role of the peregrinus in hospitio. And yet the dramatic ludus that is meant to entice Hannibal soon comes to a halt, yielding to the all-powerful might of epic song. Teuthras from Cuma performs a second song:³² inprimis dulcem, Poeno laetante, per aures nunc uoce infundit Teuthras, nunc pectine cantum. isque ubi mirantem resonantia pollice fila ductorem uidit Libyae, canere inde superbas Aoniae laudes sensim testudinis orsus, concordem citharae mouit per carmina linguam uincere linquentes uitam quae possit olores. (Sil. 11.432–8)

 On Teuthras’ songs, see Augoustakis (forthcoming) and Littlewood 2014 with further bibliography.

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Teuthras above all charmed Hannibal, filling his ears with sweet music both of the voice and of the instrument; and he, when he saw the general marveling at the sound his fingers drew from the strings, began by degrees to set forth the splendid triumphs of the Aonian lyre; and he sang in unison with the music in a voice that might surpass the dying swan.

Teuthras’ song intervenes to reinstate epic poetry over comic, dramatic art. The interlude of Hannibal’s sojourn has transgressed the boundaries of epic: like a digression typical in Silius’ historical poem, be it geographic or ethnographic, this episode has the characteristics of comedy, with the powerful general turning into a fooled, Plautine miles gloriosus, who is ultimately enfeebled and defeated. The finalisation of Hannibal’s surrender, however, is only possible through the intervention of epic performance, not any ludus scaenicus. Any intertexts used by Silius are subordinated to the needs of his poetry, which without doubt, even though at times with Plautine overtones, remains deeply dedicated to the generic demands of singing the κλέα ἀνδρῶν.

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Storico)’, in: T. Baier (ed.), Götter und menschliche Willensfreiheit von Lucan bis Silius Italicus, Munich, 235–54. Galinsky, G. K. (1969), ‘Plautus’ Poenulus and the Cult of Venus Erycina’, in: J. Bibauw (ed.), Hommages à M. Renard, Brussels, 1, 358–64. Gruen, E. (2011), Rethinking the Other in Classical Antiquity, Berkeley. Hanses, M. (forthcoming), ‘Statius uortit barbare: The Achilleid between Epic and Dramatic Intertexts’. Heslin, P. J. (2005), The Transvestite Achilles: Gender and Genre in Statius’ Achilleid, Cambridge. Isaac, B. (2004), The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity, Princeton. Lada-Richards, I. (2013), ‘Mutata corpora: Ovid’s Changing Forms and the Metamorphic Bodies of Pantomime Dancing’, in: TAPhA 143, 105–52. Leach, E. W. (1974), ‘Plautus’ Rudens: Venus Born from a Shell’, in: Texas Studies in Literature and Language 15.5, 915–31. Levene, D. S. (2010), Livy on the Hannibalic War, Oxford. Lietz, B. (2012), La Dea di Erice e la Sua Diffusione nel Mediterraneo: Un Culto tra Fenici, Greci e Romani, Pisa. Littlewood, J. (2014), ‘Loyalty and the Lyre: Constructions of fides in Hannibal’s Capuan Banquets’, in: A. Augoustakis (ed.), Flavian Poetry and its Greek Past, Leiden, 267 – 85. Maurach, G. (1975), Plauti Poenulus: Einleitung, Textherstellung und Kommentar, Heidelberg. Maurice, L. (2004), ‘The Punic, the Crafty Slave and the Actor: Deception and Metathreaticality in the Poenulus’, in: T. Baier (ed.), Studien zu Plautus’ Poenulus, Tübingen, 267–90. Perutelli, A. (1997), ‘Sul Manierismo di Silio Italico: Le Nimfe Interrogano Proteo (7.409-493)’, BStudLat 27, 470–8. Prandi, L. (1979), ‘La ‘fides punica’ e il Pregiudizio Anticartaginese’, in: CISA 6, 90–7. Ripoll, F. (2000), ‘Réécritures d’ un Mythe Homérique à travers le Temps: le Personnage de Pâris dans l’ Épopée Latine de Virgile à Stace’, in: Euphrosyne 28, 83-112. Spaltenstein, F. (1986), Commentaire des Punica de Silius Italicus (livres 1 à 8), Geneva. —. (1990), Commentaire des Punica de Silius Italicus (livres 9 à 17), Geneva. Skutsch, O. (1985), (ed.), The Annals of Quintus Ennius, Oxford. Starks, J. H. (2000), ‘Nullus me est hodie Poenus Poenior: Balanced Ethnic Humor in Plautus’ Poenulus’, in: Helios 27, 163–86. Thomas, J-F. (2001), ‘Le Thème de la Perfidie Carthaginoise dans l’Oeuvre de Silius Italicus’, in: VL 161, 2–14. Waldherr, G. H. (2000), ‘‘Punica Fides’–das Bild der Karthager in Rom’, in: Gymnasium 107, 193–222.

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List of Works Books 1.

Carmen de ponderibus et mensuris, Introduction, Édition critique et commentée, Strasbourg 1979 (PhD thesis), pp. viii + 450. 2. Recherches sur le Carmen de ponderibus et mensuris, Ioannina 1983, Dodone, Supplementary Volumes no 19. 3. Archimède, Ménélaos d’Alexandrie et le ‘Carmen de ponderibus et mensuris’, Ioannina 1989, Dodone, Supplementary Volumes no 29. 4. Φιλοστράτεια A′. Έρευνες στη χειρόγραφη παράδοση των φιλοστράτειων Eπιστολών, Ioannina 1992. 5. Φιλοστράτεια B′. Έρευνες στη χειρόγραφη παράδοση των φιλοστράτειων Eπιστολών, Ioannina 1997. 6. K. Π. Kαβάφη, Mελαγχολία τοῦ Ἰάσωνος Kλεάνδρου, ποιητοῦ ἐν Kομμαγηνῇ· 595 μ.X. Ερμηνευτική προσέγγιση, Ioannina 2001. 7. H Mέλισσα και ο Λυκάνθρωπος: Mια αλληγορία της πολιτικής σύγκρουσης στα χρόνια του Nέρωνα, Ioannina 2001. 8. Χειρόγραφα και ‘σκιές’ χειρογράφων από το Ανατολικό Ζαγόρι, Ioannina 2006. 9. Eλληνική Γραμματεία των Aυτοκρατορικών χρόνων. Εισαγωγή – Επισκόπηση – Ανθολογία, Ioannina 2012 (revised and expanded version) 10. Σενέκα Φαίδρα. Εισαγωγή – Κριτική έκδοση – Μετάφραση – Ερμηνευτικά θέματα, Ioannina 2013 (revised and expanded version).

Editorials, class notes et al. 11. Gjon Shllaku _ D. K. Raïos, Sofokliu. Vepra e Plotë, Tiran 1995 (the first ever edition of Sophocles in Albanian). 12. (ed.), Η πνευματική ζωή στο Ρωμαϊκό Κόσμο από το 14 ως το 212 μ.Χ. Στ΄ Πανελλήνιο Συμπόσιο Λατινικών Σπουδών, Ιωάννινα 11 – 13 Απριλίου 1997, Πρακτικά, Ioannina 2001 (with the prologue, pp. xv–xviii). 13. Pωμαϊκή Kωμωδία – Πλαύτου Mέναιχμοι, Ioannina 2006 (reprint). 14. Λατινικό Mυθιστόρημα. Πετρώνιος – Aπουλήιος, Ioannina 2010 (reprint). 15. (ed.) Dodone: Philologia 38 and 39 (2009 – 2010), ‘In memoriam Εμμανουήλ Παπαθωμόπουλου’, Ioannina 2012.

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Articles (a selection) 16. “Fragment de lettre byzantine: P. Strasb. 676 (no d’inv. P. gr. 1333)”, Papyrus grecs de la Bibliothèque Nationale et Universitaire de Strasbourg (= Pap BNUS), V–4, Strasburg 1978, 121. 17. “Fragment concernant la ‘uestis militaris’: P. Starsb. 695 (no d’inv. P. gr. 567)”, Pap BNUS, V–5, Strasburg 1979, 152– 4. 18. “Location de terres: P. Strasb. 704 (no d’inv. P. gr. 703)”, Pap BNUS VI–1, Strasburg 1980, 9 – 11. 19. “Remarques sur D. R. Shackleton Bailley, ‘Notes on Riese’s Anthologia Latina’ no 486”, Dodone 13 (1984) 419 – 26. 20. “L’invention de l’hydroscope et la tradition arabe”, Greco–arabica 5 (1993) 275 – 86. 21. “Nέα στοιχεία για την παράδοση και την πατρότητα επιγράμματος του Ψευδο–Φιλόστρατου”, Dodone 18 (1989) 181– 94. 22. “Tοπωνυμικά I”, Dodone 19 (1990) 225 – 65. 23. “H πραγματεία του Mενέλαου από την Aλεξάνδρεια για την ανάλυση των μεταλλικών κραμάτων και η Aραβική παράδοση”, Dodone 20 (1991) 77– 93: “Menelaus Alexandrinus et Remmius Fauinus revisitati, I”. 24. “La forme exacte de la balance décrite dans le Carmen de ponderibus et mensuris de Remmius Fauinus. ‘A propos d’une publication récente”, Dodone 20 (1991) 94– 100: “Menelaus Alexandrinus et Remmius Fauinus revisitati, II”. 25. “Aντιδώρου αντίλογος ή περί δεοντολογίας και μεθοδολογίας λόγος”, Dodone 20 (1992) 229 – 43. 26. “Autour de la date des Sphériques de Ménélaos d’Alexandrie”, Hellenika 45 (1995) 33 – 47. 27. “Carmen de ponderibus et mensuris: Mια πολύτιμη πηγή για την ιστορία της αρχαίας Eπιστήμης και Tεχνολογίας”, Πρακτικά Α′ Διεθν. Συνεδρίου με θέμα την Aρχαία Eλληνική Tεχνολογία, Θεσσαλονίκη (EMAET) 1997, 157– 68 28. “Eπιστήμη, τεχνολογία και Πολιτική στα χρόνια της Pωμαϊκής αυτοκρατορίας: η περίπτωση του Δομιτιανού και του Mενέλαου από την Aλεξάνδρεια”, Φιλοσοφία, Eπιστήμες και Πολιτική. Συγκομιδή προς τιμήν του Oμ. Καθηγ. Eυτ. Mπιτσάκη, Athens 1998, 379 – 402. 29. “Melissa Tarentina (Mέλισσα η Tαραντίνη): Petronii Satyricon 61, 6 – 8”, Η Mέλισσα και τα προϊόντα της, Athens 2000, 112– 31. 30. “La date de Héron d’Alexandrie: témoignages internes et cadre historico– culturel”, Autour de la Dioptre d’Héron d’Alexandrie. Actes du Colloque International de Saint–Étienne (17, 18, 19 juin 1999), Saint–Étienne 2000, 19 – 36.

List of Works

279

31. “Autour de la paraphrase du Carmen de ponderibus et mensuris”, Science antique et science médiévale (autour d’Avranches 235). Actes du Colloque international (Mont–Saint–Michel, 4 – 7 septembre 1998), Hildesheim 2000, 299 – 318. 32. “H editio princeps της πλανούδειας μετάφρασης του De Trinitate: Προβληματισμοί και προτάσεις”, Βελλά ΕΕΑΕΑ Bελλάς Iωαννίνων 1 (2001) 49 – 109. 33. “Melissa et Versipellis (Petronii Satyr. 61– 62): Ένα απαρατήρητο ζευγάρι αντιθετικού συμβολισμού”, Η πνευματική ζωή στο Ρωμαϊκό Κόσμο από το 14 ως το 212 μ.Χ. Στ΄ Πανελλήνιο Συμπόσιο Λατινικών Σπουδών, Ιωάννινα 11 – 13 Απριλίου 1997, Πρακτικά, Ioannina 2001, 213 – 67. 34. “Γλωσσογεωγραφικά από το Γρεβενίτι. Διορθώσεις και προσθήκες στον ALiA, I”, ΗπΓρ. 2003, 133 – 76. 35. “Το αίνιγμα του Προλόγου των Μεταμορφώσεων του Απουλήιου – Το Παραμύθι του Έρωτα και της Ψυχής”, ΗπΓρ. 2004, 431– 70. 36. “Eλληνορωμαϊκά μέτρα και σταθμά”, ΗπΓρ. 2005, 131– 56. 37. “Η ταυτότητα και η εποχή του Πετρώνιου. Η αναβίωση μιας παλιάς φιλολογικής έριδας”, ΗπΓρ. 2005, 141– 55. 38. “Σενέκας και Απόστολος Παύλος: Η απόκρυφη αλληλογραφία τους”, Βελλά ΕΕΑΕΑ Bελλάς Iωαννίνων 2 (2003), 265 – 318. 39. “Διδακτικά εγχειρίδια: Διαπιστώσεις και προτάσεις”, Γλώσσα και Λογοτεχνία στη Δευτεροβάθμια Εκπαίδευση, Ιωάννινα 16 – 17 Μαΐου 2003, Ioannina 2004, 465 – 83. 40. “Ο δαίμων της κενοδοξίας του Ιωάννου του Χρυσοστόμου, τα θηρία των επιθυμιών του Δίωνος Χρυσοστόμου και η Λάμια του Φιλόστρατου”, Βελλά ΕΕΑΕΑ Bελλάς Iωαννίνων 4 (2007), 509 – 80. 41. “Τοπωνυμικά. Βελτιώσεις και προσθήκες στο Τοπωνυμικό της περιοχής Ζαγορίου”, ΗπΓρ. 2007, 467– 94. 42. “Ποικίλα κριτικά και ετυμολογικά”, Dodone 38 – 39 (2012), 76 – 124. 43. “Genus Amazonium scias! Η αμαζόνια καταγωγή του Ιππόλυτου και η ‘Γεωγραφία’ της Φαίδρας του Σενέκα”, Πρακτικά του Η’ Πανελλήνιου Συμποσίου Λατινικών Σπουδών – Πολυπολιτισμικότητα στη Ρώμη, Κοινωνική και Πολιτική Zωή, Κομοτηνή – 2 – 5 Μαΐου 2007, Athens (2013), 323 – 36.

List of Contributors Antony Augoustakis is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign, Illinois, USA). He is the author of Motherhood and the Other: Fashioning Female Power in Flavian Epic (Oxford, 2010) and Plautus’ Mercator (Bryn Mawr, 2009). He has edited the Brill Companion to Silius Italicus (Leiden, 2010), Ritual and Religion in Flavian Epic (Oxford, 2013), a volume of Flavian Poetry and its Greek Past (Leiden, 2014), and co–edited with Carole Newlands Statius’ Siluae and the Poetics of Intimacy (Arethusa, 2007) and with Ariana Traill the Blackwell Companion to Terence (Malden, Mass., 2013). He is working on a commentary on Statius’ Thebaid Book 8 (Oxford, 2015) and the Oxford Readings in Flavian Epic, co–edited with Helen Lovatt (Oxford, 2015). Ruth Caston is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Michigan. Her work centres on Augustan poetry, especially Roman love elegy and satire, and Republican drama, with a special interest in ancient theories of the passions. She has published on Roman love elegy (The Elegiac Passion: Jealousy in Roman Love Elegy, Oxford 2012) and is currently working on a new book on Terence. David Christenson is Professor of Classics at the University of Arizona, where he has won multiple awards for mentoring and teaching. He is the author of an edition with commentary of Plautus’ Amphitruo (Cambridge, 2000), and is currently working on a new edition of Plautus’ Pseudolus for the Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics series. He has published two volumes of translations, Roman Comedy: Five Plays by Plautus and Terence (2010) and Four Plays by Plautus: Casina, Amphitryon, Captivi, Pseudolus (2008), both with Focus Publishing. His collection of translations, Four Ancient Comedies about Women: Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, Menander’s Samia, Plautus’ Casina, Terence’s Hecyra is forthcoming from Oxford University Press. He is also preparing a study of Roman comedy for I.B. Tauris’ Understanding Classics series. He was a Loeb Classical Library Foundation Fellow in 2011– 12. Michael Fontaine is an Associate Professor of Classics and Associate Dean of the Faculty at Cornell University (Ithaca, New York, USA). He is the author of Funny Words in Plautine Comedy (Oxford University Press, 2010) and wrote the chapters on Plautus and Terence for The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, which he has co–edited with Adele Scafuro (2014). He is now completing an ed-

282

List of Contributors

ition and translation of Joannes Burmeister’s Neo–Latin Aulularia and fragmentary Mater–Virgo for De Gruyter Verlag (Berlin). Stavros Frangoulidis is Professor of Latin at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He has co-organised several RICAN conferences on the study of the Ancient Novel, and co-edited the proceedings thereof (published as Ancient Narrative Supplementa). He has edited a thematic issue on the ancient novel (with Stephen J. Harrison), and a volume on Latin genre (with Theodore D. Papanghelis and Stephen J. Harrison), both published in the Trends in Classics series (Walter de Gruyter). He has written a number of articles on Roman comedy, the Latin novel and Senecan tragedy. Finally, he is the author of the following books: Handlung und Nebenhandlung: Theater, Metatheater und Gattungsbewusstein in der römischen Komödie (Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, 1997); Roles and Performances in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, 2001); and Witches, Isis and Narrtive: Approaches to Magic in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2008). Mathias Hanses (Columbia University in the City of New York) works on the life of comedy after the death of Plautus. He he has published on creative appropriations of Roman comedy in the first centuries BCE and CE, Aratus’ acrostics, political bias in Roman historiography, and classical receptions in the US and Europe. Evangelos Karakasis studied Classics at the University of Ioannina, Greece (BA, 1995) and Pembroke College, University of Cambridge (MPhil, 1997; PhD, 2001) and taught Latin Language and Literature at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (Lecturer in Latin 2004– 11); at present he is Assistant Professor of Latin at the University of Ioannina. He is the author of Terence and the Language of Roman Comedy, Cambridge 2005 (hardback), 2008 (paperback); Song–Exchange in Roman Pastoral, Berlin 2011; and of various papers on Roman comedy, elegy, pastoral, epic and novel. He is also the editor of the Trends in Classics Special Issue (4.1) with the title: Singing in the Shadow… Pastoral Encounters in Post–Vergilian Poetry. He is currently completing a monograph on Neronian Pastoral. David Konstan is Professor of Classics at New York University and Professor Emeritus of Classics and Comparative Literature at New York University. Among his books are Roman Comedy (1983); Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres (1994); Greek Comedy and Ideology (1995); Friendship in the Classical World (1997); Pity Transformed (2001); The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (2006); ‘A Life Worthy

List of Contributors

283

of the Gods’: The Materialist Pyschology of Epicurus (2008); and Before Forgiveness: The Origins of a Moral Idea (2010). He is currently working on studies of beauty and remorse. He is a past president of the American Philological Association, and a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and Honorary Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities. Sophia Papaioannou (PhD University of Texas at Austin) is Associate Professor of Latin Literature at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. Her main research interests are the Literature of the Age of Augustus, Ancient Epic and Roman Comedy. She has published Epic Succession and Dissension: Ovid, Metamorphoses 13.623 – 14.582, and the Reinvention of the Aeneid (2005); Redesigning Achilles: The ‘Recycling’ of the Epic Cycle in Ovid, Metamorphoses 12.1 – 13.620 (2007); Plautus, Miles Gloriosus. Introduction, Translation and Commentary [in Greek] (2009), the first annotated edition of Plautus’ play since 1963, and the first translation of the play in Greek; and (with A.K. Petrides) New Perspectives on Postclassical Comedy (2010). Her most recent book, a collective volume of interpretive essays on Terence and the reception of Terence, entitled Terence Interpreting / Interpreting Terence, is to be published by Cambridge Scholars Publishing in 2014. Katerina Philippides is a Lecturer in the Department of Theatre Studies at the University of Patras. Her dissertation is on ‘Repeated Scenes in Plautus’ Comedies’ (University of Crete, 2008). Her research interests include Hellenistic and Roman comedy and tragedy approached mainly from a dramatological point of view. She has published several articles on the Roman playwrights Plautus and Terence, but also on Ovid, Archilochus and Pindar. Alison Sharrock is Professor of Classics at the University of Manchester. After starting out with Ovid, elegy, and literary theory, she turned to Roman comedy, and in 2009 published Reading Roman Comedy: Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence (Cambridge). She is now returning to Ovid, working on a book on Ovid and Epic. Niall Slater (Samuel Candler Dobbs Professor of Latin and Greek, Emory University) focuses on the ancient theatre and its production conditions, prose fiction, and popular reception of classical literature. His books include Spectator Politics: Metatheatre and Performance in Aristophanes (Penn 2002); Reading Petronius (JHUP, 1990); and Plautus in Performance: The Theatre of the Mind (Princeton, 1985; 2nd, revised edition 2000), as well as translations of Middle Comedy for The Birth of Comedy (ed. J. R. Rusten, JHUP, 2011) and the Bloomsbury Com-

284

List of Contributors

panion to Euripides’ Alcestis (2013). Current work includes studies of Harley Granville Barker’s 1915 American tour with productions of Trojan Women and Iphigenia in Tauris as well as classical memories in C. S. Lewis’s children’s books. Jarrett Welsh is Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of Toronto. His work focuses on fragmentary Latin drama and literature, and on the working methods of the sources that preserve those texts. He is currently preparing an edition and commentary of the fragments of the Latin comedies known as the fabulae togatae.

Index locorum Afranius Div. 52 – 4:

161

Antiphanes fr. 189. 1 – 5, 13 – 6 K – A: 108 – 109 Aristotle Poetics 1454a 37 – b2:

107

Athenaeus 6.254c:

144

Catullus 5: 36: 49:

253 214 – 215 198

Cicero De Off. I.122: I.141:

58 55 – 56

Lucretius 3.670 – 8: 3.847 – 53:

50 – 51 50

Ovid Met. 1.1 – 4: 1.717 – 9: 1.720 – 1: 6.110 – 2: 9.281 – 96: 9.287 – 9: 9.316 – 9:

242 – 243 252 – 253 253 231 234 236 241

Plautus Amph. 11 – 6: 17 – 31: 41 – 5: 51 – 63:

113 114 115 116

52 – 63: 86 – 95: 89 – 93: 116 – 7: 142 – 7: 148 – 52: 270 – 2: 282 – 6: 399 – 400: 403 – 9: 416 – 7: 423: 441 – 3: 441 – 6: 446 – 9: 456 – 9: 460 – 2: 561 – 2: 566 – 9: 576 – 7: 594: 664 – 719: 777 – 86: 861 – 8: 867 – 72: 976 – 80: 984 – 7: 1005 – 8: 1033 – 4: 1051 – 2: 1092 – 100: 1131 – 4:

247 – 248 117 247 115 115 117 – 118 118 118 – 119 48 48 – 49 49 50 46 119 46 51 120 52 52 52 52 237 – 238 120 – 121 121 250 – 251 122 122 122 – 123 123 124 241 124

Aul. 25 – 7: 120 – 6: 167 – 9: 406 – 12a: 467 – 72: 478 – 84: 498 – 502: 508 – 22: 532 – 5: 580 – 6:

67 36 37 80 32 24 25 26 27 17

286

Index locorum

608 – 15: 617 – 23: 668 – 70: 673 – 6: 686 – 9: 713 – 26:

18 19 20 20 38 33

Bacch. 1087 – 9:

205 – 206

Capt. 54 – 62: 129 – 94: 251 – 360: 338 – 41: 461 – 97: 575 – 658: 768 – 908: 954 – 1028:

111 100 97 161 – 162 100 97 100 97

Epid. 263 – 4:

174

Most. 101 – 4: 407 – 19: 497 – 504: 760 – 3:

147 131 132 – 133 147

Pers. 777 – 8:

206

Poen. 1 – 4: 111 – 3: 600 – 3: 693 – 703: 1107 – 10: 1174 – 81: 1192a – 4: 1309 – 14:

110 260 271 – 272 272 261 269 269 261 – 262

Pseud. 748:

174

Rud. 83 – 7:

112

Trin. 16 – 7: 23 – 7: 69 – 70: 140 – 52: 276 – 7/8: 445 – 8: 490 – 4: 495 – 6: 705 – 6: 763 – 70: 925 – 7: 1115 – 23: 1132 – 6: 1149 – 50:

189 190 – 191 179 180 181 192 170 – 171 171 176 174 193 186 – 187 187 187

Pollux Onom. 4.128?:

109

Silius Italicus 1.56 – 60: 6.307 – 10: 7.422 – 5: 7.449 – 57: 11.259 – 87: 11.385 – 9: 11.410 – 31: 11.432 – 8: 15.819 – 23:

263 – 264 264 267 267 – 268 270 – 271 272 – 273 273 – 274 274 – 275 265 – 266

Terence Hau. 53 – 60: 75 – 7: Ad. 22 – 4:

191 192 189

General Index ablative 159, 211, 248 abuse 31, 77, 79, 89, 123, 179, 213, 216, 226 Academy/Academic 44, 46 f., 74, 208 Accius 151, 158 Achilles 110 Achilles 244, 263 actor 7, 30, 43, 46, 75 f., 97, 109 f., 114, 117, 119 f., 122, 228, 232 f., 237 f., 247 f., 262 Adelphasium 28, 260, 268 f. Adelphoe 44, 158, 181, 189 f., 211, 239 adulescens/young lover/young man/young master 4, 16, 22, 32, 36, 43 f., 53, 56, 58, 64, 68 – 70, 72 f., 95, 97, 101, 112, 127 f., 130, 134 – 138, 143, 146, 157 – 161, 168 f., 172 f., 176 – 190, 206, 210 – 212, 218, 227, 229, 248 adultery 5, 233, 239, 251, 254 Aeneadae 268 Aeneas 268 Aeneid 268, 273 Aeschylus 106, 117 Aetolia/Aetolian 94 f., 97, 100, 102, 111 Afranius 152 – 154, 157, 159, 161, 163 Agorastocles 173, 184, 261, 269 Ajax 106 Ajax 55 A. Koestler 143 Alcesimarchus 183 Alcesimus 4, 8 f. Alcmene/Alcumena 46, 52 f., 112, 118 – 121, 124, 183, 225 f., 230 – 240, 242, 250 f., 254 f. Alcmene /Alcumena 112, 117, 227, 240 Alexandrian footnote 235, 238 alliteration 18, 135, 171, 206 altar 15, 18, 112 f., 240, 268 f. altercation 6, 88 ambiguity/ambiguous 74, 115, 198, 214 – 216, 218, 244, 249 f., 262, 264 amicitia 18, 40, 167, 169, 191 Ampelisca 270

Amphitruo 43 – 53, 60, 93, 95, 105 f., 110, 113, 119, 124, 167, 225 – 227, 230 – 233, 235 – 243, 245 – 252, 254 Amphitryon 45 f., 48 f., 52 f., 112, 115 – 125, 225 f., 230 – 233, 236 – 238, 240 f., 251 anagnorisis 97 f. anapest/anapestic 33, 206 f. anaphora 25, 204, 213 Anaxilas 143 – 146, 148 Andria 154, 183, 185 f., 211, 239, 246 Anterastilis 260, 262, 268 f. Anthrax 77 – 79, 83, 87 Antiope 231 anti–palliata 63, 66 Antiphanes 108 f. Antipho 53, 57 Antoninus Liberalis 235 Apoecides 175 Apollo 15, 106, 245, 248 – 250 aporia 31, 108 apostrophe 18, 201, 204, 207, 232 f., 245, 253 f. appetitus 55 f. A. Claudius Caecus 210 applause 10, 238 apposition/appositional construction 204, 213 Apulia/Apulian 6 Arabia 193, 206 Arachne 231, 233 Archidemides 56 architectus doli 172 f., 175 – 177, 261, 268 Arcturus 111 f., 246 argumentum 15, 67, 69, 173, 189 f., 212 Argus 250 f., 253 f. Aristarchus 110 Aristophanes/Aristophanic 77, 107, 113, 127, 135, 153 Aristophontes 95 – 98, 162 Aristotle/Aristotelian 53, 69 f., 81, 107, 124 f. Ars poetica 108, 127, 131, 138, 229 artes 274 Artists of Dionysus 109 aside 9, 25 f., 30 – 32, 75, 118, 124, 171

288

General Index

Asinaria 4, 24, 110, 154, 181, 183 astus 263 – 266 asyndeton/asyndetic list 26 Atellana 4, 76, 151 f., 238 Athena 106 Athens/Athenian 4, 14, 69, 73 f., 110, 112, 127, 152 f., 186, 207 atoms 50 Attic 106, 201 audience 4 – 6, 8 – 10, 13 – 16, 19, 21 f., 25 – 35, 39 f., 46, 51, 57, 67, 71, 73 – 75, 77, 82, 95 f., 98, 100 f., 105, 108, 110 – 118, 121, 123, 125, 129 – 131, 134, 170 – 172, 175 – 182, 189 f., 192 f., 226, 228, 230, 233, 237 f., 246 f., 250 – 252, 260, 262, 270 Augustus/Augustan 228, 235, 252 aula 16 – 20, 30, 32 – 34, 39, 83, 87, 89 Aulularia 13 – 42, 63 – 93, 154, 167, 178, 183, 239, 246 Aulus Gellius 151 bacchant(s) 32, 80 f., 87 f. bacchiacs 36, 232 Bacchides 40, 93, 167, 183, 197, 204 f., 208, 211 banker 27 battle 31, 49, 111, 118, 120, 265 f., 270 beating 6, 49, 64, 80, 82, 87, 89, 145, 251 beauty contest 268 Bellerophon 107, 109 bickering 7 bilocation 53 Birds 107 bisociation 143 f. Blepharo 123, 125 blocking character/bungling character/agelast 36, 88, 159, 206, 211, 213, 241 body 49, 51, 53, 58, 120, 124, 232 f., 241, 243, 246, 259 bowl 120 f. bribery 200, 209 bride 6, 9, 16, 69, 74, 84 – 86, 177, 183 Bromia 233 f., 239 f. builder/building 95, 106, 109, 124, 135, 143 – 146, 240, 271 bulling 7, 79

burlesque 119, 227 busybody 190 – 192 Caecilius 24, 151, 154, 210, 229 f. Caelius 197, 203, 208 – 213, 217 f., 227 Caesar 202, 227 caesura 243 Callicles 168 f., 173 – 175, 178 f., 187, 189 – 191 Callidamates 128 – 130, 136 – 138 Callimachus/Callimachean 200, 214, 243 – 249 Calvus 200 – 202 Cannae 23, 270 canon 227 Canopus 274 canticum 34, 36, 105, 226, 230, 232 f. Capitoline 17, 25 captatio (benevolentiae) 24, 36 Captivi 93 – 105, 110, 118, 151 – 164, 167, 183, 226 captor 159 f., 162 Capua/Capuan 259, 263, 265, 270, 272 – 274 career/profession 55, 57, 77 f., 217, 227, 238 carouser 128 f., 133 – 135, 137 f. Carthage/Carthaginian 6, 17, 259 – 266, 268, 270 f., 273 f. Casina 3 – 11, 17, 24, 34, 38, 85, 154, 167, 172, 174, 183, 190, 228, 230, 238 Catiline 260 Cato the Elder 24, 170, 207 Catullus/Catullan 197 – 223, 227, 235, 253, 266 Ceres 15, 22 Chaerea 43 f., 53 – 59 Chalinus 4 – 10 character distribution 94 Charmides 168 f., 175, 179 f., 186 f., 193 Charondas 74 Chremes 190 – 193, 229 Chrysalus 40, 206 Chrysippus 47 Cicero/Ciceronian 17, 20, 22, 43, 54 – 56, 88, 169, 191, 197 – 205, 207 – 213, 216 – 218, 227, 229, 260 Cistellaria 154, 183, 190

General Index

citizen 4 f., 15, 28, 33, 37, 40, 56 f., 80, 96 f., 102, 111, 127, 145, 172, 178, 182 f., 185 – 188, 207, 271 citizen marriage 178, 182, 188 city 5, 14 f., 18, 20 – 22, 24 f., 33, 36, 64, 88, 94, 99, 102, 107, 111, 127, 129, 160, 162, 252, 259, 263, 265, 270 f. city centre 36, 102 city–state 14, 127 civic life 20 f., 82, 88 civitas 21, 25 Claudius Nero 265 Cleostrata 4 – 10 clever/cunning/trickster/scheming slave/servus fallax, callidus 27, 30 – 32, 68, 71 – 73, 119, 123, 127, 130, 137, 172, 177, 197, 205 – 207, 212, 218, 229, 241, 252, 261 colloquial 17, 19, 34 Collybiscus 271 f., 274 comedy 3 – 7, 10, 13 f., 22, 24, 26, 29, 31, 36 – 38, 43 – 45, 53 f., 56, 59 f., 63, 65 – 71, 75, 77, 79 f., 82 f., 86, 88, 93 – 96, 98 – 102, 105 – 113, 116 – 118, 120 – 125, 127, 130 f., 146, 151 – 154, 157, 160 f., 163, 167, 170 – 173, 175 f., 179, 182, 188 f., 197, 204 – 206, 208, 210 – 212, 216, 218, 225 f., 228 – 230, 232, 236, 239 – 241, 246 – 249, 251 – 253, 259, 261 – 263, 275 comic/comical 4, 10, 17 – 19, 22, 25, 28 f., 35, 38 – 40, 44 f., 47, 60, 63, 65, 68 – 72, 74, 77, 79, 87 – 89, 94, 98, 102, 111 f., 117, 119, 122 f., 127 – 129, 131, 134, 137 f., 143, 151 f., 154, 159, 162 f., 167, 170, 172, 174 f., 178 – 182, 187, 190, 193, 197, 201, 204 – 213, 216, 218, 225 – 230, 232, 238 – 240, 242, 246, 248 – 253, 255, 259, 261 – 263, 266, 268, 272, 275 comic hero 197, 212 comic scheme 212, 218 comment/commentator 28, 55, 65, 72, 76, 83, 112, 122, 153, 159, 172, 186, 204, 225, 227, 253 concordia 13, 25, 39 f. conditional 67 confused identities 226 Congrio 32, 77 – 83, 87 – 89 consul 202, 207, 265

289

contaminatio 4, 94, 177 contubernalis 6 conundrum 115 cook/mageiros 31 f., 63 – 66, 72 f., 75 – 83, 87, 89 f. coordination 55, 197, 204, 213, 218 Corvinus 264 cosmic 47, 53, 268 cosmic conflagration 47 costume 43, 57 – 59, 111, 115 f., 119 f., 122 f., 125, 233, 237, 251 f. counterfactual 67, 216 – 218 country 4, 8 f., 15, 21, 36, 129, 143, 156 f., 168 creative originality/creativity 72, 143, 145 f., 148, 167, 171 crescendo 25 cross–dressing 7, 263 Croton 53 cupido 269 Cupid(s) 214 f., 243, 245, 259, 263, 267 f., 273 f. Curculio 71, 84, 153, 172, 176, 183, 228 Danae 43, 53 danista/moneylender 128, 135 Daphne 250 dative 147 daughter 4 f., 9, 15 f., 18, 22 – 24, 31 f., 34, 37, 39, 64, 66 – 69, 73, 75, 77, 83 – 86, 88, 112, 153, 168, 177, 179, 184, 189, 206 f., 260, 262, 268 de vi 208 – 210 death/dead 15, 20, 32 – 34, 37, 45, 47, 50 f., 59, 74, 80, 128, 130, 132 – 135, 171, 178, 200, 227, 231, 253, 265 debauchery 213 decadence/decadent 23, 37, 134, 177 – 179, 188 deception/trick(ery) 9, 20, 25, 32, 43, 46, 57, 71 – 73, 96 f., 129, 131, 133 f., 136, 159 f., 162, 167 f., 172 – 177, 180 f., 187 f., 193, 205 – 208, 212, 229, 231, 233 f., 240 – 242, 252, 261 f., 265 decorum 54 f., 58 Delphi 106 Delphium 129 f.

290

General Index

demands (generic) 274 f. Demea 211 demonstratives 73, 97 Demosthenes 74 desire 4 – 6, 8, 10, 37, 54, 56, 58, 86, 99, 169, 172, 178, 180, 182, 186, 259, 264 de–structure 63, 66, 86 detours 5 – 7 deus ex machina 105, 109, 113, 121, 247 Diapontius 132 – 134 diatribe 16, 24, 28 Dido 268 diegetic narrative 70 dignitas 55, 57 dinner 9, 57 f., 89, 95, 99, 102 f., 118, 132, 137, 237 Dio 208 f. Diodorus 74 Dionysus/Bacchus 135, 271 Diphilus 3 f., 6, 65, 112 discontinuous/discontinuity 72, 75 discord 25 discovery and revelation 59 Discus 57 disguise 9, 43 – 45, 53, 57 – 60, 124, 183, 237, 251 f. dissimulatio 260, 263, 265 f. divine epiphany 105 f., 124, 230, 239 divorce 85, 153, 181 do ut des 16, 18 f. doctus 88, 131 door–knocking 130, 132, 171, 189 Doppelgänger 251 Dordalus 206 f. double(s) 43 – 46, 52, 102, 105 f., 115, 119, 121, 130, 132, 144 – 146, 170, 173, 183 f., 186, 211, 226, 238, 248, 261, 274 double entendre 7, 72, 79, 82 f., 134, 237 double plot 182 – 185, 188, 190 dowry 14, 16, 23 – 25, 27 – 29, 37, 39, 64, 67 – 69, 84 – 86, 167 – 170, 172 f., 175 f., 182, 186 – 188, 192 drama/dramatic/dramatist 10, 13, 15, 29, 40, 43 – 46, 53 f., 57, 59, 65, 68, 70, 75 – 77, 79, 81, 83, 87 – 89, 93 – 95, 97, 102, 105, 108, 117, 135, 138, 143, 151 – 153, 157, 160, 162 f., 182, 190, 206,

208 f., 212, 226 – 228, 236, 254, 267, 274 f. dramatic action 94 dramatic economy 79 dramatic illusion 143 dramatic organisation 93 dramaturgy/dramaturgical 13, 63, 65 f., 70, 72, 82, 89, 176, 185, 190 dreaming 49 duplicate(s) 47, 50 f. duplication/duality 52, 63, 66, 75, 79, 81, 105, 119, 122, 183 – 185, 246 du–Stil 17 duty 27, 55 f., 58, 131, 169 f., 190 eavesdropping 7, 25, 30, 32, 118, 132 Eclogues 244 f., 252, 267 ecstasy 88 E. Fraenkel 105, 112, 146, 204 E. Lefèvre 3, 13, 236 elegy/elegiac/elegist 228, 235, 243 – 245, 248 – 250, 255, 267 f., 270, 274 elegiac couplet 243 Elis 94 – 97 enjambment 249 Ennius 88, 110, 121, 151 f., 158, 200, 210, 235, 260 entrance/entry 18, 27, 57, 72 f., 87, 96 f., 133 – 135, 138, 171, 173, 177, 180, 206, 240 epanalepsis 207 Epicharmus 44, 46 Epicurus/Epicurean/Epicureanism 43, 47, 50, 228 Epidicus 27, 98, 154, 173 – 175, 183 Epidicus 173, 175 epigram 253 epilogue 106, 108, 123 epiphany 105 f., 119, 124, 230, 239 episode 6 f., 44, 63, 65 f., 70, 75 f., 81 – 83, 87, 153, 225, 227, 233 f., 240, 242, 244, 249, 252 – 254, 259, 263, 266, 274 f. episodic poetry 244 Epitrepontes 148 epos/epic 70, 107, 121, 127, 200, 215, 225, 227 f., 230, 242 – 245, 248 – 250, 254 f., 259, 263, 266, 268, 270, 274 f. Ergasilus 93 – 96, 98 – 103

General Index

eros/erotic 4, 68, 82, 177, 184 f., 187, 189, 199, 202, 209, 226 esse–polyptoton 197, 204, 207, 212 f. eternal recurrence 46 f., 53 ethical dilemma 44 ethnic 259, 261 etymology/etymological 78 f., 253 Euclio 13 – 23, 25 f., 30 – 35, 37 – 40, 64, 67 – 71, 73, 75 – 89 Eumenides 106 Eunomia 13 f., 16, 22, 35 – 40, 73, 86 eunuch 43 f., 53, 57 – 59 Eunuchus 22, 43 – 45, 53 – 55, 57, 59 f., 71, 158 f., 185, 216, 229 f. Euripides/Euripidean 87 f., 106, 112, 128, 153, 226 f., 240, 274 exemplum 23, 145, 147 exile 30 f., 39, 75, 112, 213 exit 8, 18, 21, 31 f., 35 – 38, 72, 87 f., 97 f., 102, 112, 127, 130, 135, 137, 177, 232, 240 ex machina 105, 109, 113, 119, 121, 226, 247 exordium 209 extra–diegetic 78 faber 143, 146 – 148 fabula 111, 113, 117, 134, 151 f., 189, 212, 228, 230 fabula praetexta 151, 226 fabula togata 151 f., 226 facade 95 fallacia 131, 136 f., 265 fama 169, 241 famine 154, 158 fantasy 25, 31, 44, 53, 191 farce/farcical 3 f., 75 f., 88, 152, 194, 237 f., 249 farm/farmer 4, 26, 176 f., 191 father/pater 4 f., 9, 15 f., 19, 23, 27, 35, 53, 56 f., 67, 74, 78, 84, 95, 98 f., 112, 114 f., 127 – 129, 136 f., 147 f., 153, 161 f., 168 f., 172, 176, 178, 181, 183, 185 – 187, 189, 193, 206, 209, 211 f., 226, 228, 232, 251, 254, 262 father and son 4 – 6, 10, 100, 182 – 184 father–in–law 168

291

feast 64, 77, 84 – 86, 89, 127 – 130, 133 – 136, 138, 154, 158, 271 feminist 37 festival 15 f., 22 f., 77, 83, 110, 227 f., 235 fiction/fictional 26, 49, 94, 161, 241 Fides 13, 15 – 22, 30, 32 fides 17 – 20, 36, 132, 156, 167, 169 f., 180, 190, 260, 263, 266 figurative/figuratively 82, 88, 132, 134 f. figures of sound 207 finances/financial 14, 17, 23, 27, 69, 85, 170, 177, 179 f. fire 31, 78, 81 f., 112 f., 215, 273 fish 83 f., 86, 129, 134 fish–market 158 Flaminius 264 Flavian(s) 264, 266 flute 252, 274 flute girl 128 f. flute–player 64, 75, 79 food 8 f., 56, 64, 77 – 79, 83 f., 86 f., 100 f., 134, 136, 157 f., 269, 273 forgiveness 57, 168, 189, 262 Fortuna 15, 21 f. foundling 5 four actors 7 four–personae theory 43, 45 fragment 35, 39, 44, 48, 65, 67, 77, 80, 108 f., 112 f., 121, 123, 143, 146, 151 – 164, 185, 210, 235, 244 fragmentation 14, 16, 76 freeborn 38, 233 Freiburg School 13 friend/friendship 3, 17 f., 53, 56 f., 66, 128 – 130, 137, 143, 168 – 170, 173, 175, 178 – 186, 188, 190 f., 193, 202, 213, 264 Frogs 135, 153 further voices 216 Fury 254 future/future perfect 204, 211, 213 Galanthis 234 f., 240 – 242 garrulous 37 G. Domitius Calvinus 208 Geffcken 209, 211 – 213 genitive 146, 148, 171, 199, 216 f.

292

General Index

genre/generic 29, 38, 63, 66, 68, 70 – 72, 75, 86, 95, 110, 115 f., 118, 152 – 154, 173, 182, 205 f., 210 f., 218, 225 f., 228 f., 244 f., 247 – 250, 254, 263, 266, 274 f. Georgos 70 ghost 81, 127 f., 130, 132 – 135, 138 gluttony 103 Gnatho 53, 56 f., 158 go–between 53 gold/golden 9, 15, 17 – 19, 24 f., 33 f., 39 f., 64, 67 – 71, 73, 75 f., 78, 81, 83, 85, 87, 89, 115, 120, 132 f., 168, 178, 180, 209, 267 grammarian 153 f. gratiarum actio 202 Greece 6, 84 f. Greek/Hellenic 3 f., 6, 13, 21, 26, 35, 39 f., 44, 65 f., 70, 74, 76 f., 80, 83, 87 f., 93 – 98, 106 – 110, 112, 117 f., 127 – 138, 143, 146 – 148, 168, 172, 178, 188 f., 204, 226, 228 – 230, 236, 239, 243, 262 – 264, 272 Greek comedy 3 f., 44, 83, 106, 146, 228 Greek drama 44, 87, 117 Greek dress 40 Greek New Comedy 13, 65, 95, 172 Greek Old Comedy 107 Greek life(style) 127, 131 f., 136 Greek original/model 3, 21, 65 f., 76, 87, 94, 97, 146 f., 189 Greek play 3, 110 Grumio/Grymio 129, 136, 143 guise 6, 115, 174 Hades 135 Hannibal/Hannibalic 23, 259 f., 262 – 266, 270 – 275 Hanno 184, 260 – 263, 266, 268, 274 happy ending 100, 225 f., 262 harbour 102, 118, 120 f., 157 f. Harpax 174 Hasdrubal 265 haunted house 127 f., 132, 135 – 138 hearth 81 f. Heauton Timorumenos 98, 181, 184 f., 190 – 192 Hecyra 154, 173, 182, 185, 189

Hegio 94 – 102, 156 – 159, 162 Helen 274 Helen 274 Hellenistic 46, 109, 186, 235, 244 – 247, 249, 255 hendecasyllable 198 Heracles 106 Heracles/Hercules 7, 49, 107, 112, 124, 135, 210, 225 – 227, 230 f., 233 – 236, 239 – 242, 254 Hermes 48, 113 Heroic Badness 205 heroism/heroic 101 f., 207, 243 hexameter 243, 252, 268 high–flown diction 207 homecoming 129, 131 Homer/Homeric 243 – 245, 249 homoioteleuton 26 homosexuality/homosexual 3, 7 f., 88 Horace 108, 159, 228 – 230, 244 hospitality 86, 99, 133, 272 f. hospitium 132, 134, 271 f., 274 house/household 6, 8 – 10, 15 – 19, 21 – 23, 26 f., 31 f., 35 – 38, 46, 48 f., 51 f., 57, 64, 67, 71, 73 f., 78 – 83, 87, 93 – 102, 105 – 107, 112, 115, 118, 122 – 125, 127 – 138, 143 – 147, 168, 172, 174, 177 – 180, 187, 191, 202, 208 f., 226, 232, 235, 237, 240 humour/humorous 7, 19, 21, 43 f., 47, 51, 111, 169 f., 178, 193, 225 f., 229 f., 236 – 239, 242, 252 – 255 hunger/hungry 27, 33, 158, 229 f. husband 4 – 10, 16, 23, 26 f., 29, 35, 37, 39, 68, 112, 153, 161, 177, 188, 199, 226, 251 husband and wife 5, 7, 39 hyperbaton 249 identity 8, 14, 17, 34, 43 – 50, 52 f., 59 f., 63 – 65, 81, 84 f., 93 – 100, 102, 113 f., 119 – 121, 124, 193, 213, 226 f., 254 imperial 109 f., 228, 230 impersonation 43 f., 53 – 55, 58 – 60, 174, 226, 233, 246, 252 impostor 175, 187 impotence 58 indicative 25, 204 individuality 45, 55, 59

General Index

infamia 210 innuendo 226 Inopia 177 f., 188 inorganic role 65, 96 inset play 132, 135 f. inspiration 3, 30, 59, 65, 76, 94, 134, 143, 148, 214, 245, 254, 273 interrogative 211 intertext/intertextuality 182, 197, 201, 203 – 208, 211 – 213, 216, 218, 227, 235, 238, 240, 242, 244 – 254, 263, 266, 275 intrigue 95, 97 f., 173, 175, 184, 193, 218 intratextuality/intratextual 197, 203 Io 250, 252, 254 Iole 234 f. Iphicles 112 Iris 106 f. irony/ironic(al) 72, 82 f., 119, 136, 162, 170, 177, 181, 197 – 204, 207, 212, 216 – 218, 252 Isaeus 74 iudicium Paridis/judgment of Paris 263, 268 ius imaginum 51 Iuventius 154 J. Locke 50 joke 6, 17, 21 f., 37, 51, 58, 72, 78 f., 82, 110 – 113, 120, 168, 171, 175 – 179, 182, 190 f., 193, 233, 237 – 239 Jugurtha 260 Jupiter 43 f., 46, 53, 58 f., 105, 111, 114, 116 – 118, 120 – 125, 157, 159, 183, 192, 226, 230 – 239, 247, 250 f., 264, 266, 268 katabasis 127 f., 132, 135, 137 f. king/queen 115 f., 123, 230, 248, 272 kiss 8 knocking 130, 132, 171, 189 kolakes 143, 146, 148 Laconian key 130 lamp 46, 132 f. language/diction/linguistic 22, 34, 36, 51, 53, 56, 86, 88, 105 f., 118, 124, 141, 143, 145, 147 f., 151 – 153, 157 – 159, 163, 165,

293

173 f., 197, 201 – 203, 205 – 207, 209 – 212, 214, 216, 225, 229, 231, 241, 245 f., 260 Lar familiaris 15, 17, 22, 67, 69, 78, 246 laughter 33 f., 88, 96, 119, 170 f., 182, 187, 228, 234, 239, 241 – 243, 250, 255 law/lawyer/legal 6, 23 f., 28, 56, 68 f., 73 f., 85 f., 88, 145, 168, 198, 200 – 202, 207 – 209, 212 f., 217, 268, 271 L. Calpurnius Bestia 209, 217 Lesbia/Clodia 197, 199, 202 f., 208 – 213, 215 – 218, 227 L. Herennius Balbus 211 lexicographer 153 f. lex Oppia 23, 26 linguistic artificiality 206 linguistic stylisation 207 Livy 24, 238, 259 f. L. Lucceius 209 lorarius 32, 98 Lot–Drawers 3 love/lover 4, 6, 8, 10, 19, 43 f., 56, 70, 72 f., 77 f., 86, 112, 145, 172, 178 – 188, 192, 197, 202 f., 210 f., 213, 215, 218, 227, 229, 232, 239, 243, 248 – 50, 261, 263, 268, 271 – 273 lovesick 9, 229 L. Sempronius Atratinus 208 f., 217 Lucan 263 Lucian 109, 267 Lucina 234, 236, 239 – 242 Lucretius 43, 47, 50 f., 227 f., 245 Ludi Megalenses 209 ludus scaenicus 259, 263, 273, 275 Luscius of Lanuvium 246 luxuria 28, 270, 273 f. Luxuria 177 f. Lyconides 15 f., 18 f., 22 f., 30, 32, 35 f., 38 f., 64, 68 – 74, 81, 86 Lycus 270 – 272 Lysidamus 4 – 10, 34, 38, 174 Lysiteles 168 f., 176, 180 – 182, 186 – 188 Lyssa 106 f. mad/madness 4, 8 f., 22, 44, 81, 98, 106 f. Magna Graecia 109 Magna Mater 270

294

General Index

Mamurra 214 Manilius 229 mannerism 201, 206 manumission 120 manuscript 64 f., 71 f., 81, 123, 154 market (place) 56, 58, 83 marriage/wedding 4 – 10, 13 f., 16, 19, 22 – 25, 27, 29 – 32, 36 – 40, 57, 64, 67 – 70, 72 – 75, 77, 79 – 86, 88 f., 129, 136 f., 168 f., 172 f., 178 f., 182 – 186, 188 – 190, 192, 206. Marus 264 mask 51, 59, 97, 111, 118 – 200, 205, 212, 228, 231, 233 master 8, 18 f., 31 f., 40, 46, 48, 52 f., 63, 66, 72 – 74, 78 – 82, 95 – 97, 100 f., 118, 120, 127 – 130, 132, 136, 143, 169, 171 – 173, 176 f., 183, 193, 206, 241, 245 matrices of thought 143 matrona 10, 36, 229, 270 maxim 170 meal 57, 80, 99, 158, 237 mechane/stage crane 106 – 110, 124 f. Medea 106 f., 210 Megadorus 13, 15 f., 21, 24 – 31, 34 – 40, 64, 68 – 74, 77, 81, 84 – 86 Megaronides 168, 173 – 175, 178 – 180, 188, 190 f. memory 43 f., 49 – 51, 76, 119, 234 – 236, 248, 252 Menaechmi 24, 93, 160, 167, 184 Menander/Menandrian 4, 13, 29, 40, 54, 65 f., 68, 70, 73, 87 f., 148, 167, 185, 228 – 230 Menedemus 191 Menelaus 274 Mercator 4, 118, 154, 184, 186, 226 mercenary 177 Mercury 43 – 49, 51 f., 105, 113 – 125, 183, 225 f., 231 – 233, 236, 238, 246 – 253 meretrix/courtesan/prostitute 5, 57, 111, 129 f., 137, 173, 177 f., 182 – 185, 187 f., 203, 210 f., 213, 218, 226, 228 f., 260, 263, 268 – 270 merrymaking 129, 133 f. meta–drama/meta–dramatic 75, 82, 86, 88, 128, 130, 135, 211

Metamorphoses 225 – 258 meta–poetry/meta–poetic(s) 67 f., 75, 80, 136 f., 241 – 247, 249, 251 – 253, 266 metaphor/metaphorical 34, 134 f., 143 – 146, 148, 159, 169, 171 f., 177, 180, 191, 246 Metaponto 53 meta–theatre/meta–theatrical/meta–theatricality 4, 7, 10, 13 f., 21, 30 f., 35 f., 43 f., 46, 53, 80, 105, 112, 115, 170, 172 f., 176, 184, 190, 194, 233, 255 Metaurus 265 metre/metrical 151 f., 155, 201, 206, 211, 232, 237, 243 – 245, 247 f. metrical foot 243, 245 Micio 211 mid–conversation 38 Middle Comedy 65, 80, 108, 143, 226 Miles Gloriosus 24 f., 45, 47, 72, 93, 147, 167, 172, 184 miles gloriosus 111, 184, 190, 211, 259, 261, 263, 275 military 23, 28, 58, 132 Milphio 173, 261 mime 151, 212, 226 mimetic narrative 70 Minucius 265 f. mirror image 48, 120 mirror scene 93 misogyny/misogynistic 27, 168 f., 178 mistaken identity 48, 120 Mnesilochus 206 mock–elevated 206 f. mockery 34, 52, 85, 123 f., 170, 192, 199, 201, 213, 227 mock–heroic/mock–official/mock–solemn 201, 204, 207 money 14, 18 f., 25, 27, 31, 64, 68, 70, 83, 86, 99, 109, 134, 136, 145, 168 f., 171, 176, 179, 182, 184, 186 – 188, 206 monody 30, 33 f., 87, 144, 181 f. monologue 18, 30 – 32, 57, 72 f., 75, 82 f., 86 f., 99 – 101, 105, 131, 169, 173, 190, 206 f. moral/moralists/morality 16, 23, 28, 54, 129, 145 f., 167 – 71, 178 f., 182, 190 – 193, 199, 208, 215 – 217

General Index

moral decline 28 mortal/mortality 106, 119, 123, 125, 170, 226, 233, 250, 261 Moschion 70 Mostellaria 72, 110, 119, 127 – 49, 153 f., 172, 181, 184, 188 murder 8, 87, 133 f., 208, 251, 253 music/musical/musician 21, 79, 128, 130, 135, 185, 232, 259, 263, 273, 275 musical solo 232 Myrrhina 4, 6, 8 – 10 myth/mythical/mythological 23, 39, 74, 95, 152, 170, 230 f., 235, 249, 254, 270 Naevius 151 name 13, 15, 17 f., 22, 35, 39 f., 44 f., 48 – 50, 56 f., 64, 70 – 72, 77 – 80, 94, 96, 108, 111, 113 – 115, 133, 145, 148, 151, 158, 169, 171, 178, 187, 193 f., 203, 208, 226, 233, 238 f., 261 ne ex(s)petetis… motif 189 Neoteric 200 f., 207, 214 f., 254 Nereids 266 Nereus 266 New Comedy 4, 13, 22, 38, 53, 56, 60, 63, 65, 67, 69 f., 77, 82, 95, 109, 172, 189, 211, 227 f., 236, 248 Nicander/Nicandrian 235, 239, 241 Nicobulus 206 night 4, 8, 46, 48, 111 f., 118, 121, 133, 157, 160, 234 f., 240, 253 nominative 248 Nonius (Marcellus) 20, 151, 153 – 156, 160 obligation(s) 55 – 58, 69, 85, 133 obscenity/obscene 76, 213 Odysseus/Ulysses 55, 106 Oedipus 34 Olympio 4 – 10 opposition and contrast 101 Orcus 132 – 134 Orestes 87 f. Orestes 106 originality 3, 13, 143 f., 148, 186, 188, 254 overseer 4, 8 f., 97 – 99, 180, 271 Ovid 225 – 258, 263

295

Pacuvius 128, 151 f., 265 paedagogus/pedagogue 127 – 129, 138, 211 painting 53, 113 Palaestra 270 Palaestrio 72 Palatine 208, 210 palingenesis 50 Palinurus 176 palliata 14, 32, 63, 65 f., 68, 71, 74, 85 f., 88, 106, 151 f., 172, 226 – 230, 246 f., 255 Pamphila 44, 56 – 58 Pan 21 Panaetius 43, 45, 54 f., 58, 60 Pantheon 15, 263 pantomime 226, 267 paradox/paradoxical 44 – 46, 52, 56, 182, 191, 242 parallelism 32, 71, 81, 93, 101 parasite 53, 71, 93 – 96, 98 – 102, 129, 144 f., 158 – 160, 172, 183, 206, 229 Pardalisca 8 f. parechesis 148 parenthesis/parenthetical 113, 186, 243 Parmeno 56, 58 f. parodos 109 parody/parodic 28, 34, 98, 119, 167, 170 f., 173, 193, 202, 204 f., 210, 232, 237, 262 paronomasia 148 pars 54 party/feast 64, 77, 84 – 86, 89, 127 – 130, 133 – 136, 138, 154, 158, 269, 271 passion 4, 10, 58, 79, 211, 264, 269 past and present 51 pastoral/bucolic 252 f., 266 f., 270 pater familias 10, 16, 24, 35, 211 patria potestas/tutela 23, 36 patrona 57 P. Clodius Pulcher 208, 210 f., 213 Peace 107 Peisthetairus 107 pentameter 243 Pentheus 274 perfidy/Punica fides 18, 259 f., 263, 266 performance 9, 13 f., 29 f., 43, 46, 60, 64, 66, 72, 74 f., 77, 82, 88 f., 105 f., 109 – 114, 116 – 118, 124, 127 f., 132, 138, 152,

296

General Index

167, 172, 209, 225, 227 – 230, 233, 247 f., 252, 274 f. perfume 6, 272 pergraecari 127 – 129, 134, 271 peripeteia 30, 35, 64 peroratio 27 Persa 184, 197, 204, 206 f. persona 45, 54 f., 58 – 60, 79, 93 f., 100 f., 197, 205, 211, 218, 227, 248, 250, 270 personhood 254 Phaedria 39, 57, 64, 67 – 70, 73, 77, 85 f. Phaedrium 15 f., 22, 31 f., 38 f. Phaniscus 130, 136 Phasma 143 Philematium 119, 128 f., 137 Philemon 169, 173, 175, 182, 186 – 188, 233 Philocrates 95 – 97, 100 f. Philolaches 127 – 130, 132 – 137, 143 – 148, 188 Philopolemus 94 – 97, 99 f., 102 philosophy/philosophical/philosopher(s) 43 – 47, 49 f., 53, 60, 69, 74, 108, 171, 190, 208 Philto 170 f., 176 f., 181, 187, 192 Phormio 158, 185, 193 f. physical appearance 45 physics 47 pilleus 120, 155, 159 pimp/leno 53, 65, 111 f., 184, 206, 212, 226, 270 – 272 pipe 232, 267 Piraeus 129, 136 Plato 47, 70, 74, 108 Plato comicus 226 Plautus/Plautine 3 – 8, 13 – 18, 20 – 22, 24, 27 – 32, 34 f., 39 f., 43 – 46, 53 f., 63, 65 – 72, 75 f., 78, 82, 84, 87 f., 93 – 95, 97 f., 101, 105 f., 110 – 113, 116 – 119, 124 f., 127 – 129, 135, 143 – 148, 151 – 154, 157 f., 160 f., 167, 169 – 194, 197, 204 – 208, 210 – 213, 216, 218, 225 – 243, 245, 247 – 255, 259 f., 262 f., 266, 268 – 270, 275 play within a play 43, 137, 233 plot 1, 3 – 5, 9 f., 16, 31, 39, 43, 63 – 68, 70 – 74, 77 – 82, 86 – 89, 93 – 95, 97 – 99, 101 f., 106 – 108, 112, 116, 128 – 131, 134, 137 f., 141, 151 – 154, 157 – 163, 165, 168,

173, 175, 178 f., 182 – 190, 212, 229, 232, 235, 240 f., 247 f., 255, 259, 263, 269 plot–lessness 74 f. Poenulus 14, 17, 28, 105, 110, 147, 173, 184, 259 – 263, 268 f., 271, 274 poetics 68, 70, 81, 107 f., 124, 127, 131, 135, 137 f., 244 – 246, 249 f., 255 Poetry 108 politics/political 17 f., 23, 25, 28, 30, 35 f., 39 f., 63, 66, 84 – 86, 116, 202, 207 f., 260 Pollux 109 pomerium 21 Pompey 213 Pomponius 152, 154, 157, 163 pompous/pomposity 169, 182, 201, 213 Pontus 193 pot of gold 19, 34, 39, 64, 67 – 69, 89, 168, 178, 180 poverty/poor 14 – 16, 29, 33, 37, 40, 64, 68, 87, 185, 191 power/powerful/powerless 6, 17 f., 21 – 25, 27 f., 49, 51, 53, 58, 76, 84 – 86, 96, 106 f., 116, 146, 162, 175, 181 f., 185, 229 f., 259, 262 f., 266, 268 f., 274 f. praeceptor amoris 211 pregnancy/pregnant 16, 31, 64, 69, 226, 231 f., 234, 236 – 240, 254 f. Principate 228, 230 Pro Caelio 197 – 223, 227 procuress/lena 177, 228 profligacy 188, 274 prologue 3 f., 6, 14 f., 21 f., 35 f., 46, 67, 78, 81, 93, 95, 97, 100 f., 105 f., 108, 110 – 115, 117 f., 122 – 125, 172, 177 f., 182, 189 f., 226, 228, 232, 236, 238, 242, 244, 246 – 249, 260 pronoun 8, 44, 48, 97, 204, 208, 248 prop 32, 111, 240 property 6, 23, 85, 133 f., 136, 144, 167, 176 Pro Sestio 212 prosopopoeia 25, 210 protactic character 173 protagonist 64, 76, 78, 93, 102, 209, 238, 261 Proteus 259, 266 f. proverbial expression 211

General Index

proxy marriage/phony union 5 f. Pseudolus/Pseudolus 30, 65, 72, 167, 172, 174 – 176, 184, 190, 193 f., 226, 238, 252 Psychostasia 117 Ptolemocratia 270 Ptolemy Auletes 208 pun 3, 18, 40, 76, 78, 88, 143 f., 146 – 148 Punic 6, 14, 23, 259 – 276 punishment 101 f., 123, 129, 137 f., 234, 242 Pythagoras 53 Pythodicus 64, 72 Quellenforschung 65 Quintilian 71, 229 rape 7, 16, 22 f., 32, 38, 43, 53, 57 f., 64, 69 – 71, 185, 229, 232 f. rational being 54 reading/reader 25, 38, 40, 46, 54, 63, 66, 68 f., 75, 81, 88, 93 f., 105 f., 108, 132, 137, 151 – 153, 157 f., 160 – 163, 167, 169 – 171, 173, 178, 181 f., 186 – 190, 192 – 194, 197 – 205, 216 – 218, 225, 227 – 232, 234, 237 – 239, 243 – 246, 248 – 250, 252, 254, 262, 266 reception 14 f., 28, 30, 165, 167, 169 f., 225, 227, 232 reciprocity/reciprocal 18, 36, 38, 57, 86, 111, 175, 185 recognition 5, 9 f., 96, 98, 120, 183 – 185 reconstruction 13, 16, 105 f., 112, 123, 148, 151 – 153, 157, 161, 163, 186, 188, 199, 202 f., 209 recusatio 249 Regulus 264 reintegration 14, 21 – 23, 34, 39, 75 religion/religious 13 – 16, 21 – 23, 85, 209, 227, 259 f., 270 renewal 127, 134, 137 f. repeated scenes 93 f., 96, 98, 100 – 102 re–performance 228, 230, 252 repetition 26, 47, 49, 73, 80, 87, 93 f., 96, 98, 100 – 102, 111, 119, 135, 146 f., 167, 171, 174 f., 206, 213, 232 f., 239, 242, 254, 261, 273

297

Republic/republican 17, 29, 105 f., 151 f., 154, 157 f., 162 f., 169, 197, 202, 205, 207, 218, 227, 230, 237, 263 resolution 5, 7, 19, 35, 38 f., 52, 73, 81, 89, 97, 127, 131, 137 f., 193, 225 – 227, 241, 254 responsibility 10, 35, 55 – 58, 74, 169 restraint 7, 21, 54, 56, 58, 180 revelers/revelry 33, 128, 130, 134 f., 137, 274 rhetoric(al)/rhetorician 24 – 26, 28 f., 36 f., 54, 144, 146, 148, 201, 209 Rhetorica ad Herennium 144, 260 rhyme 201, 206 rhythm 33 rhythmic pattern 201 right use of money (wealth) 169 f. ring composition 232, 250 role 5, 10, 16, 19, 22, 30, 32, 35, 38 f., 43 – 45, 49, 53 – 55, 57 – 59, 65 f., 68, 71 – 74, 77, 79, 86, 89 f., 94, 96 – 99, 102, 116, 122 f., 127 – 131, 137 f., 158 – 160, 162, 172 f., 175 f., 180 – 184, 194, 211 f., 233, 236, 238, 247 f., 252, 259 – 261, 263, 268 – 270, 273 f. role–playing 43, 53, 59, 94, 123 romantic/romanticism 55, 66, 82, 86, 162, 172, 184, 186 Roman 3 f., 6 f., 10, 13 – 25, 27 – 29, 31, 34, 36 f., 39 f., 43 f., 51, 54, 59 f., 63, 65 f., 68, 70 f., 75, 78, 80, 82, 84 – 86, 88, 93, 95, 98, 105 f., 110, 112 f., 117 f., 120, 123 f., 127 – 130, 136 – 138, 143 f., 151 – 153, 167 – 169, 172 f., 179 f., 182, 186, 188, 191, 197, 199 f., 204 – 206, 208 f., 218, 226 – 230, 232 f., 236, 238 – 240, 246, 260 – 266, 274 Roman mores 127 f., 136 – 138 Roman values 127, 129, 138, 191, 260 Rome 14, 17, 21, 23 – 25, 28, 35, 45, 84 f., 112, 207 f., 212, 229, 238, 252, 263, 268, 270, 274 Romulus 198 f., 204, 207 routine 171, 179, 205, 212 f., 218 Rudens 105, 111, 117, 158, 172, 184 f., 227, 246, 259, 263, 270

298

General Index

running slave/servus currens 87, 122, 125, 169, 171, 229 ruse 6, 9, 127 f., 130 – 132, 135 – 138, 168, 176, 197, 206, 213, 218 rustic/rusticity 21, 129, 136, 155, 214 f. sacrifice 18, 77, 83, 101 f., 123 f., 215, 235, 266, 270 Sagaristio 207 sage 47, 49, 54 Sallust 28, 260 Samia 70 Saturio 206 f. Sceledrus 45, 47, 112 f. scheme/schemer 5, 68, 96 f., 100 f., 131, 153, 160, 193, 212, 218, 241, 268 scholion 109 Scipio/Scipionic 45, 230, 265 f. Second Punic War 14, 23, 259 f., 263, 265 f., 270 seer 124, 266 self 8, 34 f., 43 – 45, 49, 53, 55, 60, 83, 128, 130, 133, 135, 138, 212, 217 f., 227 self–awareness 34 f., 182 self–disparagement/self–degradation 197 f., 214, 216 self–presentation 214 Senate/senator 34, 86, 207 senatorial language 173 senex/old man/old master 4, 8, 24, 38, 56, 58, 64, 72, 78 – 83, 85 – 88, 94, 96, 127 – 130, 132 – 138, 156 – 158, 168, 171 – 180, 184, 187, 189, 206, 211, 229 senex iratus/pater durus/stern father 169, 181, 206 senex lepidus 172 sense of self 49 sex/sexual 7, 21, 183, 213, 226 f., 250, 254, 259 ship 48, 121, 157 f., 237 sick/sickness 4 f., 145, 169, 191 significant name 39 Silius Italicus 259 – 276 Silvanus 15, 20 f., 32, 36, 38 Simia 193 simile 136, 143 f., 146 – 148, 274 skolekes 143, 146, 148

slapstick 3 slave/slavery/servant 4 – 10, 14 f., 18 – 20, 22, 25, 27, 30 – 33, 36 f., 39 f., 45, 48, 51, 53, 56, 63 – 66, 68, 70 – 74, 78, 80 f., 87 f., 95 – 101, 112 f., 115 f., 117 – 125, 127 – 132, 134 – 138, 143, 147, 160, 168 f., 171 f., 174, 176 f., 183 f., 188, 193, 197, 205 – 207, 209, 212, 218, 226, 228 f., 231, 233 f., 236, 240 – 242, 247 f., 251, 261, 274 snake 47, 234, 267 social disruption and change 23 social position 55 f., 58, 69 social responsibility 56 social status 36, 55, 84 f., 93, 99, 102, 131 social subordinate 37 society 14, 16 f., 21 f., 24 f., 28 f., 34, 39 f., 82, 84 – 86, 88, 169 soldier 27, 111, 123, 156 f., 184, 206, 229, 261 f., 270 – 273 soliloquy 7, 211 soothsayer 124 Sophocles 29, 48, 106 Sosia 43 – 49, 51 f., 117 – 122, 124, 226, 231, 233, 236 f., 246, 251 Spartan(s) 79, 264, 274 spectator 67, 75 f., 94 f., 100, 102, 108 f., 152, 232 squandering 129, 137, 204 stage 6 – 8, 10, 15, 18, 21, 30 – 34, 36, 39, 43, 56, 59, 63 – 66, 71 – 73, 75 – 77, 79, 82 f., 87 – 89, 93 – 97, 101 f., 105 f., 109 – 111, 113, 116 – 119, 121 – 124, 127 – 132, 134 – 136, 138, 152, 159 f., 162, 180, 211 f., 226 – 230, 233, 236, 238, 240, 243, 247, 250 f., 274 stage action 94, 118, 128 stage direction 97, 113, 130 stage set with one house 93 – 95 Stalagmus 94 – 98, 102 Staphyla 19, 21, 31 f., 35, 78 f., 81 f. Stasimus 168 f., 171, 176 f. Statius 230, 263 Steusippos 74 Stichus 93, 101, 160 f., 184 Stoic(s) 43 – 48, 53 f., 59 f. storm 112 f., 144 f.

General Index

Strobilus 63 f., 66, 71 – 74, 76 – 83 style/stylistic 23, 53, 76, 87, 111, 118, 128, 134, 148, 152, 161, 170, 181, 189, 197, 200 – 208, 212 f., 218, 226, 272 stylistic elaboration 206 subclauses 113 subjunctive 25 sub–plot 89, 93, 95, 98, 184 Suffenus 214 suspense 79, 81 sword 9, 179, 253, 264 sycophant 153, 156 f., 159, 168, 170, 173 – 176, 193 f., 261 symmetry/symmetrical 5, 93, 96, 98, 100 f., 216 synonym(ous) 87, 206 syntax/syntactic 151, 197 f., 201, 216, 218, 248 temple/shrine 15 – 21, 25, 32, 106, 235, 259, 263, 268 – 271 Terence/Terentian 22, 29, 43 – 45, 53 f., 56 – 59, 71, 98, 151 f., 154, 158, 167, 177, 181 – 183, 185 f., 188 – 194, 210 f., 216, 226 f., 229 f., 246 Terentia 199 Teuthras 274 f. Thais 53, 57 f. thank–you poem 198 theatre/theatrical/theatregoers 13 – 15, 29 f., 40, 43 – 45, 54, 59 f., 63, 76, 79, 94, 105 f., 109 f., 112 – 116, 119 – 121, 124, 131 f., 177, 210, 212, 227, 229 f., 232 f., 238, 240, 247 theatrical spectacle 29 Theodoromedes 95, 99 theologeion 110 Theomnestos 74 Theopropides 127 – 129, 131 – 137 Thesaurus 65, 175, 178, 186 Thraso 56 f. threat 8, 23, 27, 31, 58, 68, 87 f., 101, 105, 119, 122, 129, 133, 162, 268 thunder/thunderbolt 124 f., 230, 233 Tiresias 124 Tityrus 252 torment 159, 162

299

Toxilus 206 f. tragedy/tragic 29, 34, 87 f., 93, 95, 105 – 113, 115 – 118, 120, 122 – 124, 151 – 153, 206, 210, 225 – 228, 230, 234, 236, 238 – 242, 246 – 250, 252 – 255, 274 tragi–comedy/tragi–comic 46, 48, 116 – 118, 225 f., 236, 239 f., 242, 246 – 250, 252 – 255, 274 Tranio 72, 127 – 138, 143, 147, 184 transformation 39, 47, 51, 57, 79, 86, 99, 114, 127 f., 135, 138, 201, 227, 231, 234 f., 242 f., 245 – 250, 254, 267 Trasimene 264 travel(er) 3, 135, 168, 181 treasure 13, 15 – 17, 20 – 22, 31, 34 f., 64, 67 f., 78, 80 – 87, 89, 167 f., 178, 180, 187 Trinummus 69, 167 – 195 Trojan War 259, 263 Truculentus 14, 24, 66, 172, 185, 190, 239 Trygaeus 107 Turpilius 151 f., 163 twins 45 – 47, 93, 105, 112, 124 f., 184, 226, 231, 233 two slave problem 63 f., 66, 71 Tyndarus 93 – 102, 156 – 159, 161 f. Underworld 132 – 135, 157, 171, 210 univira 129, 137 uxor dotata/dowered wife 13, 24 – 27, 29, 36 – 38, 136 Varro/Varronian 151, 154, 160, 227 vase 113 Vatinius 199, 202, 217 Venus 214 f., 245, 259, 263, 266 – 270, 272 f. verba adcommodata 144 f. verbs of knowing 47 Vergil/Vergilian 151, 159, 244 f., 252, 261, 263, 267 f., 273 Vergilius Romanus 230 victory/victorious 7, 10, 52, 115, 118, 120, 136, 262, 265, 267 – 270, 274 Vidularia 185 virtue/virtuous 16, 29, 54, 115, 188, 191, 213, 237, 260, 262, 273

300

General Index

visual vocabulary 106, 110 vocative 201, 253 Volusius 214 – 216 war/warrior 14, 23, 27, 32, 94 – 96, 100, 111, 157 – 160, 162, 243, 259 f., 262 – 266, 270 f., 274 wealth/wealthy 14, 22 – 25, 28 f., 34, 36 – 39, 68, 77, 84 – 86, 129, 137, 144, 170, 178, 181, 191 wife 4 – 10, 16, 22, 24 – 27, 29, 35 – 39, 69, 85 f., 112, 121, 124, 169, 178 f., 184, 199, 202, 206, 226, 232 f., 241

W. Kerr 105 Wilamowitz 167, 213 word order 26 wordplay 78 Xanthippus 264 Zeus 112 f., 117

ἀρχιτέκτων 147 τεκόντες 143, 146 – 148 τέκτονες 143, 146 – 148