Playing the Man: Performing Masculinities in the Ancient Greek Novel 9780199570089

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OXFORD STUDIES IN CLASSICAL LITERATURE AND GENDER THEORY

DAVID

General Editors KONSTAN A LISON S HARROCK

Oxford Studies in Classical Literature and Gender Theory publishes substantial works of feminist literary research, which offer a gendersensitive perspective across the whole range of Classical literature. The field is delimited chronologically by Homer and Augustine, and culturally by the Greek and Latin languages. Within these parameters, the series welcomes studies of any genre.

Playing the Man Performing Masculinities in the Ancient Greek Novel

MERIEL JONES

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries # Meriel Jones 2012 The moral rights of the author have been asserted First Edition published in 2012 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available ISBN 978–0–19–957008–9 Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by MPG Books Group, Bodmin and King’s Lynn Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

This book is dedicated to Amy, for taking afternoon naps so reliably and for going to bed at 7pm every evening, almost always without complaint; and to my dad, who would have been proud.

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Preface This book began as an idea for a doctoral thesis about women in the ancient Greek novels. It didn’t stay that way for long. Throughout my undergraduate years I was interested, in a rather vague and immature way, in the representations of gender (and especially of women) in ancient literature. Returning to university some years later to pursue graduate study, I had already decided that I wanted to write a thesis about women in Greek fiction. I was told in no uncertain terms, however, that in the six years that had elapsed between my graduation and my return to study, women had ‘been done’, and that my best course of action would be to ‘do men’. The person who gave me this advice was half-right: while I suspected that there was plenty more that could be written about the Greek (and Roman) novels’ female characters (and plenty has been written since and will be written yet), doing men was indeed all the rage, but there was a large Greek-novel-shaped hole in masculinities research—a hole that this book seeks now to address. Although masculinity may have been my second choice, in no way was it a secondary one. The fact that I had been forcibly diverted from my initial course soon retreated from the forefront of my mind, as I realized just how much exciting, and untapped, material was offered by the men of the Greek novels to the scholar interested in gender of any kind. But women have an important place in this book nonetheless. Given that discourses of gender tend to rest on a framework of alterity (masculinity defines itself in opposition to femininity, and vice versa), a study of men and masculinity must, to some extent, consider women and femininity. At least in part, then, I got my wish to write about women in the Greek novels, so the reader interested in the study of women, and especially in women’s possession of ‘manly’ virtues, will find something of use here, I hope. The primary aim of the book is to elucidate the gender ideologies at play in the creation of the male characters of five Greek novels. Those ideologies I have grouped under the rubric of the ‘performance of gender’, drawing on notions which belong ostensibly to modern Gender Studies and Sociology, but which are in fact very much at home in the classical world. I am interested in what drives the novels’ men to behave as

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they do, and, concomitantly, in what drove their (male) authors to write them as they did. Many people have had a hand in this book in one way or another. Karla Vickers and Pat Scott, the teachers who introduced me to Classical Studies and Latin at school, set me on the road that has led here, and inspired in me an enduring love of the subject (notwithstanding Cicero and Tacitus). My school did not offer Greek, so I must thank Chris Collard for a fascinating (if eccentric and lightningpaced) introduction to that language at Swansea University. I first encountered the Greek and Roman novels as an undergraduate, and it was John Morgan’s teaching that made me want to return to Swansea as a postgraduate; he supervised the thesis from which the book derives, and has my eternal gratitude for hours of stimulating discussion, albeit not all of it ‘on-topic’; his establishment of KYKNOS, the ancient narrative research centre, created an atmosphere of conviviality which undoubtedly helped to keep the thesis going when it threatened to burn itself out. The AHRC funded that thesis, as well as the MA before it; without their support I could not have returned to university, and this book would never have come into being. I must thank my former colleagues at the University of Wales Lampeter (2006–8), including Ian Repath and Mirjam Plantinga, for their patience and tolerance of my long absences, especially during the summer of 2007 when the thesis was in its final stages. Ewen Bowie and Ian Repath made many helpful comments which have found their way into the book, and Ian also kindly showed me asyet-unpublished work. My contemporaries at Swansea, Koen De Temmerman, Sarah Maguire, Saiichiro Nakatani, Loreto Nuñez, and Maria Elpiniki Oikonomou made 2002–7 a very exciting time, and well-established academics Ceri Davies, Ken Dowden, David Konstan, Alan Lloyd, Daniel Ogden, Costas Panayotakis, and Peter Parsons have been generous enough to send me their work, or simply to offer valuable encouragement. Elements of Chapters 1 and 2 also appear in Ancient Narrative (Jones 2007 and forthcoming a); those involved in their publication, and in the conferences at which they were presented, have helped to improve them. My series editor Alison Sharrock has offered detailed and incisive comments which have clarified my thinking and have ultimately made a better book; for that I must also thank the anonymous readers of the thesis I originally sent to Oxford University Press. Hilary O’Shea has been kind enough to understand that having a baby can rather delay the delivery of

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a manuscript. Thanks to my mother, and to my ‘father-in-law’, for moral (and occasional financial) support. And last but by no means least, thanks to Chris Anderton for tolerating my musings and keeping our lovely but highly energetic toddler out of the house for an extra hour now and then. Meriel Jones August 2011

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Contents Abbreviations Introduction 1. Paideia The history and social context of paideia The gendering of paideia Male paideia in the novels Concluding remarks

xiii 1 20 22 32 41 89

2. Andreia Defining and contextualizing andreia The gendering of andreia Male andreia in the novels Concluding remarks

92 94 105 117 172

3. Masculinity and Sexual Ideology Introduction Resisting ideology? Imperilled masculinity Masculinity as role play ‘A man with women and a woman with men’ Concluding remarks

174 174 186 203 220 238 262

Conclusion

265

References Index Locorum General Index

275 293 299

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Abbreviations A. A. Th. AAntHung Ach. Tat. Adam. Aeschin. AJPh Anon. Lat. AN ANRW AP Ap. Met. Ap. Ty. Ep. A.R. Ar. Thesm. Arist. de An. EN Pol. Rh. VV Catul. Ceb. Cic. de Orat. Dom. Phil. Tusc. Ver. CIG CJ CPh CQ

Aeschylus Agamemnon Seven Against Thebes Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae Achilles Tatius Adamantius Aeschines American Journal of Philology Anonymus Latinus Ancient Narrative Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt (1972–) Anthologia Palatina (Anthologia Graeca) Apuleius Metamorphoses Apollonius Tyanensis Epistulae Apollonius Rhodius Aristophanes Thesmophoriazusae Aristotle de Anima Ethica Nicomachea Politica Rhetorica de Virtutibus et Vitiis Catullus Cebes Cicero De Oratore De Domo sua Orationes Philippicae Tusculanae Disputationes In Verrem Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum Classical Journal Classical Philology Classical Quarterly

xiv D. Chr. Or. Dem. E. HF Hipp. IA FGrHist FlorIlib G&R GRBS Hdt. Hes. Op. Hist. Aug. Hld. Hom. Il. Od. HSPh Isoc. JHS JHSex. JRS Laber. LSJ

Lucian Anach. Bis. Acc. DDeor. DMeretr. Eun. Ind. Merc. Cond. Par. Rh. Pr. Somn. Syr. D. Mart.

Abbreviations Dio Chrysostom Orationes Demosthenes Euripides Hercules Furens Hippolytus Iphigenia Aulidensis F. Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (1923–) Florentia Iliberritana: revista de estudios de antigüedad clásica Greece and Rome, NS (1954/5–) Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Herodotus Hesiod Opera et Dies Historiae Augustae Scriptores Heliodorus Homer Iliad Odyssey Harvard Studies in Classical Philology Isocrates Journal of Hellenic Studies Journal of the History of Sexuality Journal of Roman Studies Laberius Liddell and Scott, Greek–English Lexicon, 9th edn., rev. H. Stuart Jones (1925–40); suppl. by E. A. Barker et al. (1968) Lucian Anacharsis Bis Accusatus Dialogi Deorum Dialogi Meretricii Eunuchus Adversus indoctum de Mercede Conductis de Parasito Rhetorum praeceptor Somnium De Syria Dea Martial

Abbreviations Men. Pk. Men. Rh. Muson. Ov. Am. Ars Am. Her. Met. Petr. Philostr. Her. VA VS P&P PhR Pl. La. Lg. Men. R. Smp. Plu. Amat. Dem. P.Oxy. Prop. Ps.-Arist. Phgn. Ps.-Lucian Am. Asin. QS Quint. Inst. REG RFIC RhM S. Ant. El. Tr. Sen.

Menander Perikeiromenē Menander Rhetor Musonius Rufus Ovid Amores Ars Amatoria Heroides Metamorphoses Petronius Philostratus Heroicus Vita Apollonii Vitae Sophistarum Past and Present Philosophical Review Plato Laches Leges Meno Republic Symposium Plutarch Amatorius Demosthenes Oxyrhynchus Papyri (1898–) Propertius pseudo-Aristotle Physiognomonica pseudo-Lucian Amores Asinus Quaderni di storia Quintilian Institutio oratoria Revue des études grecques Rivista di filologia e di istruzione classica Rheinisches Museum für Philologie Sophocles Antigone Electra Trachiniae Seneca

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xvi Con. Spengel Rhet. Suet. Cl. Gal. Jul. TAPhA TAPhS Th. Virgil A. X. Cyn. Cyr. Mem. Oec. Smp. X. Eph. YClS

Abbreviations Controversiae L. Spengel, Rhetores Graeci, 3 vols.: 1/1 (1885), 2 (1854), 3 (1856) Suetonius Divus Claudius Galba Divus Julius Transactions of the American Philological Association Transactions of the American Philosophical Society Thucydides Virgil Aeneid Xenophon Cynegeticus Cyropaedia Memorabilia Oeconomicus Symposium Xenophon of Ephesus Yale Classical Studies

Introduction Early in Chariton’s novel, Callirhoe, the character Dionysius, a learned, cultured, and socially prominent gentleman, treats his friends to a symposium at his country pile. He is in love, but it is a love that dare not speak its name. His estate manager, Leonas, had bought a girl, Callirhoe, supposedly a slave but in reality the uppercrust heroine of the novel, and upon his first sight of her, Dionysius had fallen instantly in love with her. Believing her a goddess, or at least a goddess’s doppelgänger (2.3.5–8), he seems to recognize that this is no ordinary love: if Callirhoe is truly a slave, his love for her is inappropriate and could never be long term or legitimate; if she is a goddess, he could surely never hope to command her affections— slave or goddess, she is out of his league. The erotic confusion induced by Dionysius’ first sighting of Callirhoe results in a completely changed demeanour at the symposium (2.4.1–2). Afraid for his reputation amongst his assembled friends, and not wanting to inspire feelings of contempt in his servants, he resolves to keep quiet for the duration of the evening, lest his besotted tongue run away with him. Being utterly out of character, however, his silence in fact gives him away. Desperate to maintain his image, Dionysius spends the symposium engaged in what appears to be an excruciating oscillation between what he considers to be manliness (his true status as a man of culture) and what he sees as juvenility (his equally true status as a man desperately in love). This pendulum-like emotional swing gives way to a painful self-analysis, conducted in private after his friends have departed (2.4.4–5). Chariton’s description of Dionysius’ inner turmoil is indicative of the potential in the Greek novels for the student of masculinity, and I will examine it in detail in the first chapter. The study of masculinity in these novels does, however, have some catching-up to do with that in other areas of Classics. Much has happened in gender research on

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the classical world in recent years. Not so long ago the focus was on feminist approaches to the recovery of the ancient female experience; at that time, masculinity was still a relatively unploughed field, despite the ubiquity of men in the ancient evidence. The balance has since been redressed, and the study of ancient masculinities is now a burgeoning field, to the extent, some would argue, that it is overtaking that of women.1 The growth spurt in research on classical masculinities echoes that in Gender Studies more widely,2 but it has not yet made its presence felt in any substantial way in work on the Greek novels.3 Several short studies have addressed narrow topics of the genre that fall within the ambit of masculinity,4 but there has as yet 1 Primarily since Dover’s work, Greek Homosexuality (1978), interest in classical masculinities has blossomed, the plethora of studies on ancient male ‘sexuality’ reflecting, perhaps, the gradually increasing rights and recognition of same-sex love in our own time: see e.g. Halperin (1990); Winkler (1990); Hubbard (1998), (2003a), (2003b); Williams (1999); Davidson (2001), (2007). Other important books include Bassi (1998) on the negotiation of masculinity in the Athenian tragic theatre; wideranging studies of the representation of masculinity in art, architecture, and literature, edited by Foxhall & Salmon (1998a), (1998b); Kuefler (2001) on the impact of Christianity on imperial masculinity; Moore & Capel Anderson (2003) on New Testament masculinity; Roisman (2005) on the importance of notions of manhood in 5th- and 4th-century Attic oratory; McDonnell (2006) on the relationship between virtus and masculinity in the Roman republic; and the edited volumes of Rosen & Sluiter (2003) and Borg (2004) on the various incarnations of andreia and paideia respectively, Borg concentrating on the expression of paideia through the visual media of art and architecture, rather than literature. 2 The publication of the International Encyclopedia of Men and Masculinities (Flood et al., 2007) and the extensive International Guide to Literature on Masculinity (Janssen, 2008)—the latter including bibliography on masculinities research in Classics—has highlighted the vigorous nature of masculinities research in a multitude of disciplines. A further illustration of the rude health of the field is the establishment in April 2007 of a new research centre, the Research Unit on Men and Masculinity, at Bradford University. 3 The bulk of gender work on the ancient novel has concentrated on the feminine: Wiersma (1990); Elsom (1992); Egger (1990), (1994a), (1994b), (1999); Kaimio (1995); and Johne (2003) offer short studies of women in the Greek novels, while Haynes (2003) adopts a range of methodologies in a book which offers a social constructionist reading of the novels’ female character-types; Cooper (1996), 20–44 explores the novels’ female sexuality as a backdrop to the Christian and later Roman idealization of virginity, and Maguire (2005) locates Heliodorus’ Charicleia in the wider contexts of generic heroines, virginity, and female education. 4 Hock (1997) on male friendship in Chariton; Hopwood (1998) on banditry in the novels in general; Balot (1998), an incisive examination of the effect of love on masculinity and self-image in Chariton; Watanabe (2003a), (2003b) on friendship, ‘homosexuality’, and banditry in Xenophon of Ephesus; rightly recognizing that no analysis of one gender can be supported without consideration of its opposite, Haynes (2003) touches on aspects of masculinity as a complement to her primary focus on the

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been no volume devoted to the novels’ masculinities. It is the primary aim of this book to address that deficit. We have been slow to respond to the observation made by Brigitte Egger, that the apparent dominance of the novels’ heroines lies only in their erotic appeal and emotional fortitude, and that the novels are in every other way dominated by their men: The narratives concentrate constantly on the attractiveness and emotions of their women protagonists, and in this sense are gynocentric, but the world of romance is dominated in every other aspect by its men. The novels work with the principle of emotional gynocentrism, but factual androcentrism.5

It seems to me that this ‘emotional gynocentrism’ is only partial: while the novels’ heroines may certainly be considered the centre of the texts’ emotional life, that should not be taken to indicate that the novels’ male characters have no contribution to make on an emotional level.6 And insofar as Egger is right in her observation of a pervasive androcentrism, that should be the wake-up call telling us that these men, as much as they may be figments of other men’s imaginations, are crying out for a thorough investigation. It must be made clear from the outset, however, that what I offer here is not, and cannot be, an exhaustive study. It is a text-based analysis of some of the discourses of masculinity that lie both in and between the lines of the Greek novels, and it is my hope that it represents a significant contribution to the ever-growing body of research on the masculinities of the imperial age. I have chosen to restrict the enquiry to what are commonly referred to as the five ‘ideal’ Greek novels—those of Chariton, Xenophon of Ephesus, Achilles Tatius, Longus, and Heliodorus—each telling the story of a romance between young and beautiful people, beset by difficulties at every turn.7 Being unified by a common

feminine, yet, understandably, this is no more than a superficial treatment; Lalanne (2006) engages with some elements of masculinity in the novels, such as andreia and paideia, but only for their relationship to her unifying theme, a reading of the novels’ plots as rites of passage undergone by the central characters. 5 Egger (1994b), 272, emphases added. 6 This much has been suggested by Balot (1998). 7 Newcomers to the ancient novels will find Whitmarsh (2008) the most accessible introduction, and Reardon (1989) an invaluable all-in-one translation. De Temmerman (2009) offers an important challenge to the classification of these novels as ‘ideal’.

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theme, and all being complete (at least in the sense of being continuously readable), these five texts lend themselves neatly to a monograph. The book that could tackle the multitude of fragments which have been identified as deriving from other novels (not all of them so ‘ideal’),8 as well as the Latin novels of Petronius and Apuleius, would be a very long one indeed.9 When I use terms such as ‘genre’ and ‘generic’, I am therefore referring to those texts that we now tend to group under the heading ‘ancient novel’, and in particular to the five ideal Greek novels, although we have no way of knowing whether those texts were considered by antiquity to form a genre.10 Chariton, Xenophon, Achilles Tatius, Longus, and Heliodorus were all writing a particular form of literature, and, regardless of individual differences between their works, they all follow the same broad narrative pattern.11 If we think of those five novels as belonging to a genre, we must assume that their authors were subject to certain literary constraints, even though the genre’s boundaries may have been somewhat fluid. Such constraints might have a bearing not only on narrative content, but also on the manner in which gender is represented. Should we be concerned, then, that generic conventions might give rise to male characters who, because of their conformity to a literary stereotype, do not reflect the realities of masculinity? The short answer to that question is ‘no’, or at least, ‘not too much’. Novelistic masculinity is undoubtedly ‘generic’ to a degree, in that some coherent standards of masculinity are applied by authors across the genre, making it possible to identify a composite picture of masculinity in the five complete novels. But the ‘genericness’ of the novels’ masculinities is authenticated and legitimized by comparative literature, both Greek and Latin, which often expresses the same concerns. As texts, the novels are ‘in constant and dynamic

8 For the fragments see Stephens & Winkler (1995); also Reardon (1989) for other fictional narratives written in Greek. 9 However, the reader will occasionally find some comparative material from the fragments and the Latin novels referenced here, in both the main text and the footnotes. 10 The lack of ancient theory on the novel is a major frustration; see Morgan (1995), 132. 11 For an outline of the advantages of reading the ideal novels as belonging to a genre, see Goldhill (2008), 190ff. Morgan (1995), 131 argues that the emergence of fragments of works like the Phoenicica and Iolaus forces us to rethink the boundaries of the form, but does not entail rejection of the concept of ‘generic homogeneity’.

Introduction

5

interaction with the intellectual and social life around them’.12 Thus, the men this book is interested in may not be ‘real’, but the discourses of gender which dominate their worlds are every bit as real as the authors who gave them their fictional lives. Gender discourses tend to operate on the basis of alterity,13 in the Greek novels as now: by assuming whatever are the current socially dominant forms of male behaviour, men achieve association with other men, and differentiation from the ‘Other’.14 However, while the belief that men and women possess polarized character types gives rise to the opposing concepts of ‘masculinity’ and ‘femininity’,15 the ‘Other’ is not constituted solely by women: men define themselves in opposition not only to women, but also to subordinated males. So, for example, in the passage from Chariton’s novel described above, Dionysius wishes to be thought of as a man of culture and sophistication, and fears that his erotic obsession may make him appear juvenile: his identity as a man, his status as a cultivated, elite gentleman (pepaideumenos anēr, 2.4.1), is defined against boyish immaturity (meirakiōdēs, ibid.); youthful folly functions as the ‘Other’, the subordinated male, in contrast to which Dionysius understands his own masculinity. Masculinity is therefore an expression of the current images men have of themselves in relation to women or subordinated males, but those images may be contradictory and ambivalent,16 exhibiting tensions and fractures. ‘Contradiction’, ‘ambivalence’, ‘tension’, ‘fracture’—the language of modern Gender Studies seems oddly appropriate when we examine the masculinity on display in the Greek novels, and especially, perhaps, the masculinity anguished over by Chariton’s Dionysius, a man who discovers his gender image to be remarkably frail when it is called upon to withstand the destabilizing effects of romantic love. And so we find a conflict between gender ideals and the realities of everyday life: Identification—the making and experience of one’s own identity— always involves tensions, whether consciously perceived or not, between ostensibly fixed standards and the various instabilities and contradictions 12 Goldhill (2008), 199. 13 See Phillips & Jrgensen (2002), 43 and Laclau & Mouffe (1985), 127ff. on identity through alterity, the latter drawing on a Lacanian model. 14 Whitehead & Barrett (2001), 20. 15 Connell (2001), 33. 16 Brittan (2001), 52.

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Playing the Man and insufficiencies which lie behind them. Often individuals seek to reject or refashion the values which they encounter, or the social and cultural status and identity with which society presents them . . . Often, too, individuals seek to conform to perceived social norms, but find themselves unable to do so fully.17

This conflict or disparity brings me to the central theme of this study, the notion of performance. Here again, Dionysius’ struggle with his own self-image provides a useful point of departure. When I first read this scene with masculinity in mind, Dionysius’ anxiety over the way he appears before others seemed to me to be symptomatic of a sense of playing roles, of an awareness of being judged by others, and of trying to tailor behaviour in order to present a particular image. His comportment at this point, and at several others in the course of the narrative, is an intense blend of self-scrutiny and consciousness of the scrutiny of others. One might almost say that had this scene occurred in ‘real life’, and a couple of thousand years later, it would have made the perfect case study for a sociologist like Erving Goffman. In the 1950s and 1960s, Goffman developed a theory of social ‘performance’ whereby in everyday life we ‘perform’ roles which both constitute our identities and influence our audience’s interpretation of us and of the wider situation in which we perform.18 Performances are characterized by the performer’s projection of ‘an idealized version of himself ’, requiring the concealment or downplay of any action which might detract from that version.19 The audience’s detection of behaviour detrimental to the idealized version results in problems of ‘impression management’, whereby the performer must attempt to revert to his more usual performance in order to save face.20 This is not to say that such performances are in some sense duplicitous (although of course they may be in some cases), and indeed, the performer may not even be conscious of the fact that he is performing. Goffman’s model of performance was a theatrical one which used stage metaphors to articulate the relationship between the performer and those around him. In this model those around the subject play the role of an audience, evaluating the subject on his performance.21 While I would not want to claim that the concept of performance (or masculinity, for that matter) is in any 17 König (2005), 11. 18 See esp. Goffman (1969). 19 Ibid. 42. 20 Ibid. 121. 21 See Bauman (1989), 263.

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way transhistorical, close reading of the Greek novels suggests that, for the elite males of the Roman period, ‘impression management’ was vitally important. And in fact, a huge range of Greek literature, from classical philosophy to Christian and late antique writings, illustrates the widespread and long-lived conception of life as a series of dramatic performances, with human beings as actors.22 Frequently, the Greek novels seem to appeal to a pervasive cultural semiotics of performance.23 Theories of performance might therefore provide us with a useful shorthand for articulating what is going on at some key points in these novels. Goffman took his theory of identity-performance further by applying it to gender, arguing that gender is constituted by means of its ‘display’ in certain social situations.24 The idea of a gender constituted by performance raises the issue of the interaction of nature and culture in identity-formation. Judith Butler argued that there is no essential, ‘natural’ core of gender—that gender does not exist prior to its performance, and that we are acculturated to perform certain roles which, through their repeated performance, acquire a gendered meaning and ascribe that gender to their performer.25 Although I certainly take the constructionist line that gender is something that is enacted socially, and that culture conditions us to strive for conformity to gender ideals, I would not wish to advocate the view that there is nothing natural about gender. But here I find myself sitting on the fence as much as imperial literature seems to do: the Greek novels, together with much other contemporary writing, appear to wrestle with the complex question of the degree to which gendered behaviour is a product of nature or of culture. Writing on literary theory, Jonathan Culler observes that some narratives present identity as determined by birth, while others present it as the ultimate product of culture and changing circumstances. Culler articulates the interplay of nature and culture in identity-formation in a way which has particular relevance for the Greek novels: 22 Kokolakis (1960), 59–61 covers the Greek novels. 23 Perkins (1995), 77ff. explores the novels’ expression of Stoic values, including Epictetus’ favourite metaphor of man as an actor playing a role: according to Epictetus’ doctrine, each individual has a particular responsibility to give a good performance in any circumstance (ibid. 84), a notion revealed time and again in the novels. 24 Goffman (1977), 324; on the influence of these ideas see Branaman (2003). 25 Butler (1990), 24ff. et passim.

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Playing the Man Consider the question of whether the identity of the subject is something given or something constructed. Not only are both options amply represented in literature, but the complications or entanglements are frequently laid out for us, as in the common plot where characters, as we say, ‘discover’ who they are, not by learning something about their past (say, about their birth) but by acting in such a way that they become what then turns out, in some sense, to have been their ‘nature’.26

These remarks have obvious resonances when we think of Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe, the text most explicitly concerned with the roles of nature and culture in social and sexual maturation. But we will see that Heliodorus and Chariton too are interested in the interaction of nature and culture in the expression of adult masculinity, albeit in a rather more oblique way; they, like Longus, leave the reader at a loss as to the precise role of each element. The Greek novels on occasion seem to imply that the influence of culture can result in performances of gender which appear to be natural—the theories of Goffman and Butler were perhaps not as innovative as they seemed. Gender may be in part both a natural and a subjective identity,27 as well as a social construct, yet any individual subjectivity can never be entirely free from cultural constraint: while a man may have different identities depending upon the discourses of which he forms a part,28 in some situations he will experience a restriction of the identities he can assume.29 To view gender, or any other aspect of one’s identity, as something which is performed or displayed before others is not to suggest that the performance can be started or stopped at will, or that the performer is necessarily conscious of his performance as a performance. And while the successful performance of gender might provide entry into and acceptance within particular social groups,30 there is, as I have noted, a distance between the ideal masculinity and any man’s lived reality.31 The performance of gender thus often

26 Culler (1997), 110. 27 On masculinity as a subjective identity, see Tosh (1994), 194. 28 Laclau & Mouffe (1985), 127ff. 29 Phillips & Jrgensen (2002), 6; see also Bauman (1989), 262, who questions the extent to which the cultural ‘script’ determines a performance, and how much ‘flexibility, interpretive choice, or creative opportunity rests with the performer’. 30 Whitehead & Barrett (2001), 20. 31 Carrigan et al. (2002), 112; see also Rosen (1993), p. xiii on ‘masculine role stress’, the result of conflict between ‘inherited masculine values and the patterns of actual behaviour’.

Introduction

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entails a consciousness of doubleness, of some disparity between what one feels and what one presents to others.32 Here again we think of Dionysius at the symposium, undergoing a painful recognition of precisely this sort of disparity—of feeling like a boy, but having to act like a man. Goffman’s observation that ‘the impression of reality fostered by a performance is a delicate, fragile thing that can be shattered by very minor mishaps’,33 might easily have been written as part of a case study of Dionysius’ behaviour here. Dionysius feels an intense pressure to be ‘good at being a man’, to quote Michael Herzfeld’s influential study of masculinity in a Cretan mountain village—in other words, he must give a persuasive performance according to an accepted script of masculine behaviour.34 David Wray has shown that a similar ‘poetics of manhood’ can be observed in action in Catullus’ poems,35 and Simon Goldhill and Robin Osborne have demonstrated the suitability of performance theory to the study of the male-dominated culture of classical Athens, which was itself dictated by ‘regimes of display and regulation’.36 Drawing on Goffman’s theories, Maud Gleason’s pioneering examination of masculinity as expressed through the rhetorical practices of the Roman empire has shown that the period of the Greek novels was acutely concerned with performance—and specifically the performance of gender—in public contexts.37 The notion of life in general, and gender in particular, as something actively performed clearly had, and has, a persistent influence.38

32 See Bauman (1989) and Carlson (2004). 33 Goffman (1969), 49; see also Butler (1987), 139–40: ‘I not only choose my gender, and not only choose it within culturally available terms, but on the street and in the world I am always constantly constituted by others, so that my self-styled gender may well find itself in comic or even tragic opposition to the gender that others see me through or with’. 34 See Herzfeld (1985), 16 et passim. 35 Wray (2001). 36 Goldhill & Osborne (1999), quotation from p. 1. 37 Gleason (1995). 38 This influence is evidenced also in studies by Stehle (1997), Bassi (1998), Williams (1999), Gunderson (2000), Duncan (2006), and Webb (2008), who all employ various modern theories of performance to elucidate the Greek and Roman obsession with the projection and maintenance of gendered identities. Duncan’s important study explores the anxieties informing Greek and Roman responses to actors and the whole concept of theatre, and has much of interest to say about the performance of gender in such contexts. Special issues of Helios present collections of conference proceedings which explore literal performance on stage and its relation to

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However, certain types of performance may be deliberately revealing or transgressive, as Eva Stehle explains: Parody and irony give a performer a way of signaling to the audience that he or she sees the role as only a role, with a knowing person behind it. On the other hand, to expose the conventionality of an ideal to the audience, performers may transgress a shared (or at least recognized) ideal as a way of breaking through to the ‘real’.39

This is especially applicable to the way in which I want to suggest that Achilles Tatius uses Cleitophon. Achilles seems to toy not only with the topoi of romantic fiction,40 but also with contemporary notions of masculinity, so that his text emerges as the exception that proves the rule. Although many male characters in the novels seem almost conscious of giving performances, only Cleitophon explicitly acknowledges that his performance is just that, a performance; he alone openly admits and acquiesces in the potential for duplicity inherent in that performance.41 However, despite having ostensible control over the identity he shows to his narratee, Cleitophon nevertheless frequently presents himself failing to perform his gender convincingly, sometimes even riding roughshod over the codes of elite masculinity.42 Cleitophon is of course not the only ‘knowing person’ behind his role, to borrow Stehle’s words: his performance is controlled on two further levels, by the anonymous primary narrator, and ultimately by Achilles Tatius. The entire narrative is thus built around the concept of performance, as we learn of Cleitophon’s failings not from Cleitophon himself, but from the narrator, who performs Cleitophon’s misperformances of masculinity. The text’s extra layers of performance inevitably complicate efforts to read it, but they also suggest an authorial fascination with the concepts of performance and identity. Achilles seems to invite the ancient reader the figurative performance of identity: see Gamel (2000, Helios 27/2) and Stehle (2001b, Helios 28/1). 39 Stehle (2001a), 5. 40 For which see Durham (1938) and Chew (2000). 41 His acknowledgement that he has embellished his narrative for Leucippe’s father (8.5.2) is one such admission; his feigning of a bee-sting (2.7) is another. 42 Although there is not the scope here for a full investigation of the connection, I am inclined to think that Achilles Tatius knew Latin elegiac poetry, which displays a similar sense of subversiveness where masculinity is concerned, and that he wrote Cleitophon as a sort of comic prose version of the poetic amator; see further Ch. 2, pp. 168–72 and Ch. 3, pp. 227–9.

Introduction

11

to notice Cleitophon’s misperformances of gender, and to relate them to current ideologies of masculinity. In having Cleitophon display his failings, Achilles both emphasizes his period’s concerns for masculinity, and perhaps subversively questions the importance of those concerns: he reveals the ‘conventionality’ of masculine ideals, thus transgressing them and ‘breaking through to the “real”’.43 The reader may be tickled to observe Cleitophon’s failures, but those failures also enable him to identify with Cleitophon to some extent: he is everyman, and more human, perhaps, than a Theagenes or a Chaereas.44 It is in Cleitophon’s failings as a man that we might see Achilles Tatius contesting the culturally assigned performance of masculinity, and it is from Cleitophon’s mouth that the title of this book, Playing the Man, is taken. At two points Cleitophon uses the verb andrizomai (play the man),45 a verb suggestive of acting in a ‘manly’ fashion, and one which often carries a sexual connotation, as indeed it does when Cleitophon uses it. This verb (which is also used of Heliodorus’ Theagenes, though with very different implications for his masculinity),46 seemed to me indicative not only of Cleitophon’s attempts to perform his own gender sexually, but also of the pressures experienced by every elite male to conform to the script of masculinity—to ‘play the man’ convincingly, regardless of any disparity he may sense between external image and inner feelings. Of course, the men in the novels are not ‘real’ men, but the products of fiction. Nonetheless, writing fiction does not give an author carte blanche to create just any kind of character:47 not only must fictional masculinities be generically appropriate, but, since fictional literature strives to create identification with its reader, they must also be recognizable in some way to their audience, exhibiting behaviours and concerns intelligible to the reader.48 At several critical junctures, the Greek novels’ male 43 e.g. through Cleitophon’s cross-dressing (6.1ff.), which, Morales (2004), 61 observes, ‘symbolises the marked theatricality’ of this novel; I will examine this episode in Ch. 3. 44 Although, as we will see, both of these characters occasionally exhibit masculinity of a standard to which a reader might be able to relate. 45 Ach. Tat. 2.10.1, 4.1.2; for discussion of these instances, see Ch. 2, pp. 158–9. 46 On which see Ch. 2, pp. 154–6. 47 Culler (1997), 113. 48 It seems to me that the concern for various aspects of masculinity, and in particular elite masculinity, evidenced by all five of the ideal novels implies an ancient readership that was in large part male and elite. On those to whom the novels may have appealed, and on the novels’ sociocultural contexts, see Reardon (1974); Bowie

12

Playing the Man

characters attempt to present idealized versions of themselves before others (they try to ‘play the man’), they show an awareness of a cultural pressure to conform to an ideal of gendered behaviour, and they sometimes even fly in the face of such ideals. The theatrical model of performance seems especially appropriate as a means of articulating the very real social processes in operation behind these fictional characters. It is not my intention, however, to write a theoryheavy study. This is, first and foremost, a text-based analysis, and I use the theories outlined here simply as tools to facilitate that analysis: to quote Simon Goldhill, ‘performance’ is ‘a central explanatory term for the articulation of the subject in relation to social norms and practices’.49 But if we think that masculinity does not have an immutable, monolithic, transhistorical, or transcultural form, then an analysis of masculinity in texts that might feasibly cover a time span of almost half a millennium, written by men from sometimes geographically disparate areas, inevitably faces some challenges. Some of those texts even set their action hundreds of years in the past, further complicating our study of them. But these issues may not be as problematic as they at first appear. To take the matter of geography and culture first, we might see the earlier novelists, and perhaps also Longus, as having similar conceptions of gender by virtue of living in related cultures, namely the cities of Asia Minor, affluent cities which were also centres of Hellenism and scholarship.50 Asia Minor has been identified as ‘the real home of sophistic and novel’,51 and a particular link is evident between the earliest novels and western Asia Minor:52 Chariton states that he is from Aphrodisias (1.1), and Xenophon’s origin may be Ephesus.53 In the case of Longus, the debate continues as to whether he may have been from, or may at least have known, Lesbos,54 but any connection with Lesbos puts him close enough to Asia Minor: Bowie

(1994), (2003); Stephens (1994); Morgan (1995); Hägg (2004) [1994]; and Hunter (2008). 49 Goldhill (1999), 15. 50 See Anderson (1993), 4. 51 Reardon (1974), 25. 52 See Bowie (2003), 90, who also connects the fragmentary Ninus and Metiochus and Parthenope with Asia Minor. 53 The epithet ‘of Ephesus’ may, on the other hand, refer only to the fact that his story begins and ends in that place: see Kytzler (2003), 345. 54 Discussion and further references in Hunter (2003), 367–9 and Morgan (2004), 1.

Introduction

13

comments that although Lesbos was not a sophistic centre, its location suggests that it probably hosted some sophistic performances.55 But what of Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus, who come from further afield? Although Achilles remains something of a shadowy figure, the manuscripts seem to agree that he was from Alexandria,56 while Heliodorus identifies himself unequivocally as ‘a Phoenician from Emesa’ (10.41.4). The literary credentials of Emesa are in no doubt whatsoever,57 and despite the fact that Philostratus, our main source on such matters, does not mention Alexandria as a sophistic focal point,58 it was, nonetheless, traditionally a centre of intellectualism; on the basis of the bookish learning of Achilles Tatius’ Cleitophon, and the slippery, self-aware nature of his narrative, we might well believe that Alexandria was indeed Achilles’ home. The highly literate and intellectually demanding world of the elite in the early centuries of the common era—and in particular the second century—is well known and has been much discussed,59 and the term ‘Second Sophistic’, which Philostratus applied to the archaizing and Atticizing tendencies of the late first to early third centuries, has come to be used frequently of that historical period, rather than of the style to which it originally referred.60 While perhaps only three of the five ideal novels sit squarely in the centre of this ‘Second Sophistic’ (Xenophon, Achilles Tatius, and Longus), and while not all of them exhibit the movement’s linguistic trademarks, all five are united by a sense of ‘sophistic’ culture.61 I do not mean to suggest that the Ephesiaca is knowingly sophistic in the same way as Leucippe and Cleitophon, or literarily sophisticated in the same way as the later Aethiopica. I mean rather that even the apparently naive Xenophon shows an awareness of elite cultural and literary concerns,62 albeit that they are not expressed in a narrative of the same calibre as that of Achilles or 55 Bowie (1994), 452. Indeed, Philostratus refers to the sophist Dionysius of Miletus as having taught in Lesbos during his early career (VS 526). 56 See Plepelits (2003), 387. 57 See Bowersock (1969), 101–9. 58 Anderson (1993), 4. 59 e.g. Bowersock (1969); Reardon (1971), (1974); Bowie (1974) [1970], (1982); Anderson (1989), (1993); Gleason (1995). 60 Philostr. VS 481; see Whitmarsh (2005), 4–5. See Goldhill (2001a), 14 on the somewhat amorphous boundaries of the period; I propose to use the term ‘Second Sophistic’ in just such a maximalist, ‘non-Philostratus’ way. 61 See Reardon (1971), 339ff., (1974). 62 See Ruiz Montero (2003), esp. 58–60, and Doulamis (2007).

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Playing the Man

Heliodorus. In an intellectual-cultural sense, then, the novels form a unified whole:63 while, in the details of day-to-day life, one author will undoubtedly have had different cultural experiences from the next, the overarching elite cultures of all five are likely to have been similar, especially in their attitudes to intellectualism.64 Maud Gleason has shown just how intricately and inextricably linked were the concepts of intellectualism and elite masculinity.65 It is reasonable to suppose, therefore, that if our authors all shared the sophistic outlook, they may well also have experienced similar concerns with regard to masculinity, despite the historical and cultural fluidity of constructions of gender. Along with their shared expression of intellectualism, the ideal novels are united by their general exclusion of the contemporary world: . . . in none of these works is any mention made of the Roman empire, within whose political jurisdiction and cultural and ideological framework these authors and their works must presumably be located. On the other hand, the form of state, the civil institutions, the war conventions, the law implications, the social structure, the economic background (as well as the religious and ideological attitudes) of such novels are largely to be referred to Greek tradition . . . 66

Similarly, in her study of women and marriage in the Greek novels, Brigitte Egger notes that the novelists are ‘learned writers of antiquarian and rhetorical literary interests’;67 she finds many classical traits in their treatment of women and marriage, and argues that the texts display a femininity that is ‘conventional and archaizing as compared to contemporary reality’.68 We must therefore remain open to the possibility that any representation of masculinity may be influenced by such interests too. However, Egger also observes that the novelists make assumptions about marriage ‘as members of their own societies, with their specific cultural experiences’.69 We might then reasonably 63 Reardon (1974) assesses the novels’ place in the sophistic literary and declamatory movement referred to by Philostratus. 64 cf. Stephens (2008), 59 on cultural identity in the novels: ‘a striking feature of these texts is that despite their temporal, regional and stylistic differences they construct being Greek in remarkably similar ways’. 65 Gleason (1995). 66 Scarcella (2003), 220. 67 Egger (1994b), 265. 68 Ibid. 271. 69 Ibid. 265.

Introduction

15

expect to find contemporary masculine concerns reflected by the authors in their texts. It will in fact emerge in the course of this book that many elements of what might be termed ‘classical masculinity’ are represented in the novels. And yet, comparison with extra-generic texts roughly concurrent with the novels suggests that ‘classical’ masculinities continued to be endorsed as valid forms of gender expression into much later periods. Hence, while such ‘classical’ masculinities in the novels might well be related to their classical dramatic setting (viz. Chariton and Heliodorus), that does not preclude them from also being considered ‘contemporary’. Any exclusion of the contemporary world is really an exclusion only of large-scale political and religious matters—the influence of Rome and the spread of Christianity, for example.70 By contrast, several of the texts do exhibit an interest in very contemporary issues pertaining to masculinity. Indeed, in arguing that the novels should be seen as valuable to the social historian, Ewen Bowie observes the care with which they ‘present a convincing reflection of the contemporary world’,71 and suggests that they may be taken as ‘points of reference for significant aspects of the Zeitgeist’.72 Characteristics such as these, common to several, and in some cases all, of the novels, would seem to reduce the significance of the chronological gap between Chariton and Heliodorus, and to validate our discovery of similar attitudes towards gender in texts which may be separated by a wide chronological gulf.73 Dionysius’ behaviour at 70 The novels in fact share some generic topoi with early Christian literature, suggesting that they may have been responding to similar external impetuses. While the issue of shared motifs and ideologies is an interesting one, it is beyond the scope of this study, which attempts first and foremost to locate the novels’ masculinities in a Greek and Roman (i.e. ‘pagan’) context. For inroads into the potential connections between Greek fiction and New Testament writings, see e.g. Hock, Chance, & Perkins (1998), Thomas (2003), Ramelli (2007), and, to some extent, Perkins (1995) and Rhee (2005). 71 Bowie (1977), 93–4. 72 Ibid. 96. 73 See Bowie (1989), 124 for a helpful table of the possible dates of the novels, and (2002) for an update on the chronology of the earlier novels. Chariton’s is generally agreed to be the earliest of the five, but his dating is far from certain; one dissenting voice is that of O’Sullivan (1995), 145–70 and (2005), p. xiii, who sees him as postdating, and imitating, Xenophon of Ephesus; Reardon (2003), 312 sees him somewhere in either the 1st century BCE or CE, and Tilg (2010), 36–78 the first half of the 1st century CE, although I favour a 2nd-century date, an issue to which I will return in Ch.1. Bowie (1989), 136 locates Heliodorus in the 3rd century, on the grounds of style and content similar to that of Achilles Tatius and Philostratus; Bowie would therefore

16

Playing the Man

his symposium will again serve us well as a case in point. This elite gentleman is hyper-conscious of the way his companions see him, and is desperate to conceal his lovesick condition; that condition is nonetheless detected by his dinner party guests. Fast-forward at least a hundred years (but possibly as much as four hundred), and we find Heliodorus’ Theagenes, another elite gentleman, attempting to hide his erotic inebriation from his sympotic guests, who similarly discover his malaise (3.10.4ff.). Despite a difference in the style of narration, the two scenes are remarkably alike: both men are careful to present a particular image to their guests, an image that cannot, however, be maintained, and which crumbles under the crippling weight of love. Dionysius and Theagenes seem to experience and perform their gender in very similar ways. Of course, it may be that any similarities are to be attributed to these novels’ dramatic settings74—of the five ideal novels, they are the only ones which overtly stage their action in the historical past (sixth/fifth century). But more significantly, I think, the concerns suffered by both men are characteristic of the elite performance culture of the imperial era—a culture of analysis and scrutiny, both of the self and of others.75 In their acute awareness of their images before others, and in their efforts to maintain front, these men seem to embody the elite masculinity of the Second Sophistic. The masculinities of the male characters in these texts (and potentially also of the authors who created them) are guided, and in some cases dictated, by ideologies which appear to change very little between the conception of the first and last novels: ideologies of masculinity, and of performance, may well be historically and culturally specific, but, on the evidence of Chariton and Heliodorus at least, this is a period in which ideology undergoes no real seismic shift. Chariton’s Dionysius has been a recurring figure of this introduction, and in many ways he epitomizes the subject of my first chapter, envisage Heliodorus breathing the same intellectual air as those flourishing at the height of the Second Sophistic. The argument is tempting, especially in view of Philostratus’ reference to one ‘Heliodorus the Arab’ (VS 626), and Heliodorus’ Emesan origins, which invite a connection with Julia Domna’s intellectual circle; cf., however, Reardon (1974), 24 and Morgan (1978), pp. ii–xxxvii and (2003), 418–19, who would place Heliodorus in the 4th century. 74 Or even to Heliodorus’ having read Chariton! 75 This may be one argument in favour of moving Chariton and Heliodorus closer together in date.

Introduction

17

paideia. As a guiding principle and defining feature of elite manliness in the Second Sophistic, paideia must have a central place in any study of masculinity in this period. The modern reader of Chariton’s novel (with or without a basic grasp of Greek) cannot miss the fact that Dionysius is both highly introspective and socially prominent. It is his possession of the quality of paideia (an intellectual and behavioural ‘culture’) that enables him to maintain these private and public personae, but that same paideia ironically allows an intensity of self-scrutiny that threatens to undermine his public image. It is this paradox, whereby paideia is simultaneously a man’s friend and his foe, which lies at the heart of my enquiry in Chapter 1. Dionysius the pepaideumenos does not exist in a vacuum, however, and although he may represent the apogee of paideia, around him orbit other men who, to varying degrees and in different ways, may all be considered pepaideumenoi: Artaxerxes, Theagenes, and even the adulterous Cleitophon and the wife-killing Chaereas, display paideia as a feature of their masculinity; they too will find their place in Chapter 1. One difficulty faced by the modern researcher examining paideia is just how to translate the term, since there is no equivalent in the English language that can adequately transmit its semantic sweep. I must confess to having hedged my bets somewhat here, in that I have tried to avoid offering any kind of translation, fearing either falling short of the mark or giving the reader without much knowledge of Greek an incomplete impression of just how multifaceted the concept of paideia can be. I hope that the discussion will furnish the reader with a definition of sorts, if not with a translation. Chapter 2 tries to get to grips with andreia, a concept that might be thought paideia’s diametrical opposite, seemingly a very physical characteristic that, by virtue of its relation to anēr (man), is in some sense the quality of maleness itself. But here again we have the obstacle of translation. Andreia is physical bravery, but it is also mental endurance. It is sexual conquest—or is it sexual self-restraint? It is the essence of being a man, a biological manly vigour, and yet a woman might also display it. To the extent that it is possible to do so at all, I have tried to define andreia, primarily for the benefit of readers without a great deal of prior knowledge of the subject. Focusing in the main on the military and athletic feats of Chaereas and Theagenes, the chapter explores the degree to which andreia really is a physical quality, and what its relationship to paideia might be. But I am interested not simply in defining andreia and

18

Playing the Man

paideia, but in defining how the authors of the Greek novels use such manly concepts to define their male characters. What meanings do paideia and andreia have in the fictional lives of Dionysius, Chaereas, Cleitophon, and Theagenes? How is their gender constructed (or indeed deconstructed) by these ideologies? Finally, in Chapter 3 I take a slightly different, and arguably more difficult, turn. The subject of sex between men and women, and its relation to masculinity, finds its way into Chapters 1 and 2, but in the third chapter I focus for the most part on the way in which a gendered identity may be constituted by sexual behaviour between males. Such behaviour (I avoid the term ‘homosexuality’, for reasons set out in the introduction to the chapter itself) features overtly in three of the five novels in question (Xenophon’s, Longus’, and Achilles Tatius’), where both pederastic ideology and the spectre of effeminacy are key issues. These issues are also entwined with men’s relationships with women, and especially so in a genre which has marriage between a man and a woman as its central theme. So, for instance, love for boys is defined against love for women, and a reputation for effeminacy may result as much from a man’s sexual conduct with the opposite sex as from his behaviour with males. All of the texts examined in Chapter 3 give the impression that sex, whether with a man or with a woman, has a vital role to play in male maturation, a role that may be either positive or negative: masculinity is something achieved and expressed in part through a man’s self-comportment in erotic matters. But while the sex and gender ideologies explored in Chapter 3 are quite clearly powerful forces in the lives of our novels’ male characters, their power is not immune to subversion and resistance, as I argue in the case of Achilles Tatius and, to some extent, also Xenophon. These, then, are the discourses I tackle in this book. I am quite sure that the book leaves many questions unanswered, and that it gives by no means a complete picture of the masculinities on show in the five ideal novels. It does, however, attempt to explain what seem to me to be the predominant cultural forces influencing these five authors’ constructions of their male characters. Those forces are perhaps articulated most strongly in the figures of Dionysius and Cleitophon, the former a man whose self-image and self-worth seem to depend on paideia, and who expresses his masculine identity in part through the demonstration of military andreia, and the latter a ‘man’ whose (deliberately? unwittingly?) inept performance of masculinity results in his figurative castration and sex change. Dionysius and Cleitophon

Introduction

19

in fact appear to stand at each end of a scale of what we might call ‘achievement of masculinity’, and each of them could, in his own right, fill a book on masculinity. Maybe this study will prompt such a book. I will end this introduction and begin the book proper with some words spoken by one of the male narrators of a modern work of fiction, itself concerned with notions of gender performance and male maturation under the scrutiny of others, and which expresses succinctly the eternal difficulty of coming to manhood—and staying there: The young can’t help playacting; themselves incomplete, they are thrust by life into a completed world where they are compelled to act fully grown. They therefore adopt forms, patterns, models—those that are in fashion, that suit, that please—and enact them. ... And myself? Didn’t I run back and forth among several roles until I was tripped up and lost my balance?76

76 Kundera (1992) [1967], 87.

1 Paideia1 Towards the end of Chariton’s first book, the pirate Theron arrives in Miletus hoping to sell Callirhoe. While contemplating his next move, he observes a passing crowd comprising both slaves and free men. The scene is focalized through Theron himself, whose attention is grabbed by a man at the very centre of the crowd ( ¯  b fiH Æf Ææfi Ø ºBŁ IŁæ ø KºıŁæø  ŒÆd ºø, K Ø b ÆPE Icæ ºØŒÆfi ŒÆŁ , ºÆØH ŒÆd ŒıŁæø  , 1.12.6). The sight of this man causes Theron to jump to his feet and to ask a man nearby who the stranger is. His addressee (who, it turns out, acts as the estate supervisor of the man in the crowd) is surprised that Theron has never heard of Dionysius, since he ‘exceeds the other Ionians in wealth, birth, and paideia, and is a friend of the Great King’ ( ºø fi ŒÆd ªØ ŒÆd ÆØÆfi H ¼ººø  ø  æåÆ, çº F ªºı Æغø , ibid.).2 Although it was customary to introduce a protagonist by reference to his noble birth and financial resources,3 Chariton pointedly also includes a reference to Dionysius’ paideia, an imperial catchword denoting both an intellectual status and a certain manner of behaviour in human relations. This is Theron’s and the reader’s first encounter with Dionysius, and by the mere mention of paideia, his introduction is made to stand out even from those of heroes and heroines, suggesting that paideia will be a key part of his characterization. Progressing through the text, the reader cannot help but be struck by the preponderance of direct references to, or implicit suggestions of, paideia. This is certainly the 1 Parts of this chapter also appear in Jones (forthcoming a). 2 Unless otherwise indicated, translations are my own. 3 Ruiz Montero (1989), 137; cf. the introduction of Chaereas and Callirhoe (Chariton 1.1.1ff.), and Habrocomes and Anthia (X. Eph. 1.1.1ff.).

Paideia

21

novel that engages most overtly with paideia, betraying an intense interest in a notion that became a dominant feature in the construction of—particularly—second-century masculinity, and one that was very much bound up with public, oratorical performance. Though Chariton’s date has still not been settled, Bowie has observed that his emphasis on paideia ‘fits the cultural boom of the second sophistic’, and ought to be taken into account in any attempt at dating.4 If the novel is thought to be an early one, it demonstrates that a man’s development and maintenance of paideia was a matter of intense concern prior to the second century. On the other hand, if we place Chariton a little later, in the second century, we might see the characterization of Dionysius the pepaideumenos (man of paideia) as inspired to some extent by the sophists of that period.5 Indeed, Hock argues plausibly that Chariton’s characters can be seen as having a level of educational and behavioural paideia that would not have been out of place in the real world, and that elements of Chariton’s style and structure show the author himself to have attained an advanced level of paideia.6 The public face of imperial paideia was frequently exhibited via the mimetic recreation of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE; from this perspective it may be significant that the dramatic date of Chariton’s novel is precisely that of the thought world of imperial pepaideumenoi: in its historical setting and its prioritization of paideia, we might well read this novel as a sophistic performance in itself.7 Given that paideia seems to be such a preoccupation for Chariton, his text will be the primary focus of this chapter. He is also notable among novelists for the amount of attention he devotes to jealousy and anger as aspects of masculine comportment. This attention is epitomized in Chaereas’ violent physical attack on Callirhoe, which is deliberately staged near the beginning of the narrative, and which I will discuss in detail at the end of this chapter for its relationship to Chaereas’ own paideia. In order to provide a background against which we might read Chariton’s 4 Bowie (1977), 94. 5 See p. 63 n. 123 for further discussion. 6 Hock (2005); see also Hunter (1993), who argues for Chariton’s sophistication and self-awareness. 7 It is perhaps no surprise that Chariton of Aphrodisias is so concerned with paideia: see Yildirim (2004) on Aphrodisias’ growing importance from the 1st century CE as a centre of paideia of all kinds; see also Bowie (2002), 62 on Aphrodisias as a focal point for paideia and the erotic novel.

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interest in paideia, I begin the chapter with a general discussion of the nature of paideia in Greek social history, before narrowing the focus to explore how novelistic paideia is performed as an element of elite masculinity.

THE HISTORY AND SOCIAL CONTEXT OF PAIDEIA The term ÆØÆ has been variously translated, most often as ‘education’ or ‘culture’, although neither English word adequately conveys the Greek word’s semantic range.8 Most recently, the trend has been to interpret paideia in the sense of ‘acculturation’,9 in order to stress its nature as a process. The compound of education and culture that paideia represented seems never to have been finite in form, but rather to have undergone a series of metamorphoses throughout Greek history,10 as well as to have been a constant evolutionary force in the public and private life of the elite Greek male. Yet despite its fluid nature, the application of the term paideia could be telling for a Greek reader, connoting moral and ethical values, as well as extensive learning in a variety of fields: ‘ . . . paideia . . . implies both a body of privileged texts, artworks, values—a culture to be inherited and preserved as a sign of civilization—and also a process of acculturation—education—which “makes men”, which informs the structures and activities of the lives of the civic elite’.11

Classical paideia Throughout the classical period, paideia encompassed everything learned formally at school and in the gymnasium,12 and often also included the development of skills in music and hunting. As part of their paideia, Xenophon’s Persian king Cyrus and his fellow elite 8 A similar inadequacy pertains in the translation of IæÆ, as we will see in Ch. 2. 9 See e.g. Gleason (1990), 412 on the ‘acculturation’ of men. 10 See Jaeger (1945); also Marrou (1956) on the development of paideia in the sense of ‘education’. 11 Goldhill (2001a), 17. 12 Athletic training was an important part of paideia in later eras too: see van Nijf (2004) and König (2005) on the place of athletics in paideia in the Second Sophistic.

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23

youths learn both justice (dikaiosynē) and self-control (sōphrosynē) at school (Cyr. 1.2.6ff.), and Xenophon shows himself a great believer in the value of hunting as a means of producing a man who is sōphrōn and dikaios (Cyn. 12.7ff.).13 For Plato too, paideia was not simply education in any technical sense, but the cultivation of virtue from a young age, and an understanding of how to rule and be ruled in the correct manner; a paideia devoid of good sense (nous) and good order (dikē) would not deserve to be called paideia at all (Lg. 643eff.). A correlation between paideia, virtue, and wise thought is thus established at an early stage. But, as the Laws goes on to imply, paideia was not infallible, and did not necessarily prevent a man from behaving inappropriately: ‘ . . . if ever [paideia] behaves excessively, but can be corrected, this one must always do, throughout one’s life and with all one’s might’ (ŒÆd Y  KæåÆØ, ıÆe  Kd K ÆæŁFŁÆØ, F Id æÆ Øa ı Æd ŒÆa ÆØ, 644b). Like that of Plato and Xenophon, the paideia extolled by Isocrates subsumes certain moral virtues: the educational aspect of paideia is expected to help a man to develop ethical characteristics, enabling him to control his pleasures and desires, to be upright and just in his dealings with others, and to bear his misfortunes in a manly fashion (H b ıçæH c ºÆ øı , Iºº IæøH K ÆPÆE ØÆŒØı , Panathenaicus 30–2). Isocrates identifies logos (reason) as the symbol of paideia, arguing that it distinguishes man from other animals, and facilitates the formation of laws (Nicocles 5ff.).14 Since logos is not only reason, but also speech, Isocrates thereby makes a firm and enduring connection between paideia and speech, specifically oratory. In discussion of the role of paideia in the formation of the orator (Antidosis 186ff.), he states that the most important quality in such a man is natural ability (e B çø Iı æºÅ), which, with only a clear voice and courage (c ºÆ) to assist it, can give rise to an impressive speaker;15 however, when it is coupled with experience and plenty of practice (ÆE  K ØæÆØ ŒÆd ÆE K غÆØ ), natural talent turns out the best orators. By contrast, if

13 See also Cyr. 8.1.34ff. 14 See Jaeger (1945), 79. 15 ºÆ often carries negative connotations (see Ch. 2, p. 94), but here suggests self-confidence without braggadocio or over-boldness, as Isocrates is keen to clarify (Antidosis 190).

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a man has paideia but no natural ability, he need lack only courage and he will be speechless before the crowd (P i çŁªÆŁÆØ ıÅŁÅ). This seems to impose limits on paideia: while it is, as we will see, an immensely powerful attribute (or collection of attributes), its power is circumscribed, and in order to be most effective it must be complemented by other positive qualities, including natural ability. Rhetorical ability in public is not all that Isocrates expects of a man. In addition, logos must be directed inward, so that the power of reason takes on a private aspect which is as, if not more, important than its public face: With this faculty [logos] we both contend against others on matters which are open to dispute and seek light for ourselves on things which are unknown; for the same arguments which we use when persuading others when we speak in public, we employ also when we deliberate in our own thoughts; and, while we call eloquent those who are able to speak before a crowd, we regard as sage those who most skilfully debate their problems in their own minds. (Isoc. Nicocles 8; Loeb trans.)16 a ı ŒÆd æd H IçØÅÅø IªøØÇŁÆ ŒÆd æd H Iªıø Œ ŁÆ· ÆE ªaæ Ø Æx f ¼ººı ºª Ł, ÆE ÆPÆE ÆÆØ ıºıØ åæ ŁÆ, ŒÆd ÞÅæØŒf b ŒÆºF f K fiH º ŁØ ıÆı ºªØ, Pºı b Ç ¥ Ø i ÆPd æe Æf ¼æØÆ æd H æƪø ØƺåŁHØ.

Here, the public and performative nature of paideia is very much in evidence, though the rhetorical skills learned from teachers are sometimes to be divorced from their public context, and applied before a more private audience—the audience of the self. Yet philosophical and ethical texts do not have the monopoly on paideia. In his discussion of New Comic echoes in Chariton, Borgogno views paideia as an ideal in Menander’s work, terming it an ‘elevazione morale’ which, far from being the ‘egoistico esercizio di un’astratta virtù’, is rather ‘comprensione dei bisogni di chi ci è accanto e rispetto per l’altrui sofferenza’.17 Paideia assumes yet another aspect here, becoming—in addition to a thoroughgoing elite education, the exercise of virtue in relation to others and to oneself, and the ability to reason both publicly and privately—a profound 16 This is clearly a vital concept for Isocrates: we find identical language at Antidosis 256. 17 Borgogno (1971), 260.

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comprehension of, and respect for, the needs and sufferings of others: it is the ability to empathize, to relate to others by means of one’s own experiences. Paideia thus emerges as a rather Russian doll-like construct, appearing simple at first glance, but in fact comprised of several interdependent parts. It has both intellectual and ethical aspects, and within each of these are public and private facets: intellectually, one must be able to debate publicly with others and privately with oneself; ethically, one must demonstrate virtue in one’s public dealings with others, which in turn entails the exercise of control over the self, and a highly developed sense of empathy. If any one of these elements is missing, paideia is incomplete; indeed, an unstable or incomplete paideia may threaten one’s very masculinity— a threat we will observe in Chariton.

Hellenistic paideia The Tabula of Cebes is an important text for our understanding of the significance of Hellenistic and Roman imperial paideia. The authorship of this text, which purports to be an allegorical interpretation of a painted votive tablet, is uncertain, although it appears to have been universally attributed by imperial writers to Cebes of Thebes, a pupil of Socrates and fellow of Plato.18 While there is now a general consensus that the work should be dated to the Hellenistic or early imperial period, the content may derive from the ideas of the classical Cebes, thus accounting for the ancient belief that he was its author.19 The basic form of the Tabula recycles Prodicus’ myth of Heracles’ choice between the personified Virtue and Vice,20 which presented the path to virtue as more arduous than that to vice, though preferable in the long term from a moral and ethical perspective. Important for our purposes here is the stout differentiation the Tabula makes between two forms of paideia, one genuine and the other fraudulent—a

18 See X. Mem. 1.2.48 for Cebes as a disciple of Socrates. Diogenes Laertius (2.125) and Lucian (Merc. Cond. 42; Rh. Pr. 6) both unequivocally accept Cebes as the author of the Tabula. Opinion had not changed by the time the Suda was compiled (s.v. ˚Å ). 19 Fitzgerald & White (1983), 2ff. 20 For which see X. Mem. 2.1.21–34. For an early appearance of the motif of choice between two ways of life, see Hes. Op. 287–92; this became a common theme in the imperial period.

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dichotomy very much in evidence in imperial literature, and one whose traces may be detected in the novels. In the Tabula, true paideia admits a man to many virtues, including self-control (enkrateia, 16), endurance (karteria, 16), courage (andreia, 20), justice (dikaiosynē, 20), and temperance (sōphrosynē, 20), but such paideia cannot be claimed by someone who possesses academic knowledge alone: . . . nothing prevents one from knowing literature and mastering all the academic disciplines and yet at the same time being drunken, incontinent, avaricious, unjust, treacherous, and, in short, foolish. (Ceb. 34; trans. Fitzgerald & White) Pb ªaæ ŒøºØ NÆØ b ªæÆÆ ŒÆd ŒÆåØ a ÆŁ ÆÆ Æ, ›ø b Łı ŒÆd IŒæÆB r ÆØ ŒÆd çغæªıæ ŒÆd ¼ØŒ ŒÆd æÅ ŒÆd e æÆ ¼çæÆ.

Cebes’ polemic is founded on the presumed existence of people who believe paideia to be nothing more than literate education. But those who know their letters yet lead immoral lives possess a mere pseudopaideia, a bastardized form of paideia that attracts many poets and orators, according to the elderly exegete who interprets the allegorical painting for his younger audience (13). Cebes’ outspoken self-positioning suggests that he perceives pseudopaideia to be a prevalent and pernicious force amongst his contemporaries, and one which disguises itself as something it is not. Paideia had always been a hard-won badge of honour, but Cebes had evidently observed men attempting to claim it, while having no real right to do so. Consequently, paideia was being cheapened, and one means of restoring its exclusivity was to flag up a distinction between what he saw as ‘real’ paideia, and the marker to which others were now laying claim.

Second Sophistic paideia Paideia became a frequent object of praise in inscriptions of the imperial period. One such inscription from Chariton’s home town, Aphrodisias, honours a man for his paideia, his gentleness, and his gentlemanly behaviour.21 These characteristics are presented as natural companions, as if the possession of paideia goes hand in hand 21 Kleijwegt (1991), 84–5 (CIG 2795: 84).

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with a gentle disposition and gentlemanly conduct. But the imperial emphasis on paideia is not found in inscriptions alone. The distinction that Cebes had made between legitimate and counterfeit paideia resurfaces in the literature of the Second Sophistic, where we detect an anxiety over paideia’s potential manipulability.22 Second Sophistic paideia is extremely difficult to define;23 its very slipperiness and flexibility may well have made it easier for a man to claim it for himself by imposing on it his own interpretation. Imperial literature betrays a renewed concern over the nature of paideia and those who claimed to possess it. In order to establish their own authority and authenticity, sophists and rhetoricians stressed the Hellenistic bifurcation of paideia into true and false forms; by emphasizing this dichotomy they implied, without ever having to state overtly, that they themselves possessed the former and others the latter.24 Dio Chrysostom brings the true/false paideia theme into play in a dialogue between Alexander and Diogenes, pointing up the distinction with the terms ‘human’ and ‘divine’. In his moral instruction of Alexander, Diogenes observes that human paideia involves deception, and that the majority believe that by reading the most books they will acquire the most paideia.25 By contrast, divine paideia is much more profound. It is sometimes known as courage (andreia) and sometimes as magnanimity (megalophrosynē), a blurring of boundaries which suggests a close relationship between paideia and the virtues. Those who possess this variety are thought to have received ‘good paideia’ (B IªÆŁB ÆØÆ , Or. 4.29ff.), and to be ‘manly in their souls’ (ŒÆd a łıåa Iæı , ibid.). Diogenes’ understanding of paideia implies that he himself is a possessor of the divine form, which he hopes to impart to Alexander; the philosopher’s function as Dio’s rhetorical alter ego in turn implies that Dio himself is a true, or divine, pepaideumenos.26 Once the distinction between true and false paideia was laid down in elite circles, the race was on to prove oneself a true pepaideumenos. 22 And if the Tabula is in fact an imperial text, it may itself be symptomatic of that anxiety. 23 A difficulty noted by Anderson (1993), 8. 24 On paideia as something to which sophists and rhetoricians laid especial claim, see Anderson (1989). 25 cf. Lucian Ind., the addressee of which expects a reputation for paideia to follow from the purchase of books. 26 Noted also by Whitmarsh (2001a), 192ff.

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It might be relatively easy, if financially draining, to accumulate a vast array of books and thereby consider oneself a pepaideumenos of sorts, but to be able to lay legitimate claim to a true behavioural and intellectual paideia was no mean feat. True paideia was a rare thing, and its rarity made it the object of intense competition. The desirability of paideia reached right to the top of the elite tree. Since the education of Xenophon’s Cyrus, paideia had been associated particularly with kings, with late classical and Hellenistic kingship discourse stressing that it was appropriate for no one more than for kings to develop paideia and the virtues to which it gave access.27 The influence of this notion persisted in the rhetoric of the Second Sophistic, as evidenced by material such as Dio’s kingship orations. In imperial fiction too, as we will see, paideia is closely related to kingship and to the virtues, but is also a source of anxiety, an object of competition, and a tool for deception. Paideia was far from a uniform doctrine,28 although in its true form it seems always to have been expected to comprise an educational and a cultural or behavioural aspect. Emphasizing these elements, Jones notes the frequency of Lucian’s references to paideia, and reflects that ‘To lack culture [paideia] [in this period] implies ignorance not only of classics such as Homer, but of the behaviour expected of civilized beings’.29 Lucian in fact appears to have been especially troubled by the prevalence of pseudopaideia amongst his contemporaries.30 In his short piece, The Dream, he recounts his choice of the path of paideia as a youth. As he had shown some early promise in art, and since his family members were artisans, it was assumed that he too would enter the sculpture trade (Somn. 2). But after a disastrous first day as an apprentice to his uncle, he dreams that two women, the personified Paideia and Techne, appear to him and fight over his future (6). Paideia is refined, attractive, and feminine in appearance, while Techne is burly, rough, and masculine (6). The obvious physical contrast between the two women enables 27 This is evident in Isocrates too, where a king’s paideia is epitomized by the triumph of self-control (To Nicocles 29); see Jaeger (1945), 79ff. 28 See Whitmarsh (2001a), 5. 29 Jones (1986), 149. 30 Bompaire (1958) downplays contemporary references in Lucian, examining instead his use of literary models; Baldwin (1973) and Jones (1986), however, see in Lucian’s work the presence of contemporary social and political currents; it seems to me that his preoccupation with paideia is a sign of very contemporary concerns.

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Lucian to make his choice quickly. Predictably enough he chooses Paideia (14), who takes him on a fantastic chariot-ride through the heavens and returns him to his father, regaled in splendid purple robes (15–16). Like Cebes, Lucian takes as his inspiration Prodicus’ well-known tale, but interpreting his spin on that tale is far from simple. As with all of Lucian’s output, the work is rather ambiguous, and its apparent approval of paideia is certainly not unequivocal.31 As Gera points out, the custom in versions of Prodicus’ myth was to represent each woman’s moral qualities through the medium of her physical mien: the negative woman was usually physically aggressive and quick in motion, while the positive woman remained sedate and composed.32 Lucian, however, draws both female figures as forceful and highly active. As Gera further notes, the negative woman of a pair was typically seductive in appearance, and reliant upon artificial aids to beauty,33 while the virtuous woman may not be as obviously appealing, and may even be rather manly.34 By attributing glamour to Paideia and manliness to Techne, Lucian plants some uncertainty in the mind of the reader familiar with standard versions of the myth: the women’s appearances imply that Techne may not in fact be a wholly negative choice, nor Paideia wholly positive. Is Lucian suggesting, Gera asks, that there is no real difference in value between the two ways of life?35 Gera offers an intriguing reading, but there may be even more to Lucian’s mock autobiography. The aim of sculpture is the convincing mimesis of a subject through art. As such it is the perfect cipher for Second Sophistic paideia, which was frequently geared to the recreation of the past through the art of oratorical performance. Perhaps, then, Techne represents a sort of paideia, while Paideia herself is little more than an artful deception, devoid of the rigorous training of her counterpart.36 She does indeed 31 Gera (1995). 32 e.g. X. Mem. 2.1.23; Ceb. 18. 33 e.g. X. Mem. 2.1.22. 34 Gera (1995), 244. 35 Ibid. 241. 36 Techne’s brief, solecistic, and decidedly clumsy speech (7–8) provides the necessary contrast with Paideia’s loquaciousness (9–13), and perhaps symbolizes the barbarisms that rhetorical training was designed to eradicate; I do not think it precludes her from being identified as a form of paideia. Indeed, åÅ was a watchword of Alexandrian poetics – in this light it is hard not to see Techne as a route to paideia. Whitmarsh (2001a), 122, on the other hand, sees Techne as ‘the inflexible, “monolithic” use of the Greek tradition’.

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present her skills as easily acquired, offering Lucian a host of virtues, including temperance (sōphrosynē), justice (dikaiosynē), and endurance (karteria), as if these things no longer had to be worked for (10). By contrast, Techne will involve the young Lucian in nothing but toil for very little return, according to Paideia (13). As Gera notes, Paideia seems only to mention the virtues because they are the components one would expect to find in her; her true concerns are fame, popularity, and the outward trappings of wealth and attractiveness.37 Lucian, it seems, adopts the guise of autobiography to illustrate the trap into which young men are now falling, bewitched by the glamorous appeal of a pseudopaideia like that of the Tabula. In her discussion of The Dream, Gera rightly sees parallels with Lucian’s A Professor of Public Speaking. This text draws a distinction between old-fashioned teachers of rhetoric who engaged in, and required of their students, the intensive study of manly material like the writings of Plato, Isocrates, and Demosthenes (Rh. Pr. 9, 17), and a new type of teacher who is obsessed with appearance, exhibits effeminacy, and considers a masculine image to be uncouth (¼ªæØŒ ªaæ e Iææø e, 12). This is of course effectively a distinction between true and false paideia.38 A teacher of the new type has ‘a wiggling walk, a bent neck, a womanish glance’ (11), an appearance which can only be indicative of effeminacy and a lack of self-restraint.39 The paideia of such teachers is artificial and superficial; it is no longer an emblem of masculinity, but has been prettified into something attractive yet false.40 So, for Lucian, there now existed a popular, or pseudo-, paideia whose form was effeminate, shallow, and often merely a label to be adopted and manipulated for personal gain—in fact, a man need only bandy about a handful of Atticisms for others to believe him far superior in paideia (17). The paideia of many public speakers was no longer a lifelong process, dedicated to 37 Gera (1995), 249. 38 Lucian explicitly tells us that there are now two paths to rhetoric, that vital element of paideia: a ‘short, easy road, direct to Rhetoric, has recently been opened’ (Rh. Pr. 10; Loeb trans.). 39 These issues will be addressed further in Ch. 3. 40 See also Bis Acc. 31, where Rhetoric is said to be no longer what she once was: she has ‘made herself up, arranged her hair like a courtesan, put on rouge, and darkened her eyes underneath’ (Loeb trans.). Lucian also offers advice on how one should behave if following this new path to rhetoric: one should ‘be resolved to do anything and everything – to dice, to drink deep, to live high and to keep mistresses’ (Rh. Pr. 23; Loeb trans.).

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instilling and developing the manly qualities of self-control, justice, and steadfastness, and turning out a rounded man who knew how to relate to himself and to others, as well as possessing an impressive academic knowledge. In some cases it was now little more than a cloak, hurriedly assumed and used to conceal a lack of actual knowledge and an absence of traditional masculine attributes.41 Lucian’s preoccupation with his contemporaries’ simultaneous dumbingdown of paideia and prettification of rhetoric underscores the long-standing and ingrained association between paideia and public speaking. In particular, it emphasizes paideia’s second-century connection with the specific field of epideictic oratory. Over and above its value as a tool for debate, Isocrates had privileged the power of logos in moral and ethical contexts, but Lucian suggests that the moral and the ethical were now being neglected in favour of the spectacular, reducing paideia to nothing more than a glittering exterior with no substance. By placing this superficial paideia under the spotlight, Lucian leads the reader to surmise that, by contrast, the author himself possesses a traditional paideia that has regard for behaviour, and not merely for the show of learning. Whitmarsh has pointed to the inherent power of imperial paideia to act as a disguise, concealing or appearing to transform reality.42 Indeed, the Greek novels provide us with several examples of the capacity for concealment afforded by both the substantial and the superficial forms of paideia. Whitmarsh argues that paideia’s role in the literature of the Second Sophistic was as a vehicle for the exploration of right behaviour in everyday life—a site for debate on the best way to live life.43 This is very much the light in which Chariton seems to see it. Despite paideia’s potential ambiguity, the title of pepaideumenos could still serve as an index of one’s social standing,44 and as a powerful cultural descriptor, a form of ‘symbolic capital’.45 Because true paideia was an ongoing, lifelong process, to be a true pepaideumenos implied that a man possessed the time and money to develop 41 cf. Dio’s remarks on pseudophilosophers (Or. 72.15-16). 42 Whitmarsh (2001a), 123. A well-mastered paideia could even effect the transformation of one disadvantaged by birth, as Gleason (1995), 167–8 observes of Favorinus. 43 Whitmarsh (2001a), 19. 44 Brown (1992), 39–41. 45 On the notion of symbolic capital, see Bourdieu (1977), 171–83; see Gleason (1995), p. xxi, on paideia as symbolic capital.

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his education and culture on a continual, rolling basis. The acquisition and maintenance of paideia defined the self both personally, within one’s own social context, and ethnically, in the wider world: it marked a man out from the crowd at home, and from non-Greeks abroad.46 Focusing on the importance of rhetoric, Gleason has depicted the world of the Second Sophistic as a very public, face-toface society, in which the appearance and conduct—and thus the paideia—of elite males were constantly scrutinized and judged.47 A man might be described as pepaideumenos, but this cultural marker was a fragile one, open to attack from external forces, or from his own emotions and desires. The identity of the pepaideumenos, the hegemonic badge of the elite Greek male, was constructed and performed through a lifetime’s effort. True paideia was an intellectual and moral way of being, which continued throughout a man’s life and could never be taken for granted.48

THE GENDERING OF PAIDEIA

Female paideia Paideia’s basis in academic study, and the status of literacy and scholarship as largely masculine realms, inevitably meant that paideia was traditionally a male preserve.49 Women, however, were not entirely excluded, even at earlier points in history, although their inclusion was limited and of a variety wholly different from that of men. For the classical wife, access to paideia was dictated by her role in the patriarchal household.50 Xenophon’s Oeconomicus, for example, recommends a form of paideia for the wives of estate owners, but the education they are to receive is geared towards making them best 46 The particular ‘Greekness’ of paideia had been evident also in Isocrates’ work (e.g. Panegyricus 50ff., where Hellenism and paideia are synonymous). As we saw in the case of Cyrus, however, and as we will see in Chariton later, non-Greeks could sometimes attain paideia; in fact, it often appears that Greekness is more a matter of culture than of race (Goldhill (2001a), 13; Whitmarsh (2001b), 272–3). 47 Gleason (1995), p. xxii et passim. 48 See Cribiore (2001), 243–4, who describes paideia as ‘a slow vegetable growth that affected people through the course of their lives’. 49 Connolly (2003), 294. 50 Whitmarsh (2001a), 111.

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able to support their husbands in the day-to-day running of the estate.51 Yet the imperial period saw women enjoy more access to education,52 and we might expect that the concomitant rise in female literacy would make female paideia more prevalent. But despite an increase at this time in the number of educated women, particularly amongst the elite, the paideia that women were able to develop again appears to have differed from that of men. Moralists of the period were extremely interested in the kinds of education that women could and should be exposed to. In Plutarch’s Advice to Bride and Groom, for instance, we find the recommendation that a husband should educate his wife (146a), but although Plutarch’s attitudes to women have often been seen as relatively liberal, his advice to the married couple stipulates that the husband ought to take charge of his wife’s education—she is completely dependent upon him for it. In fact, Plutarch even perpetuates a normative classical dictum, namely that without the guidance of men, women would revert to their natural low-minded condition: And for your wife you must collect from every source what is useful, as do the bees, and carrying it within your own self impart it to her, and then discuss it with her, and make the best of these doctrines her favourite and familiar themes . . . For if [wives] do not receive the seed of good doctrines and share with their husbands in intellectual advancement [paideia], they, left to themselves, conceive many untoward ideas and low designs and emotions. (Plu. Coniugalia Praecepta 145bff.; Loeb trans.) fiB b ªıÆØŒd ÆÆåŁ e åæ Ø ıªø, u æ ƃ ºØÆØ, ŒÆd çæø ÆPe K ÆıfiH, Æı ŒÆd æØƺªı, çºı ÆPfiB ØH ŒÆd ı ŁØ H ºªø f Iæı . . . . i ªaæ ºªø åæÅH  æÆÆ c åøÆØ Åb ŒØøHØ ÆØÆ E IæØ, ÆPÆd ŒÆŁ Æa ¼ Æ ººa ŒÆd çÆFºÆ ıºÆÆ ŒÆd ŁÅ ŒıØ.

The fragmentary condition of Plutarch’s treatise on the subject of female education, A Woman, Too, Should Be Educated, denies us a full impression of his conception of female paideia, but his other works suggest a rather traditional mindset. As Whitmarsh rightly notes, his extant recommendations regarding female education reinforce a wife’s submissive status within the marriage bond, while for a man, by 51 Jaeger (1945), 176; see e.g. X. Oec. 7.15ff. 52 Whitmarsh (2001a), 109.

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contrast, paideia is potentially empowering.53 Plutarch may have been an adherent of reciprocal love and mutual pleasure within marriage, but what Stadter terms his ‘essential conservatism’54 seems to have supported the continuing focus of paideia on the creation of a male subject. Plutarch’s female paideia apparently extended only to a woman’s role as a partner in marriage, and as such should not be seen as radically different from earlier forms of female paideia. The first-century Stoic Musonius Rufus seems to have been of like mind, despite appearing at first blush rather egalitarian. Showing a similar interest in women’s education, the accounts of his views on the subject defend women’s ability to demonstrate the cardinal virtues as effectively as men, and urge that women engage in philosophy as a means of developing those virtues (Muson. 3 and 4). Women even possess logos, the central component of paideia, to the same extent as men; it is thus appropriate for women to be educated. Musonius’ interest in the education of women, and indeed in that of men, centres on the ability of individuals to fulfil their culturally assigned (but ‘natural’) gender roles well. On his view, paideia enables both men and women to perform those roles better. He makes it quite clear that he disagrees with the opinion held by some, that access to philosophy encourages women to neglect their proper roles; on the contrary, it makes them more dedicated as wives and mothers, and better able to control their emotions. Philosophy is the perfect educational tool, but Musonius stops short of recommending that women employ it for the same purpose as men: he is keen to clarify that he is not suggesting women should develop technical skill in argument; in fact, even in men he does not rate this ability especially highly. What he envisages as the role of philosophy in paideia is the nurturing of sōphrosynē, dikaiosynē, and andreia in both sexes, but within the boundaries of their accepted gender roles. It is telling that Musonius feels the need to defend the education of women, and that the goal of that defence is the reinforcement of the traditional female role. Male paideia needs no explanation: the education of men is taken for granted and presents no challenge to the social order. Female paideia, on the other hand, must be defended, explained, and promoted within a framework that renders it less threatening: the power and the purpose of female paideia is to make women better wives and

53 Ibid. 109ff.

54 Stadter (1995), 222.

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mothers, demonstrating by their successful fulfilment of those roles the virtues that a philosophical paideia has enabled them to develop. But these observations deserve some qualification in the light of the changing nature of marriage in the imperial period. Foucault’s examination of imperial literature found a developing focus on the care and control of the self, expressed particularly in a man’s relations with his wife and his household,55 as well as a growing emphasis on mutual love within marriage. Whilst male paideia may have been empowering, and may have provided opportunities outside the home in a way that female paideia perhaps did not, the emerging focus on reciprocal love and marital self-control ensured that some of a man’s paideia was invested in his relationship with his wife:56 it was no longer for the woman alone to direct her paideia inwards, into the marriage and the household. Women may have continued to be at a disadvantage in comparison to men in terms of the extent of their access to paideia, and of its scope and potential, but many must surely have benefited from marriage becoming a site for their husbands’ practice of paideia. This centring of paideia on the marriage bond and on a man’s care and control of himself can be found abundantly in Chariton in particular, as we will see. But first I want to consider how the novels present female paideia.

Female paideia in the novels I am interested here in exploring briefly what it means for a woman in a Greek novel to be characterized, either explicitly or implicitly, as pepaideumenē (a woman of paideia). Is the nature of female paideia in the novels dictated by the pepaideumenē’s marital status and conjugal responsibility, as we have observed it to be in Xenophon, Plutarch, and Musonius? The discussion focuses on Chariton and Heliodorus, who, in Callirhoe and Charicleia, offer remarkably independent female characters who might be taken as unusual examples of womanhood. These are in fact the only heroines of the extant ideal novels who are expressly drawn by their authors as women of paideia. Of the seven instances of the term ÆØÆ in Chariton, none applies to women, while the feminine participle  ÆØıÅ is used only twice, in both cases of Callirhoe. While in Babylon awaiting 55 Foucault (1990).

56 See also Swain (1996), 128.

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the Persian king’s decision in the trial to determine whether Dionysius or Chaereas is her lawful husband, Callirhoe is propositioned by the eunuch Artaxates on behalf of his master, the king. It is at this point that she is first described as pepaideumenē. When Artaxates reveals his master’s obsession to Callirhoe, her immediate response is a desire to gouge out the eunuch’s eyes (6.5.8). This is clearly a situation that provokes Callirhoe to great rage: her emotion is described as anger (Oæª ), and she is driven (uæÅ) by her revulsion at the eunuch’s proposition. And yet, because she is a quick-witted woman of paideia (ªıc  ÆØıÅ ŒÆd çæ æÅ ), she is capable of quickly calculating her position (Æåø ºªØÆÅ), controlling her anger (c Oæªc ƺ),57 and dissimulating before Artaxates from then on (ŒÆØæøÆ ºØ e F Æææı). Callirhoe has received some form of paideia which, with its capacity for reason and persuasion, now allows her to disguise her true emotions, and to produce an eloquent and convincing speech in response to a proposition that has disgusted her.58 Her speech in fact has such an effect as to leave Artaxates rooted to the spot, his mouth wide open (6.5.10). Noting the description of Callirhoe as çæ æÅ (quick-witted), Scourfield observes that the usual opposite of this term is KÆ (frantic, raving), which is indeed the implicit feeling that Callirhoe disguises through the use of her paideia and quick wit.59 But Scourfield misses the fact that this is an opposition Chariton plays on in Callirhoe’s first line of response to the eunuch: ‘Let me never be so mad that I would convince myself that I am worthy of the Great King!’ (c ªaæ oø ÆØÅ, ¥ Æ KÆıc IÆ r ÆØ ØŁH F ªºı Æغø , 6.5.9). Callirhoe is mad, frantic, raving at the eunuch’s suggestion, and Chariton hints as much by using ÆÆØ in the opening to her speech, but her paideia and quick thinking allow her to maintain a very different image. She also plays here with the notion of persuasion—she claims to hope never to persuade herself 57 cf. 3.2.1, where Dionysius too must control his first impulse on learning that Callirhoe has agreed to marry him; and see p. 84 n. 184 on Chaereas’ anger. 58 At 2.6.1 she is said by Dionysius to be a persuasive speaker (she has  H ºªø ØŁ ). See also 1.11.2, where she pretends to believe Theron’s lies, as she realizes that her life will be threatened if she vents anger (OæªÇÆØ) at her situation; Scourfield (2003), 179 is right to object to Goold’s rather patronizing translation of OæªÇÆØ as ‘become petulant’: there is nothing derisory about Callirhoe’s emotions, as her later urge to physical violence against Artaxates proves. 59 Ibid. 180.

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that she is worthy of the king, in a speech in fact designed to persuade Artaxates that she is not worthy of the king. It is no wonder the eunuch is left mute. In this short scene we see the potential of paideia to develop effective speech, even in women, and to disguise what truly underlies it. But this is no pseudopaideia, concealing an absence of true knowledge. Rather, it is the use of acculturation, of rhetorical finesse and artful deception, to positive effect, in order to deflect an assault on chastity. In this moral goal, Callirhoe shows herself to possess a true paideia. Her adept rhetorical performance might suggest that her paideia is little different from male paideia—that the term pepaideumenē has the same parameters as its masculine counterpart. But Callirhoe’s paideia is directed towards the marriage bond, as we saw was the case with the female paideia of Xenophon, Plutarch, and Musonius. Although her precise marital status is not unequivocal, given the existence of two husbands, she nevertheless considers herself married, and her performance of paideia is markedly traditional, geared to the protection of her chastity and the defence of her pre-existing marriages. Despite being an unusually independent woman in many ways, and to a large extent cut away from the conventional constraints of home and family, Callirhoe displays a paideia that is motivated for the most part by orthodox feminine roles. Chariton’s second and final description of Callirhoe as pepaideumenē occurs when Chaereas has captured the island of Aradus, where Callirhoe, the queen Stateira, and the rest of the Persian noblewomen had been left for their safety. Callirhoe’s credentials as a Greek woman, pepaideumenē, and having some experience of suffering (‰ i  EººÅd ŒÆd  ÆØıÅ ŒÆd PŒ IºÅ ŒÆŒH, 7.6.5), are said to make her best able to comfort the weeping queen. In one short line Chariton speaks volumes about the nature and power of paideia. Callirhoe’s paideia here goes hand in hand with her identity as a Greek. Paideia was often considered a mark of ‘Greekness’, and although Chariton generally characterizes his Persians favourably (Artaxerxes and Stateira have many ‘Greek’ characteristics), they remain barbarians.60 Chariton’s emphasis on Callirhoe’s paideia at 60 The cultural stereotype is evident in Callirhoe’s expectation that Stateira will be insanely jealous if she finds out about her husband’s feelings for her (6.6.5); Chariton takes pleasure in subverting this expectation and surprising both Callirhoe and the culturally conditioned reader.

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the precise moment when she and Stateira are spotlighted cannot but act as a cultural differentiator between the two women, thereby elevating Callirhoe. Gleason has stressed the ability of paideia to act as an indicator of social class,61 and both Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and later kingship discourse regularly associated paideia and its accompanying virtues with royalty. Callirhoe’s possession of paideia is therefore not just a cultural marker, but is socially empowering, raising her status and apparently conferring upon her an honorary royalty that enables her to move in royal circles and to become the confidante of the Persian queen. So her paideia paradoxically both raises her cultural status above that of the barbarian queen, and renders her the queen’s social equal, making her best qualified to console her.62 Perhaps, then, we see here a side of female paideia that is not connected with chastity, a side that offers a form of social advancement more akin to that afforded by male paideia. As well as being related to her race and enabling her friendship with the queen, Callirhoe’s paideia is here attached to her experiences, evoking the notion, especially commonplace in tragedy, of learning through suffering: significantly, it is only after undergoing many sufferings that Callirhoe is said to be pepaideumenē.63 Her own endurance of misfortune enables her to empathize with Stateira, and thus to comfort her—we may think at this point of Borgogno’s observations on Menander’s presentation of paideia as a virtue which fosters empathy and respect for others’ suffering. Chariton’s reference to paideia here seems to constitute it as the central element dictating Callirhoe’s behaviour towards the queen, functioning symbiotically with her race and her life experiences, and serving to create and define her identity.64 Her paideia may in fact be understood as the quality that 61 Gleason (1995), 162. 62 Paideia is later at work implicitly in Callirhoe’s rejection of Chaereas’ suggestion that she keep Stateira as a slave (8.3.2): while paideia elevates her above the queen, as Greek over barbarian, it also enables her to show clemency and to recognize that it would be inappropriate to enslave the Persian queen. I will come back to the relationship between paideia and clemency at the end of this chapter, and in Ch. 2 I will consider the connection between clemency, paideia, and andreia in relation to Hydaspes. 63 I will return later to the possibility that, as argued by Couraud-Lalanne (1998) and Lalanne (2006), the protagonists’ experiences constitute a form of paideia. 64 The central position of the adjective  ÆØıÅ in the syntax of the clause seems to confirm its interdependent relationship with  EººÅd and PŒ IºÅ ŒÆŒH.

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motivates and moderates her behaviour throughout the novel.65 Time and again we see her as conversant with appropriate action, and as the possessor of both wit and behavioural paideia, thinking through her situation before deciding her course, and taking into account the possible consequences of her actions.66 In contrast with Chariton, Heliodorus never uses the word ÆØÆ or its cognates, but paideia is nonetheless an ever-present concept in his narrative. At an early point we learn that Charicleia has undergone quite considerable training, and is in fact far more competent in argument than many of her male counterparts. Having mastered Greek quickly, as a young adult she employs rhetorical skill to argue against Charicles’ wish to marry her to his nephew Alcamenes (2.33.3ff.): she uses her newfound feathers ( æE ),67 brandishing her great experience in argument (c KŒ ºªø ºı ØæÆ . . . K ÆÆÆØ), the intricacies ( ØŒºÅ) of which Charicles himself had taught her. The education Charicles says he gave her was designed to prepare her to choose the best path in life; by this he clearly means the path of wife and mother, but she has in fact used it to reject social expectations and to follow a life of virginity.68 Yet while this use of paideia might appear to be one of self-assertion, it remains confined to the sphere of sexual conduct: both Charicles’ intention in educating Charicleia, and Charicleia’s use of that education, reinforce the notion that female paideia is circumscribed in a way that male paideia is not.69 Charicleia goes on to use her paideia in

65 And even as her survival strategy: Kaimio (1995), 127. 66 e.g. 1.11.2, 2.11.1–4; at 8.2.4 she also upbraids Chaereas for lack of forethought, and assists him with military strategy, again displaying her own paideia. 67 The word carries the multiple connotations of ‘feathers’, ‘wings’, and ‘arrows’, suggesting that Charicleia’s education has enabled her to take metaphorical flight (one of Heliodorus’ many nods to the Platonic wings of the soul), and to turn upon Charicles the verbal weapons he himself equipped her with—a reference, perhaps, to the notion found in rhetorical treatises that to teach some men skilful speech is effectively to furnish them with arms (see e.g. Cic. de Orat. 3.55). 68 On the implications of this scene, Maguire (2005), 180ff. is good. Other references to Charicleia’s education and intelligence are made in the text: she has spent considerable time as an associate of learned men (2.33.7, 3.19.3); she asks Calasiris questions about sacred writings (2.35.3); and she is praised by Nausicles for the nobility of her resolution and the intelligence of her spirit (6.8.1). 69 If Heliodorus’ text is to be given a late date, the use of paideia to maintain virginity might have significance from a Christian perspective, in which case it once more upholds an idealized female role.

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a manner very similar to Callirhoe, dissimulating before suitors in order to preserve her chastity,70 and thus again conforming to the standard uses of female paideia that we have seen in other texts. Both Callirhoe and Charicleia clearly possess paideia, Callirhoe explicitly and Charicleia implicitly, but this female paideia does appear to be to some extent qualitatively different from male paideia. While it enables Callirhoe to socialize with royalty and Charicleia to quiz learned men on sacred texts, its ultimate goal is the preservation of chastity, and it is therefore tied firmly to the sanctity of the female body. Even the sage military advice that Callirhoe gives Chaereas is delivered within the confines of the bedroom after she has resumed her role as his wife—a physical, spatial circumscription contextualizing her paideia within the conjugal sphere. But however different female paideia may be from male in many respects, like its male counterpart it nevertheless entails an acute awareness of oneself and one’s own emotions, of the feelings of others, and of how one should conduct oneself in relation to those feelings. Its primary function may be the protection of female chastity, but in a genre whose focal point is romantic love, the relationship of paideia to sexual conduct is perhaps inevitable. We have already seen that paideia is presented in other literature as encouraging the development of sōphrosynē in both sexes, and although for men paideia is related to public life to a much greater degree than it is for women, it does also constrain them in their private, romantic lives: as we will see, it is not only women whose sexual behaviour is governed by paideia. It is to the discourse of male paideia in the novels that I want to turn now, focusing the discussion primarily on Chariton, whose overwhelming application of paideia to male characters suggests that he sees it predominantly as a marker of masculinity.

70 She feigns consent to marriage with Thyamis (1.21.3ff.), and her deception is so convincing that she even has Theagenes fooled (1.25.1–2). cf. Leucippe, who conducts a spirited rhetorical defence of her chastity which seems indebted to some form of paideia (Ach. Tat. 6.21–2)—though this might of course just be a gloss of paideia given to her speech by its narrator, Cleitophon. At a stretch one might even think Anthia’s quick-witted yarn-spinning before the pimp to be evidence of a paideia of sorts (X. Eph. 5.7).

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MALE PAIDEIA IN THE NOVELS

The age and appearance of the pepaideumenos In the first chapter of The Dream Lucian recalls the discussion held by his father and his father’s friends concerning the path Lucian should take at the end of his basic schooling. He remarks that ‘paideia seemed to most of them to require a lot of hard graft, a long time, not a little financial outlay, and social prestige’ (E ºØ s  ÆØÆ b ŒÆd ı ººF ŒÆd åæı ÆŒæF ŒÆd Æ Å P ØŒæA ŒÆd åÅ EŁÆØ ºÆ æA , Somn. 1). This is a picture he goes on to undercut ironically, as we have seen, but it is instructive for the image it presents of paideia as something developed over time and through great effort, and associated especially with men of a certain social and financial standing. True paideia comes across here as a process, not an overnight acquisition, suggesting that it cannot be possessed by the young.71 This separation of paideia from youth is also suggested by the timing of the discussion: Lucian has finished his schooling (a ØƌƺEÆ) and is now on the verge of manhood (c ºØŒÆ æÅ þ, 1); this is apparently the time to begin the labour-intensive development of paideia. In Cebes’ Tabula we also find paideia detached from youth and acquired with age: true paideia is represented by a woman who has reached a discriminating middle age (fi Å b ŒÆd ŒŒæØfi Å XÅ fiB ºØŒÆfi, Ceb. 18). Paideia may be a process that begins while the subject is reasonably young (and the fact that it is cognate with ÆE would suggest as much), but it is only developed as the subject matures. Chariton seems to reflect this association of paideia with maturity. Dionysius, for example, Chariton’s most notable possessor of paideia, has clearly reached some form of middle age, having been married, fathered a child, and been widowed before meeting Callirhoe. Of course, middle age, both at the story’s dramatic date and at the time of authorship, was very likely attained at a considerably younger age than it is today. There is, however, a clear age distinction between Dionysius and Chaereas, whose jealous anger marks him out early on as a hot-headed youth in comparison with his more mature and

71 Unlike the ‘paideia’ of which Lucian dreams, which is indeed literally an overnight acquisition.

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circumspect rival. Dionysius is first described as being in the prime of life (Icæ ºØŒÆfi ŒÆŁ , 1.12.6), which suggests that he has reached a certain (though unspecified) maturity. Similarly highlighted is the maturity of Demetrius, the Egyptian charged with the task of returning Stateira to the Great King at the end of the military conflict (ºØŒÆfi æ Œø, 8.3.10).72 Heliodorus’ Calasiris, too, though not explicitly called pepaideumenos, has many of the qualities one might expect of such a man, and is no spring chicken.73 Longus’ Philetas is clearly conceived as pepaideumenos, though again is not specifically labelled as such. Instead, his status as a presbytēs is emphasized (2.3.1–2), and distinguishes him from the run-of-themill gerontes of the countryside:74 he is an ‘elder’, not merely an ‘old man’. The erotic advice Philetas offers to Daphnis and Chloe is given a scholarly gloss with the terms paideutērion (schooling, 2.9.1) and paideuma (lesson, 3.14.1), but this erotic wisdom is evidently not the limit of his paideia: as an elderly man with a reputation for dikaiosynē, he is called upon to adjudicate in the dispute between the locals and the Methymnaeans (2.15.1)—dikaiosynē, as we have seen, is a virtue to which paideia gives access. These several references to the maturity of the novels’ pepaideumenoi imply that paideia is a quality developed over time, and thus something especially associated with age. Such an association would seem at first glance to be contradicted by Chariton’s sole reference to Chaereas’ paideia (7.2.5). If Chaereas is not even out of his teens, and if paideia is something that develops and matures with the development and maturation of the subject, how can he be said to have paideia? But for Chariton maturity seems to reside not only in age but also in character, and maturation results from experience.75 It is significant that Chaereas’ 72 The Greek-named Demetrius is said to outstrip the other Egyptians in paideia and aretē; his development of these qualities seems to have enabled him to break through the confines of his Egyptian ethnicity, becoming an honorary Greek. He is labelled çغç , which also confers upon him a certain ‘Greekness’; on the characterization of Demetrius from a philosophical perspective, see Morgan (2007b). 73 For a list of Calasiris’ sophistic pepaideumenos qualities, see Anderson (1989), 184–5. 74 A distinction also noted by Morgan (2004), 177. 75 Couraud-Lalanne (1998), 532—and see now Lalanne (2006)—argues that Chaereas’ experiences act as rites of passage; for a similar argument, see also Schmeling (1974), and cf. Apollonius’ Jason who, Lawall (1966) argues, undergoes a form of paideia through his experiences in the first two books, which enables him to become a more independent figure later on.

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paideia is mentioned only towards the end of the novel, when, first, a substantial amount of time has elapsed since he and Callirhoe were first married,76 and, secondly, he has undergone a considerable amount of ‘life experience’. The paideia he now has is clearly not the result of a formal education, but of his experiences, an issue to which I will return at the end of the chapter. So paideia is generally not something a man may claim at an age of immaturity, or at least not before undergoing some form of experiential maturation. Xenophon of Ephesus, however, refers to Habrocomes’ paideia when the young man is at the tender age of 16, and before his ordeals have even begun. If paideia is something that one only possesses after much effort and experience, how is it that the distinctly inexperienced Habrocomes can be described as having paideia? The activities which comprise Habrocomes’ paideia are truly classical, on the blueprint of the Athenian Xenophon’s Cyrus, but although he is said to have developed not only his body but also his soul (ı ŁØ b ÆPfiH E F  Æ ŒÆºE ŒÆd a B łıåB IªÆŁ, 1.1.2), this reads rather as tokenism: he is described as practising paideia of all kinds ( ÆØÆ  ªaæ AÆ KºÆ, ibid.), but the focus appears to be on physical and intellectual education rather than on morals and ethics, as Xenophon enumerates the elements of the very traditional training Habrocomes has had (ıØŒc ØŒºÅ XŒØ, Ł æÆ b ÆPfiH ŒÆd ƒ ÆÆ ŒÆd › ºÆåÆ ı ŁÅ ªıÆÆ, ibid.). It is quite possible that if Xenophon was imitating Chariton, he recognized the significance of the concept of paideia in his model, and therefore paid lip-service to it, without fully developing the theme. Alternatively, if the text of the Ephesiaca that we now have is not in its original or complete form (a notion I strongly favour), the original may have given much fuller treatment to paideia, making Habrocomes’ status as pepaideumenos seem less incongruous.77 Achilles Tatius also characterizes his young hero as pepaideumenos, though implicitly and, I think, in a deliberately ironic fashion, knowing full well that the hero’s age (not to mention his behaviour) 76 The amount of time Chaereas and Callirhoe are separated has been the subject of discussion (e.g. Couraud-Lalanne (1998), 536). It is worth noting that Callirhoe’s child is old enough to require a paidagōgos, and for Dionysius to try to use him as a messenger to Callirhoe when the trial is postponed (5.10.4–5). 77 I do not deny the possibility that Chariton was imitating Xenophon, and that his prioritization of the theme of paideia was influenced by Xenophon’s own treatment of it in a longer original text.

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may make the reader question the legitimacy of this characterization. When Cleitophon is first introduced, the narrator makes a point of highlighting his youth (ŒÆd ªaæ ›æH ı c ZłØ P ÆŒæa B F ŁF ºB , 1.2.1–2). Several subsequent references cast the hero in the mould of the arch-pepaideumenos Socrates:78 Cleitophon refers in Socratic style to the swarm of stories being roused (1.2.2); the narrator draws him into the Platonic locus amoenus in order to hear his story (1.2.3); and the hero explains a premonitory dream he had as having been sent by to daimonion (a divine power), inevitably calling to mind Socrates’ daimonion (1.3.2).79 But this casting has been subverted even before it has been made, by the attention the narrator has drawn to Cleitophon’s youth; any attempt by Cleitophon to claim the status of a Socrates cannot but be read with a wry smile. During his narration, a picture accretes of a Cleitophon who is conspicuously lacking in the moral essence of paideia, and in the virtues to which it gives access. However, a distinction might be made between Cleitophon as actor and Cleitophon as narrator of his own story: if experience contributes to maturity of character and thus to paideia, then by the time of Cleitophon’s narration, the experiences he has had might be thought to qualify him as pepaideumenos, and to entitle him to present himself as such. But it is very difficult for the reader to maintain a constant separation between Cleitophon the actor and Cleitophon the narrator, particularly given that the narrative frame is never resumed. Achilles writes the separation between actor and narrator in a much more muted way than, for instance, Apuleius does in the case of Lucius, or Augustine does between his older and his younger self; consequently, Cleitophon appears stuck in the time warp of his story, learning nothing and never changing. The claim to paideia that the indirect equation to Socrates implicitly makes can therefore only be read ironically, as it is so heavily undercut by the behaviour which Cleitophon narrates, and by the difficulty of distinguishing between his two personas. Cleitophon may have studied his philosophy,80 but education alone does not constitute paideia, and we 78 Despite his insistent disavowals of knowledge, Socrates was the embodiment of paideia throughout later Greek literary history. 79 See Repath (forthcoming a), ch. 2 for a discussion of Cleitophon’s (and the anonymous narrator’s) status as a Socrates-figure; Repath observes the impact of Cleitophon’s emphasized youth on his authority, but does not note the use of to daimonion. 80 On Achilles Tatius’ use of Platonic philosophy, see Repath (ibid).

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will see repeatedly that he is pathologically unable to demonstrate the moral and ethical substance of true paideia. Paideia has a connection not only with the subject’s chronological or experiential maturity, but also with his outward appearance. The literature of the Second Sophistic demonstrates an intense interest in physiognomy, the pseudoscience which purported to read a man’s character and intentions through external signs given by dress, gait, and physical features.81 The influence of physiognomy is everywhere in the texts of the period, as though it is second nature to their authors to assess the characters of others from the way they look—men were human books, judged very much by their covers. Think of Lucian’s description of the new teachers of rhetoric of whom he disapproves so strongly. Lurking barely beneath the surface of that description lies physiognomy. Lucian implies that these rhetoricians beautify and comport themselves in such a way as to signal unwittingly their lack of manliness and true paideia: appearance reveals the essence of the man beneath. If paideia’s absence may be proclaimed by a man’s outward appearance, presumably so may its presence.82 The potential visual quality of paideia is evidenced in Chariton’s initial description of Dionysius, which is focalized through the pirate Theron: Dionysius is at the centre of a crowd, but Theron’s eyes are drawn to him, and the sight makes him rise to his feet and ask who the man is (1.12.6). Leonas is surprised that Theron has never heard of Dionysius, since his wealth, birth, and paideia put him far ahead of other Ionians. The competitive nature of paideia (as well as of wealth and social standing) is emphasized by Leonas’ description of Dionysius as ‘outstripping’ ( æåÆ) other Ionians. Given this competitiveness, and the fact that one of paideia’s primary contexts was the arena of public display, it seems reasonable to surmise that one’s paideia might be declared to the world through visual means: in addition to rhetorical ability and noble comportment in dealings with others, a man’s physical appearance and bearing might act as a further medium for the display and performance of paideia. We have noted from Lucian that wealth and good birth were generally believed necessary for the

81 For an overview of the significance of physiognomy in the ancient world, see Barton (1995), 95–131. For exhaustive studies, see Evans (1935), (1969); Gleason (1990), (1995), esp. 55–81; and Swain (2007c). 82 We will see in Ch. 2 that the quality of andreia may also be detected in a man’s appearance.

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cultivation of paideia; thus the man who is blessed with more wealth and better birth has the potential to develop more and better paideia.83 The appearance of paideia implies the possession of money, and gives Dionysius a bearing which attracts Theron’s attention, alerting him to the possibility of selling Callirhoe for a high price. Dionysius’ wealth, birth, and paideia function together to characterize him, distinguishing him from both the slaves and the other free men present, literally marking him out from the crowd. In an era whose elite was accustomed to reading inner character from external appearance, a man’s paideia might show itself before the eyes of the watching world, either consciously or unconsciously on the part of the pepaideumenos.84

The pepaideumenos and kingship When first describing Dionysius to Theron, Leonas mentions not only his wealth, birth, and paideia, but also his friendship with the Persian king. Although a privileged social status was usually required for the development of paideia, achieving a reputation as pepaideumenos also paid its own social dividends, admitting a man to certain elite circles. The badge of pepaideumenos was a clear index of social achievement, and Leonas’ reference to Dionysius’ friendship with the king emphasizes that achievement still further, informing the reader that Dionysius has spent much time at his own moral and intellectual improvement, and is thus fit to keep the acquaintance of a king. This seems to have some basis in kingship discourse, wherein a good king was the ultimate possessor of paideia, suggesting that to be the friend of a king one must possess paideia oneself. This is borne out by the application of the term paideia to Chaereas and Demetrius. Chaereas is said to have paideia shortly after he has become the friend of the Egyptian king (7.2.4-5), and later, addressing the Syracusans upon his triumphant return, he concludes his speech by claiming also to have acquired the Persian king as a friend to the Syracusan populace 83 Wealth has an intimate relationship with paideia: Teresa Morgan (1998), 125ff. notes that the positive nature of wealth was stressed in the school texts that featured in a young man’s enkyklios paideia (educational programme). 84 This is the essence of many of Gleason’s (1995) observations on the performance culture of the Second Sophistic. Borg’s (2004) volume works with the premise that paideia may be expressed through visual media, specifically material culture.

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(8.8.10). Demetrius the Egyptian is described as ‘marked out from’ or ‘surpassing’ the other Egyptians in his paideia and aretē, and he too is an acquaintance of the king (ÆغE ª æØ , . . . ÆØÆfi ŒÆd IæfiB H ¼ººø `Nªı ø ØÆçæø, 8.3.10). The competitive nature of paideia, as well as its capacity to augment social status and to transcend the restrictions of ethnicity, thus conferring an honorary Greek identity, are all encapsulated in this brief description of the elderly Egyptian.85 So paideia and friendship with kings appear closely related. Dionysius, Chaereas, and Demetrius have evidently all attained a standard of paideia that entitles them to the friendship of kings, just as I argued that Callirhoe’s status as pepaideumenē seemed to give her access to royal circles.86 The connection between kingship and paideia is again reflected in Chariton’s next reference to Dionysius’ paideia. Dionysius learns of Leonas’ purchase of Callirhoe, but the fact that he is a kingly man who surpasses the rest of Ionia in reputation and paideia precludes him from keeping a slave as a concubine (Icæ ªaæ Æغ، , ØÆçæø IØ ÆØ ŒÆd ÆØÆfi B ‹ºÅ  øÆ , I Åı ŒÅ ŁæÆ ÆØ , 2.1.5). Here the competitive quality of reputation and paideia is stressed once more. The adjective Æغ، (kingly) suggests not merely that Dionysius is of noble birth, but that he is of noble bearing: although not himself a king, he behaves as it is fitting for a king to behave, and is thus ‘kingly’. The implicit opposite in the discourse of kingship is the behaviour of the tyrant, who takes advantage of his power to indulge his pleasures, committing hybris simply because he can.87 It would not be fitting for Dionysius to take a slave as concubine, both because she would be of lower rank and because he might be construed as having used his position to take advantage of 85 The introduction of this pepaideumenos adds considerable retrospective irony to the false identity claimed by the pirate Theron earlier: he called himself Demetrius (3.4.8). 86 Hermocrates is similarly blessed, having also acquired the admiration and friendship of the Persian king (2.6.3). Chariton does not mention Hermocrates’ paideia here, but instead attributes the king’s love for him to his incredible record (KªŒåÆæƪ ªºø ). Given that the verb KªåÆæø is more suggestive of a written record than of behaviour in the real world (LSJ s.v. KªåÆæø), Chariton’s use of it seems to be a wry literary reference to the historical Hermocrates’ appearance in classical texts, such as those of Thucydides and Xenophon. 87 The opposition between kingship and tyranny is found everywhere in Greek ethical writings: see e.g. Arist. Pol. 3.9.6. Heliodorus also engages with the theme, as we will see further in Ch. 2.

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her. His paideia ensures that he behaves in a kingly manner befitting his reputation.88 He himself underscores this later, in his response to the news that Leonas bought Callirhoe and that she is thus subject to his will. By means of a rhetorical question, Dionysius makes it plain that he will not tyrannize and commit hybris upon a free woman, especially in light of the sōphrosynē for which he is famous—even the implicitly tyrannical brigand Theron was able to control himself where Callirhoe was concerned (Kªg ıæÆ ø  Æ KºıŁæı, ŒÆd ˜ØØ › K d øçæfi Å æØÅ ¼ŒıÆ æØH, m På oæØ Pb ¨ æø › ºfi Å ;, 2.6.3). His rhetorical question seems to imply another: how would it affect his reputation—what sort of pepaideumenos would he be—were he not able to emulate even the peculiarly self-restrained behaviour of a brigand? If even such low life can control itself, a kingly man, known for his sōphrosynē, must go the extra mile to distinguish himself. It is not only Dionysius whose comportment is dictated by the virtues brought by paideia. In the characterization of the king, Artaxerxes, the reader is presented with a paradox. While, as a pepaideumenos himself, the reader knows well that a king should epitomize paideia, Artaxerxes is nonetheless a barbarian, and some level of ‘barbarian’ behaviour is thus anticipated. But the Persian king is strongly modelled on Xenophon’s Cyrus and on Hellenistic ideas of kingship. Although he is never explicitly said to be pepaideumenos, he prides himself on his sōphrosynē and dikaiosynē, and, like Dionysius, is insulted at his slave’s suggestion that he take advantage of Callirhoe:89 88 At 2.4.4 Dionysius highlights the relationship between his behaviour and his public reputation, specifically the esteem in which he is held by satraps, kings, and cities. I will return to this scene later. 89 The evident possession of paideia by non-Greeks in Chariton’s novel seems to reflect the post-Hellenistic construction of paideia as described by Marrou (1956), 99: in a Greek world which ‘included and assimilated so many foreign elements . . . [u]nity could only come from sharing a single ideal, a common attitude towards the purpose of existence and the various means of attaining it – in short, from a common civilization, or rather, culture’. This sense of paideia as a shared ideal which can be recognized in others seems to be what Callirhoe appeals to when she first reveals her true identity to Dionysius: he encourages her to tell her story by referring to a ‘kinship of character’ (Ø ªæ Ø ŒÆd æ ı ıªªØÆ), and she is then prompted to beg him, as a Greek, a citizen of a civilized place, and a possessor of paideia, to return her to Syracuse (2.5.8-12). Note, however, that while these attributes are enough to ensure that he behaves honourably towards her, they are not sufficient to induce him to do as she asks here: paideia is not all-powerful, as we will see further shortly.

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The king was ashamed at these words, and said, ‘Never say such a thing, that I would corrupt another man’s wife. I remember the laws I myself have established and the justice I practise in all things. Accuse me not of intemperance. We are not so overcome.’ (Chariton 6.3.7–8) ŒÆfiÅŁÅ Æغf e ºª ŒÆd “c  ª” çÅ “ØF Åb Y fiÅ , ¥ Æ ªıÆEŒÆ IººæÆ ØÆçŁæø. ÅÆØ ø o ÆPe ŁÅŒÆ ØŒÆØÅ m K – ÆØ IŒH. ÅÆ ı ŒÆƪfiH IŒæÆÆ. På oø ƺ ŒÆ.”

A cynical mind might conjecture that Artaxerxes protests too much here. Chariton describes him as being ashamed at Artaxates’ suggestion, but this could be read in two ways: is it shame at the fact that a servant of his would make such a lewd suggestion, or is it that the notion of seducing Callirhoe has struck a nerve, in that it is what the king really wants to do? The final remark in Artaxerxes’ reply, ‘We are not so overcome’, plants a seed of doubt as to the strength of the king’s resolve, as it implies that there is a point at which he might indeed resort to seduction. It can therefore only confirm the reader’s suspicions when Artaxerxes later concedes to Artaxates’ observation that Callirhoe’s apparent widowhood makes her fair game, and instructs the eunuch to approach her sub rosa (6.4.7–8): while the king is not prepared to attempt the open seduction initially proposed by his slave, he is willing to apply more underhand methods, as the victory of love over his paideia transforms him from king to tyrant,90 a transformation that Dionysius also undergoes, as we will see later. Artaxerxes’ affronted response to Artaxates’ initial suggestion forces his eunuch to advise him to apply the ‘kingly’ (Æغ، , 6.3.8) remedy of fighting his desires. This advice entails the exercise of paideia in an effort to overpower an immoderate, inappropriate lust – a noble and commendable intention, one might think. But, in expected barbarian style, the eunuch follows up his advice with the hybristic assertion that his master is capable of defeating Eros (ÆÆØ ªæ, t  Æ, f  ŒæÆE ŒÆd ŁF, ibid.), a statement that is again suggestive of the attitude of a tyrant. The kingly remedy Artaxates suggests is an elaborate hunting expedition (6.4), 90 The reader’s expectation that a barbarian should behave tyrannically is played up to in Chaereas’ first words to the Egyptian king, whose forces he joins in the belief that Artaxerxes has given Callirhoe to Dionysius: Artaxerxes, Chaereas claims, has treated him as a tyrant would (ıæÅŒ b H æÆæÅ , 7.2.4); ironically, of course, the tyranny the king has practised is not quite of the nature Chaereas has been led to believe.

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that classic Xenophontean element of paideia,91 but the hunt becomes the king’s downfall, as Eros uses the occasion to awaken in him fantasies of Callirhoe, compounding rather than suppressing his love (6.4.4–6).92

The public display of paideia: the symposium We have seen that Dionysius considers himself well known for his sōphrosynē, a quality which prevents him from forcing himself on Callirhoe. His efforts to preserve this sōphrosynē are initially played out in a very public context, the symposium. As an all-male gathering at which men were accustomed to display their learning and social standing, the symposium was clearly a site for the exhibition of paideia, whose relation to sōphrosynē we have noted. Having just arrived on his estate from the city, Dionysius entertains his friends. Afflicted by love for Callirhoe, he tries to disguise his emotions: Dionysius was wounded, but he tried to cover his wound, for he was a man of paideia and one who went to great lengths to be virtuous. Not wanting to seem contemptible to his servants or puerile to his friends, he endured the whole evening, thinking he would escape their notice, but making himself even more noticeable by his silence. (Chariton 2.4.1) ˜ØØ b Kæø , e b æÆFÆ æغºØ K ØæA, x Æ c  ÆØı Icæ ŒÆd KÆØæø IæB IØ Ø .   E NŒÆØ Łºø PŒÆÆçæÅ ŒE   ØæÆŒØ Å E çºØ , ØŒÆææØ Ææ ‹ºÅ c  æÆ, N b ºÆŁØ, ŒÆź b ªØ Aºº KŒ B Øø B .

Paideia was often manifested through the ‘carefully nurtured art of friendship’,93 so it is not surprising that Chariton refers to Dionysius’ exercise of paideia in the symposium context. But, although the emphasis of the symposium was on friendship and equality, occasions like this were also arenas of social hierarchy, at which offence could easily be caused or status damaged.94 Potential damage to status is precisely what Dionysius fears here. There are several interesting features in the way Chariton presents paideia in this scene. First, by 91 See Roy (1998), 113 on the projection of the Hellenistic king’s masculinity through the motif of the royal hunt. 92 See Smith (2007), 167–70. 93 Brown (1992), 45. 94 Whitmarsh (2000), 306.

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giving paideia a privileged position in the passage, he seems to give authorial approval to Dionysius’ attempt to hide his feelings and maintain a certain front: this is the behaviour of a pepaideumenos.95 So from the moment Dionysius falls in love, his status as pepaideumenos is established as the primary factor—and a commendable one—informing his decisions. Secondly, the notion that paideia gives access to the virtues is reflected in the first part of the passage, which describes Dionysius as a pepaideumenos who seeks after aretē. The verb IØ ØÆØ, which implies a claim laid to something through competition,96 suggests that virtue is not something that Dionysius has come by easily, but something for which he has had to strive—as we have already seen, the acquisition of paideia and aretē involves a man in rivalry with others. The verb ØÆŒÆææø then picks up his pursuit of virtue, evoking the virtue of karteria. Thirdly, Chariton’s description of the thought process that leads to Dionysius’ silence implies his ability to take counsel with himself, a matter to which I will return presently. And finally, the passage conveys a sense of paideia—and masculinity more generally—as something that demands display, a performance that must be enacted and maintained, as Dionysius tries to present a certain image to his servants and guests. The fact that he is worried about his image before two such disparate groups of people tells us much about how crucial image-maintenance was—or at least about how crucial Dionysius perceives it to be. He appears to be worried about a potential loss of authority with each group, and the relationship he has with each is reflected in the particular concerns he has: in the case of his servants it is about power and control—his superiority over them must not be threatened by the revelation of weakness; and in the case of his friends it is about maturity and equality—he fears such a revelation would bring him down in their estimation. The social schism between slave and elite is all but erased here: a man of Dionysius’ reputation must 95 The importance of concealing inner turmoil in social contexts is evident even in early Greek poetry: Theognis 989–90 recommends that a man drink whenever his fellows are drinking, and keep the condition of his ailing heart under wraps (—E › Æ øØ· ‹Æ  Ø Łıe IÅŁfiB , Åd IŁæ ø ªfiH  Ææı). 96 LSJ s.v. IØ ØÆØ. The phrase IæB IØ ØFÆØ may have been thought a particularly Isocratean one: it is used by him, in specific connection with masculinity, in the Archidamus, one of his most highly respected works (Archidamus 7; see Philostr. VS 505 for the reverence with which this speech was viewed in antiquity). We will meet further hints of Isocrates later in the chapter.

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maintain his masculine image before all men (and indeed before women, if they are included amongst his house slaves), whether lowly slave or aristocratic friend. As we have seen Callirhoe do before Artaxates, Dionysius endeavours to use the concealing power of paideia in order to hide the fact that he is in love with someone he believes to be a slave. The verb used here, æغºø, seems carefully chosen for its multiple meanings: it means ‘wrap’, ‘protect’, and ‘attend to’, suggesting the tending of the erotic wound Dionysius has suffered; it carries a sense of concealment, conveying paideia’s concealing power; and most importantly, it is also a technical rhetorical term, denoting the compression of one’s speech in order to avoid prolixity.97 The use of this multivocal verb suggests that Dionysius is applying skills he has acquired from a paideia in rhetoric, hoping to mask his besotted condition: he fears that speech will expose his metaphorical wound, so speaks as little as possible.98 Ironically, however, his paideia works against him, because although a paideia in rhetoric may help him endeavour to conceal his emotions, it also demands its own display at social gatherings such as this: paideia is ‘an education for public performance’,99 and the ability to speak is an index of a man’s status and capacity for leadership;100 silence in a context like this is out of character for a mature pepaideumenos. Consequently, instead of deflecting attention as he hopes, Dionysius’ carefully calculated introversion does the opposite, attracting the attention of his friends:101 his paideia has effectively trapped him in a double bind. Chariton’s use of the adjective pepaideumenos—a marker of maturity, as we have seen—followed closely by meirakiōdēs (boyish, immature), establishes a neat antithesis, two poles between which Dionysius flounders. He imagines that silence will protect his 97 LSJ s.v. æغºø. It is worth noting that Chariton uses the verb ØæÆØ, suggesting that Dionysius can only attempt to conceal his wound: such efforts may be praiseworthy, but they are not guaranteed to succeed. We will encounter this verb again shortly, in other instances where Dionysius must depend on his paideia, and where his performance is not wholly successful. 98 The notion that a man’s speech could betray his character is commonplace in rhetorical handbooks (see e.g. Quint. Inst. 11.1.30: ut vivat, quemque etiam dicere), and symptomatic of the influence of physiognomy; see Connolly (2001), 80. 99 Brown (1992), 43. 100 See T. Morgan (1998), 226ff., esp. 234–9, on the relationship of a rhetorical education to a man’s capacity for government, and the ability to speak as a ‘determinant of power’ (236). 101 cf. 6.3.3, where Artaxerxes gives himself away to Artaxates by his silence.

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identity as pepaideumenos, but speech is a symbol of paideia, so his silence in fact pushes him perilously close to the status of meirakion (youth), a status signifying the liminal and precarious stage between childhood and adulthood. Dionysius is acutely conscious of the image he may present to others, of trying to live up to a standard, and of the potential for, and consequences of, failure. He is aware of a discrepancy between how he feels and how he ought to appear to others.102 There is thus a tension between the ideals and the realities of masculinity, but there is also a tension within paideia itself, between its inward reflexive mode and its outward display mode: paideia can assist Dionysius in trying to conceal his feelings, but it also requires an element of public performance that may not always be compatible with that concealment.103 In his analysis of the ‘self-fashioning’ of Renaissance authors, Greenblatt notes that consciousness of the manipulability of human identity necessarily involves the experience of a threat to that identity, ‘some effacement or undermining, some loss of self ’.104 It is precisely such a loss of self that Dionysius fears at the symposium, but the selffashioning he attempts in order to deflect it only brings it closer.105 We encounter a very similar scene in Heliodorus’ novel, where the implicit pepaideumenos Theagenes is presented as likewise unable to mask his love at a symposium of his own arranging.106 The language

102 We find a parallel to Dionysius’ fears of appearing juvenile in the king’s concern for his own status during the Egyptian revolt: he keeps quiet about Callirhoe lest he should appear thoroughly paidariōdēs (childish, puerile, 6.9.5). Like Dionysius, he fears for the image he may present to his companions, and the similar focalization of the passage again shows the subject’s interiorization of paideia, and his consciousness of trying to live up to an ideal; the fact that he remains driven by the force of his passion (ØÆÇÅ b B ›æB , ibid.) despite his silence emphasizes the difficulty of achieving that ideal. 103 There may be some mileage in a comparison of Chariton’s earnest presentation of paideia with that in P.Oxy. 4811, a fragment published in 2007, and possibly deriving from a novel (the ‘Novel of Panionis’). According to Parsons (2010), the fragment seems to play, perhaps with some irony, with the conception that the masculine role is that of performer and declaimer. 104 Greenblatt (1980), 9. 105 Johne (2003), 175 remarks that the Greek novels’ protagonists ‘do not have identity crises like the main figures of the modern middle-class novel’. This might hold for the heroes and heroines, but it requires some nuancing in the light of our consideration of Dionysius, who is not strictly the hero of the piece, but is every inch a protagonist. 106 Theagenes’ youth might seem to preclude him from paideia, but his heightened awareness of sōphrosynē characterizes him as mature beyond his years; I will return to this sōphrosynē in connection with his andreia in Ch. 2.

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of display and concealment marks the presence of performative paideia as Theagenes battles unsuccessfully with his ailment, which is detected first by Calasiris and then by the others present: . . . Theagenes kept up the pretense of being in high spirits and forced himself to be hospitable to his guests, but he could not disguise the true tendency of his thoughts from me. At one moment he would stare into space and the next heave a deep sigh for no apparent reason; he would be gloomy, seemingly lost in thought, and then the next minute he would seem to become conscious of his state, recall his thoughts, and affect a more cheerful expression; it seemed to take very little to produce these changes of mood, which covered the whole spectrum of emotions . . . But eventually the listless melancholy that filled his heart could be concealed no longer, and then it became obvious to the rest of the company that he was unwell. (Hld. 3.10.4–11.1; trans. Morgan)  ˇ ¨ƪÅ KŒı b ƒºÆæe r ÆØ ŒÆd çغçæEŁÆØ f ÆæÆ KØÇ, ºŒ b æe KF c ØØÆ ‹ Ø çæØ, F b e ZÆ Mø F b ŁØ Ø ŒÆd I æçØ K Øø ŒÆd ¼æØ b ŒÆÅç  ŒÆd u æ K  KÆ ¼æØ b IŁæ K d e çÆØææ Æıe Æ ºø, u æ K ıÆØŁ Ø ªØ , ŒÆd Æıe Iƌƺ ŒÆd æe AÆ Æºc ÞÆ fi ø  çæ . . .  b ŒÆd åÅ IÅÅ I ºø KçÆ,  c ŒÆd E ¼ººØ H Ææø ŒÆź q På ªØÆø . . .

The verb KŒıØ stresses Theagenes’ need to display a certain face to his watching guests, and çغçæÆØ the imperative to demonstrate one’s paideia through the cultivation of friendship. His ıÆØŁ Ø denotes a pervasive self-consciousness, while the verb Æ ºø could not be more indicative of the use of sophistic paideia to remodel and conceal, presenting to the audience an image that disguises what truly underlies it. Again, however, paideia is unable to hide the truth, as the painful emptiness (åÅ IÅÅ ) with which Theagenes is paradoxically filled (I ºø ) becomes (again paradoxically) visible (KçÆ). Theagenes’ attempt not to give himself away to his guests, and their apprehension of his internal condition from his facial expressions, smacks of the influence of physiognomy, whose precepts were certainly well known at the time Heliodorus was writing, in the third or fourth century. Like Dionysius, Theagenes applies the concealing power of paideia in an effort to suppress his emotions; paideia, however, cannot conquer those emotions,

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and he is unable to maintain the customary performance of the pepaideumenos.107

The reflexive performance of paideia: the self as audience The agent of any performance is not necessarily discrete from the audience of that performance: occasionally the subject may play the role of both performer and audience. This is a remarkably pertinent way of looking at Dionysius’ behaviour after the symposium. Withdrawing to bed, he deliberates within himself over his feelings for Callirhoe. Chariton again leaves no doubt that this is laudable behaviour, appropriate for a pepaideumenos: Then you could observe a struggle between reason and passion, for although engulfed by desire, as a noble man he tried to resist, and rising above the waves, as it were, he said to himself, ‘Are you not ashamed, Dionysius, the leader of Ionia in virtue and reputation, a man whom governors, kings, and city-states admire—are you not ashamed to be suffering the heartache of a boy? . . . ’ . . . When he could no longer endure debating with himself, he sent for Leonas . . . (Chariton 2.4.4–6; trans. Goold, modified)  q NE IªHÆ ºªØF ŒÆd Łı . ŒÆØ ªaæ Æ ØÇ  e B K ØŁıÆ ªÆE Icæ K ØæA IåŁÆØ. ŒÆŁ æ b KŒ ŒÆ IŒı  ºªø æe Æıe “PŒ ÆNåfiÅ, ˜ØØ, Icæ › æH B  øÆ !Œ IæB  ŒÆd Å , n ŁÆıÇıØ Ææ ÆØ ŒÆd ÆغE ŒÆd ºØ , ÆØÆæı æAªÆ åø; . . . ” . . . "ÅŒ s çæø  ÆfiH ØƺªŁÆØ, ¸øA  łÆ . . .

I said earlier that Isocrates considered logos, the combined force of speech and reason, to stand at the heart of paideia, and that he placed particular importance on the ability of the pepaideumenos to ponder his troubles in his own mind: debating with others was one thing, but a man must also be able to conduct a dialogue with himself. Dionysius’ ability to internalize rhetoric and to debate his concerns 107 We find another similar symposium scene in Achilles Tatius (5.21.2). Cleitophon has dinner with Melite, having just learned that Leucippe is alive, and claims that with this new knowledge he will not be able even to look at another woman. At the meal he tries to force his face to appear as it did before he received the news, but is unable to do so, and is compelled to try to mask his emotions by feigning illness. If the reader associates efforts to conceal emotion with the practice of a moral paideia, then Cleitophon’s subsequent sex with Melite cannot but paint him as a severely substandard pepaideumenos.

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with himself surely reflects this Isocratean doctrine.108 Although the word ÆØÆ is not itself used in this passage, its presence is implicit in the struggle of Dionysius’ logismos (reason) against his pathos (passion), and in the description of him as debating with himself (ÆfiH ØƺªŁÆØ), which is precisely the vocabulary that Isocrates uses of the truly wise man.109 Although Dionysius is alone and acting as his own audience, the reader is implicated as a second audience by the use of NE, and is thereby drawn in to the performance of paideia:110 while Dionysius evaluates and analyses himself, he is also exposed to the judgement of the watching reader. That judgement is guided by the remark that he is a gennaios anēr: his behaviour is motivated by his nobility, and it is therefore laudable of him to try to control his emotions, even if it may ultimately prove futile. However, Dionysius’ reflexive performance of paideia through the interiorization of his problems exposes a slippage of identity of the kind we saw in the symposium scene: his status as a mature pepaideumenos, which, as he points out, involves relations with other pepaideumenoi such as governors and kings, is threatened by emotions he considers juvenile. Here we see the paradoxical nature of paideia: while it is the very thing that constitutes Dionysius’ identity and reputation, it is also the faculty that enables him to deliberate with himself, a deliberation that reveals the fragility of that identity and reputation under love’s onslaught. As at the symposium, his efforts to exercise paideia actually work against him, as Eros is prompted to redouble his own efforts, taking Dionysius’ philosophizing as a challenge (2.4.5):111 ironically, Dionysius’ deployment of his paideia consigns him to 108 Ruiz Montero (1989), 137 also notes the influence of Isocrates in Chariton, though in a very general way, and Reardon (1971), 350 observes that the 2nd century, and post-classical Greece in general, found Isocrates to be one of the most accessible of classical writers. Isocrates is not the only literary presence in this passage: see Repath (2007b) on Platonic resonances in Dionysius’ behaviour here and in other scenes. 109 See p. 24. At 6.1.6ff. both Artaxerxes and Stateira conduct similar nocturnal deliberations, described as ºªØ , but Chariton stereotypes by gender here, presenting Stateira as preoccupied with a twinge of jealousy over the attention her husband is paying Callirhoe, and the king as contemplating the more weighty problem of erotic obsession and its ramifications. 110 The verb NE also emphasizes the fact that paideia is a visible quality. 111 Eros is said to interpret his sōphrosynē as an act of hybris, reacting in the same way as he does to Artaxerxes’ efforts at sōphrosynē during the hunt (6.4.5). Balot (1998), 147 makes the astute observation that this interpretation transforms what was usually an elite virtue into a characteristic tyrannical vice; see also Tatum (1989), 168,

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further turmoil, instead of reinforcing his identity. The impossibility of meeting the standards of ideal masculinity is suggested by the fact that there is a clear limit to Dionysius’ capacity for inner debate, and thus to his paideia: we are told that he sends for Leonas in order to set up a meeting with Callirhoe when he is unable to bear this inner debate any longer—the interiorization of paideia can do only so much.112 Dionysius’ deliberation here is prompted by the need to meet certain standards of behaviour: he considers his reputation to have been compromised by the suddenness with which he has fallen in love, by the fact that he has done so while still in mourning for his dead wife, and by Callirhoe’s apparent slave status, which renders her a socially inappropriate object of his love. When he discovers her true identity and she accedes to marriage, he must again bring his paideia to bear to ensure that he behaves honourably in what has now become a love of a more socially acceptable kind: Dionysius’s passion raged fiercely and would not suffer the wedding to be delayed; self-control is painful when desire can be satisfied. He was a man of paideia; he had been overwhelmed by a storm—his heart was submerged, but still he forced himself to hold his head above the towering waves of his passion. (Chariton 3.2.6; trans. Reardon, modified) e b s KæøØŒe Ł  ı [b] ŒÆd Iƺc PŒ K æ  E ªØ · ÆØŁÆØ ªaæ Œº KıÆ K ØŁıÆ . ˜ØØ b Icæ  ÆØı ŒÆºÅ  b  e åØH ŒÆd c łıåc KÆ Ç, ‹ø b IÆŒ Ø KØÇ ŒÆŁ æ KŒ æØŒıÆ F Łı .

Dionysius’ determination to control his emotion is especially impressive given that he can now have what he wants, as Chariton points out (ÆØŁÆØ ªaæ Œº KıÆ K ØŁıÆ ).113 What was previously an illicit desire when Callirhoe was believed to be a slave is now above board and within his reach. But the very fact that it is above board frustratingly requires the exercise of an extra level of and cf. Pl. Smp. 219c, where Alcibiades characterizes Socrates’ resistance to his sexual overtures as hybris. 112 The limits of paideia are also suggested by the recurrence of the telltale verb ØæÆØ: Dionysius can only try to surmount his emotions, implying that his efforts may be unsuccessful. 113 We will see in Ch. 2 that andreia also has a role to play in such situations.

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self-control, on which not only Dionysius’ reputation, but also Callirhoe’s, depends: it would not do for him to bring shame upon the daughter of an illustrious general because he could not control himself long enough to marry her officially and in suitable style.114 Dionysius’ paideia may give him access to the virtues, to social perks, and to the admiration of others, but it also involves him in a huge amount of self-denial in order to preserve his reputation. His effort to control himself here is followed by an extended reflexive performance of paideia, referred to as logismoi (ŒÆd  s K Å ØØ ºªØE , 3.2.7), in which Dionysius both acts out his own potential responses to questioning over the legitimacy of his marriage, and considers the plausibility of such responses in any subsequent trial. He tells himself to rehearse for a trial, anticipating that he may have to defend his right to Callirhoe before the Persian king (ºÆ, ˜ØØ, c ŒÅ. åÆ b KæE ÆPc K d F ªºı Æغø , 3.2.8). As well as being unwittingly proleptic of the trial that follows, Dionysius’ private musings underscore the relationship between the interiorized performance of paideia, with the self as audience, and the display of paideia in a public, oratorical context: through the performance of a private, mental meletē he must prepare himself to perform persuasively in a potential public trial. Rather than arrange a speedy wedding which might appear illegitimate, he encourages his soul to endure a short delay (ŒÆææÅ, łıå , 3.2.9), his paideia enabling him to draw on reserves of karteria, as he did at the symposium. But once more, while paideia equips Dionysius to conduct such private logismoi, this debate with himself only reveals to him the insecurity of his position, as he contemplates the possible reactions of others to his possession of Callirhoe. So Chariton presents Dionysius as adept at employing paideia in an introspective manner, but not all novelists engage with paideia’s reflexive side so seriously. As we might expect, the use of paideia in deliberation with oneself is dealt with subversively by Achilles Tatius. After being advised by Satyrus to be bold in his approach to Leucippe, Cleitophon, left alone, tries to prime himself for the task (2.5). Like a 114 Chariton’s unusual use of ÆØŁÆØ, a verb commonly used of managing one’s household affairs, cleverly creates an image of Dionysius trying to keep the metaphorical house of his emotions in order: he endeavours to regulate his desires as though controlling his estate and finances; the verb is especially apt, as his self-control here is in fact vital for the maintenance of his (and Callirhoe’s) reputation and therefore also that of his house.

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student of forensic oratory, he argues from two perspectives, first berating himself for his cowardice in the matter of wooing Leucippe, and then reflecting that he ought to be able to exercise sōphrosynē and be content with the marriage to his half-sister that has been arranged for him. He claims to think that he has persuaded himself to the latter course of action (clearly the one expected of him as pepaideumenos), but this interiorized display of moral paideia is suddenly overturned as he goes on to voice Eros’ offence at his sōphrosynē. The notion that Eros may perceive a positive quality negatively is also present in Dionysius’ and Artaxerxes’ attempts at sōphrosynē, as we have seen. However, the fact that Eros’ perception is here focalized through Cleitophon, rather than through an external narrator as in Chariton, gives it an air of tokenism, as if Cleitophon only adopts this stance in order to justify his imminent lack of sōphrosynē.115 This impression is reinforced as he immediately proceeds to use his paideia not to behave properly, but to pursue Leucippe with intricate logoi ( æØ ºŒ ºªı KŒ ºªø, 2.6.3). Achilles characterizes Cleitophon with an awareness of paideia’s value as a tool for self-reflection, and yet deliberately has him misuse it. Cleitophon seems to epitomize those rhetoricians for whom Lucian expresses such distaste—men for whom paideia has little moral dimension, and is preoccupied with image and acquisition. I referred in the Introduction to the inevitable distance that exists between gender ideals and the realities of life. Where Cleitophon is concerned it is certainly the case that never the twain shall meet, and his behaviour seems written intentionally to expose the gap between ideal and reality. The proliferation of the shallow, superficial form of paideia in Achilles’ novel raises questions as to the author’s intention. Leucippe and Cleitophon’s lack of frame resumption means that no comment or judgement is ever passed, either on Cleitophon’s oratorical performance or on his performance of masculinity more generally. It is tempting to think that this absence of judgement amounts to an acquittal. Almost two thousand years later, Judith Butler would argue that the gap between ideal and reality may present an opportunity for resistance. By having Cleitophon repeatedly fail to exhibit a moral paideia, and yet never be judged

115 The same occurs at 1.11.3: by referring to Eros’ superior strength, Cleitophon acquits himself of responsibility for his actions; cf. also 5.27.2, where an alleged fear of Eros’ wrath results in his capitulation to Melite’s advances.

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for his failings, was Achilles exploiting the gap between ideal and reality in just such a way? Was he questioning the attainability, the maintainability, and thus the validity, of paideia? Was he resisting the hegemonic ideals of masculinity?

The display of paideia before family and superiors Three further scenes in Chariton draw out the complexity of paideia and emphasize the relationship between its interiorization and the image it enables a man to convey to external audiences. I have said that paideia comprises both skilful, persuasive speech and respect for the feelings of others. The first scene I want to discuss here shows both of those features. Dionysius is compelled to present Callirhoe before the court in Babylon. Fearing her reaction should he not forewarn her, he asks for an overnight postponement of the trial, and then broaches the subject with her: Arriving home, Dionysius, being an intelligent man and pepaideumenos, put forward the arguments to his wife as persuasively as possible under the circumstances, setting out each detail both deftly and gently. (Chariton 5.5.1) IçØŒ b N c NŒÆ › ˜ØØ , x Æ c çæØ Icæ ŒÆd  ÆØı , ºªı fiB ªıÆØŒd æ ªŒ ‰ K ØØ ØŁÆøı , KºÆçæH  ŒÆd æø !ŒÆÆ ØŪ .

Here we find Chariton presenting marriage as a site for the practice of male paideia, apparently reflecting the imperial orientation of paideia towards the conjugal bond: it was not only female paideia that was marked by a concern for marital status and comportment in erotic contexts. Dionysius negotiates the situation through a combination of phronēsis and paideia: he has thought through his position, and that reasoning now governs his approach to Callirhoe. Chariton does not describe what is said, but how it is said, his vocabulary showing paideia in action. As though already performing in court, Dionysius puts forward his logoi methodically, trying to make them persuasive. The phrase KºÆçæH  ŒÆd æø seems to denote two contrasting (but not contradictory) styles, with two contrasting (but not contradictory) purposes, the former deft and nimble, aiming to win Callirhoe’s confidence, and the latter smooth and pacifying, aiming to

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comfort her:116 masterly rhetoric and concern for the feelings of others are both elements of Dionysius’ paideia. In his application of paideia with the aim of protecting his marriage and preserving his status as Callirhoe’s husband, Dionysius redirects the skills he would use in public, rhetorical contexts towards a private, emotional goal. In the end, however, although Callirhoe’s anger is deflected, Dionysius’ paideia is not sufficient to comfort her, and she soon falls to weeping, lamenting her fate, and finally dreaming of Chaereas (5.5.1-6). We are again left with the impression that while paideia may be an admirable and powerful attribute, that power is limited.117 The second example occurs when Dionysius learns of the postponement of the trial following Chaereas’ miraculous appearance: Dionysius tried to bear the events nobly through the steadfastness of his nature and the application of his paideia, but the unexpectedness of the misfortune had the power to drive even the bravest man out of his senses. (Chariton 5.9.8) . . . ˜ØØ b K ØæA b çæØ a ıÆÆ ªÆø Ø  çø PŁØÆ ŒÆd Øa ÆØÆ K غØÆ, e b Ææ B ıçæA ŒÆd e IæØÆ KŒBÆØ ıÆe  Bæå.

Dionysius’ attempts to handle the situation are here attributed to a combination of nature (physis) and culture (paideia):118 he has a naturally robust and upright character, but a man is better equipped to deal with life’s misfortunes if he also has a doughty cultural and intellectual education, K غØÆ (attention, care) suggesting both the application of his paideia in this particular circumstance and the extent of his investment in that paideia. The passage also demonstrates paideia’s relationship to other virtues, here specifically andreia, to which Dionysius’ acculturation has evidently given him access. Andreia plays a part in his attempt to endure this new setback (ıçæ), and here again the language used reminds us of Isocrates’ 116 Praotēs (gentleness) is a common element of paideia: it is one of the qualities the personified Paideia offers the young Lucian (Somn. 10), and it is part of Cyrus’ paideia, on which see X. Cyr. 3.1.41, with Farber (1979), 510. 117 The shortcomings of paideia here were foreshadowed by Dionysius’ earlier failure to persuade the judges that Callirhoe did not need to appear before the court: although he was said to make his plea skilfully, those present were so desperate to see Callirhoe that they could not be persuaded (ÆFÆ ØŒÆØŒH b r  › ˜ØØ , ºc PÆ  ØŁ· K Łı ªaæ  ˚ƺºØæÅ NE, 5.4.11); beauty thus overcomes the power of paideia. 118 Note the recurrence of ØæÆØ; cf. n. 97 and n. 112.

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pepaideumenoi, who bear their misfortunes (H ıçæH) bravely (IæøH ).119 But Chariton stresses that even the man with the most andreia could not tolerate this turn of events:120 while paideia and its concomitant virtues, like andreia, may help a man to cope with difficult circumstances, their power is ultimately limited, and Dionysius succumbs to his emotion, shouting and bewailing his misfortune (5.10.1ff.). Described as ‘umpiring a battle between erōs and logismos’ (åÅ æÆø æø ŒÆd ºªØF, 5.10.6), Dionysius is evidently poised on a knife-edge between a behavioural ideal and an uncontrolled display of emotion which threatens to damage his public image and self-perception. It is in the third of these scenes, when he learns from the king of his loss of Callirhoe, that Dionysius is said to show his paideia most: At this point especially Dionysius displayed his intellect and exceptional paideia. Like a man unperturbed by a thunderbolt falling at his feet, so he, on hearing words more violent than any thunderbolt—namely that Chaereas was taking Callirhoe back to Syracuse—nevertheless stood there without flinching, deeming any expression of sorrow a risk to himself, since the queen had been rescued. (Chariton 8.5.10–11; trans. Goold, modified) K KŒø fi c fiH ŒÆØæfiH ºØÆ çæÅØ ˜ØØ K Æ ŒÆd ÆØÆ KÆæ. u æ ªaæ Y Ø ŒæÆıF  æe H H ÆPF c ÆæÆåŁÅ, oø ŒIŒE IŒÆ ºªø ŒÅ F Ææıæø, ‹Ø #ÆØæÆ ˚ƺºØæÅ N $ıæÆŒÆ I ªØ, ‹ø PÆŁc Ø ŒÆd PŒ  Içƺb ÆfiH e ºı EŁÆØ, øŁÅ B Æغ .

Here we see the familiar pairing of phronēsis and paideia, whose epideictic character is emphasized (K Æ): these qualities are to be displayed; they are subject to performance before an audience. The internalization of paideia is suggested by the fact that Dionysius does not think it safe to express grief for his own sake at a time that is happy for Artaxerxes and Stateira: he has evidently reasoned through his situation and come to a conclusion which now dictates his action. Again paideia is marshalled as a means of controlling and concealing

119 See p. 23. 120 This remark might be thought to imply that Dionysius is not the bravest man, and thus to foreshadow the imminent eclipse of his military achievements by those of Chaereas, who is considered by his troops to be andreiotatos (7.5.11).

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emotion, but here, in contrast to his efforts at the symposium, he is successful in presenting a particular image to his audience, and this is a far more important audience than that of his friends at dinner. Chariton’s remark, that this is the point at which Dionysius most shows his paideia, suggests that one of the foremost purposes of paideia is not to conquer emotions completely, but rather to control and bear them, so that they are expressed to the right degree and in the right contexts: the pepaideumenos must impose upon himself a strict verbal and physical self-control, avoiding at all costs any loss of that control, especially before his superiors.121 Dionysius successfully projects an idealized version of himself in front of the supreme audience, the king and queen of Persia, and waits for seclusion before expressing his true feelings (8.5.12–13). His loss of Callirhoe prompts Artaxerxes to give him the ultimate reward that paideia can bring, political power, as Dionysius is granted governorship over the whole of Ionia, and a special rank with regard to the royal family (8.5.12). Given that the figure of the pepaideumenos governor was a familiar one in the politics of the eastern empire,122 perhaps we can see in Dionysius a reflection of the real-life pepaideumenoi of Chariton’s own day, men with whom, as a legal secretary (1.1.1), Chariton may himself have come into contact.123 Whitmarsh has described paideia 121 See Brown (1992), 49 on this aspect of paideia; and for a contemporary example of a pepaideumenos risking his reputation through excessive emotional display, see Philostr. VS 556–7 and 560–1 on Herodes Atticus. I will return to the control of emotion at the end of this chapter. 122 See Brown (1992), 38. 123 With Jones (1992), 165, I am tempted to see Dionysius’ characterization as inspired by the Milesian sophist of the same name: Jones suggests that in the promotion of Dionysius by Artaxerxes, Chariton may be paying literary homage to the sophist Dionysius, who was himself given a governorship by Hadrian (Philostr. VS 524); however, Bowie (2002), 54 believes that if Jones were right, Chariton would risk causing ‘great offence to a man with some power in provincia Asia’. Given the favourable characterization of Dionysius, and the enormous and positive emphasis placed on his paideia, I am not convinced that any such offence would have been taken (Tilg (2010), 45 feels similarly, but sees no reason to view the sophist as the model for Chariton’s Dionysius). Philostratus refers to a belief (much mistaken, in his opinion) that the sophist wrote a romantic piece about Xenophon’s Panthea and Araspes: in Chariton’s location of his own Dionysius at the heart of an erotic story which owes much to Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, and in the marked importance of paideia to his character, can we identify Chariton as one of those who believed the sophist to have authored an erotic tale of his own? As do I, Repath (forthcoming b) sees Dionysius as modelled on the sophist, and makes the intriguing suggestion that the real Dionysius may have been Chariton’s patron. The identification of Dionysius with the sophist would date Chariton a little later than is usually suggested. See

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as a ‘vehicle for imperial power’,124 and it appears that Dionysius’ performance of paideia, while on occasion seeming to trap him into contradictory and image-threatening behaviour, has in the end fulfilled its social and political function as just such a vehicle for power: for him, the performance of a hegemonic masculine ideal has led to literal hegemony ( ººH ºø ªÆ, 8.5.15), and although his paideia could not help him to retain Callirhoe, the political power he has derived from it does give him considerable consolation for her loss (ªÆ ÆæÆŁØ, ibid.). So there is no doubt that paideia is the predominant element in the characterization of Dionysius. By contrast, Chaereas is described as possessing paideia only once, when he makes the acquaintance of the Egyptian king in Book 7. It seems that up to this point Chariton establishes Dionysius as pepaideumenos to act as a foil to Chaereas, in order to make the absence of a mature paideia in Chaereas more apparent. For instance, Dionysius’ concern with being thought meirakiōdēs (2.4.1), as well as his self-chastisement for falling in love at first sight (2.4.4), turn our thoughts to Chaereas—the only young man we have observed fall in love at first sight—making a comparison between the two men inevitable.125 But Chaereas does not necessarily emerge from this comparison unfavourably, since the fear of appearing immature is focalized through Dionysius himself: love at first sight is not frowned upon by the author or narrator, but by a man striving to live up to an ideal that is likely to be always just out of reach—although paideia is clearly a positive and powerful quality, it is not one that can (or should) overpower love. What paideia can do, however, is bring social advancement, and just as Dionysius’ paideia before Artaxerxes leads to political promotion, so Chaereas’ paideia before the Egyptian pharaoh leads to military promotion—from soldier, to sharing the pharaoh’s table, to advising him on strategy:

Courtney (2001), 16–17 for the argument that Persius 1.134 does not refer to Chariton’s novel, and that Chariton may therefore be placed later than the first half of the 1st century; Courtney does, however, still seem to incline towards a date in the first century (ibid. 25). 124 Whitmarsh (1998), 203. 125 A similar effect is achieved when Chaereas has just learned of Callirhoe’s marriage to Dionysius, and wants to go straight to Miletus to take her back: Mithridates advises him to deliberate more wisely, as he is acting more through passion than through reason ( ŁØ Aºº j ºªØfiH, 4.4.2); the vocabulary used here calls to mind Dionysius, who had endured his own battle of logismos and pathos.

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. . . for he displayed intelligence and courage, and trustworthiness besides, for he had a noble nature and was not unacquainted with paideia. (Chariton 7.2.5; trans. Goold, modified) . . . K Œı ªaæ çæÅ  ŒÆd Łæ , a ø b ŒÆd Ø, x Æ c ŒÆd çø IªÆŁB ŒÆd ÆØÆ PŒ I æÅ .

Paideia is something for which a man becomes known to others, and this connection to reputation gives it a very public sense. Paideia also gives a man access to other virtues, which augment his reputation and announce his character to the watching world. This public, performative essence of paideia and its concomitant virtues is stressed when we learn here of Chaereas’ paideia. Phronēsis, tharsos, and pistis are all qualities that are to be displayed (K Œı) before an audience.126 They are also attributes to which Chaereas has access thanks to a combination of natural nobility (çø IªÆŁB ) and acquired paideia. We might think back to Dionysius’ attempt to cope with the delay in the trial through the combined power of physis and paideia, and to Isocrates’ emphasis on a fusion of the two in the production of the best orator: nature and culture both have vital roles to play in the formation of the adult male. Chaereas’ characterization from Book 7 onwards has been seen as rather inconsistent with his earlier presentation as a volatile youth, but to a reader in the early centuries CE, who was more attuned to the nuances of paideia than are we, his development might not seem as crude or sudden as it does to us. Given that paideia is associated especially with maturity, it is not surprising that Chaereas seems not to possess it at the beginning of the novel. I have noted that his experiences might be understood (as Lalanne understands them) as rites of passage which constitute the paideia he is later said to show. If paideia is the result of a process of maturation that may be age-related or simply experience-related, then, in view of the huge amount of ‘life experience’ that Chaereas has packed into a relatively short time period, he may justifiably be said in Book 7 to have paideia. But there is another reason for seeing this apparently sudden paideia as not inconsistent with his prior characterization. Chaereas appears to have the capacity for paideia at a very early stage in the proceedings: 126 cf. 8.5.12, where Dionysius is rewarded for the eunoia and pistis he has ‘displayed’ (K ø) towards the king; these qualities appear to be the result of his paideia. Polycharmus is later said to have displayed (K Æ) exactly these qualities to Chaereas and Callirhoe (8.8.12).

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for example, when urged by Polycharmus to prepare an elaborate funeral for Callirhoe, he is said to be persuaded by the argument and inspired with a competitive love of honour, and reflection ( Ø y › ºª · Kƺ ªaæ çغØÆ ŒÆd çæÆ, 1.6.2).127 Paideia, as we have seen repeatedly, is both inherently competitive and closely related to intellect and wise thought, so Polycharmus’ persuasive logos appears to sow the seeds for Chaereas’ development of paideia—seeds necessary for the hero to lay his wife to rest with the dignity befitting her station, and thus to behave in the manner expected of a pepaideumenos. But there is a qualification to be made here. We should note that Chaereas is not straightforwardly said to be pepaideumenos; rather, paideia is something with which he is ‘not unacquainted’ (PŒ I æÅ ). The I æÅ of the manuscript has been emended, but neither of the suggestions, ¼ Øæ and IºÅ , seems any more appropriate—whether Chaereas is PŒ I æÅ , PŒ ¼ Øæ , or PŒ IºÅ with regard to paideia, we have a remark that has a somewhat tentative, even equivocal, tone to it. Does it suggest that Chaereas has the rudiments of paideia, but not the whole package? Or perhaps it indicates the inherently unstable and partial nature of paideia—it is something with which a man may be ‘acquainted’, but which cannot cope with all situations and emotions, and on which he can never rely completely, as we have seen with even the mature pepaideumenos, Dionysius. The paideia with which Chaereas is ‘not unacquainted’ appears to be of the experiential kind. Indeed, the use of PŒ I æÅ in relation to paideia parallels that of PŒ IºÅ in the description of Callirhoe’s suitability to the task of comforting the queen (7.6.5), where her paideia appeared to be connected to her experiences.128 Chaereas’ experiences have apparently built on natural aptitude to form a young man of phronēsis, tharsos, and pistis, whose potential for such noble attributes was suggested from the moment of Callirhoe’s funeral. The competitive, performative, and display-oriented sense of this passage is continued as Chaereas is said to be spurred on by rivalry with Artaxerxes, as well as by the desire to show that he is not to be treated with contempt (e EÆØ ŁºØ ‹Ø PŒ q PŒÆÆçæÅ , Iºº ¼Ø ØB , 7.2.6), 127 cf. Dionysius, who is philotimos by nature (6.9.2). 128 See pp. 37–9. Cobet’s suggestion that PŒ I æÅ be emended to PŒ IºÅ is based on the use of the latter in the Callirhoe scene.

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suggesting that paideia has instilled in him an awareness of his public image, and thus of the need for some impression management129—in fact, these twin incentives are said to push him on more, and to give him more prominence, than anything else (K ªØæ b Aºº ÆPe ŒÆd ØÆ æ æ K Å, ibid.). With his newfound consciousness of his public image, and his new ability to display his paideia, Chaereas has become the equal of his rival, Dionysius.

The display of words Imperial paideia was strongly associated with rhetoric, but Haynes has argued that the novels tend almost to discount rhetoric as a defining male characteristic.130 She offers two examples of Chaereas’ behaviour to support her argument. The first occurs in Book 3, when Theron has been captured and Chaereas is reluctant to address the assembly, and the second in Book 8, when Chaereas has returned triumphant with Callirhoe, but is hesitant before the Syracusans. Haynes takes Chaereas’ slowness to speak as a sign that rhetoric in this novel is being marginalized, but if we take a closer look at the language used, it is possible to argue that what these scenes actually do is testify to the enduring importance of rhetoric, and imply the latent presence of some form of paideia in Chaereas. Chariton presents the first scene as follows: He declined to mount the platform, but, standing below, at first he wept for a long time and, though wishing to do so, was unable to utter a word. The crowd shouted, ‘Courage! Speak!’ At last he looked up and said, ‘This is a time for mourning, not for speech. The same purpose compels me to speak as to live, namely to discover how Callirhoe disappeared.’ (Chariton 3.4.4–5; trans. Goold, modified) . . . ŒÆd K d b e BÆ PŒ MŁºÅ IÆBÆØ, Œø  ı a e b æH K d ºf ŒºÆ åæ ŒÆd çŁªÆŁÆØ Łºø PŒ MÆ· e b ºBŁ KÆ “ŁææØ ŒÆd ºª.” ºØ s IƺłÆ “› b Ææg” r  “ŒÆØæe PŒ q ÅŪæF Iººa ŁF , Kªg b  e B ÆPB IªŒÅ ŒÆd ºªø ŒÆd ÇH, åæØ i Kæø ˚ƺºØæÅ c IÆæØ.”

129 I will consider this scene further in Ch. 2.

130 Haynes (2003), 87ff.

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Chaereas is unable to speak, in spite of a desire to do so (çŁªÆŁÆØ Łºø PŒ MÆ). Recall here Isocrates’ assertion that in the absence of tolma, a man of paideia will be unable to speak before the crowd (P i çŁªÆŁÆØ ıÅŁÅ).131 Is this sharing of vocabulary a mere coincidence, or is Chariton once more pinning his Isocratean colours to the mast? After all, Isocrates himself often admitted to a youthful lack of both voice and courage.132 Given his own enormous transformation and the apparent esteem in which he was held, it is no mean thing if Chariton is implying that Chaereas is following some sort of Isocratean trajectory in terms of paideutic and rhetorical development.133 The intertextuality here, if that is what it is, implies that Chaereas has some form of paideia even at this early stage of the novel—it is not something that suddenly blossoms in him in Book 7. Isocrates used the phrase P i çŁªÆŁÆØ ıÅŁÅ of a man who had paideia alone, but no natural ability; Chaereas, by contrast, seems to have positive qualities by nature, as we have seen, and while, like Isocrates’ orator, he may at first lack the courage to speak before the crowd, that courage is soon provided by his audience as they shout “ŁææØ ŒÆd ºª”. Chaereas’ hesitation might even be thought a sign of ethical paideia, for it is governed by a sense of respect: at a time when Callirhoe is presumed dead, he feels public speaking to be inappropriate. Here, though, paideia catches him in a trap, for although he may be right that it is a time for mourning, a public gathering of this nature does demand oratory. Consequently, when the crowd provides this Isocratean orator with courage, he is compelled to speak. In the second example raised by Haynes, Chaereas again exhibits hesitation: He began with the end, reluctant to distress his audience with the grim events at the beginning. But the people insisted, ‘Start from the beginning, we beg you. Tell us everything; leave nothing out.’ Chaereas hesitated, naturally somewhat embarrassed at much which had not turned out as he wished, but Hermocrates said, ‘My son, do not be embarrassed, even if you have something painful or shocking to tell us. The brilliant conclusion overshadows all that has gone before, but

131 See pp. 23–4. 132 e.g. Isoc. Panathenaicus 10; To Philip 81. 133 See Laplace (1997) for other examples of Isocrates’ influence in Chariton’s novel.

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saying nothing means that we will suspect even worse from your silence.’ (Chariton 8.7.3–4; trans. Goold) ŒIŒE I e H ºıÆø XæÆ, ºı E P Łºø K E æ Ø ŒÆd ŒıŁæø E e ºÆ. › b B KŒº “KæøH, ¼øŁ ¼æÆØ, Æ E ºª, Åb Ææƺ fiÅ .” þŒØ #ÆØæÆ , ‰ i K d ººE H P ŒÆa ª Å ıø ÆN ,  EæŒæÅ b çÅ “Åb ÆNŁfiB , t Œ, Œi ºªfiÅ Ø ºı Åææ j ØŒææ E· e ªaæ º ºÆ æe ª K ØŒE E ææØ – ÆØ, e b c ÞÅŁb  ØÆ åØ åƺ øæÆ K ÆPB B Øø B .”

Once more we might detect a trace of the ethical side of paideia: Chaereas reorders his narrative out of empathy with his audience, hoping not to cause them grief. When the crowd demands he start from the beginning, his shame-induced hesitation betrays a clear concern for his own image: like Dionysius, he is aware of the potentially negative effect his words could have on his audience’s perception of him. Interestingly, Hermocrates points out that if Chaereas keeps quiet, silence will be more suspicious than anything he could say. This is somewhat reminiscent of Dionysius at the symposium: although an inward paideia is a positive thing, silence in these public situations is not necessarily golden—a man is required to speak. Once again, the inward, private functioning of paideia is not entirely compatible with the demand it places on a man to perform publicly. We should certainly not take Chariton’s characterization of Chaereas in these scenes to be evidence of an authorial depreciation of rhetoric as a field of masculine display. In neither of Haynes’s examples is Chaereas unwilling to speak. His hesitation demonstrates neither inadequacy nor lack of ability, but rather concern for proper behaviour and fear for his public image—in other words, an emerging paideia that enables him to read the demands of a situation, show concern for the feelings of others, and take into account his audience’s perception of him.134 De Temmerman argues that, in Chariton’s novel, ‘becoming an adult male citizen involves developing awareness of the importance of rhetorical control, manipulation and deception’;135

134 See also Smith (2007), 222–5. 135 cf. Webb (2007), 534, who calls Chaereas’ speech before the Syracusans ‘a tour de force of coherent and carefully shaped narration’, notes that ‘Chaereas’ entry into manhood is marked by his entry into logos’, and observes in the novels a ‘thematic connection between eloquence and manhood’.

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to that I think we can add that it also involves the development of a deeper level of care, both for oneself and for others.136 For Cleitophon, by contrast, paideia barely extends beyond superficial display. One might argue that Achilles’ choice of ego-narrative inevitably casts Cleitophon as something of a declaimer:137 in a public context he readily embarks upon a performance for his anonymous narratee, a performance which comprises the ingredients (pirates, tyrants, virgins, oracles) recognizable as those of the imperial schools of rhetoric.138 Of course, the subject matter of the genre as a whole implies a relationship between romance and rhetoric,139 but the use of an ego-narrator who is telling his story not to the reader, but to an audience within the novel, exaggerates the air of sophistry in this novel in particular: the multiple layers of narrative emphasize the sense of performance, at whose heart stands Cleitophon. In fact, his first words to the anonymous narrator locate him very much in the world of performance: standing before the painting of Europa and the bull, he claims to be able to ‘show’ or ‘portray’ the things painted therein ( ¯ ªg ÆF i KŒı, 1.2.1). It must be noted that there is a textual problem here, as only manuscript F reads KŒı, while the others read NÅ (‘I would know’). As the lectio difficilior, however, KŒı may be the correct reading. Moreover, given the performative context of Cleitophon’s narration, and given the style in which he delivers it, ŒıØ seems to me a far more appropriate and more likely verb than r Æ. Cleitophon is characterized (or selfcharacterized) as the ex tempore orator of his own autobiographical narrative, which itself resembles the events depicted in the painting of Europa; this narrative is in turn reported by the anonymous 136 De Temmerman’s (2009) excellent assessment of these (and other) scenes demonstrates the significance of rhetoric in this novel, as well as the complex and very exciting way in which Chariton uses it. De Temmerman focuses on the strictly rhetorical, however, highlighting several parts of Chaereas’ narrative where he appears to distort the truth deliberately, suggesting that he has successfully harnessed the power of rhetoric, and is able to control his audience (see esp. pp. 257–60; see also De Temmerman (2006), 209–12). I hope that what I have said here about the ethical and behavioural aspects of paideia functions as a complement to De Temmerman’s arguments. 137 Marinčič (2007), 194 views ‘The whole narrative . . . as an exemplary seduction speech’ with Cleitophon as orator. Indeed, the name ‘Cleitophon’ (‘Glorious Voice’) suggests that we are to view him as some sort of orator; on Cleitophon’s name, see Brethes (2001), 185. 138 As Petronius’ Encolpius laments (Petr. 1). 139 A relationship observed by Reardon (1974).

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narrator-cum-orator.140 The text cannot help but be suffused from the outset with a sense of rhetorical display and performance. Russell and Connolly have both stressed the increasing emphasis on the narrative element of imperial orations,141 which included embellishments such as ekphrasis, and the addition of ‘strong color to [the orator’s] own dramatic self-characterization’.142 Cleitophon’s use of both of these effects has been much commented upon,143 and seems to identify him as the product of a rhetorical paideia. But this implicit paideia is an educational one in the narrowest sense of the word. It is only skin-deep, and lacks the moral quality that we have observed to be so important in Chariton, Isocrates, Lucian, and others. For instance, having fallen for Leucippe, Cleitophon gives a lengthy disquisition on the peacock and its place within the erotics of the natural world, with the sole intention of turning Leucippe on (Bıº s Pªøª c ŒæÅ N æøÆ ÆæÆŒıÆØ . . . , 1.16.1): the goal of his display of paideia is no more profound than sex. His remarks on the peacock’s behaviour seem to hint at the fact that he himself recognizes his use of paideia here as a showy performance: the peacock, he observes, is at that very moment ‘displaying the theatre of its wings’ (e ŁÆæ K ØØŒÆØ H æH, 1.16.2).144 Cleitophon is aided in his deliberate misuse of paideia by Satyrus, who, Cleitophon says, understands the hypothesis (intention, premise) of his logos (1.17.1), both terms we might expect to find in the context of rhetorical display, and the latter reminding us particularly of the quality central to Isocrates’ definition of paideia. The logos at the heart of Cleitophon’s paideia is most definitely not of the Isocratean type.145 He clearly sees himself as adept at the

140 See Jones (forthcoming b) for a reading of Cleitophon and the anonymous narrator in the context of ancient theory on rhetoric and ekphrasis. 141 Russell (1983), 88ff.; Connolly (2001), 84–5. 142 Connolly (ibid.). 143 e.g. Bartsch (1989); Morales (2004). 144 Morales (2004), 185, 190 also notes the epideictic significance of the peacock here, and points to Dio Chrysostom’s explicit connection between the peacock and sophistry (Or. 12.2–5). Cleitophon’s assimilation of himself to the peacock might well have amusement value for readers versed in physiognomy: Anonymus Latinus’ version of Polemon’s Physiognomy warns that men who are like peacocks are likely to be adulterers and cinaedi (Anon. Lat. 130); I will return in Ch. 3 to the possible identification of Cleitophon as a moichos and a kinaidos. 145 It is not just classical Greek rhetoric of whose standards Cleitophon falls conspicuously short: his showy oratory glaringly lacks the moral (and thus manly)

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manipulation of words for ulterior motives, and indeed, his interpretation of the purpose of paideia is epitomized when he ambles around the house ostensibly reading a book, but in reality ogling Leucippe over the top of it (1.6.6). Like one of Lucian’s fraudulent teachers of rhetoric, he uses paideia to conceal his true intentions and to acquire what he wants. Just as I argued with regard to his reflexive use of paideia in deliberation with himself, his use of epideictic paideia is geared not towards the demonstration of virtue or the understanding of the feelings of others,146 but towards sexual gratification. Russell observes a growing tendency in imperial declamation for the declaimer to assume characters with whom his audience could not truly sympathize,147 and in which cases oratory’s ‘educational usefulness takes second place to its amusement value [and] there is no pill inside the sugar coating’.148 It is impossible to know how Achilles’ readers would have reacted to Cleitophon’s use and abuse of paideia; neither do we have any sense of the reaction of the novel’s internal audience, since the frame is never resumed and there is never a glimpse of the anonymous narrator in the course of Cleitophon’s performance. To the modern reader, however, Cleitophon’s almost proud misperformance of paideia gives him the quality of a loveable buffoon. There is certainly no pill inside Cleitophon’s sugar-coated paideia, but we should not necessarily think that he would have been an unsympathetic character to an ancient audience. If the achievement and maintenance of an ideal moral and intellectual paideia was as difficult as we have seen it to be in the case of Dionysius (and as we will see it to be in Chaereas’ case too), then Cleitophon’s unashamed misappropriation of paideia may well have come as a refreshing, and realistic, change to the reader. Achilles may have been swimming against the stream, but in characterizing Cleitophon as he did, he was perhaps offering an alternative to which the average reader could relate in a more significant way than he could to Chariton’s pepaideumenos. In misperforming paideia, Cleitophon misperforms a major element of Second Sophistic masculinity, but in this failure to be a ‘real man’, he ironically becomes more real. dimensions often deemed important by Roman authorities on public speaking (see Connolly (2007) on morality and manliness in Roman rhetoric). 146 In fact, where Leucippe’s feelings are concerned, he professes total ignorance (2.8.1). 147 Russell (1983), 87ff. 148 Ibid. 88.

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Paideia as erotic education I have argued that paideia may be drawn upon either to aid proper self-comportment in erotic contexts, or, where Cleitophon is concerned, to aid the very opposite. Paideia in the novels is thus closely related to love—no surprise, one might think, when the genre’s focal point is an erotic relationship. But the connection between paideia and love is more complex than this. Paideia admits a man to an understanding of the very nature of love. This is a motif we find several times in Chariton. When Dionysius arrives in Babylon and is congratulated by the populace on the beauty of his wife, we learn that he is distressed by the admiration, and that by virtue of his paideia he is able to ponder on the inconstant nature of love: The congratulations heaped upon Dionysius caused him pain, and the extent of his good fortune made him all the more fearful, for as a man of paideia he pondered that Love is fickle. That is why poets and sculptors equip him with bow and flame, of all things the most light and unstable. He was visited by the remembrance of ancient stories which told of the inconstant ways of beautiful women. (Chariton 4.7.6–7; trans. Goold, modified) ÆŒÆæØÇ b ˜ØØ Kºı E, ŒÆd غæ ÆPe K Ø B PıåÆ e ªŁ · Icæ ªaæ  ÆØı KŁıE ‹Ø çغŒÆØ KØ › % Eæø · Øa F ŒÆd Æ ŒÆd Fæ ØÅÆ  ŒÆd ºÆØ æØŁŒÆØ ÆPfiH, a ŒıçÆÆ ŒÆd BÆØ c ŁºÆ.  Å b KºÆ ÆPe ƺÆØH ØŪÅø, ‹ÆØ ÆºÆd ªªÆØ H ŒÆºH ªıÆØŒH.

Here again we see the power of paideia to internalize one’s concerns: Dionysius’ paideia enables him to think deeply (KŁıE) about love, whose character it has taught him through the study of literature and art.149 But once more his paideia works against him: while it is the attribute on which he calls in order to consider his situation, and on which his identity depends, it is also the thing that reveals to him the precariousness of that situation and identity. Rather than shoring up his confidence, his paideia in the nature of love results in his destabilization, causing him to become even more concerned for his position as Callirhoe’s husband, fearing everything and seeing rivals everywhere (4.7.7).

149 See also Hld. 4.2.3, where Theagenes knowingly refers to painters’ representations of Eros as symbolizing the condition in which the god leaves his victims.

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Similarly, the status and identity of the implicit pepaideumenos Artaxerxes are threatened by his understanding of the nature of love. He tells Artaxates that he has learned of Eros’ power from myths and poems (6.3.2)—in other words, from his paideia—then refers to his former belief that no one was more powerful than he, and admits with difficulty that he has been captured. The man who was once the master of all has now become a figurative slave, his paideia in love enabling him to apprehend this metaphorical change in status. His understanding of his erotic condition even causes him to lose his customary demeanour and his manly control of logos, as his eyes well up with tears and he is no longer able to speak (6.3.3). Significantly, this loss of speech, the central element of masculine paideia, is the moment at which Artaxates discerns the cause of the king’s malady:150 love, it is implied, is the only force strong enough to compromise a man’s masculinity to such an extreme degree as to strip him of the power of speech.151 So both Dionysius and Artaxerxes have received a paideia in love, and while this paideia invests them with a greater understanding of erotic matters, it also alerts them to the instability of their positions, and concomitantly of their status as men. By contrast, Chaereas appears to have little understanding of such things. Having learned from Mithridates that Callirhoe is now married to Dionysius and ostensibly has a child by him, Chaereas is said to be unable to show karteria (4.3.9). He responds with a desire to rush to Miletus and take Callirhoe back, and Mithridates must check him with a warning about his inferior status in comparison to Dionysius, and a remark about his ignorance of the nature of love (4.4.2ff.)—an indication, perhaps, that Chaereas’ paideia is not yet fully formed. But Chaereas has received an erotic paideia of sorts: in formulating his plan to break up the hero and heroine’s marriage, the tyrant of Acragas had emphasized Chaereas’ experience of the gymnasium, and was expecting to be able to use that experience against him: Callirhoe, I know, is sensible, and she doesn’t know what malice and suspicion are. But Chaereas has been brought up in the gymnasium, and 150 The eunuch is said to have suspected something before this point (6.3.3), but the king’s silence provides the confirmation he needs. 151 Tyche was earlier said to be the only force against which logismos cannot fight (2.8.3), but Tyche and Eros are frequently conflated or seem to work together in Chariton’s narrative.

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he does know how young people misbehave; it will be easy to arouse his suspicions and make him jealous, as young men are liable to be. (Chariton 1.2.6; trans. Reardon) ˚ƺºØæÅ b s PÆŁc ŒÆd ¼ Øæ ŒÆŒ Łı  łÆ , › b #ÆØæÆ , x Æ c ªıÆØ KæÆçd ŒÆd øæØŒH ±ÆæÅø PŒ ¼ Øæ , ÆÆØ ÞÆ fi Øø   Æ K E N øæØŒc Çźı Æ . . .

As a result of his time spent in the gymnasium, Chaereas has either heard about or been involved in youthful mistakes (øæØŒH ±ÆæÅø). The tyrant’s euphemistic language leaves the precise nature of these mistakes unclear, but, implicitly, they are love affairs of some sort which have involved malice and suspicion. Chaereas’ knowledge of such things, here contrasted with Callirhoe’s ignorance, will assist in the arousal of his jealousy. Gymnastic training was a significant part of the paideia of a young man, so, ironically, an element of Chaereas’ paideia—his experience in the gymnasium and the knowledge of love affairs that he has gained through that experience—is expected to work against him to undermine his relationship and his self-image, rather than to protect and promote his masculinity: as with Dionysius’ behaviour at the symposium, and as with his understanding of the nature of love, paideia may trap a man into undesirable behaviour. The symposium was a prime site for the display of paideia, as I have said, and from Plato’s Symposium on, sympotic paideia had specifically erotic associations.152 It is unsurprising, then, that the symposium is the context for Dionysius’ and Theagenes’ preoccupation with their romantic emotions, but it is heavily ironic that both men feel they must internalize and suppress their erotic thoughts in the setting that most lends itself to the expression of such thoughts. Although the subject under discussion at those symposia is not stated, we might well imagine it to be the nature of love, especially in view of the classical backdrop of both narratives. Chariton and Heliodorus were not the only authors who played with the theme of paideia as erotic education. The fragments of Metiochus and Parthenope, another classically set novel, offer an intriguing twist on the all-male symposium at which the nature of love is discussed. There, Metiochus argues against the traditional representations of Eros, stating that those who believe in such representations must be uninitiated in 152 See Goldhill (1995), 47.

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‘true paideia’ (II.40),153 a distinction that calls to mind that made by Cebes in the Tabula. Metiochus clearly classes himself amongst those who have received true paideia—whatever that is in this instance— and seems to think he knows rather a lot about Eros, despite his declaration that he has never been in love.154 Unlike Dionysius and Theagenes, Metiochus has not chosen the silent route at this symposium, but speech equally gets him into hot water. His assertions are apparently geared towards disguising the romantic feelings he has for Parthenope, but they are cut short by her surprising presence. Angered by his denial of love, she joins the debate, referring (in a way made enigmatic by the text’s fragmentary condition) to a ‘door to paideia’, and to the work of poets, painters, and sculptors (II.70–1).155 Evidently, this text engaged to some degree with paideia’s incarnation as erotic education, and it is especially interesting to find here the delineation of a true and a false paideia within that specific field. Something similar is found in Longus’ novel, though it is not explicitly styled as such. In the figure of Gnathon we have someone who might be thought to have taken the false road to erotic paideia. He is said to have been made pepaideumenos in all kinds of erotic mythology through his attendance at drink-soaked symposia (x Æ AÆ KæøØŒc ıŁºªÆ K E H I ø ı Ø  ÆØı , 4.17.3), and this paideia enables him to make a symposium-style oration in defence of his lust for Daphnis (4.17.3–7).156 Rather than using the mythology learned at the symposium as a positive influence on his erotic behaviour, Gnathon perverts it, employing it as an excuse for the desire he has for Daphnis.157 He knowingly misappropriates paideia, so that it becomes not a means of right behaviour

153 See Stephens & Winkler (1995). 154 His disavowal of love and evident desire to avoid it at all costs assimilate him to Habrocomes and Theagenes. 155 The fragments of the Persian verse version of the story cast the heroine as a highly intellectual young woman in the vein of Charicleia. Stephens & Winkler (1995), 92 remark that ‘it seems likely that Parthenope speaks here as one already skilled in traditional male public discourse, not as a shy and tongue-tied miss normally confined to the women’s quarters’. 156 Astylus underscores the performative context with a sardonic comment on the sophistry induced by Eros (4.18.1); cf. Ach. Tat. 1.10.1 and 5.27.4, where Eros is also called a sophist. 157 See Morgan (2004), 234–6 on the superficiality of Gnathon’s paideia. In like manner, and also at a dinner party, Cleitophon uses mythology to justify his decision to try to gratify his lust for Leucippe (Ach. Tat. 1.5.5ff.).

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in love, but a legitimization for the acquisition of a kind of sex that does not generally receive generic sanction.158 Longus is little concerned with traditional, educational paideia.159 For the purposes of his narrative, paideia is wholly of the erotic variety, and it is Daphnis’ sexual experience with Lycaenion (3.16ff.) that is most significant in terms of that erotic paideia.160 The entire scene, in fact, is cast as a form of paideia which gives Daphnis both the physical ability and the intellectual comprehension necessary to progress to manhood.161 Lycaenion first offers to teach Daphnis how to have sex (ØÆÆÅ, 3.17.2; Øø, 3.17.3), asking him to be her pupil ÆŁÅ , ibid.). Daphnis enthusiastically assumes the position of erotic scholar, begging her to teach him (ØÆØ, 3.18.1; ØŒŁÆØ, 3.18.2), and Lycaenion then sets about educating him ( ÆØØ, 3.18.3) in the technē of sex. After this profusion of references to human paideia, it is, paradoxically, nature (physis) that rounds off Daphnis’ lesson in the erotic arts (ÆPc ªaæ  çØ ºØ e K Æı e æÆŒ, 3.18.4).162 Longus engages here with contemporary debate on the roles of nature and culture in the formation of identity,163 and Lycaenion herself informs Daphnis of the new identity this fusion of nature and culture has given him: ‘And remember that I have made you a man before Chloe’ (3.19.3). This erotic paideia has constituted Daphnis as a man, and has brought with it some key symbols of manhood. Having been warned by Lycaenion that Chloe will scream and bleed if he tries to put what he has learned into 158 Though see Ch. 3, pp. 186–203 for a same-sex love that does appear to be endorsed. 159 Lamon and Dryas do give Daphnis and Chloe some education (1.8.1), but if paideia involves knowledge of the nature of love, that education must be extremely basic, given the youngsters’ later erotic ignorance, not to mention the foster-fathers’ own inability to recognize Eros (1.8.2); on Daphnis and Chloe’s education, see Herrmann (2007). Daphnis’ rudimentary education is sufficient to enable him to display some rhetorical skill at the beauty contest with Dorcon (1.15.4ff.; see Morgan (2004), 165–6), and to offer a well-structured response to the Methymnaeans’ accusations, complete with a cutting reference to their dogs’ substandard paideia (2.16, with Morgan (2004), 188). 160 This scene is explored in further detail in Ch. 3. 161 The intentions Gnathon has for Daphnis are also characterized as a form of erotic paideia (ŒÆd Æåø  e ˆŁø ŒÆd a IØŒa ØÆåŁBÆØ ı, 4.19.1), but clearly not the right one, as we will see further in Ch. 3. 162 There may be some innuendo here, since çØ was also used euphemistically to mean ‘genitals’: once Daphnis has been guided on the right road, his own body knows exactly what to do; on this sort of usage, see Winkler (1990), 217ff., though oddly he does not mention Longus. 163 Whitmarsh (2001a), 82.

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practice (3.19.2), Daphnis resolves to restrain himself (3.20.2), and even prevents Chloe from taking her clothes off very often, fearing that his logismos may be defeated (3.24.3): erotic paideia has instilled in Daphnis self-control and the ability to reason.164 His fear of course serves the social purpose of ensuring that Chloe remains a virgin until marriage, when he may reasonably teach her what he has learned from Lycaenion. But why is it that, having been dominated by the fear of Chloe’s bleeding (despite the fact that Lycaenion had advised him not to be afraid, 3.19.3), Daphnis is apparently able to put aside this fear upon marrying her? The knowingly coy way in which Longus has his narrator describe the wedding night leaves the reader able only to conjecture. The narrator attributes Daphnis’ earlier fear to his status as a beginner (IæØÆŁc ªaæ J KŒØ e Æx Æ, 3.20.2). At that point he had only just received his erotic paideia, and Lycaenion’s warnings were still fresh in his memory. Perhaps we are to think that by the night of his wedding, enough time has passed since his experience with Lycaenion for the concern to have faded—for him no longer to be classed as a ‘beginner’, and thus no longer controlled by fear. Or is it rather that Daphnis has acquired a subconscious comprehension of the cultural construction of marriage as a boundarymarker, beyond which sex becomes socially acceptable (and indeed vital), regardless of whether or not it causes pain? For Daphnis fully to become a man, he must accept the necessity of inflicting pain,165 and his transition from furtive, illicit, and seemingly adulterous sex to socially sanctioned, marital sex is marked by the leaving-behind of fear: there is nothing to be ashamed or afraid of in sex of this kind. Having previously been first the mathētēs and then the artimathēs of Lycaenion’s erotic paideia, on his wedding night Daphnis becomes the teacher, with Chloe his new pupil.166 He is able to put the paideia he has received into practice, and under his tutelage Chloe progresses 164 He is also concerned for Chloe lest he hurt her, suggesting that he now possesses the empathetic component of paideia. 165 Winkler (1990), 101–26 deals with the underlying suggestions of pain and force in the sexual maturation of Daphnis and Chloe; he argues that ‘If he thinks about it, Daphnis must recognize that Chloe’s pain is inextricable from his own desire: he has to acknowledge his desire as, inter alia, a desire to hurt her’ (122). 166 Similarly, Lycaenion earlier became the teacher, having been educated by another man long before ( ºÆØ ªæ  ÆFÆ Icæ ¼ºº K Æı, 3.19.2). The narrator’s remark that on his wedding night Daphnis did ‘some’ (Ø) of what he had learned from Lycaenion is intriguing and provocative. Morgan (2004), 249 argues that what Daphnis omits to do is follow Lycaenion’s instructions to take Chloe into the

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from paignia (games) to a more profound erotic paideia of her own (4.40.3). So paideia for Longus seems to consist in the learning of proper sexual conduct which will guarantee the maintenance of social proprieties: while Daphnis may have had an elementary education in childhood which enables him to construct effective rhetorical arguments in public contexts, only when he is able to comport himself according to accepted codes of sexual behaviour will he truly have paideia, and truly be a man.

Paideia and jealous anger The picture of paideia that I have drawn here would not be complete without a consideration of one event in Chariton’s narrative where appropriate self-comportment in an erotic relationship is startlingly lacking. Although explicitly said to possess paideia towards the end of the novel, and apparently having the rudiments of it at the time of Callirhoe’s funeral, at the beginning of the narrative Chaereas so lacks control over his performance of masculinity that he is moved to physical violence against his wife: having been led by his rivals to believe Callirhoe unfaithful, on entering her darkened room he kicks his wife in the diaphragm (1.4.12). As shocking as it undoubtedly is to modern readers, Chaereas’ jealous anger towards Callirhoe might well have been anticipated by, and even intelligible to, contemporary readers, and should be seen as part of a social and literary tradition that regarded such extreme emotion both as typical of youth and as a sign of intense love. Rash and violent behaviour was commonly attributed to the young, who were believed less able to control their impulses. Classical oratory, for example, presents anger-driven misdemeanours as somewhat mitigated if their perpetrators are young,167 while Aristotle states that the young and wealthy are those most prone to the commission of hybristic acts (Rh. 1378b),168 and Ovid

woods so that her screams cannot be heard and she can wash away the blood in a spring. He suggests that the omission marks the contrast between the type of sex Lycaenion expected Daphnis to have with Chloe (furtive, premarital) and the type he actually has (marital, socially sanctioned). However, Ø might equally imply that Daphnis now has a new erotic independence and does not need to rely completely on what he has learned from Lycaenion. 167 Roisman (2005), 14. 168 See Murray (1990).

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that younger lovers are much more inclined to violence than older ones (Ars Am. 3.565ff.). Youth was in fact so strongly associated with violent acts that the verb neanieuomai (act like a youth) was used principally to denote the perpetration of such acts.169 The Greek novels also attribute extreme emotion to the young. Achilles Tatius’ Callisthenes supposedly accounts for his kidnapping of Calligone by reference to the natural violence of youth (8.18.2), and Chariton’s tyrant of Acragas expects it to be easy to make Chaereas jealous, and even identifies such jealousy as a characteristic of youth (øæØŒc Çźı Æ, 1.2.6). Chaereas is young and therefore liable to react with violent emotion. But he is also in love, a condition perceived to destabilize a man’s self-control, as the tyrant suggests when he promises that jealousy will work in tandem with love to bring Chaereas down (1.2.5).170 Lucian’s dialogues and Roman elegy both characterize jealous anger as an index of passion,171 and several times in Chariton’s narrative jealousy is presented by characters and narrator as having a symbiotic relationship with love;172 not for nothing does Oæª denote both anger and sexual passion in the Greek vocabulary.173 As a young man in love, Chaereas is at a twofold disadvantage in terms of controlling his emotions. Chariton attributes intense erotic jealousy and anger primarily to men, and in this he is somewhat unusual, as elsewhere in Greek literature women are overwhelmingly the jealous and angry sex.174 The other novels do not generally diverge from the stereotype of the jealous woman, with Xenophon of Ephesus’ Manto (2.5) and Achilles Tatius’ Melite (5.24.3, 7.3.7, 7.9.12) both suffering the emotion, and 169 LSJ s.v. ÆØÆØ. 170 Chaereas behaves very much like the jealous and violent young men of New Comedy; on Chariton’s use of Menander, see Borgogno (1971), and on jealous anger in Menander, see Fantham (1986). 171 See e.g. Lucian DMeretr. 8, and Caston (2000) on Roman elegy. 172 Chaereas attributes his own jealousy to his love for Callirhoe (4.4.9); the narrator attributes Chaereas’ attack on Callirhoe to a lover’s jealousy (5.1.1); and jealousy is said to increase Dionysius’ love for Callirhoe (5.9.9). On love and jealousy in Chariton’s male characters, see Paglialunga (2000a), and see Lloyd (1995), 7 on jealousy and love as entailing identical psychological conditions. 173 See Allen (2000), 52 on anger and love as isomorphic in Greek thought. 174 See Fantham (1986) and Harris (2001), 274ff. However, the best-known angry figure in literature was probably Achilles, and the reader is to some extent prepared for Chaereas’ impetuousness and anger by the numerous intertextual analogies made between him and the epic warrior; on Chaereas’ assimilation to epic warriors, see Ch. 2, pp. 118–19.

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Heliodorus applying all of his instances of jealousy to women or feminized men, such as barbarians or eunuchs; even Charicleia experiences the odd twinge of what Theagenes teasingly calls a disease natural to women (c ªıÆØŒH çı  Çźı Æ, 7.21.5).175 Chariton is more than willing to draw on the stereotype (1.12.8, 2.1.9, 2.5.5, 6.6.5), but in general he transposes such womanish emotions to the masculine sphere. But Chaereas’ experience of emotions usually associated with women does not feminize him; rather, it is suggestive of the limited power of masculinity and paideia. Fearing the prospect of Stateira’s jealousy, Callirhoe remarks that even Chaereas could not bear the emotion, despite being a man and a Greek (6.6.5). For all his paideia, even Dionysius succumbs to jealousy, both when he learns of Chaereas’ existence (X  . . . ÆPF Çźı Æ, 3.7.6), and when he later hears that two strangers (Chaereas and Polycharmus) have admired Callirhoe’s statue (PŁf K º ŁÅ Çźı Æ , 3.9.4): masculinity, and that marker of masculinity, paideia, are not all-powerful.176 In proposing his plan to provoke Chaereas’ jealousy, the tyrant of Acragas draws a clear distinction between Callirhoe and Chaereas. Callirhoe is said to be eustathēs (stable, grounded, 1.2.6), and to have no experience of suspicion, suggesting that any attempt to make her jealous would fail. Her eustatheia (stability, steadfastness) may well be a part of her nature, since, in a later scene, Dionysius tries to bear events by virtue of his natural eustatheia, which contrasts with, but also works in tandem with, his culturally acquired paideia (5.9.8).177 The tyrant expects that Chaereas will easily be made jealous because of his experience of youthful mistakes, and the contrast he establishes between the couple implies that Chaereas, unlike Callirhoe, lacks eustatheia. Chariton seems to be engaging obliquely with the roles played by nature and culture in human emotion. The tyrant appears

175 The most striking occurrence of female jealousy in the novels comes from Iamblichus’ Babyloniaca, where Sinonis’ jealous rage drives her to attempt murder (fr. 61, Stephens & Winkler). On the novels’ stereotyping of women and barbarians as jealous, see Paglialunga (2000b), and on the weight Chariton accords to jealousy, see Roncali (1991). 176 See also Artaxates’ description of both Chaereas and Dionysius as ‘under the sway of jealousy’ ( e Çźı Æ , 6.6.7), conveying a certain loss of autonomy, an inability to dictate their own actions and make their own decisions. 177 See also 8.5.10–11, where Dionysius remains eustathēs on learning that he has lost Callirhoe.

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to see Chaereas’ jealousy as a potential product of his erotic paideia— a culturally acquired, learned emotion, resulting from his observation of (or perhaps involvement in) youthful mistakes in the gymnasium context; on the other hand, it is not worth trying to incite such emotions in Callirhoe, because she has not had the erotic paideia necessary to fuel them, and besides, she has a stable temperament by nature. But erotic jealousy is interpreted differently by others in Chariton’s narrative: the narrator later implies that Chaereas’ jealousy is a natural quality (8.1.15), and Callirhoe thinks of it in those terms, too (8.4.4).178 The presentation of anger and jealousy in Chariton’s text is complicated and paradoxical. They are womanish emotions, felt by men. They are natural but also learned behaviours. They are emotions that are felt by men both despite paideia and because of it: Chaereas is overwhelmed by the force of his emotions despite his emerging paideia; but it is also in part because of an element of that paideia—his experience in the gymnasium—that he is so susceptible to those emotions. As we have seen, his rival Dionysius has both natural eustatheia and cultural paideia, but even this combination of assets is insufficient to protect his masculinity completely. If Chaereas does not possess a natural eustatheia to complement his nascent paideia, how much easier will it be for his confidence in his own masculinity to be sabotaged, and indeed, for that paideia to be turned upon him? Yet it is worth noting that despite being young and in love, and thus doubly prone to jealousy and anger, and despite apparently lacking a naturally balanced temperament, Chaereas is not as easy to bring down as the suitors expect, and it requires two attempts for the adultery allegation to succeed. In the first attempt, planted traces of revelling can be disbelieved; it is only with the second, when seemingly undeniable physical evidence is produced in the form of the supposed seducer, that Chaereas succumbs irreparably to his anger, kicking and apparently killing Callirhoe. He might therefore be thought somewhat less volatile and more open to reasoned thought than his violence makes him appear when considered in isolation. I have said that speech and reason were the primary symbols of paideia. The pepaideumenos was able to command respect by means of his educated eloquence; such a man therefore had no need to resort

178 In both these instances, jealousy (zēlotypia) is said to be innate (emphytos), as it is by Heliodorus (7.21.5, 9.25.5).

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to violence, and was concomitantly distanced from it.179 The fact that Chaereas does indeed resort to violence might again suggest that his paideia is not yet fully formed. The discovery of traces of partying outside his door triggers intense emotions that attack his rational faculties, damaging his power of speech, and taking the form of a physical disorder that causes bodily shaking and bloodshot eyes: When she asked him what had happened, he was speechless, being able neither to disbelieve what he had seen, nor yet to believe what he was unwilling to accept. As he stood confused and trembling, his wife, quite unsuspicious of what had happened, begged him to tell her the reason for his anger. With bloodshot eyes and thick voice he said, ‘It is the fact that you have forgotten me that hurts so much,’ and he reproached her for the reveling. (Chariton 1.3.4-5; trans. Goold) ıŁÆÅ b  ªª, ¼çø q, h I ØE x r  h ØØ x PŒ XŁº ı . I æıı b ÆPF ŒÆd æ  ªıc Åb  FÆ H ªªø ƒŒı N E c ÆNÆ F åºı· › b çÆØ E OçŁÆºE ŒÆd ÆåE fiH çŁªÆØ “ŒºÆø” çÅd “c KÆıF åÅ, ‹Ø ı Æåø K ºŁı,” ŒÆd e ŒH TØ.

Chaereas’ young paideia, his emerging ability to speak and to reason, is overcome by the power of the emotions he suddenly experiences.180 He is stripped of his voice, and when he finally finds it its quality is affected. This recurs when he is informed of Callirhoe’s supposed infidelity: For a long time he stood in a daze, unable to speak or lift his eyes. When he had recovered, he said in a weak voice unlike his own . . . (Chariton 1.4.7; trans. Goold) K d ºf b s IåÆc ŒØ,   e Æ   f OçŁÆºf K AæÆØ ı · K d b çøc På ›Æ b OºªÅ b ıºÆ . . .

Once more he loses the power of speech, and when he regains the ability his voice is small and not as it was before. Later, having seen what he believes to be the adulterer entering the house, he rushes into the bedroom, but loses his voice completely (› b çøc b PŒ å u ºØæ ÆŁÆØ, 1.4.12) and is overwhelmed by anger 179 Brown (1992), 44ff.; see also Harris (2001), 388. 180 cf. Ach. Tat. 2.29.2, where Cleitophon sententiously declares that orgē overwhelms logismos with madness.

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(ŒæÆ . . .  e B OæªB , ibid.). These three scenes present us with the sense of an escalating threat to Chaereas’ masculinity, symbolized by his gradual loss of the ability to speak. In the first, he recovers his voice reasonably quickly, although it has become thick. In the second, it takes much longer for him to regain his composure, and his voice this time is weak and uncharacteristic. The crescendo is reached in the third scene, when he is unable to speak at all.181 His inchoate paideia cannot control his emotion. The extent to which his reason has been overpowered is clear from the fact that he had intended to spare Callirhoe even if she was discovered to be adulterous (1.4.7), and had rushed in meaning to kill the moichos (seducer), and implicitly not his wife (1.4.10).182 Discussing anger’s relation to paideia, Brown notes that anger and clemency were counterparts: if a governor subdued his anger in response to pleas for mercy, his good reputation would be enhanced.183 Chaereas’ intention to show mercy to Callirhoe might therefore be thought to imply the possession of some form of paideia.184 His emotions, however, prove stronger than his good intentions. Despite the premium placed on anger-control by elite Greek and Roman society, anger nonetheless had a legitimate social role, both as a masculine tool appropriate for use in certain agonistic circumstances,185 and as a prerequisite where punishment was needed:186 women may have been stereotyped as angry and jealous, but in everyday life anger was in fact a male preserve. Furthermore, one of 181 The importance of the ability to speak is made strikingly clear by a brief sentence in the Life of Aesop: having described Aesop’s repulsive physical appearance, the text points out a defect even more grave, namely his muteness ( æe Ø KºøÆ EÇ r å B IæçÆ c IçøÆ· q b ŒÆd øe ŒÆd Pb MÆ ºÆºE, G1)—for a slave too, speech is the essence of masculinity, and its absence is more serious than even a physiognomically disastrous appearance. 182 Chaereas’ anger reflects the Aristotelian interpretation of orgē as both psychological (a desire for retaliation) and physiological (a surging of blood and heat): see de An. 403a29-31. 183 Brown (1992), 55; cf. Ch. 2, pp. 149–52 for Hydaspes behaving in precisely this manner. 184 See also his transformation of his anger into pain when he first confronts Callirhoe after the suitors’ initial plot (c Oæªc ƺ N º Å, 1.3.4—cf. pp. 35–7 on Callirhoe’s anger-control (c Oæªc ƺ), which is indicative of her paideia), and his change of behaviour in response to Callirhoe’s protestation of innocence (Æƺº s › #ÆØæÆ XæÆ ŒºÆŒØ, ŒÆd  ªıc Æåø ÆPF c ØÆ M Ç, 1.3.7). 185 Allen (2000), 60 et passim. 186 Galinsky (1988).

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the defining features of the classical construction of masculinity was the ability to respond to and defend oneself against personal insults.187 Indeed, Aristotle cites acts of hybris, whether proven or only imagined, as legitimate causes of anger, and defines anger as both a cognitive response to a perceived insult, and a desire for revenge (Rh. 1378aff., EN 1149a25ff.).188 When the suitors carry out their first plan, leaving traces of a kōmos (revel) at Callirhoe’s door, Chariton states that passers-by stop to look out of curiosity (ŒÆd A › ÆæØg ƒ ŒØ ŒØfiH ØØ ºı æƪÅ ŁØ, 1.3.3), and that on his return from the country Chaereas encounters a crowd outside the door (e Zåº æe H ŁıæH, ibid.). As part of the second plan, the suitors’ crony tells Chaereas that he is being openly insulted (çÆæH æÇfi Å, 1.4.5), and that Callirhoe’s affair is common gossip (ŁæıººEÆØ ÆÆåF e Ø, ibid.). Chaereas’ honour as a man lies partly in Callirhoe’s fidelity to him. His anger should thus be understood as a response to a situation where his masculinity is seemingly being publicly impugned by a rival, and where punishment is required. He must act quickly to protect his image, and the flaring of his jealous anger might well seem perfectly normal to a contemporary reader.189 Paradoxically, while the pepaideumenos 187 Fisher (1998), 70; see also Cairns (2003) on Iliadic anger as a response to affront. 188 See Fortenbaugh (1975), 11ff. on Aristotle’s definition. Notably, Chaereas’ rival suitors are driven by hybris and phthonos, which provoke their anger (1.2.1ff.; the causal link between insult and anger is noted also by Scourfield (2003), 164–5); their means of saving face over the perceived insult is to plot revenge. The relation between hybris and jealousy is demonstrated when Plangon advises Callirhoe against keeping her baby: Dionysius’ jealousy, she says, will not allow Callirhoe to keep another man’s child under his roof, as he would consider it an act of hybris (2.10.1). See also Ach. Tat. 5.5.6ff., where zēlotypia and hybris mix, spurring on Procne and Philomela to avenge themselves on Tereus, and 6.19, where Cleitophon describes the functioning of anger and love, and their relation to perceived dishonour. 189 See Farrell (1980) on jealousy as a ‘threat-response’, a reaction to a potential threat to one’s status; Campbell (1964) on honour and adultery in modern Greece; Daly, Wilson, & Weghorst (1982) on the modern widespread expectation of a husband’s rage in response to his wife’s adultery; and Buss (2000) on male jealousy as a cross-cultural evolutionary adaptation whose purpose is to protect paternity (cf. Konstan (2003), who argues against the possibility of a cross-cultural interpretation of jealousy). The protection of paternity may be an implicit element in Chariton’s depiction of Chaereas’ jealous anger: as Lysias 1.32–3 makes clear, a wife’s infidelity reduces a husband’s certainty of paternity regarding any children born, and concomitantly reduces his certainty of passing on his property to a child genetically his own; the inability of a man to be sure that his child is his own is clearly an issue in Chariton’s mind, as he has Dionysius unwittingly raise Chaereas’ child. On Lysias 1 and Chariton, see Porter (2003).

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might ideally restrain his anger,190 Aristotle’s definition of anger as a response that comes about through reason (logos) suggests that paideia, at whose core is logos, is the very catalyst for anger: some degree of paideia is therefore required for the expression of anger and the defence of one’s masculinity. The eruption of Chaereas’ anger might then be interpreted as the functioning of his reason, and thus a sign of latent paideia, in that he correctly identifies a situation at which his culture requires him to be angry. So Chaereas’ anger and jealousy are not problematic in themselves. Indeed, describing Chaereas’ trial for Callirhoe’s murder, Chariton mentions jealousy as a defence he could justly have used (1.5.4).191 For Aristotle, if a man never becomes angry he will not defend himself against insult, and failure to do so is indicative of a servile character (EN 1126a),192 although, as ever, the mean is the key, and anger has a very precise place in the male script: it must be expressed for the right reasons, against the right people, in the right way, at the right time, and for the right duration (1125b). This is something at which Chaereas clearly fails, at least in part. He is certainly angry for the right reasons and at the right time, and perhaps even in the right way and for the right duration, but Chariton does seem to intend his violence against Callirhoe to be interpreted by the reader as misdirected. Although Hermocrates understands his son-in-law’s anger, going so far as to defend him by pointing out that what he did was not intended (IŒØ, 1.5.6), he later remarks that Chaereas’ jealousy came about on false grounds (łıB, 8.7.6–7), and that he was violent in an inappropriate manner (IŒÆæø , ibid.). Moreover, Aphrodite herself is said to have been moved to anger against Chaereas because of his ¼ŒÆØæ Çźı Æ (inappropriate jealousy), which had driven him to commit an act of hybris (8.1.3). Ironically, a perceived act of hybris is what Chaereas must avenge in order to defend his masculine image, but the intensity of his emotions traps him into committing hybris himself. Hunter observes that the kicking of Callirhoe recalls well-known stories of the cruelty of tyrants, an allusion that reduces Chaereas to the level of the tyrant suitors who

190 As we saw the pepaideumenē Callirhoe do in response to Artaxates. 191 cf. Parrott (1991), 23: the hostility that often accompanies jealousy usually receives social sanction. 192 cf. Ch. 3, pp. 249–51 on Cleitophon.

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have provoked him:193 misdirected violence can be very damaging to a man’s masculinity.194 There is a sharp taste of ambivalence in Chaereas’ violence, as it marks both the presence of paideia and the inability to use that paideia to control and channel extreme emotion; it is a sign of a desire to defend his masculinity, yet the form of its expression also threatens that masculinity. As well as defining anger as responsive to the rational faculties, Aristotle also stated that anger’s own intensity prevented it from paying full attention to those faculties;195 because of this, an access of anger was less shameful than a lack of restraint in other areas of life (EN 1149a25ff.). Chaereas’ failings are therefore comprehensible, and even forgivable by the codes of the genre, where love and jealousy are frequently characterized as a potent admixture causing aberrant behaviour. A sententious line in the Babyloniaca states that ‘Whenever love teams up with jealousy, a tyrant is born from a king’ (‹Æ › æø Çźı Æ æºfi Å, æÆ KŒ Æغø ªÆØ, 74a9, fr.4, Stephens & Winkler),196 and Callirhoe herself highlights just how out of character Chaereas’ behaviour is: having been sold to Leonas, and contemplating her lot, she ponders that Chaereas had never even struck a slave prior to his kicking of her (1.14.7).197 While accepted codes of masculinity, together with his intense love for Callirhoe, dictate that Chaereas be angry at being cuckolded and that he seek revenge for this perceived act of hybris, and while he is perfectly within his rights to retaliate by killing the adulterer, there is in reality no adulterer to kill: Chaereas is presented with an impossible situation. The motive for his anger is legitimate, but the target it finds 193 Hunter (1993), 1080. 194 See Roisman (2005), 72. 195 cf. Sen. de Ira 1.3.2ff., where anger is both the enemy and the product of reason, and is a desire for vengeance; however, as a Stoic, Seneca condemns anger unequivocally. 196 See also Hld. 1.30.7, where Thyamis is spurred on by love, jealousy, and anger to kill what he thinks is Charicleia: this is presented as the action of an uncivilized, barbarian bandit, but Thyamis is in fact a high-priest-in-waiting, and is thus acting contrary to his true disposition as a result of this powerful blend of emotions (though the reader does not yet know this). cf. Hld. 7.29.1 on Achaemenes: ‘Anger, jealousy, love, and disappointment combined to goad him to fury: emotions capable of turning anyone’s mind, let alone a savage’s’ (trans. Morgan). 197 cf. Dionysius, who, very shortly after Callirhoe’s remark, strikes his own slave, Leonas (2.3.6). Chariton clearly wishes the reader to infer that if such a dignified man as this can lose his cool, a youngster like Chaereas is even more at risk from volatile emotion.

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is not.198 Plutarch, for example, argues that jealousy and anger have no place in marriage and are destructive to it (Coniugalia Praecepta 141f, 144a, 144c), and even writes a tract on the mistakes made by those who act in anger.199 Though Plutarch may not approve of anger in marriage, his repeated returns to the subject suggest that he sees it as a common problem.200 Chaereas’ effort to behave according to a gender ideal has ultimately damaged his masculinity and lost him his wife, but his actions are not straightforwardly condemnable. The force of his emotions prevents him from channelling his anger in order to gain redress, and so it becomes destructive to his marriage rather than to his enemies. But there is some evidence to suggest that Chaereas’ experiences bring with them a greater ability to control his emotions, and we might for this reason see those experiences as a form of paideia. After he is said to possess paideia, several occurrences imply his maturation. First, he displays his anger in the appropriate context of warfare, during which he acts with sōphrosynē (7.4.9),201 and to which Callirhoe later refers as having been inspired by his anger towards Artaxerxes (8.3.7). Secondly, Chaereas instructs his Egyptian comrade on the best way to treat women, which must exclude any sense of force or hybris (7.6.10). Followed almost immediately by the reference to Aphrodite’s anger at Chaereas for his hybris against Callirhoe, this surely implies a new understanding on Chaereas’ part. Given that we have seen comprehension of the nature of love to form part of paideia, Chaereas’ knowledge of how to treat women is presumably indicative of his possession of paideia. Note here that the pepaideumenos Dionysius is referred to as ‘fond of women’ (çغªÅ , 2.1.5; çغªÆØ , 1.12.7), which seems to suggest not simply a liking for women, but an understanding of how to behave towards them. Chaereas himself is described to the incognito Callirhoe as çغªÆØ by his comrade (7.6.7) only after he has been said to have paideia. Thirdly, we see him apparently able to control the 198 Scourfield (2003), 171. 199 Plu. Moralia 452f–464d (On the Control of Anger); see 462a for the effect of anger on marriage. 200 In a modern study, Paul, Foss, & Galloway (1993), 415 find that in instances of sexual jealousy, the partner is indeed the more usual focus for the jealous person’s anger. 201 See also Scourfield (2003), 172 on Chaereas’ appropriate anger on the battlefield. I will examine his behaviour in warfare in Ch. 2.

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pathological affliction of his jealousy: when Callirhoe tells him about Dionysius, his jealousy resurfaces, but he is cheered to hear about his son (#ÆØæÆ b B Kçı Çźı Æ I ŁÅ, ÆæŪæÅ b ÆPe e æd F Œı Ø ªÅÆ, 8.1.15); there is thus an opportunity for his emotions to boil over, but they do not.202 Fourthly, on learning that Artaxerxes had not laid a finger on Callirhoe, Chaereas acknowledges that he had been too quick to anger with regard to the king (Of N Oæª , 8.1.16).203 And finally, when addressing his men, Chaereas states that in their warfare they have ‘learned by experience’ ( æÆfi ªaæ ÆŁ ŒÆ, 8.2.10): if his military experiences have taught him something, perhaps this sense of paideia can be extended to his other experiences too.

CONCLUDING REMARKS Novelistic paideia is a lifelong process. A man may be said to possess paideia, but this does not suggest that the process is complete, or that his masculinity is necessarily fixed or stable. Paideia is often associated with age, but it is also developed through a man’s experiences. It bestows upon him a certain bearing, and is something for which he is involved in competition with others. It acts as an index of social status, and brings with it social and political opportunities. It has a moral dimension that governs a man’s relations with others and admits him to the virtues. It demands to be publicly displayed, through refined speech in rhetorical contexts and in social gatherings, 202 Pondering on the trial, the Babylonian women fear that Chaereas might give way to anger in the future (6.1.5); later, aware of Chaereas’ emphytos zēlotypia, Callirhoe does not tell him about her letter to Dionysius (8.4.4). The women’s concern is based only on what they have heard about Chaereas’ earlier behaviour, and Callirhoe’s on a single experience of his jealousy; the focalization of both references precludes an objective sense of whether Chaereas is truly likely to repeat his violent behaviour (the instances at 6.1.5 and 8.4.4 are noted also by Scourfield (2003), 175 n. 58, and interpreted similarly). On the possibility that Chaereas is now better able to control himself, we might also refer to Plutarch, who states that when anger has been successfully fought off once, it thereafter becomes easier to manage (On the Control of Anger 454c). In fact, the presence of an innate jealousy might be viewed positively, providing it can now be controlled, as it facilitates Chaereas’ vigilance over Callirhoe’s fidelity: cf. Catul. 17, where the poet considers despicable a man who exhibits no interest in his wife’s conduct, and who is repeatedly being cuckolded. 203 cf. Dionysius’ recognition of the futility of his own jealousy (8.5.15).

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but also to be fostered privately, in deliberation with oneself. It can act as a protective carapace, and can be used to conceal or disguise, and to present a particular image to the world. But the external and internal, or public and private, aspects of paideia are to some extent in conflict, as a man’s internalization of paideia may mean that its public, display-oriented form is neglected. Paideia assists in the control of emotion, and its release in appropriate contexts, but some emotions may be too strong for paideia to control. Paideia is also the very faculty that facilitates the recognition of those emotions and the threat they pose to a man’s image and status. The fine line between control or concealment and display is one we have seen both Dionysius and Chaereas walk, and it is one also walked by imperial sophists.204 With two conflicting ideals to live up to, it is no wonder, perhaps, that Dionysius suffers something of an identity crisis: while paideia is intended as a marker of identity, its practice can result in the destabilization of that identity. Although paideia is a means of social advancement, a bringer of power, and a provider of protection, it is not all-powerful. Notably, though it governs a man’s self-comportment in the erotic sphere, it is also limited by love, which may overcome both its concealing ability and its capacity to control emotion. The performance of paideia involves a repeated oscillation between the poles of emotion and reason, puerility and maturity, and the constant implementation of strategies of impression management. While paideia is held up as an ideal by Chariton in particular, the pepaideumenos suffers a conflict between that ideal and his own experiences. In both Dionysius and Chaereas, Chariton demonstrates the limitations of paideia and the impossibility of maintaining a perfect performance of masculinity. He does not judge negatively his characters’ failings as men, but neither does he question the ideals for which they strive. It is seemingly left to the subversive Achilles Tatius to challenge those impossible ideals, using Cleitophon to demonstrate the potential paideia holds to be misappropriated, manipulated, and misused, and thus exposing the flaws in that marker of elite masculinity. While Chariton may highlight the shortcomings of paideia and the difficulties of maintaining it, and while Achilles may contest its validity as an ideal to which elite men are

204 See Brown (1992), primarily on Libanius; Gleason (1995); Whitmarsh (2001a).

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expected to aspire, both writers reveal themselves to be pepaideumenoi: the emphasis they place on paideia marks their texts out as products of such paideia. But it is not this cultural artefact alone that concerns the novelists in their presentation of the performance of masculinity. In Chapter 2 I turn my attention to an aspect of masculinity that might, prima facie, be thought the polar opposite of culturally produced, intellectual, and moral paideia.

2 Andreia1 Early work on the Greek novels tended to regard the genre’s male protagonists as rather weak and passive, as men who merely endure the vicissitudes of separation from home and family until they are finally restored to their rightful place in society and reunited with the ones they love.2 More recently, the negative value judgement inherent in reading these characters as passive has been challenged. They have instead been read as a new heroic strain whose heroism resides in their very endurance of circumstances ultimately beyond their control and often divinely manufactured.3 The roots of this strain lie in Homeric epic, where Odysseus frequently bears the epithet ‘much-enduring’,4 and in Hellenistic epic, where Apollonius’ Jason often seems decidedly unheroic.5 While endurance of circumstance might invest Chaereas and his counterparts with a certain laid-back heroism, that heroism is apparently not sufficient for Chariton and Heliodorus, the authors of perhaps the first and the last of the extant novels. Both authors engage their heroes in remarkable feats of bravery towards the end of their narratives,6 almost as if responding to criticisms of passivity that might be levelled against their heroes. The last-minute and spectacular nature of these acts of andreia 1 Parts of this chapter have also been published as Jones (2007). 2 The prime exponent of the view that the male protagonists are weakly and passive was Rohde (1960) [1876], 356: ‘schwächlich’. 3 See e.g. Konstan (1994b), Haynes (2003). 4 e.g. Hom. Il. 8.97, Od. 18.319, amongst many others. On Odysseus as a model for the novels’ male characters, see Lalanne (2006), 128. 5 See Heiserman (1977), 13. 6 Theagenes also demonstrates his athleticism in a foot race at the Pythian Games in Book 4, although the positioning of his bull- and giant-wrestling towards the climax of the work establishes these scenes as the most significant in terms of the construction of a ‘manly’ hero.

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implies a consciousness on the authors’ part that some expected element of masculinity has been lacking in their heroes’ conduct up to this point. The accomplishments of Chaereas in a martial context and Theagenes in an athletic one seem to overlay what might be thought a new formulation of the hero with a more traditional conception of what it means to be a man.7 This is not to say that the ‘passivity’ of tears, self-pity, and introspection is intended to be erased by last-minute ‘activity’, but that these earlier qualities require a counter-weight in the creation of a rounded adult male. In this chapter I look first at wider literature and then at the novels to determine the ways in which andreia is conceived as a gendered virtue belonging primarily to men. I also consider the extent to which it is portrayed as a product of nature or of culture, examining in this context its relation to paideia. As well as identifying examples of andreia by the occurrence of the term itself or its cognates, I will also explore those passages that appeal to the notion of andreia by means of their content rather than their vocabulary: the negotiation of discourses like andreia is not always flagged up linguistically, and may instead be implicit in a scene’s atmosphere.8 Given the almost total absence of andreia from Longus’ novel (it is the only one in which neither IæÆ nor any of its cognates is found), his text features here in only a very minor way. The idyllic pastoral setting of Daphnis and Chloe renders it an anomaly in the corpus, so perhaps it should come as no surprise that explicit references to andreia are lacking: warfare and athletics—which we will see constitute the principal arenas of andreia—are urban concerns. Longus’ novel is primarily one of sexual maturation, and as a result masculinity is important in a sexual context more than anywhere else.9 The expected generic topos of warfare is miniaturized (represented by the Methymnaeans’ brief incursion into the countryside, 2.19ff.), and courage tends to be transposed from military to erotic contexts; indeed, Daphnis is conspicuously fearful in other situations, the most comically memorable being his hiding in a hollow tree trunk as Chloe is kidnapped (2.20).10 As the only two heroes granted 7 The Ninus and Sesonchosis fragments also seem to present a traditional military andreia as an indispensable element of masculinity. 8 See Sluiter & Rosen (2003), 4. 9 Ch. 3 will address issues of erotic masculinity in Daphnis and Chloe. 10 Longus avoids using the word IæÆ and its cognates, choosing instead terms such as tolma and thrasos to describe Daphnis’ erotic boldness: he exhibits tolma by

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explicit feats of andreia, Chaereas and Theagenes will be my focus here, though some attention will also be given to Cleitophon’s evident lack of andreia, and to the uses of some semantic relations of andreia: tolma, for example, frequently carries the negative implication of recklessness or audacity—a sense of overstepping the boundaries of right behaviour—and yet sometimes denotes positive courage;11 and aretē, while carrying the general meaning ‘virtue’, had a near-synonymous relationship with andreia.12

DEFINING AND CONTEXTUALIZING ANDREIA Like ÆØÆ, IæÆ does not lend itself to straightforward translation or definition.13 Its etymological derivation from I æ links it tightly to masculinity, but its most common translation, ‘courage’, fails to convey this masculine sense. Other translations, such as ‘manliness’ and ‘manly spirit’,14 while carrying the term’s gendered signification, raise the question of what exactly constitutes ‘manliness’ at any particular time. This is especially pertinent in the case of the novels, where, as readers, we are potentially dealing with three separate conceptions of andreia: our own understandings of ‘manliness’, the values of an author’s own period, and those of the era in which he sets his story. ‘Courage’, the translation of IæÆ that we meet most frequently, is a slippery concept, but, as Walton suggests, most of us would accept that it carries a sense of ‘ . . . keeping one’s head and doing a creditable job of deliberately acting sensibly and appropriately despite dangerous, painful, or very adverse circumstances’.15 He refers to the soldier fighting an enemy in a context of extreme danger

daring to pick the highest apple for Chloe (3.34.3); and he shows thrasos in his petting when reunited with Chloe after the winter (3.13.4). However, his erotic courage, like his courage in other circumstances, often fails him (e.g. 2.9.1, 2.10.3). 11 LSJ s.v. ºÆ. While IæÆ may also imply a sense of unwarranted boldness, ºÆ seems to have been employed more often for this purpose; on the sometimes subtle differences between andreia and tolma, see Roisman (2005), 110–11, 190–2. 12 See Hobbs (2000), 83; Dover (1974), 164 notes that Iæ often indicates the combination of bravery and skill exhibited by a fighter. 13 Hobbs (2000), 10ff. 14 LSJ s.v. IæÆ. 15 Walton (1986), 2.

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as a common image of courage in the modern world.16 Such a conception was as prevalent in ancient sources as it is today, as we will see. In their contextualization of andreia, Sluiter and Rosen employ the theory of the ‘prototype’ from cognitive psychology: while, for instance, an apple may be no better an example of a fruit than a plum, the majority of westerners consider it so; the apple is therefore the prototypical example of a fruit.17 Similarly, ancient sources suggest that warfare was the prototypical arena in which andreia might be exhibited: andreia prototypically required an agonistic context.18 I argue here that the classical interpretation of andreia as bravery or courage in combat is much in evidence in the Greek novels; however, Stoic endurance of personal suffering is also an implicit element of andreia for the novelists, and we will see that even suicide and erotic temperance may constitute acts of andreia.

Andreia and warfare Plato’s Laches provides us with a starting point for a consideration of the context of andreia in antiquity, and in particular its construction as a masculine discourse. Just as we today might find it impossible to simplify and reify the concept of courage or manliness, so too it was no easy task for Laches and Nicias in Plato’s dialogue. The dialogue begins with the intention of deciding the best means of instilling virtue (aretē) in the young, but it is soon agreed that for this purpose the interlocutors must first define virtue. With the aim of simplifying the issue, they decide to reduce virtue to one of its constituent parts, andreia (La. 190e). Laches’ initial optimism at the prospect of defining andreia is soon shown to be misplaced, as what he thought would prove an easily definable term refuses to fit his suggestions (194b). In Platonic dialogues, Socrates’ questioning is designed to encourage his interlocutors to look beyond the superficial in order to establish more profound definitions of common concepts, for the benefit of their souls; however, the immediate and superficial responses of his fellow speakers still hold value, for they expose the ways in which the majority interpret those common concepts. The conservative

16 Ibid. 32; see also Morgan (1994). 17 Sluiter & Rosen (2003), 6. 18 Ibid. 8.

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stratēgos Laches’ first definition of andreia is valuable for precisely this reason—it betrays the normative cultural assumption that andreia is primarily and fundamentally concerned with military duty: according to Laches, a man is andreios if he is willing to stand his ground in battle (190e). The assumption of an inextricable link between andreia and warfare appears common in Greek ethical discourse: for Aristotle too, the truly andreios man is one who confronts a noble death (kalos thanatos), while the best circumstances for such a glorious end are offered by warfare (EN 1115a30ff.). The warfare-dominated Homeric world might therefore seem to be the perfect milieu for the exhibition of manly courage, the quest for aretē and kleos lending itself to feats of andreia. While such feats are doubtless much in evidence, Smoes notes that IæÆ itself is in fact a post-Homeric word, appearing, perhaps for the first time, in Herodotus.19 Bassi observes another early instance of the word, in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, where warfare is explicitly drawn as the archetypal home of andreia;20 indeed, Bassi notes that the language surrounding the use of IæÆ here is pointedly Homeric, suggesting that the Homeric world, with its perpetual agōnes, was conceived as a prototypical locus for the display of andreia, even though Homer himself may not have employed such language: andreia is the implicit quality that pervades the conflicts of that legendary time.21 It may be that by the classical period the Homeric Iæ had shifted in signification, taking on the more general sense of ‘virtue’, and leaving a semantic gap which IæÆ was coined to fill. Of all the extant novels, Chariton’s appeals most overtly to a traditional, almost Homeric, military andreia, for Chaereas is granted a fantastic aristeia in the latter stages of the work, establishing him as a hero capable of excelling on the battlefield as convincingly as any of Homer’s great warriors. Haynes suggests that Chariton’s likely position as the author of the earliest extant novel may have made him more disposed to draw on historiographical works such as Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, and consequently more inclined ‘to give his hero military experience at the expense of consistent characterisation’.22 19 Smoes (1995), 33; Hdt. 7.99 (used, paradoxically, of the female Artemisia; see also n. 154). 20 Bassi (2003), 33; A. Th. 52–3. As Bassi notes (ibid.), the uncertainty of Herodotus’ dates means that the earliest extant reference to andreia may be that in Aeschylus. 21 Ibid. 38. 22 Haynes (2003), 85.

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While Chaereas’ characterization may appear inconsistent by modern standards,23 I will suggest, as I did in Chapter 1 with regard to paideia, that Chariton’s primary readership may not have considered it so.

Andreia and athletics It is not only warfare that allows a man to demonstrate his andreia, in the novels or in other literature. While classical figures like Laches and Aristotle might have located andreia on the battlefield, there is some evidence to suggest that in protracted periods of peace, athletics might serve as a simulation of warfare, providing a substitute locus for the display of andreia.24 Andreia’s early connection with the battlefield seems to have endowed it with connotations of physical courage and strength, facilitating its transference to athletics. So, we find imperial texts citing a man’s involvement in sport as proof of his possession of andreia. Dio Chrysostom eulogizes a recently deceased boxer as follows: One would admire Melancomas especially because, as well as being of such a kind [sc. beautiful] in outward form, he excelled in andreia. For it seems to me that his soul competed with his body and endeavoured that, thanks to it, he should become still more esteemed. And so, understanding that, of the actions leading to andreia, the finest and also the most arduous is athletics, he made that his goal. For there was no opportunity for military activity, and moreover the training [for war] is easier. I would say that it is inferior in this respect also, that in military matters there is a display of courage alone, while athletics simultaneously instils andreia and strength and sōphrosynē. (D. Chr. Or. 29.8ff.)25 "ºØÆ  ¼ Ø ŁÆıØ "ºÆªŒÆ, ‹Ø æçfiB ØF J fiB IæÆ fi Ø ªŒ. ŒE ªaæ ت fiB łıåfiB çغØŒBÆØ æe e HÆ ŒÆd  ıÆØ ‹ ø i Øa ÆÅ Kæ ªÅÆØ. ªf s H æe IæÆ æªø ŒººØ –Æ ŒÆd K Ø  Æ c ¼ŁºÅØ, K d ÆÅ qºŁ. H b ªaæ ºØŒH ‹  ŒÆØæe PŒ q l  ¼ŒÅØ KºÆçææÆ. çÆÅ  i ªøª ŒÆd ÆfiÅ lÆ r ÆØ, Å ªaæ PłıåÆ K ØØ K E ºØŒE ,  b ¼ŁºÅØ –Æ b IæÆ, –Æ b Nå, –Æ b øçæÅ K ØE.

23 See Helms (1966). 24 See Connolly (2003), 312 on the imperial era as one which offered an elite male relatively few opportunities to be andreios in battle, and which consequently saw a migration of andreia from the battlefield to the stadium. 25 See König (2005), 146–57 on Dio’s Melancomas orations.

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Dio’s praise of athletics as an arena for andreia is of course motivated by his duty as eulogist in this oration, but it is nonetheless revealing for the assumption it makes that its audience will understand a connection between warfare and athletics as the primary loci for andreia. His description of Melancomas delineates andreia as something that involves competition with others, something by which a man may distinguish himself, mark himself out from the crowd (Ø ªŒ)—just as we saw in the case of paideia. Dio makes a distinction between outward form and inner qualities, of which andreia is one. Like paideia, andreia is a goal to be striven for, a performative quality that one reveals through certain actions, and through inner struggle, and it is athletics that best supports the development of that quality. Battle is equally an arena for display (K ØØ ), but it allows for the display of eupsychia alone; athletics, on the other hand, generates both andreia and sōphrosynē.26 Furthermore, a little later in the oration Dio states explicitly that athletics ranks higher than warfare in its capacity to stimulate andreia (29.15ff.). Dio’s elevation of athletics might give us a means of interpreting Heliodorus’ endowment of Theagenes with incredible athletic success, first at the Pythian Games, then later in his bull-wrestling and his victory over the Ethiopian giant. While open battle may be rare in the novels, and the chances to display a Homeric-style military aretē concomitantly scarce, athletics can be understood as a substitute arena in which a hero is able to show himself a man. However, Dio’s argument that warfare does not offer scope for other virtues is not one that is found in the novels: as we will see, it is through warfare that Chaereas shows his virtuous character. Lucian’s Anacharsis is also useful here. It takes the form of a dialogue between the sixth-century Athenian lawgiver Solon and the Scythian for whom the piece is named. The subject is the merit of athletics in the formation of good men, a merit Anacharsis does not recognize, but which Solon is keen to defend. According to him, athletes are manly looking (Iææø , 25), and they display manliness (IæH K ØçÆ , 25)—manliness is evidently a highly

26 Andreia and sōphrosynē seem to be a common coupling in this period: an imperial Greek inscription from Smyrna honours a pancratiast for his IæÆ fi  ŒÆd øçæfiÅ (see van Nijf (2003), 263ff.). See Scanlon (2002), 14 on the opportunity athletics afforded competitors to display their aretē, including their andreia, ponos, and karteria. I will return shortly to the connection between andreia and other virtues.

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visual quality to be demonstrated before others. Gymnastic training regularly accompanied the rhetorical and literary paideia that was a central component of elite identity from the classical period on. It was also frequently presented positively as having military value.27 Indeed, Solon explains the relation of athletics to warfare, stressing that the primary advantage of athletic training lies in its status as a ‘transferable skill’: athletics prepares young men for warfare, and allows them to outstrip their enemies in military ability:28 . . . even from these contests they give you an opportunity to infer what they would be in war, defending country, children, wives, and fanes with weapons and armour . . . (Lucian Anach. 36; Loeb trans.) F b ŒÆd I e ø NŒÇØ ÆæåØ ¼ Ø, › EØ K ºØ  bæ Ææ ŒÆd Æø ŒÆd ªıÆEŒø ŒÆd ƒæH ªØ i ‹ ºÆ å . . .

The andreia inherent in athletic training serves as a preparation for men to assume roles as citizens, fulfilling their political and military potential; andreia is therefore tied firmly to public functions.29 At the end of the dialogue Solon asks Anacharsis to tell him in return how the Scythians’ young men ‘become good’ (‹ ø E ¼æ IªÆŁd ªªÆØ, 40).30 Demonstrating the classic opposition between andreia and deilia (cowardice), Anacharsis proudly announces, ‘We are cowards!’ (غd ªæ K, 40). König remarks that although positive attitudes towards the value of athletics are common, the scepticism with which Anacharsis regards it is paralleled in other texts, both imperial and earlier.31 As König notes, ‘It is hard for us to know how exactly each of these two men [sc. Solon and Anacharsis] relates to contemporary cultural categories and how their visions and valuations of athletic activity relate to contemporary “reality”’.32 27 König (2005), 45ff. 28 See also Pl. R. 403eff. for the notion that athletic training serves as preparation for war; and Philostr. Gymnasticus 7ff., which relates the various athletic forms to specific military contexts of the Greek past (see Anderson (1986), 269–70). 29 See also Anach. 24 and 30. 30 The phrase has strong military overtones, evoking the well-known exhortation ‘Be good men!’, which amounted to an admonition to fight bravely (e.g. Th. 5.9.9: ŒÆd ÆP  Icæ IªÆŁe ªªı . . . ; cf. Chariton 8.8.13, where the Syracusans acknowledge Polycharmus as an agathos anēr for his part in the war and the recovery of Callirhoe). 31 König (2005), 51. 32 Ibid. 93.

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It seems impossible to attribute either stance of the dialogue unequivocally to Lucian himself; the author does, however, appear to be joining a widespread imperial debate on the value of athletics: the number of inscriptions commemorating athletic victors, together with treatises and other texts on athletics,33 suggests a contemporary concern with the display of masculinity through physical endeavour in the gymnasium; this is a concern that is still relevant for Heliodorus in the third or fourth century, as we will see. The widely held ideal of the andreios warrior was one which legitimized controlled violence;34 in peacetime, athletics offered an outlet for such violence, requiring, as did battle (notwithstanding Dio’s opinion), the exercise of additional virtues such as sōphrosynē and karteria.

Andreia and other virtues The particular connection of andreia to battle and athletics characterizes it as a very public, performative quality. Yet, as in the case of paideia, that does not preclude it from having other dimensions. Returning to the Laches, we find an illustration of the slipperiness of the concept of andreia and its inseparability from, and nearsynonymity with, other virtues. In that dialogue, while andreia may be exhibited in war by combating pain and fear, it may also manifest itself in the metaphorical battle to overcome desires and pleasures (La. 191d–e). In both of these cases karteria is vital. Laches is prompted to declare that andreia is ‘a kind of perseverance of soul’ (ŒÆææÆ Ø . . . B łıåB , 192b), to which Socrates responds that it is indeed possible that karterēsis is andreia (194a). We find something similar in the Symposium, where Alcibiades refers to Socrates’ resistance to his seduction efforts as an example of sōphrosynē and andreia, phronēsis and karteria (Smp. 219d). He goes on to cite Socrates’ endurance at Potidaea, which far surpassed that of his comrades, as proof of how futile it is to attempt to get the better of him (219e5ff.). Here, behaviour in battle is taken as indicative of a man’s moral quality in other spheres of action, and in both of these 33 Of which Dio’s Melancomas orations are just two; see also Philostratus’ Gymnasticus. König (2005) is the most important recent treatment of the phenomenon, but see also van Nijf (2003) and (2004). 34 See Alston (1998) on the status of the Roman vir as a wielder of legitimate power through military service.

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Platonic texts the virtues required on the battlefield are equally relevant to struggles of a more personal and emotional kind. This will be especially pertinent when we examine Theagenes’ exercise of andreia later. A certain blurring of boundaries is also evident in Aristotle, who includes karteria amongst andreia’s elements, albeit seemingly grounded in a military context: To courage it belongs to be undismayed by fears of death and confident in alarms and brave in face of dangers, and to prefer a fine death to base security, and to be a cause of victory. It also belongs to courage to labour and endure and play a manly part. Courage is accompanied by confidence and bravery and daring, and also by perseverance and endurance. (Arist. VV 1250b4ff.; Loeb trans.) æÆ  KØ e ıŒ ºÅŒ r ÆØ  e çø H æd ŁÆ ŒÆd PŁÆæB K E ØE ŒÆd hº æe f ŒØı , ŒÆd e Aºº ƃæEŁÆØ ŁÆØ ŒÆºH j ÆNåæH øŁBÆØ, ŒÆd e ŒÅ ÆYØ r ÆØ. Ø b IæÆ Kd ŒÆd e E ŒÆd ŒÆææE ŒÆd IæÆªÆŁÇŁÆØ. Ææ ÆØ b fiB IæÆ fi   PºÆ ŒÆd  PłıåÆ ŒÆd e Łæ , Ø b l  çغ Æ ŒÆd  ŒÆææÆ.

The sources do not make it clear whether andreia is distinct from karteria, whether they are one and the same, or whether karteria is a form of andreia with slightly different connotations. The aporia with which Plato’s Laches concludes is indicative of the extent of the confusion: no definition of andreia is achieved which will satisfy all parties, and andreia is never convincingly detached from its fellow virtues. Yet philosophical and ethical treatises do appear to agree that paideia plays a vital role in the acquisition or development of andreia. Cebes, the pupil of Socrates and alleged author of the Tabula, lists andreia (and karteria) amongst the many virtues to which true paideia admits a man.35 On this point we might cite Xenophon’s reference to Socrates’ belief that andreia is a compound of nature and culture: When asked again whether Courage could be taught or came by nature, he [sc. Socrates] replied: ‘I think that just as one man’s body is naturally stronger than another’s for labour, so one man’s soul is naturally braver 35 See Ch. 1, pp. 25–6. See also Plutarch’s assertion that philosophy (undoubtedly an element of paideia) ‘alone can array young men in the manly [IæE ] and truly perfect adornment that comes from reason’ (On Listening to Lectures 37f; Loeb trans.); cf. D. Chr. Or. 1.4: Dio hopes that his words will inspire andreia in their hearers.

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than another’s in danger. For I notice that men brought up under the same laws and customs differ widely in daring. Nevertheless, I think that every man’s nature acquires more courage by learning and practice’. (X. Mem. 3.9.1; Loeb trans.) —ºØ b Kæø  ,  IæÆ æ YÅ ØÆŒe j çıØŒ, ˇr ÆØ b, çÅ, u æ HÆ  Æ Nåıææ æe R ı çÆØ, oø ŒÆd łıåc łıåB KææøæÆ æe a Øa çØ ªªŁÆØ. ›æH ªaæ K E ÆPE Ø  ŒÆd ŁØ æçı ºR ØÆçæÆ Iºº ºø ºfiÅ. Çø Ø AÆ çØ ÆŁ Ø ŒÆd ºfiÅ æe IæÆ ÆhŁÆØ.

The two notions laid out here, that andreia is innate, and that it is responsive to mathēsis and meletē, are found in the works of other contemporary thinkers too. Plato’s Laches, for example, functions on the premise that andreia may be taught, while Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics describes andreia, as well as other cardinal virtues, as a natural part of all human beings: All are agreed that the various moral qualities are in a sense bestowed by nature: we are just and capable of temperance, and brave, and possessed of the other virtues from the moment of our birth. (Arist. EN 1144b1ff.; Loeb trans.) AØ ªaæ ŒE !ŒÆÆ H MŁH  æåØ çØ ø · ŒÆd ªaæ ŒÆØØ ŒÆd øçæØŒd ŒÆd IæEØ ŒÆd pººÆ å PŁf KŒ ªB . . .

However, Aristotle goes on to state that any of these virtues may in fact be harmful without the application of phronēsis. For him, courage is a mean between cowardice and overboldness (EN 1107b1ff.), governed and maintained by phronēsis (1144b),36 that capacity of mind that is a counterpart to, or element of, paideia. So, while andreia is conceived as natural to mankind, as an essential quality of the human species, it is also envisaged as subject to paideia, and as entailing an internal dialogue between instinct and intellect, or heart and head—just such a dialogue as we have seen to operate under the auspices of paideia. Schmid notes that the Platonic Socrates’ relation of courage to the workings of the soul in the Laches is nothing new, and that ‘the model of courage as involving a struggle and dialogue between soul or mind and heart already had its classic expression in Homer’.37 Both he and Smoes consider Odysseus to be the archetypal purveyor of this ‘thinking man’s andreia’. In Odysseus, 36 See Smoes (1995), 256ff.

37 Schmid (1992), 108.

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according to Smoes, we find a courage which replaces the unmeasured violence of Achilles: ‘Un autre modèle exemplaire de courage se met en place; il s’agit désormais d’un courage intérieur, d’un courage “moral”, différent du courage “physique” et militaire, et qui consiste à résister à un “ennemi” interne: passions, souffrances, malchance’.38 Of course, we cannot be certain that a Greek of any period would actually have referred to Odysseus’ actions as examples of andreia, although classical Greeks do seem to have viewed the male behaviour of the Homeric world as belonging to the semantic system of andreia. In Odysseus, then, implicit andreia becomes the ability to negotiate and endure one’s situation intellectually, morally, and with oneself alone.39 Needless to say, this does not abrogate andreia’s position as a virtue equated with battle and athletics; instead it bestows upon it an additional moral and internal dimension, fusing it still further with other virtues, and especially with paideia. This fusing of andreia and paideia reaches its fullest extent in Dio Chrysostom’s dialogue between Alexander and Diogenes, in which the Cynic speaks of a splitting of paideia into human and divine forms, the latter variety known also as andreia (Or. 4.29ff.); those who had received this form were considered ‘manly in their souls’,40 for they had been educated like Heracles, a hero commonly perceived as the embodiment of andreia.41

Andreia as metaphor I have said that Greek texts viewed andreia as belonging predominantly to combative contexts such as warfare and athletics. But andreia also fulfilled a combative role that was more figurative than literal, as both Greek and Latin authors used language drawn from the battleground and stadium to articulate love affairs—the language of andreia or virtus provided a euphemistic means of presenting erotic emotions and actions. Given the Greek world’s emphasis on the gymnasium as a hub of elite relations, it is perhaps unsurprising that Greek literature shows a predilection for the use of wrestling

38 39 40 41

Smoes (1995), 65. For examples of Odysseus’ thoughtful andreia, see Il. 11.404ff. and Od. 20.9ff. See also Ch.1, p. 27. Though see pp. 113–14 on the ambivalence in Heracles’ andreia.

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and sporting imagery for such purposes.42 In some classical Greek texts, however, we do also find the notion that love is a metaphorical form of warfare.43 Here, the metaphor was not nearly as thoroughly explored or exploited as it would be, most famously, by Latin elegy; indeed, it tended to be restricted to the representation of Eros as an invincible warrior against whom it is futile to fight.44 From these early uses of the love-as-warfare motif, one would be hard-pressed to predict the lengths to which Roman poets would take the figure, casting themselves as soldiers in a particular form of self-fashioning that consciously flouted their society’s expectations of the elite male. The elegists established love as their raison d’être, abandoning the military and political roles expected of them,45 and presenting love as an alternative to the battlefield, a substitute for the usual locus of the testing of andreia or virtus. In such representations the poet-amator is often defeated by Cupid much as an army might be in war; should he enjoy erotic success, he cannot resist depicting it as a spoil of war, for which he has had to fight as hard as any real soldier.46 Through the medium of the military metaphor he presents a particular understanding of the male role in an erotic relationship, inscribing himself as a figurative (and sometimes literal) combatant in that relationship. Such self-representation and emphasis on the notions of victory and defeat can make elegiac love appear strikingly unequal;47 elegy’s narrow focalization, whereby we see through the eyes of the poet alone, only adds to this sense of inequality. In light of the Greek novels’ preoccupation with reciprocal love, it may seem surprising that we find in them too an abundance of examples of both military and athletic metaphor employed in erotic contexts. As in elegy, focalization is an important influence on our interpretation of those contexts. In fact, although it is beyond the scope of this book to 42 A predilection noted by Preston (1916), 51; Henderson (1975), 169; Lyne (1980), 295 n. 13; and Barsby (1999), 10, amongst others. For examples, see A. A. 1206; S. Tr. 441; Ar. Pax 894ff., with García Romero (1995), 67ff. and Olson (1998), 241–2. 43 Still earlier, in fact, Sappho 1.28 offers the first such example, overturning gender stereotypes by calling upon Aphrodite to be her ‘ally’ (Æå ) in matters of the heart. 44 e.g. S. Ant. 781 (cf. Calasiris’ words to Charicleia on the power of Eros at Hld. 4.10.5); E. Hipp. 525ff.; for reference to the agonistic nature of love, see S. Ant. 799–800. 45 See e.g. Baker (1968), 325; Alston (1998), 213ff. 46 e.g. Prop. 1.1; Ov. Am. 1.2, 1.9, 2.12. 47 See Cahoon (1988), 303.

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explore fully, Roman elegy might be thought a suitable comparandum for the novels, because it shares with them a conventionalized erotic system that is ironic in its exploitation of war as a metaphor. While the novels do not reject traditional masculine roles in quite the manner of elegy, they do employ military and athletic metaphor in a way which conveys their male characters’ understandings of their own erotic roles, and perhaps their authors’ world-views. At the end of this chapter I will look in some detail at how the novels use the language of andreia euphemistically to engage with their erotic subject matter.

THE GENDERING OF ANDREIA The classical construction of warfare and athletics as the prototypical arenas for the exhibition of andreia serves to identify andreia as a male virtue, since involvement in these pursuits was a male preserve.48 Not only do andreia’s associations with warfare and athletics brand it as masculine, but so too does the term’s cognation with I æ.49 Hobbs rightly observes a problem that arises when the association between manliness and courage becomes a part of the language: when an act of andreia is undertaken, it is difficult to determine how far the subject’s maleness is an issue; as she stresses, ‘ . . . in the vast majority of cases it is . . . ambiguous whether the author is consciously appealing to notions of maleness, or whether they are thinking primarily of the virtue of courage—or even just effectiveness in action—and simply taking the masculine connotations of the word for granted’.50 In Latin texts virtus expands to mean ‘virtue’ more generally, and consequently becomes less bound to maleness. æÆ, on the other hand, never seems to undergo such an extensive semantic broadening, and retains its gendered quality.51 48 Excepting, of course, the athletics system at Sparta, which in any case trained young women in the same way as young men predominantly to improve them as potential mothers: while superficially Spartan women’s involvement in athletics might appear unusual, its ultimate goal was highly conventional; see Scanlon (2002), 121ff. 49 This gendering is also inherent in the Latin virtus, derived from vir. 50 Hobbs (2000), 70. 51 Ferguson (1958), 41. After the expansion of virtus’ meaning, fortitudo took its place; see Cic. Tusc. 2.18.43 for a discussion of the relation of fortitudo to virtus in the construction of masculinity.

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However, masculine connotations do not exclude women from the exhibition of andreia altogether, although it does appear that a woman’s andreia, like her paideia, was generally conceived as fundamentally different from that displayed by a man.

Female andreia in the novels and elsewhere If we look at Aristotle’s ethical works and at Platonic dialectic, we find a strong assumption of inherent difference between male and female andreia. Aristotle understands all male and female virtues in terms of dominance and submissiveness respectively: . . . the temperance of a woman and that of a man are not the same, nor their courage and justice, . . . but the one is the courage of command, and the other that of subordination, and the case is similar with the other virtues. (Arist. Pol. 1260a21ff.; Loeb trans.) . . . ŒÆd På  ÆPc øçæÅ ªıÆØŒe ŒÆd Iæe P IæÆ ŒÆd ØŒÆØÅ, . . . Iºº  b IæåØŒc IæÆ,    ÅæØŒ , ›ø  åØ ŒÆd æd a ¼ººÆ .

Similarly, Plato’s Meno identifies a man’s aretē as judicious management of the city’s affairs, while he believes a woman’s consists in running the household and showing obedience to her husband (Men. 71e). Although, according to Aristotle, Socrates believed that a man’s and a woman’s virtue were identical (Pol. 1260a22–3),52 Meno is more likely to be representative of the popular view. For Aristotle, male and female andreia differ not only qualitatively, but also quantitatively: . . . temperance and courage are different in a man and in a woman (for a man would be thought a coward if he were only as brave as a brave woman . . . ). (Arist. Pol. 1277b20ff.; Loeb trans.) . . . Iæe ŒÆd ªıÆØŒe æÆ øçæÅ ŒÆd IæÆ (ÆØ ªaæ i r ÆØ غe Icæ N oø IæE YÅ u æ ªıc IæÆ . . . ) 52 See also Socrates’ response to Meno at Pl. Men. 72eff.; cf., however, the ambiguity of the words of Xenophon’s Socrates, when he sees a female acrobat jumping among swords: ‘Witnesses of this feat, surely, will never again deny, I feel sure, that courage, like other things, admits of being taught, when this girl, even though she is a woman, leaps so boldly in among the swords!’ (X. Smp. 2.12; Loeb trans., modified): this seems to suggest that because of her sex the girl does not have innate andreia, but has learned it.

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Furthermore, in his discussion of the qualities of character admissible in drama, Aristotle states that ‘the character may be manly, but it is not fitting for a woman to be manly or clever in such a way’ (Ø ªaæ IæE b e qŁ , Iºº På ±æ ªıÆØŒd oø IæÆ j Øc r ÆØ, Po. 1454a21ff.). It might even be thought unseemly, then, for a woman to exhibit andreia. Aristotle’s view may be extreme, and yet Hobbs notes that even when an author expresses approval of female andreia, he nonetheless casts it as unusual.53 Here she cites Thucydides’ account of the involvement of the Corcyraean women in their civil war: The women also joined in the fighting with great daring, hurling down tiles from the roof-tops and standing up to the din of battle in a manner beyond their sex. (Th. 3.74; trans. Warner, modified) Æ¥  ªıÆEŒ ÆPE ºÅæH ı º ººıÆØ I e H NŒØH fiH Œæø fi ŒÆd Ææa çØ  ıÆØ e Łæı.

Although Thucydides does not use the word IæÆ itself, the women’s involvement in the exclusively male sphere of war suggests that they are partaking to some extent in andreia. Hobbs reads the passage as an endorsement of the women’s efforts, while acknowledging the qualification implicit in para physin that their actions are strange.54 However, in addition to the notion that the women are acting in a manner beyond their nature, there seem to be two further elements in the passage that detract from a positive reading. First, Thucydides describes the women as acting with daring (ºÅæH ), the concept of tolma being a somewhat ambivalent one, often favoured over andreia when a writer wishes to convey a sense of crossing boundaries.55 Such a reading would accord with the sense of para physin, for while the women’s behaviour might be helpful to their men, they are acting in a manner that is overbold, and beyond what is proper for their sex. Second, although in one way the women

53 Hobbs (2000), 71. 54 See also Harvey (1985), 83: Thucydides’ use of Ææa çØ implies ‘guarded admiration’; the women endure the battle ‘surprisingly well for people who, by definition, could not be IæEØ’. For a slightly more nuanced reading of the Thucydidean scene, see Wiedemann (1983). 55 This appears to be the sense in which ºÆ is most often employed in the novels; the noun and its cognates are commonly used to indicate criminal behaviour, or behaviour which exceeds the acceptable: e.g. Ach. Tat. 8.8.1, 8.15.1, 8.19.1; Chariton 3.3.11, 4.2.8, 4.2.9; Longus 2.27.1, 3.2.3; X. Eph. 2.5.7, 2.6.1, 4.2.1.

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are behaving in a manner that is beyond their nature, in another they might be thought to be acting in a way typical of their nature: when held up against the Thucydidean ideal of hoplite warfare (which can of course only be engaged in by men), the act of throwing improvised missiles at the enemy from a distance might seem an especially feminine recourse, and cannot but come a very poor second.56 Heliodorus has a remarkably similar scene, this time using IæÆ rather than ºÆ. Here, the people of Delphi believe Charicleia to have been kidnapped by the Thessalians, so they organize a recovery expedition in which even the women try to participate: Many women too thought in a way more manly than their nature; they seized whatever came to hand as a weapon and ran after the men, but to no avail, for they could not keep up and had to admit the inherent weakness of the female sex. (Hld. 4.21.3; trans. Morgan, modified) —ººÆd b ªıÆEŒ IæØæ B çø KçæÅÆ ŒÆd e æıåe N ‹ º ±æ ÆÆØ Ł I ıÆ ŒÆd e ŁBºı ŒÆd NŒE IŁb æÇıÆØ H æªø Kª æØÇ . . .

While Thucydides’ Corcyraeans get within roof-tile distance of the enemy, Heliodorus’ Delphian women give up before they even have a chance to deploy their makeshift weapons. It is implied that they are able to display a certain amount of andreia, but, in an Aristotelian vein, this female andreia cannot possibly equal that possessed by the men. As with the Corcyraean women, the Delphians are behaving in a manner that is praiseworthy but anomalous. They are attempting to engage in warfare, a traditionally male sphere of activity, and are thus laying claim to an andreia that is out of keeping with female physis. Little wonder, then, that the masculinity they have appropriated is temporary and cannot be maintained. The incongruity of women in warfare is also raised by Chariton’s Chaereas when he arrives at the king’s palace and finds Callirhoe missing: ‘Where is Callirhoe? What has happened to her? Surely she hasn’t enlisted, too?’ (˚ƺºØæÅ b F;  ªª; P  ı ªaæ ŒÆd ÆPc æÆÆØ;, 7.1.2). The thought is apparently so preposterous 56 On the military value of tile-throwing women, see Schaps (1982). It must be noted that it is not only women who fight like this: see also Th. 2.4, where slaves as well as the Plataean women throw stones and tiles from the roofs at the invading Thebans; cf. Ach. Tat. 3.13.2ff., where Egyptian bandits hurl lumps of earth at the attacking soldiers: it is women, slaves, and barbarians who fight in this improvised, and rather underhand, manner.

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that it cannot possibly be true.57 In the Calligone fragment too we get some sense of the troublesome nature of women’s involvement in war. This fragment preserves an intriguing outburst of distress and anger by a woman, seemingly the heroine, who carries a bladed weapon in what appears to be a military context, and likens herself to an Amazon.58 Calligone (assuming it is she who speaks in the fragment) refers to her weapon twice as a ‘sword’ (ç , l.35, l.40), but the force of this word is undercut by the narrator, who calls it a mere ‘dagger’ (KªåØæØ, l.27).59 Is this purely symptomatic of an authorial desire to vary the language used, or is Calligone’s self-presentation as a formidable, sword-toting warrior being gently mocked? As one might expect, Plutarch has something to say on the subject of female daring. His treatise The Virtues of Women (Gynaikōn aretai) presents a series of vignettes intended to demonstrate the potential of women for exhibiting a variety of virtues, including andreia, phronēsis, and dikaiosynē. McInerney’s analysis of this text is astute. He notes that Plutarch rarely explains which virtue is being illustrated by any one story, and that ‘When no specific virtue is ever identified the women’s actions are simply, self-evidently, and generically virtuous’.60 Furthermore, Plutarch seems to avoid using the word IæÆ at all costs, using the rather more vague Iæ instead.61 His avoidance of the term, excepting its use in the introduction, suggests that he feels a difficulty in discussing female andreia, most likely because of its inherently masculine nature. Plutarch also tends to use ºÆ in relation to women, on occasion even qualified as Iºª (unthinking, irrational).62 He does refer to e IæE in the case of women (Amat. 769b–c), but his words ultimately serve to reinforce traditional gender roles.63 Plutarch’s examples of female virtue in the Gynaikōn aretai present women as more likely to 57 Though Chaereas is later quite willing to accept Callirhoe’s military advice (8.2.4–5). 58 See Stephens & Winkler (1995), 267–76. 59 My thanks to Ian Repath for drawing to my attention the linguistic discrepancy here. 60 McInerney (2003), 322. 61 Lutz (1947), 44. 62 McInerney (2003), 334. 63 Goldhill (1995), 157–8. cf. X. Oec. 10.1: Ischomachus has demonstrated his wife’s ‘manly’ attitude by showing the manner in which she maintains her husband’s household.

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spur men into action than to act in their own right, and the virtues themselves are inextricably bound up with notions of shame.64 McInerney observes that the stories are often characterized by ‘Secrecy, trickery, lies, abuse, concealment and the occasional burst of impulsive action: these are the spheres in which female virtue operates’.65 Even though andreia may be praiseworthy in a woman, her specific actions serve to ‘qualify the reader’s response to female bravery in a way that distinguishes it from the open andreia of men’.66 A woman’s aretē is therefore cast in a rather traditional mould. This traditional outlook might be anticipated if we look at the way Plutarch begins his treatise. In his introduction, he refers to a conversation he had had with his addressee, Clea. He purports now to write down for her a  ºØ Æ H ºªø N e Æ r ÆØ ŒÆd c ÆPc Iæe ŒÆd ªıÆØŒe Iæc (242f–243a). The clause is generally taken to indicate that Plutarch conceived of male and female virtue as identical: the Loeb translates it as ‘the remainder of what I would have said on the topic that man’s virtues and woman’s virtues are one and the same’, and McInerney observes that Plutarch never demonstrates this equivalence.67 It seems to me, however, that a possible initial misunderstanding of a  ºØ Æ H ºªø has culminated in a misunderstanding of Plutarch’s overall purpose, and the assumption that he fails in his task. In the absence of ¼, it seems to make more sense to read a  ºØ Æ H ºªø as ‘the remainder of what is said’, rather than ‘the remainder of what I would have said’; this would then suggest merely that Plutarch intends to relate stories that are sometimes used as examples of female virtue— not that he is expressing a personal view that male and female virtues are identical. On this point we should note that he mentions ‘the similarity and the difference between the virtues of men and of women’ (243b), and remarks that the same virtue may take on a different nature from person to person (243d). He does not intend, therefore, to prove that male and female virtues are the same, but only to ensure that any differences from one example to the next do not prevent the subject from receiving her share of recognition (242f, 243d).

64 McInerney (2003), 337. 65 Ibid. 333. 66 Ibid. 335. 67 Ibid. 323: ‘the narrative . . . finally undercuts the proposition stated in the introduction that men’s and women’s virtues are identical’.

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In Stobaeus’ record of the work of the first-century Stoic philosopher Musonius Rufus, we find that educated women are expected to possess more andreia than the uneducated, and particularly so those women who have studied philosophy (Muson. 3.33ff.). So paideia is believed to instil andreia even in women. And yet, although Musonius takes very seriously the existence of female virtue, he also expresses the highly normative view that men and women have ‘naturally’ different goals to which their virtue should be directed.68 Musonius clearly appreciates the gender-bias implicit in the concept of andreia, for he acknowledges that some might think it appropriate only for men to display andreia (4.23). He goes on to urge women to be manly (IæÇŁÆØ), which has been deemed a radical recommendation, given the masculine and sometimes sexual charge of the verb.69 Whitmarsh reads the passage as suggestive of the ‘potentially transformative powers’ of paideia, which can ‘lead the subject to transgress the boundaries of his or her “natural” disposition’.70 This is right, I am sure, but Musonius only endorses women’s transgression of those boundaries if it is directed towards the maintenance of social norms: the best woman (c IæÅ) is encouraged to act in a manly fashion (IæÇŁÆØ) and to be cowardice-free (ŒÆŁÆæØ غÆ ), so that she may have sōphrosynē, and not be coerced into shameful behaviour (4.24ff.). The assumption of manly andreia, which she is able to achieve through her paideia, paradoxically allows her to be more feminine, presenting to the world a chaste image. With a similar conservative bent, Musonius advises that the study of philosophy, with its development of the virtues, will help a woman to keep a good house, retain sexual self-control, and defend her husband and children; in fact, a woman of this sort will do work which some might think fit only for slaves—evidently a highly praiseworthy quality (3). Like the virtues of Plutarch’s text, and the education that Xenophon’s Ischomachus recommends for wives, Musonius’ female paideia and andreia are predicated on a woman’s role within the household, and are tied to notions of honour and shame.71 While Musonius’ application of the specific verb IæÇŁÆØ to a woman may be unusual, the use of the concept of andreia in relation 68 69 70 71

See Whitmarsh (2001a), 112ff. Goldhill (1995), 137. See below, pp. 154–9 on IæÇÆØ in sexual contexts. Whitmarsh (2001a), 113. See Ch. 1, pp. 34–5 on Musonius’ female paideia.

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to women is not uncommon. Xenophon’s Anthia perfectly fulfils Musonius’ recommendations that a woman exhibit andreia in defence of her chastity. In Xenophon’s third book, Anthia faces a threat to her chastity from her imminent marriage to Perilaus. Death is now her only means of protecting her chastity and preserving herself for the supposedly dead Habrocomes, whom she believes she will join in the afterlife. She prepares herself for suicide by telling herself that she is not anandros or deilē, and that Habrocomes must be her only husband (3.6.3). Her andreia consists in the maintenance of her chastity and her fidelity to Habrocomes, even if that means she must die.72 Anthia herself later gives voice to the paradox inherent in the notion of a woman behaving with andreia: lamenting her fate, she refers to the stratagems she has employed to maintain her sōphrosynē for Habrocomes as exceeding a woman’s usual behaviour ( bæ ªıÆEŒÆ , 5.8.7), which we might easily read as another way of saying para physin—even if andreia is exercised in the service of such a noble and eminently feminine goal as the protection of chastity, there is still something unwomanly about it.73 Anthia takes a rather less self-sacrificing stance in the preservation of her chastity in the fourth book. There, while held by Hippothous’ robber band, she is the victim of an attempted sexual assault by one of the robbers, Anchialus, and is forced to turn a bandit sword upon him, killing him (4.5.4ff.). Xenophon never refers to the incident as an example of andreia, though in the light of Musonius’ recommendations we might read it as such. The scene is rather reminiscent of the examples we have seen in Thucydides and Heliodorus, where the Corcyraean and Delphian women seize whatever comes to hand to use as a weapon. Anthia’s implicit andreia is not calculated, but reactive and the product of desperation: she grabs a sword that just happens to be lying beside her ( b K IÅåø fi ŒÆŒfiH ªÅ,  ÆÆÅ e ÆæÆŒ ç ÆØ e ªåƺ, 4.5.5). After 72 Konstan (2009) also notes this instance of andreia directed towards the preservation of chastity. 73 In Latin texts too we find women defending their honour by invoking what were traditionally seen as masculine virtues. Describing Lucretia’s post-rape suicide, Valerius Maximus states that she was possessed by an animus virilis (6.1.1); notably, it seems to cause him some discomfort to apply this phrase to a woman, and he must explain it away by remarking that this ‘masculine spirit’ had inhabited Lucretia’s body by mistake. See also Ap. Met. 8.11ff., where, upon killing herself after avenging her husband’s death, Charite is said to breathe out her animam virilem.

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the murder she reverts to her ‘natural’ state, becoming fearful and contemplating suicide or flight. She concludes that she cannot run away, for there is no one to show her the way, and decides to wait and see what fortune is dealt her (4.5.6): having done its job of protecting her chastity, her andreia appears to have deserted her. The purpose of a woman paradoxically ‘playing the man’, and assuming apparently masculine qualities, is thus merely to reinforce the socially normative functions the reader expects of her.74 Charicleia too displays andreia in defence of her chastity. In an effort to deflect her marriage to Trachinus, Calasiris urges the hero and heroine to take control of their situation, and either to regain their freedom or to die with chastity and courage (øçæø ŒÆd Iæø , 5.29.6) in the attempt. The reference to a chaste death can only be directed at Charicleia, as hers is the only chastity under threat at this point. The adverbs sōphronōs and andreiōs might therefore be thought to relate to Charicleia and Theagenes respectively: Charicleia’s death would serve to protect what we have been told is the only thing that betokens feminine virtue (4.8.7), while Theagenes would die exhibiting andreia, that traditionally masculine attribute. Yet it soon becomes clear that Calasiris’ plan expects Charicleia too to demonstrate andreia: like Theagenes, she is required to assume the manly task of battle with the pirates, and Heliodorus tells us that neither hero nor heroine pulls any punches in the fight.75 But there is a certain ambiguity in Charicleia’s fighting style, for while Theagenes arms himself with a sword and fights hand to hand, she fires arrows from a hidden position (5.32.4), a method of warfare that had a very mixed reputation. To fight with arrows from a distance, although a regular part of Greek warfare, was often construed as less than andreios—suitable for a woman, perhaps. So, Diomedes likens Paris to a woman or a child for wounding him with an arrow from a hiding place (Hom. Il. 11.384ff.), and Lycus accuses Heracles of lacking 74 Even Iamblichus’ highly active heroine Sinonis, who seemingly goes so far as to marry another man in a fit of erotic jealousy, occasionally behaves in ways that reinforce her status: she apparently protects her chastity by feigning love for Setapus, getting him drunk, and then killing him with a cleaver before he can have sex with her (fr. 76b31, Stephens & Winkler); to judge from Photius’ summary and the remaining fragments, however, her actions after the killing are much more independent and determined than those of Anthia. 75 Neither is I º (5.32.3); the tricky Calasiris, on the other hand, finds a hiding place from which he can watch the action without getting involved (ibid.).

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eupsychia because he fights with bow and arrow instead of sword and shield (E. HF 162–4).76 But, paradoxically, archery was also sometimes presented as a particularly wise method of fighting. Dio Chrysostom’s Achilles complains that archery is the coward’s resort (Or. 58), but Chiron retorts by asking him if he finds women more courageous (IæØæÆ ) because they fight at close quarters; the proposition that women might possess more andreia than men is so far-fetched that it serves as proof that close-quarters combat is not the sole or even the primary locus of andreia. Chiron’s final words to Achilles are a warning which draws a distinction between Iliadic brute force and a more sophisticated style of combat which relies on intelligence: Achilles will easily kill those who are brave and mindless (R Iæı ŒÆd I ı ) like him, but he himself will be killed by a man who is intelligent (çæ ) and warlike ( ºØŒ ), and will not see it coming. Similarly, Heracles’ father Amphitryon defends the merit of bow and arrow: these are the weapons of the wise, allowing the archer to inflict wounds while preserving his own life (E. HF 198ff.).77 Charicleia’s archery might best be viewed as the intelligence that complements Theagenes’ physical strength and prowess in hand-to-hand combat, that traditionally Homeric context for the display of aretē.78 Nonetheless, an educated contemporary reader would be hard-pressed to read it without consciousness of its ambiguities.79 It is fitting, then, that the battle is reduced to one-on-one combat between Theagenes and Pelorus, with Theagenes required to demonstrate his traditional 76 In the Delphic pageant (Hld. 3.4.2), Charicleia’s breastband recalls Odysseus’ description of the baldric worn by the ghost of Heracles (Hom. Od. 11.613), indirectly equating Charicleia to Heracles. Although Heracles was frequently used as a symbol of andreia, his manliness was a bone of contention amongst ancient authors: see Loraux (1990). 77 See also Ach. Tat. 2.22.1ff., which plays metaphorically with ‘gendered’ styles of fighting and the ambiguity of archery: in the fable of the lion and the gnat, the gnat questions in what the lion believes his strength (alkē) resides, since the lion fights by scratching and biting like a woman; the gnat, by contrast, has superior alkē, because he can attack like bow and arrow, without being seen; he is, however, bested by the even greater cunning of the spider. 78 The scene is replete with Homeric allusion, from the presence of Theagenes himself, a descendant of Achilles, to the name of his final opponent, Pelorus (on which see Dowden (1996), 278 and Jones (2003), 79). 79 The men from the Land of Cinnamon are also presented as archers (9.19.2ff.) and, like Charicleia, are not evaluated negatively; they are, however, barbarians: as the warfare of women and barbarians, archery in this novel is something of a grey area.

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style of andreia by vanquishing his Homeric opponent. Ultimately, Charicleia’s access to andreia here is limited, for she must stop firing arrows lest she injure Theagenes: like the Delphian and Corcyraean women, she must admit defeat, and it is up to Theagenes to finish the fight, spurred on by Charicleia exhorting him to andreia (æÇı, çºÆ, 5.32.5).80 There are two further references to female andreia in Heliodorus’ novel, both relating to the impending sacrifice of Charicleia and Theagenes. Despite the discovery that Charicleia is his daughter, Hydaspes insists that her sacrifice must go ahead (10.16.4). He encourages her, ‘now if ever before display that courageous and royal spirit of yours’ (Iººa e IæE KŒE ı çæÅÆ ŒÆd ÆºØ F Y æ b ŒÆd ææ K ØŒı, 10.16.9). The performative quality of andreia comes through strongly here: it is something that one must ‘display’. And it is tied not to Charicleia’s chastity, but to her duty to her native land, namely to give up her life as a sacrifice. But despite not being related to chastity, the andreia Charicleia must show has a very definite feminine model, as Heliodorus alludes here to the sacrifice of Euripides’ Iphigenia, which is perceived as a noble act on behalf of her homeland, requiring eupsychia and aretē (E. IA 1419ff., 1557ff.). Hydaspes’ reference to his daughter’s ‘royal spirit’ might explain Charicleia’s relatively broad access to andreia, since philosophical and ethical literature associates andreia especially with royalty: Musonius Rufus (8) and Dio Chrysostom (Or. 62.4) both stress that kings, more than anyone else, should behave with andreia, while the anonymous tract, Women Intelligent and Courageous in Warfare (Gynaikes en polemikois sunetai kai andreiai), possibly dating from the first century BCE, enumerates queens who have distinguished themselves in war.81 Charicleia’s status as the newly recognized daughter of a king is enough to make us expect her to show andreia in the face of death.

80 Nonetheless, Charicleia is clearly a formidable archer: at 1.1.5, which presents the aftermath of this battle, most of the dead on the beach are said to have succumbed to archery. 81 Gera (1997), 4 notes, however, that the text’s air of paradoxography implies that the women are unusual in their involvement in war. She also observes (206) that the author seems to find the application of IæÆ and its cognates to women somewhat unsettling: with the exception of the title, the word is used only three times in the whole text, of Artemisia, Atossa, and Rhodogyne.

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When Charicleia has been exempted from sacrifice by the will of the Ethiopian people, her father is still resolved to sacrifice Theagenes. She asks to perform the sacrifice herself, expecting thereby to earn the admiration of the Ethiopians for her andreia (10.20.2). The expectation of being admired ( æº ) again conveys the performativity of andreia, and the notions in play here are once more rooted in classical tragedy, as Charicleia’s words evoke those of Sophocles’ Electra to her sister Chrysothemis: Electra refers to the andreia for which she and her sister will be praised if they kill Aegisthus and avenge their father (S. El. 975ff.). Chrysothemis, however, advises Electra to remember her sex: andreia is evidently not something a woman may lay claim to lightly.82 Hydaspes has some difficulty comprehending where the andreia could possibly lie in his daughter’s sacrifice of Theagenes (10.21.1–2), and the reader too is in some trouble here: what are Charicleia’s precise intentions? Her request to dispatch Theagenes herself has been interpreted as a means of acquiring a sword in order to commit suicide.83 It is unclear exactly why Charicleia might think her suicide would be considered an act of andreia by the Ethiopians, but the answer may be easier to fathom if we suppose that she expects her death to act as a substitute for Theagenes’. The death of a woman in her beloved’s stead would carry strong overtones of Alcestis, making a tragic statement which the hellenized Ethiopian spectators would likely apprehend as an andreios one.84 From the few examples of female andreia in the novels, it is clear that the concept is employed in a gender-specific manner, which reinforces normative gender roles and sociocultural beliefs about the nature of women. Anthia’s intermittent andreia is directed towards the preservation of her chastity, and abandons her once the immediate threat has been tackled. Charicleia’s andreia is rather more 82 Bassi (2003), 42. 83 See e.g. Morgan (1978), 405. 84 cf. Plutarch on Alcestis: women have little to do with Ares, but Eros can drive them to acts of tolma that are para physin, and even to death (Amat. 761e; cf. pp. 107–8 on Thucydides and Heliodorus). The Babyloniaca also frames female suicide as courageous, though, like Plutarch, using tolma instead of andreia: Sinonis refers to an earlier suicide attempt as a mark of her tolma, and is keen to display her wound as an indication of her moral fibre (fr. 61.11ff., Stephens & Winkler; see also fr. 61.58–9); she seems to contrast her tolma with the deilia of the farmer’s daughter (fr. 61.15). On the display of wounds as proof of andreia, cf. pp. 128–30. I will return to the relation of suicide to andreia later in the chapter.

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abundant and complex, as we might expect from a later and more sophisticated author, yet it retains many normative assumptions. The andreia she is encouraged to display is that of noble self-sacrifice and the protection of her chastity, in the vein of Plutarch’s virtuous women, but it is also related to her intelligence and strength of spirit, her phronēma, rather as Callirhoe’s moral paideia is inextricably linked to her wit.85 Like Musonius’ educated woman, the supremely educated Charicleia has more access to andreia than do other women: in the classical tradition, andreia is activated, enhanced, and negotiated by means of the intellectual and rational faculties. This ‘thinking’ andreia is apparent in the novels’ male characters too, as we will see, but there are many other aspects to the novels’ engagement with the discourse of male andreia, and it is to these that we now turn.

MALE ANDREIA IN THE NOVELS

Andreia by allusion and appearance It is frequently argued that Chariton’s characterization of Chaereas is inconsistent, and that he is transformed from naive teenager to accomplished military leader almost overnight. Against the inconsistency argument I noted in Chapter 1 that his experiences may be viewed as a maturation of sorts, enabling him to come into his own towards the end of the novel, and that he possesses the potential for paideia from the beginning. Similarly, we are given a glimpse of Chaereas’ nascent andreia at the very start of the story. Chariton tells us that, once love-struck, Chaereas neglects the gymnasium (1.1.10). Such a devotee had he been of this manly institution that he is described by one of Callirhoe’s suitors as having been ‘raised in the gymnasium’ (ªıÆØ KæÆçd , 1.2.6). Training in the gymnasium was perceived as effective preparation for military service, and a skilled athlete might be deemed to have great potential as a soldier.86 Given this perceived relationship between athletics and warfare, Chariton’s references to the importance of the gymnasium in Chaereas’ life are perhaps intended to lay the foundations for his 85 See Ch. 1, pp. 35–7.

86 See pp. 98–100.

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later military success.87 This would in all likelihood have been more obvious to his intended readership than it is to the modern reader, for whom there is no intrinsic relationship between athletics and the military. Consequently, Chaereas’ blossoming into a military leader would have seemed far less abrupt two thousand years ago than it does now: the potential for andreia was always present within him, needing only the appropriate context in which to manifest itself fully. When Chaereas first sees Callirhoe, he is said to be ‘like some hero mortally wounded in battle, ashamed to fall and yet unable to stand’ (ŒÆd u æ Ø IæØf K ºø fi æøŁd ŒÆØæÆ, ŒÆd ŒÆÆ E b ÆN , BÆØ b c ı , 1.1.7). This simile works well in two ways as an indicator of Chaereas’ nature. First of all, the Homeric IæØ locates Chaereas in the world of the epic hero, where death on the battlefield was a glorious end. On numerous occasions, in fact, he is equated with Homeric heroes by means of allusion and intertextuality, helping to establish his credentials as a potential warrior.88 Secondly, the figure of the aristeus was a favourite character in Greek declamation.89 This is a connection the educated reader would surely have made. By casting Chaereas as an aristeus, albeit a figurative one, Chariton places him at the centre not only of the highly performative Homeric world (a world of implicit andreia), but also of the equally performative world of declamation (a world of paideia). Chaereas will indeed go on to fulfil both roles, that of military hero and that of public speaker.90 If Chariton intends the reader to understand this dual meaning of aristeus, one might say that he inscribes in his novel a relationship between paideia and andreia from the very beginning.

87 It may be significant that on his triumphant return to Syracuse, Chaereas is greeted by his fellow ephebes and athletes (ıçÅØ ŒÆd ıªªıÆÆ, 8.6.11), perhaps suggesting a link between military and gymnastic training, two formative phases in a young man’s life. 88 Achilles: 1.1.3 (and Nireus), 1.4.6, 2.9.6, 4.1.5, 5.2.4, 5.10.9; Hector: 3.5.6, 7.2.4; Diomedes: 7.3.5, 7.4.6; Agamemnon: 8.2.13. Dionysius is equated with Homeric figures far less frequently, signalling, perhaps, a fundamental difference between the two men’s military capabilities; note, however, that in Dionysius’ case, the emphasis is on interior qualities rather than physical prowess: see 6.2.5, where he addresses himself as t ºB, the descriptor used of Odysseus at Hom. Il. 10.231 and 10.498; and 8.5.15, where he rocks his supposed son in his arms, evoking the tender scene between Hector and Astyanax at Il. 6.474. 89 See Russell (1983), 24ff. 90 See Ch.1, pp. 67–70 for Chaereas’ rhetorical performances.

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It is evident from philosophical literature that andreia has an important role to play in a man’s internal struggle with desires and passions—the literal battlefield was not the only home of andreia.91 That Chariton should choose to cast Chaereas as an aristeus in an erotic context only emphasizes andreia’s role in that figurative battle. Chaereas is here fighting his own feelings in order to maintain his outward appearance; despite the fact that he is fighting a losing battle, he struggles on like a Homeric warrior. The shame that prevents him from falling implies that, although still a rash and temper-driven youth, he is nonetheless conscious of his image before others. Dionysius engages in exactly this sort of battle to save face by means of the application of his paideia, again suggesting the close relationship between the concepts and modes of functioning of andreia and paideia, as well as the importance of striving to maintain a particular image.92 Given that paideia opens the door to other virtues, including andreia, we might assume that Dionysius possesses andreia on account of his status as pepaideumenos. And given that the potential for paideia seems to be present in Chaereas from the outset,93 we might also surmise that andreia is present in him too, needing only to be tapped.94 It is not only Chaereas who is like an epic hero. Theagenes is frequently equated quite seriously with Achilles, and this equation is mingled with an interest in the expression of andreia through physical characteristics: just as paideia may in some instances be a visible quality, so too may andreia. Indeed, andreia’s relation to athletics and warfare makes it a much more physical quality than the rather nebulous paideia, so we might expect it to be something

91 See pp. 100–3. 92 The conceptual proximity of andreia and paideia is implied later, when Chariton refers to Chaereas’ paideia immediately after Chaereas himself has referred to his desire to exhibit andreia (7.2.4, 7.2.5). 93 See Ch. 1, pp. 65–7. 94 Chaereas’ andreia is made to appear natural by virtue of his ethnic origins: on his first address to his troops prior to his assault on Tyre, he claims to be of Dorian stock (7.3.8), just as Herodotus claims Artemisia is of Dorian descent; Harrell (2003), 83 remarks that ‘At least by the time of the Peloponnesian wars, Dorians were considered superior in the manly arena of war’. We are also given an indication of Chaereas’ capacity for military leadership in Book 3, when he sets out to search Libya for Callirhoe, while Hermocrates searches Syracuse (3.3.8); although Chaereas is presented as despairing at 3.3.14, he is soon capable of leadership once more when taking Theron back to Sicily (3.3.18).

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that can be seen in a man. Theagenes claims descent from Achilles, and his claim is true according to Charicles, for it can be seen in his appearance (Hld. 2.34.4). Calasiris then describes Theagenes: . . . who really did have something redolent of Achilles about him in his expression and dignity. He carried his head erect, and had a mane of hair swept back from his forehead; his nose proclaimed his courage by the defiant flaring of his nostrils; his eyes were not quite slate blue but more black tinged with blue, with a gaze that was awesome and yet not unattractive, rather like the sea when its swelling billows subside, and a smooth calm begins to spread across its surface. (Hld. 2.35.1; trans. Morgan) . . . åººØ Ø fiH ZØ ø ŒÆd æe KŒE e ºÆ ŒÆd e çæÅÆ IÆçæø· OæŁe e ÆPåÆ ŒÆd I e F  ı c ŒÅ æe e ZæŁØ IÆåÆØÇø,  Þd K K ƪªºÆ fi ŁıF ŒÆd ƒ ıŒBæ KºıŁæø e IæÆ N  , OçŁÆºe h ø b åÆæ e åÆæ æ b ºÆØ Ææ  –Æ ŒÆd PŒ IæÆ º ø, x  ŁÆºÅ I e ŒÆ N ªÆº Å ¼æØ ºÆØÅ .

The passage shares linguistic similarities with Philostratus’ description of Achilles (Her. 19.5),95 and both Philostratus’ and Heliodorus’ descriptions are firmly rooted in physiognomy, that preoccupation of imperial pepaideumenoi that was so symptomatic of the performative culture of the Second Sophistic. The dual nature of Heliodorus’ description, whereby Theagenes is like the epic warrior Achilles, and yet is described in imperial physiognomic terms, is rather like Chariton’s use of the term aristeus that I have outlined above. Like Chaereas, Theagenes seems to belong to two worlds, chronologically disparate, yet oddly compatible in their preoccupation with masculinity: he is both a Homeric warrior and an imperial pepaideumenos subject to the scrutiny of his peers. Everything about Theagenes’ appearance is indicative of his masculinity from the standpoint of physiognomy. In Adamantius’ synopsis of Polemon’s Physiognomy, flaring nostrils are a sign of strength of spirit and might (ıŒBæÆ IÆ  Æı ŁıF ŒÆd IºŒB æıæÆ Ł, B25).96 Calasiris is 95 = p. 200 Kayser. 96 For a reproduction and translation of Förster’s text of Adamantius, see Repath (2007a). Although Heliodorus’ description of Theagenes’ nostrils ‘freely breathing in the air’ (ƒ ıŒBæ KºıŁæø e IæÆ N  ) is not a precise verbal echo of the physiognomical text, the meaning is clearly very close. There is no reason Heliodorus would not have been familiar with Polemon’s physiognomical text; see Swain (2007a), 156–76 on Polemon’s widespread fame.

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explicit about Theagenes’ nose being a marker of his courage (thymos), but there are other, more implicit, signs of his andreia: his eyes are the odd, untranslatable colour/quality, charopos, a blue-black intense gaze which the pseudo-Aristotelian Physiognomonica identifies as characteristic of a man who is andreios (807b1);97 while the straight bearing of his neck (OæŁe e ÆPåÆ), and the way his hair is tossed upwards ( æe e ZæŁØ) and back from his forehead, might as well come directly from Adamantius (and thus from Polemon), for whom straightness and uprightness are the marks of andreia (¯r  s Iæı ZæŁØ e A åBÆ, Adam. B44).98 There are other moments when Theagenes’ andreia is evident in his appearance. At the very beginning of the novel, when he lies wounded on the beach, the watching brigands are able to see his manliness (XŁØ b ŒÆd K Ø Iæø fi fiH ŒººØ, 1.2.3):99 injured in battle with the pirates, Theagenes’ andreia may be seen simply by looking at him. In the Delphic procession he is again equated with Achilles, this time by means of his spear, and he is so striking that the spectators all award him the prize for andreia and deem him the most beautiful ( ¯  ºÅ b c ŒÆd Æ a ›æ Æ ŒÆd c ،ŠæØ IæÆ  ŒÆd Œººı łBç fiH ÆÆfi  I , 3.3.8):100 in this most performative context, Theagenes’ andreia manifests itself in his appearance. In fact, his manliness is so powerful that it even seems to pass, as if by osmosis, into his horse: the horse instinctively understands the nature of its rider (3.3.7), and Heliodorus emphasizes the effect of Theagenes’ manliness on the horse by describing the horse in terms very reminiscent of his recent physiognomical description of the hero, even down to the repetition of

97 See also 812b, where such eyes are indicative of eupsychia. See Evans (1969), 57 on the physiognomists’ identification of dazzling or piercing eyes as a sign of courage, and Elsner (2007), 218ff. on Polemon’s obsession with eye colour, including charopos and melas. Note that Charicleia too has remarkably striking eyes (2.31.1). 98 See also Ps.-Arist. Phgn. 807a30; cf. Lucian Rh. Pr. 11, where a bent neck clearly signals unmanliness; and see Gleason (1995), 73, with n. 80, on Polemon’s backing of Timocrates in his quarrel with Scopelian, on the basis of the former’s mane-like hair, which stood up straight from his head. 99 cf. 1.2.1, where the brigands can see that Charicleia has phronēma, and 1.3.6, where the second band of brigands reacts similarly. 100 It is unclear whether the prize and vote Theagenes wins are literal or just figurative; it may be that the reader is intended to understand that Theagenes is triumphant in some sort of euandria contest, such as was popular in the classical period.

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vocabulary.101 Finally, when captured by the pirates, his andreia displays itself to Trachinus, who says to Charicleia that he can see that Theagenes is full of andreia;102 to him, this makes the hero especially suited to the life of a pirate (›æH ªaæ ÆŒ IæÆ I ŒÆd ø fi fiH æø fi ıºE K Ø Ø, 5.26.4).103 In all of the scenes I have delineated here, the hero is judged andreios by a watching audience, suggesting that andreia is not something a man may claim for himself, but a label that must instead be bestowed upon him by others.104 The attribution of andreia by others acts as validation of a successful performance of masculinity.105 Theagenes may be physically very like Achilles, and even distantly related to him, but Calasiris is keen to point out that he does not share the negative elements of Achilles’ temperament: The young man traces his lineage back to Achilles, and I think he may well be right, if his stature and looks are anything to go by; they are a sure sign of a pedigree worthy of Achilles—except that Theagenes has none of his conceit or arrogance; his character has a gentle side to temper his pride. (Hld. 4.5.5; trans. Morgan)

101 OæŁe /e ZæŁØ (Theagenes)—OæŁe (horse); e ÆPåÆ (Theagenes)—e ÆPåÆ (horse); Ææ (Theagenes)—Ææa (horse); ŒÆ (Theagenes)— ŒıÆø (horse); N ªÆº Å (Theagenes)—N ªÆºÅe (horse); the symmetry between the two scenes is broadly noted by J.R. Morgan (1998), 67. The horse and its rider are well matched, as Theagenes does seem to have something rather ‘horsey’ about him: in Calasiris’ physiognomical description of him, IÆåÆØÇø, the verb used of the way his hair is tossed back from his forehead, is usually used of the way horses toss their manes back. I will return later in the chapter to the connection between Theagenes and his horse. 102 cf. X. Eph. 2.14.2, where Hippothous can see instantly that Habrocomes is IæØŒ ; this adjective, in contrast to IæE , is perhaps more indicative of physical strength than of moral virtue. 103 As a brigand, of course, Trachinus perverts the virtue of andreia by suggesting that it makes for a better pirate. 104 Bassi (2003), 41; Sluiter & Rosen (2003), 8; and Roisman (2005), 111 all make this point, offering other texts as evidence. 105 It perhaps also suggests a sense of andreia as a culturally acquired virtue, an issue to which I will return later in the chapter. Similar examples of externally attributed andreia are found in Chariton: Chaereas does not describe himself as andreios, but instead the navy is said to be enthused at having the andreiotatos man as their leader (7.5.11); shortly thereafter the Egyptian guard tells Stateira that Chaereas is andreios (7.6.7); and when Chaereas relates his military victory to the Syracusans, he refers to his 300 troops as his ‘brave army’ (æÆe Ke IæE, 8.8.13). With reference to Plutarch’s tract on the problems associated with praising oneself, Gleason (1995), 20 notes that ‘Praise bestowed by the self on itself has no value – it is indeed self-canceling’ (see Plu. Moralia 546c).

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IÆçæØ b Æıe N åغºÆ æª ŒÆ Ø ŒÆd K ÆºÅŁØ ØŒ, N E fiH ªŁØ ŒÆd fiH ŒººØ F Æı ŒÆæŁÆØ, Øıø c åººØ PªØÆ· ºc ‹ På  æçæø Pb Iª øæ ŒÆ KŒE Iººa B ØÆÆ e ZªŒ ÅØ ŒÆÆ æÆ'ø.

In Homeric usage, Iª øæ has the meaning ‘manly’ or ‘courageous’, but frequently carries the collateral pejorative sense of ‘arrogant’ or ‘headstrong’.106 Theagenes, however, is manly without being arrogant. The fact that he is like Achilles, but better, gives the reader a small clue as to the way he will conduct himself in the remaining narrative: unlike his epic forefather, he will not let his evidently powerful masculinity run away with him and affect his behaviour in detrimental ways. Heliodorus’ equation of Theagenes with Achilles tells us something else too, about his potential in the traditional spheres of andreia, for Achilles was a skilled athlete as well as an accomplished warrior. Theagenes will indeed go on to prove his mettle in both warfare and athletics, battling the pirates and wrestling the Ethiopian giant, not to mention tackling a runaway bull.107 But he also has another epic archetype, Odysseus, with whom he is equated by the scar on his leg, acquired during a boar-hunt (5.5.2).108 So not only does he have the looks and physical prowess of Achilles, but he also has Odysseus’ capacity for endurance and wily thinking, which will come into play when he later fights the giant. Like Achilles, however, Odysseus is not a straightforwardly positive model, as his willingness to avoid action might be interpreted as cowardice.109 But, as with Achilles, Heliodorus seems to intend the reader to understand only the positive points of the comparison. This is apparent from the fact that he has already indirectly equated the cowardly Cnemon with Odysseus, in a heavily ironic fashion: bedding down amongst the leaves, having escaped Thermouthis by pretending to have diarrhoea (2.20.3), Cnemon is really nothing like Odysseus;110 Theagenes, however, as we will see shortly, has just emerged favourably from a comparison with Cnemon: in terms of andreia he is everything that

106 See e.g. Hom. Il. 9.699, used of Achilles; see Graziosi & Haubold (2003). 107 And he has in fact recently given us a brief glimpse of his Achillean athletic abilities, triumphing in a footrace, an episode I will discuss in more detail later. 108 cf. Hom. Od. 19.392ff. 109 See Stanford (1954), 72ff. 110 cf. Hom. Od. 5.485ff.

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Cnemon can only hope to be, suggesting that his own equation with Odysseus is a serious and positive one.111

Andreia and deilia At the end of Heliodorus’ first book, the bandits’ island is attacked. Having drawn themselves up to withstand the attack, on seeing the enemy the bandits think it better to flee, closely followed by Theagenes and Cnemon. The narrator points out that fear is not the major player in Theagenes and Cnemon’s retreat ( å æı b ¨ƪÅ  ŒÆd › ˚ ø, P æe e ç e º K , 1.31.4), a rather knowing remark that seems to imply that fear is at least a partial cause of their flight—perhaps not the primary motivation, as it is in the case of the bandits, but a factor nonetheless. At no point does the author involve Theagenes in full-scale warfare. In fact, with the exception of his battle with the pirates in Book 5, the hero is consistently kept away from warfare, and his andreia exhibited most explicitly and dramatically in athletic rather than military contexts. But long before involving Theagenes in athletics, Heliodorus uses the narratorial comment concerning his and Cnemon’s flight from battle to pave the way for a gradual establishment of Theagenes’ andreia, which begins at the start of Book 2. There, the author engages with the discourse of andreia by, somewhat ironically, removing his hero from the usual arenas of andreia, and by appealing instead to the classic opposition of andreia and deilia. This opposition is prominent in philosophical and ethical texts, where those with knowledge of how to respond in the face of danger possess andreia, while those who do not possess deilia.112 Having hidden with Cnemon in the marshes, and believing Charicleia dead, Theagenes criticizes his own retreat from the fighting: Charikleia is dead, and Theagenes is no more. Fate is against me. I became the coward, but in vain. In vain did I endure unmanly flight, 111 Cleitophon also implicitly equates himself with Odysseus, when he attempts to prevent Leucippe from being kidnapped and receives a wound on the thigh (Ach. Tat. 5.7.2). As we will see, this equation, like Cnemon’s, is the author’s joke at the expense of his character’s masculinity, as Cleitophon never really demonstrates the substance of andreia, but merely its superficial trappings. 112 e.g. X. Mem. 4.6.11; see also Arist. Rh. 1366b, where andreia equates roughly to noble behaviour in dangerous circumstances, and deilia is the opposite.

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trying to save my life for your sake, my love. (Hld. 2.1.2; trans. Morgan, modified) ˇYåÆØ #Æ挺ØÆ, ¨ƪÅ I ºøº. "Å › ııåc غe KªÅ ŒÆd æÆe  Å ¼Ææ , ªºıŒEÆ, æØfi Çø KÆı.

Heliodorus here seems to use the performance of andreia in a wry and playful manner. It is rather as if Theagenes has suddenly become conscious of how his flight might appear to another man, and is attempting to account for the apparent absence of andreia in his behaviour.113 He seems almost aware that his behaviour is being ‘read’, not only metaphorically by those inside the text, but also literally by the reader. In Chapter 1 I discussed the undermining of masculine identity felt by both Theagenes and Dionysius at their respective symposia, as they endeavoured to disguise their emotions.114 Theagenes here seems to experience a similar threat to his identity, from which he must recover quickly. He says he ‘became’ (KªÅ) the coward, as if to emphasize that this is contrary to his usual behaviour. He appears to be claiming that ‘unmanly flight’ (æÆe ¼Ææ) is merely a temporary and calculated deviation from the norm, and that his natural inclination was to stand his ground and fight. And that is not all: his performance of the role of coward—his sacrificing of his andreia—was a selfless act, endured for the sake of Charicleia alone. Theagenes may think he is doing no more here than trying to cover his tracks and save a bit of face, but we could read his words as an implicit authorial remark on love’s relation to masculinity: to flee from battle is evidently to be anandros, but love might require a man of andreia to assume the appearance of deilia, and to flee in a manner that goes against his beliefs—love is more important than, and must sometimes take precedence over, displays of masculinity. But there may be yet another twist here, if we think of andreia in Socratic and early Stoic terms, as knowledge of how to react to danger, and knowledge of those things to be, and not to be, endured:115 Theagenes has decided that the battle is something that is 113 cf. 8.16.3, where the Persians retreat from the Ethiopians more slowly than they are able, so that their flight should not be obvious: even naturally cowardly barbarians are aware of the stigma inherent in retreat from battle, and feel obliged to engage in a little impression management. 114 Ch. 1, pp. 50–5. 115 See Cullyer (2003), 216ff. on Chrysippus’ definition of andreia. Perkins (1995), 77ff. has shown that Stoic motifs are common in the novels; see also Doulamis (2007).

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not to be endured, while ‘unmanly flight’ for love’s sake is something to be endured; one could therefore argue that he has exercised his andreia precisely by enduring the appearance of deilia; this, of course, is an appearance that belies his true character.116 Theagenes’ consciousness of performance sets the scene for a succession of occurrences which underline the fact that, although love may be more important than gender displays, masculinity is fragile and cannot be taken for granted. When Cnemon tells Theagenes that Charicleia is in fact alive, the two young men make for the cave in which Cnemon had earlier secreted the heroine on Thyamis’ behalf. On entering it, they discover a body which they initially believe to be Charicleia’s, and Theagenes voices a long and highly emotional lament, culminating in attempted suicide, which fails because Cnemon has removed his sword. The body, however, is not Charicleia’s, but Thisbe’s. When Theagenes and Charicleia are reunited, Cnemon expresses shame at the way in which Theagenes had reacted to the discovery of Thisbe’s body: he had lamented ‘ignobly’ (IªH , 2.7.2) over a stranger. But this condemnation does not seem directed at the specific act of emotional lamentation; instead, Cnemon is apparently riled because Theagenes had not waited to discover for certain the identity of the woman over whom he was lamenting, and had ignored Cnemon’s assertions that Charicleia was still alive (ÆFÆ æØEÆØ ŒÆd ÇB Ø c çغÅ KF ØÆØı, ibid.): it is pique at being sidelined that motivates Cnemon’s comments here. Theagenes, again conscious of his image, asks Cnemon not to slander him in front of Charicleia, and rejoins by heaping scorn upon Cnemon for his own response to the sight of the dead Thisbe: . . . it is time for you to be reminded of your own remarkable display of bravery: . . . though you were armed and had a sword in your hand, you fled from a woman, and a dead one at that! The intrepid Athenian warrior turned tail and ran! (Hld. 2.7.3; trans. Morgan)117

116 Theagenes has anticipated Erving Goffman’s theory that individuals may sometimes perform roles that do not reflect their characters truthfully (Goffman (1969), 30ff.). We will see something similar in the case of Cnemon shortly; he, however, does not emerge favourably from the disparity between external and internal characteristics. 117 A theatrical reference, u æ K d ŒÅB ÆÆ I æÆŒ , emphasizes the performative context here.

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. . . uæÆ Ø Æıe  BÆØ B ¼ªÆ IæÆ . . .  º ŒÆd Øç æÅ c ªıÆEŒÆ, Œæa ŒÆd ÆÅ,  çªø › ªÆE ŒÆd ØŒe Çå .

Despite Athens’ fame for maritime warfare, the Athenian hoplite was an enduring symbol of andreia.118 Heliodorus toys with the reader’s expectation that an Athenian will possess andreia by creating a character entirely devoid of it.119 The schoolyard slanging match between Theagenes and Cnemon conceals a serious point, as Theagenes here stresses the difference between appearing to be andreios and truly possessing andreia, his words highlighting the potential of the body not only to mask the soul’s true characteristics, but to present to the world another image entirely. Ancient anxiety over the body’s ability to conceal or misrepresent its true nature is evident in classical Athenian comedy and tragedy,120 and even crops up as early as the Iliad where, according to Hector, the enemy would think from external appearances that Paris was one of the Trojans’ best men, but in truth he lacks courage (Il. 3.39–45).121 Similarly, though Cnemon looks the part of the andreios Athenian warrior, he is unable to play it convincingly. While Theagenes’ appearance declared his inner andreia to the watching world, and his flight from battle belied that andreia, here Cnemon’s macho garb belies the coward within: not only has he run away from the fighting outside the cave, but he has even fled from a dead woman.122 Cnemon goes on to express his suspicion of Thisbe, despite her death, and Theagenes retorts with the sarcastic remark, ‘Won’t you stop being so manly?’ (ˇP Æfi Å . . . ¼ªÆ IæØÇ . . . ;, 2.11.3).123 Paradoxically, in order to engage

118 von Reden & Goldhill (1999), 268. 119 This perhaps forms part of what may be a serious polemic against Athens in this novel: see Morgan (1989) and Dowden (1996) on Athenian immorality in the Aethiopica, in contrast to the presentation of Ethiopia. 120 See Bassi (2003), 46. 121 He is an example of a ‘mismatch between appearance and inner nature: Paris looks like a brave warrior, but he acts like a coward’ (Duncan (2006), 8). 122 Cnemon is the butt of this joke again later, when Calasiris teases him for his deilia at the sight of a crocodile, as well as at the name of the dead Thisbe: he is afraid not of a man of andreia, but of a dead woman (6.1.4). cf. Chariton 1.9.5 where, having entered Callirhoe’s tomb and seen what he thinks is a ghost, one of the robbers is mocked by Theron as deilos for being afraid of a woman. 123 Bassi (2003), 43–4 remarks that andreia and its cognates are often used ironically in comedy and tragedy to imply ‘the irrevocable absence of a “true” or unambiguous manliness’. cf. Theron’s sarcastic description of his bandit comrade as

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with notions of courage, Heliodorus has removed Theagenes and Cnemon from the prototypical context of andreia. Isolated from warfare and from other men, the two are juxtaposed to enable the reader to see the differences between them. Heliodorus has no need to involve Theagenes in warfare to prove his andreia, as he is able to imply the hero’s andreia simply by reference to its opposite, Cnemon’s deilia.124 This construction of opposites lays the groundwork for Theagenes to come into his own later in the novel, and suggests that his characterization (like that of Chaereas) is not as inconsistent as it might seem to the modern reader. Here I want to turn briefly to Cleitophon who, like Cnemon, has the trappings of andreia but none of its substance. When, in Book 3, the Egyptian bandits seize Leucippe as a virgin sacrifice, she clings on to Cleitophon but is dragged away; he states that the bandits hit him, but he makes no reference to any attempt to protect Leucippe, despite being in the perfect position, as ego-narrator, to recount an andreios effort (3.12). When Leucippe is kidnapped again, by Chaereas in Book 5, Cleitophon makes a slightly better job of demonstrating his manliness, hurling himself among the enemy swords and sustaining an injury to his leg (this, at least, is his version of events: Kªg b ‰ r  çæÅ Ø c çغÅ, PŒ KªŒg ¥ÆØ Øa H ØçH· ŒÆ  ÆØ Ø ŒÆa F ÅæF ÆåÆæÆ ŒÆd þŒºÆÆ, 5.7.2): like Theagenes after his retreat from battle, he has apparently realized his earlier shortcomings; he now sees an opportunity to save face by narrating his selfless and courageous effort to save Leucippe, which resulted in his Odyssean thigh wound. He is indeed extremely keen to appear andreios, displaying his wound at every opportunity as proof of his mettle, first to the stratēgos of Pharos (ØŒø c e æÆFÆ, 5.7.3), and later to Sostratus and the priest of Artemis (ØÆ c Pº , 8.5.1); his actual involvement in battle, however, is never more than nugatory.

ŒÆº ºfiÅc (1.9.7) for being afraid of Callirhoe, a description which perverts the concept of moral manliness. 124 Lalanne (2006), 186 phrases this in reverse, arguing that Theagenes’ andreia highlights Cnemon’s cowardice. cf. Greenblatt’s observations regarding Renaissance texts: self-fashioning is achieved in relation to an ‘other’ (1980), 9; see also Introduction, p. 5 on identity through alterity.

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After his first failure to save Leucippe from the Egyptian bandits, Cleitophon is rescued by the army, and proceeds to show off his horsemanship before the general, Charmides: I asked for a horse, being well versed in the art of riding, and when one came, I rode him about and displayed the various evolutions of cavalry fighting, so that the general was greatly pleased with me. (Ach. Tat. 3.14.2; trans. Gaselee, modified) Kªg b ¥ fi Xı, çæÆ ªaæfi XØ ƒ Ø ªªıÆ . ‰  Ø ÆæB, æتø e ¥  K ،ŠK ÞıŁfiH a H ºø å ÆÆ, u ŒÆd e æÆŪe çæÆ K ÆØÆØ.

It is not hard to see that Cleitophon’s display here is just that: display. With his favourite verb, ŒıØ (here, K ØŒıØ), he unwittingly draws attention to the superficiality of the scene, while the use of a å ÆÆ adds to the sense of shallow pomp: the noun can be used of military tactics, but it also frequently indicates surface appearance, but no content, or an exterior that belies what is beneath it.125 Cleitophon’s display of andreia is geared to nothing more noble than impressing the general and thus coming to benefit from his friendship. Andreia for him is simply a literal performance enacted for personal gain, and indeed it works, as he is quickly promoted to the general’s table and is even given his own Egyptian servant (3.14.2ff.).126 With Cleitophon’s horsemanship we might contrast the appearance of Theagenes on horseback in the Delphic pageant, where his horse is aware of the nobility of its rider. The result of that scene is that Theagenes is proclaimed andreios, and while it too is a highly performative and spectacular event, it lays the groundwork for Theagenes to display more than just the appearance of andreia later in the narrative. Cleitophon, on the other hand, never demonstrates andreia beyond play-acting at being a cavalry soldier, or acquiring a scar that 125 LSJ s.v. e åBÆ. It and its cognates are also used in rhetorical contexts (see Goldhill (2001b), 165), so the reader is reminded of Cleitophon’s own dubious brand of paideia, and of his impromptu adoption of the role of orator before the anonymous narrator. 126 He also gives a brief disquisition at this point on the value of a sob story to the generation of friendship. His words make him sound very much like a parasite, who wheedles his way into social circles by recounting his hardships (cf. Lucian Par. 22 on the importance to the parasite of the cultivation of friendship). If it is right to think of Cleitophon as a parasite, then we might retrospectively apply the comments he makes here to his approach to the primary narrator at the beginning of the novel: is his entire narration of his misfortunes simply the calculating move of a parasite?

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enables him to show off to his elders and betters.127 But his inexperience and general avoidance of scenarios which might require andreia do not prevent him from expounding on the behaviour of others in times of war. He is quite prepared, for example, to go into some detail for his listener on the military strategy of the Egyptians, whom he regards as cowardly for attaining victory by trickery: a cunning plan, he says, amounts to deilia, not andreia (4.14.9).128 If we knew no better, we might imagine that we were reading the words of an experienced military man. But the reader, if he is a man of paideia and andreia, knows that intelligence and cunning are vital elements of andreia, and indispensable in times of war, as we will see from Chariton and Heliodorus. Once again, Cleitophon wants to appear andreios, but his words reveal him otherwise. Returning now to Heliodorus, we find that the series of applications of andreia and its cognates in the cave scene with Cnemon forms a prelude to the appearance of the Egyptian bandit Thermouthis, in an episode which confirms the reader’s doubts about Cnemon’s andreia, and reaffirms his faith in Theagenes’. Charicleia has emerged from her hiding place in the depths of the cave and been reunited with Theagenes, when Thermouthis appears, naked and covered in blood: At the unexpected appearance of this naked, wounded man with blood streaming down his face, Charikleia withdrew into the bowels of the cave, partly from caution perhaps, but mainly because her modesty was offended by the naked and indecent appearance of this new arrival. Knemon subtly made off too, for he recognized Thermouthis, whom he had not expected to see and who he thought might turn nasty. But Theagenes was undismayed at the sight. Indeed, it spurred him to 127 Like Cleitophon, the novels’ bandits also misunderstand or pervert andreia. So, Thyamis’ gang praises him for his andragathia in capturing such a fine specimen as Charicleia, who they believe is a temple priestess: their topsy-turvy view of andragathia identifies as positive, manly behaviour the looting of a holy temple (Hld. 1.7.2); of course, the irony here is that Thyamis turns out truly to be a man of andragathia (and Charicleia a priestess). In Chariton we find Theron making up his tomb-robbing gang as if enlisting soldiers to an army (Æ  s K d c æAØ æƺª ø;, 1.7.2); he rejects one man on the grounds that he is smart but cowardly (ıe b Iººa غ , ibid.), and another because he is gutsy but traitorous (ºÅæe b Iººa æÅ , ibid.), the implication being that tomb-robbery requires real, stalwart manliness. In Latin fiction too, bandits are similarly perverted versions of the heroic soldier (e.g. Ap. Met. 4.8ff.; see Santoro L’Hoir (1992), 184–7 on Apuleius’ subversion of the concepts of vir/virtus in the bandit scenes); see Hopwood (1998) for banditry as a dystopian version of the military. 128 cf. his aphorism on the deilia of slaves (7.10.5).

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action, and he brandished his sword, ready to strike Thermouthis dead if he tried anything untoward. (Hld. 2.13.2–3; trans. Morgan, modified) ˇƒ b ‰ r  ¼æÆ ªıe I æŒÅ æÆıÆÆ çHÆ c ZłØ,  b #Æ挺ØÆ ŒÆd æe a ŒغæÆ F  źÆı ŒÆ, åÆ b ŒÆd PºÆÅŁEÆ º b ¼æÆ ŒÆÆØåıŁEÆ c ªıc ŒÆd PŒ På Æ F çÆ ZłØ· › b ˚ ø MæÆ ŒÆd  æÆŒ, ªøæÇø b e ¨æıŁØ ›æH b Ææ’ Kº Æ ŒÆ Ø H I øæø ÆPe KªåØæ Ø æŒH. ººa e ¨ƪÅ P ŒÆ ºÅ  ŁÆ Aºº j Ææ ı ŒÆd   ç K Æ ‰ Æø Y Ø Æ溪 KªåØæÅ . . .

Heliodorus cleverly constructs this scene to present the reader with a three-tier hierarchy of andreia, at the bottom of which stands Cnemon. Charicleia retreats partly as a precautionary measure, but mostly because she feels modesty at the sight of a naked man; in other words, she behaves in a way ideal for a woman, and thus laudable. Cnemon tries to slope off unnoticed (MæÆ ŒÆd  æÆŒ), his retreat governed by fear that Thermouthis will attack. The fact that Cnemon responds in the same way as a woman to Thermouthis’ appearance casts rather heavy aspersions on his andreia; if we were feeling uncharitable we might even be reminded of Aristotle’s remark, ‘a man would be thought a coward if he were only as brave as a brave woman’.129 It is almost as if Cnemon wants to disappear without ever having been seen, his subtle slinkingaway suggesting that he is aware that retreat is not ideal manly behaviour. By describing Cnemon’s unmanly retreat straight after Charicleia’s perfectly womanly one, Heliodorus implies that Cnemon is less manly than Charicleia is womanly. Theagenes, on the other hand, is quite prepared to fight to the death if necessary,130 displaying his andreia in the prototypical context of hand-to-hand combat; this response places him at the top of Heliodorus’ hierarchy of andreia.131 Cnemon’s characterization here is undoubtedly amusing for the reader, who has been led to expect something of the sort by the recurrence of the discourse of andreia up to this point. The earlier 129 See p. 106. 130 cf. 5.24.3: when the Tyrian ship is attacked by Trachinus’ pirate gang, Charicleia and Calasiris must restrain Theagenes, who is ‘spoiling for the fight’ (KŁıØHÆ æe c åÅ). 131 He is even differentiated from Cnemon and Charicleia by basic grammar: their retreats are described with a  b . . . › b . . . construction, while Theagenes’ response is made to stand out from theirs by the use of Iºº.

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banter and ribbing between Theagenes and Cnemon has paved the way for Cnemon to show his deilia here, living up to the accusations levelled at him by Theagenes. The final example of Cnemon’s dearth of andreia in this episode comes upon Thermouthis’ request that Cnemon accompany him on his reconnaissance mission: Seeing that Cnemon was flinching from this—for he was obviously distressed as he reported the Egyptian’s words—Theagenes said, ‘You always were the sort of person who is vigorous of mind, but weaker of spirit. I know what you’re like particularly from your present behaviour. Whet your resolve! Direct your mind to the more manly course! . . . ’ (Hld. 2.18.3–4)  غØHÆ c æe ÆFÆ e ˚ øÆ ŁÆ › ¨ƪÅ , ŒÆd ªaæ çæÇø a ºåŁÆ æe F `Nªı ı Bº q  æƪøØH, “f b” çÅ “c b ª Å Kææø Ø ¼æÆ qŁÆ, e ºBÆ b IŁæ · ªøæÇø   ¼ººØ  ŒÆd På lŒØÆ E F. ººa ŁBª e çæÅÆ ŒÆd æe e IæØæ ZæŁı c ª Å . . .

I have said that Theagenes’ andreia is a visible quality; in the same way, Cnemon’s deilia is apparent here ( غØHÆ . . . e ˚ øÆ ŁÆ › ¨ƪÅ , . . . Bº q  æƪøØH),132 and it is his current behaviour that most serves to characterize him before others (ªøæÇø   ¼ººØ  ŒÆd På lŒØÆ E F). The classical conception of andreia as a fusion of wise thought and physical action is precisely what Theagenes enunciates here. In his combined criticism and exhortation of Cnemon, he offers a holistic definition of andreia, comprising gnōmē, phronēma, and lēma, qualities that are later attributed to Theagenes himself, to Hydaspes, and to Charicleia. But poor Cnemon is a pale imitation of these higher beings; he may have presence of mind (gnōmē), as his escape from Thermouthis will show (2.19.6–7),133 but he lacks the gumption to tackle a physical threat. It is all very well for Cnemon to possess gnōmē, but if he is unable to direct it and unwilling to act, he cannot be said to be andreios. Cnemon has the external appearance of andreia, but not

132 ˜Bº sounds very much like غ : is there perhaps a play on words here? 133 Note, however, that even this is not without qualification: the excuse he invents of having loose bowels characterizes him more as a figure from the comic stage than the epic battlefield; coming hard on the heels of a Homeric simile (2.19.5) and an epicstyle time check (2.19.6), the effect of the diarrhoea pretext is even more ironic.

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all of the necessary internal components. By contrast, Theagenes has both the appearance and the substance of andreia, a fact that will be demonstrated beyond doubt by his exploits in the final book.

Suicidal andreia Aristotelian ethics did not honour suicide for love as an andreios end, considering its goal ignoble (EN 1116a13ff.).134 The novels, however, are full of suicide attempts made for precisely this reason: suicide for love is in fact a generic motif.135 Both Theagenes and Chaereas exhibit forms of andreia which might be thought to live up to classical ideals, but what is the reader to make of their willingness to die for love? Haynes suggests that Chariton’s primary readership may not have viewed Chaereas’ repeated recourse to suicide negatively, and I think she is probably right. As she notes, Chariton’s text makes ‘no criticism either implicit or explicit of behaviour we might choose to term cowardly’.136 Of all the characters in all the extant novels, only Charicles casts aspersions on the merit of suicide, saying that he did not commit suicide after the death of his daughter and wife, as he had been taught that it was sinful (Hld. 2.29.5).137 If we accept that suicide attempts are the novelistic hero’s expression of an inability to live without his beloved,138 and therefore of the depth of his love, then Charicles’ words read more as a response to a possible question from the reader, ‘Why did he not kill himself after a loss of this kind?’, than as a straightforward condemnation of suicide on religious or ethical grounds.139 I would argue that the novels deliberately take a markedly anti-Aristotelian position on this matter: for the novelistic hero or heroine, not to seek suicide after the death of or separation from one’s beloved is tantamount to deilia—a neat reversal of the Aristotelian view. Chaereas, for instance, curses himself as deilos for not taking his 134 Not all suicides are ignoble, but only those motivated by a desire to escape from certain circumstances: see Garrison (1991), 18–20. 135 Chaereas attempts suicide at 1.4.7, 1.5.2, 1.6.1, 3.3.1, 3.5.6, 5.10.10, 6.2.8, 6.2.11, and 7.1.6, and Dionysius at 2.6.2 and 3.1.1; Theagenes does so too at 2.2.1 and 2.5.1. 136 Haynes (2003), 92–3. 137 MacAlister (1996), 69 sees Charicles’ view of suicide as a reflection of Neoplatonist belief. 138 Ibid. 49. 139 His words also suggest that his love for his wife and child was not the equal of the hero and heroine’s love for each other.

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own life when separated from Callirhoe and subject to what he sees as the tyranny of others (Chariton 5.2.5), while, as we have seen, Charicleia anticipates being praised for her andreia following (perhaps) her suicide in Theagenes’ stead, and Anthia decides that she is not so anandros or deilē that she would choose life over fidelity to Habrocomes. The heroes and heroines of the novels espouse an erotic philosophy that upholds suicide in the name of love as a mark of andreia. After learning from Theron that Callirhoe is alive and has been sold in Miletus, the Syracusans agree to send out a mission to recover her. Fearing that they will not see him again before they die, Chaereas’ parents implore him not to go (Chariton 3.5.4ff.), his mother even bearing her breasts like Hecuba before Hector (Hom. Il. 22.82ff.), and begging to be taken with him. Unable to choose between abandonment of his mission to find Callirhoe and leaving his parents behind, Chaereas throws himself into the sea. It must be said that his aquatic suicide attempt in order to escape a difficult choice does come across as rather weak and impetuous: the rash decision of a young man trying to avoid the quandaries of adulthood—an extreme response in keeping with his characterization so far, it might be argued. MacAlister’s work on suicide in the ancient world has revealed the importance attached to the method one chose to take one’s own life.140 And indeed, death by jumping, she argues, carried connotations of cowardice on the part of the suicide.141 But it is not straightforward to write off Chaereas’ behaviour here as cowardice or passivity, and it may even be more productive to read it as the noble act of a devoted son and husband. Chaereas’ mother’s bearing of her breasts equates Chaereas with Hector. While this gives us a clue as to Chaereas’ military potential, he is not so like Hector that he cannot be persuaded by his parents’ pleas.142 In fact, his response suggests an emotional dimension that epic heroes might be thought to lack. His depth of feeling is such that he cannot refuse either of the obligations he feels—either that to his parents or that to his wife. MacAlister notes that suicide for motives of honour and shame generally met with approval,143 and I would suggest that Chaereas’ 140 MacAlister (1996), 54–5. 141 Ibid. 66. 142 His leap into the sea might recall another Homeric warrior, Odysseus, who himself considers such a leap when his ship is blown off course (Od. 10.49ff.). 143 MacAlister (1996), 54–5.

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indecision and resultant suicide attempt in this scene should be interpreted, at least partly, in precisely this way. To give in to his parents’ pleas would give rise to shame at his abandonment of Callirhoe; equally, to ignore those pleas would be to dishonour his parents. Chaereas thus finds himself at an impasse that only a suicide attempt can resolve; the forcible rescue by his fellow sailors then enables him to go against his parents without really dishonouring them.144 If we read further we might understand Chaereas’ suicide attempt as a noble act of philia: Chariton describes Polycharmus’ hoodwinking of his own parents in order to sail with Chaereas as ‘another act of philia that was not ignoble’ (Ø ŒÆd ¼ºº çغÆ æª PŒ Iª , 3.5.7). This seems to imply that Chaereas’ action is the first such example, since behaving with honour toward one’s parents and one’s wife would indeed constitute philia. Chaereas’ attempt at self-drowning thus allows him to break a stalemate without dishonouring the bonds of philia. Such arguments are complemented by Toohey’s conclusion, that Chaereas’ suicide attempts (and indeed most instances of attempted suicide in Chariton’s novel) are not about finding an escape from troubles through death, but about ‘self-affirmation’: they serve to reboot a character’s autonomy (his ‘social personality’) when it is threatened by the competing demands of others, and are in fact ‘the direct opposite of passivity’, exhibiting elements of performance and public display.145 So the novels do not seem to relate suicide to deilia, and it does not seem to matter whether or not death is actually achieved: a suicide attempt may be said to constitute an act of andreia. Achilles Tatius, however, takes the motif of abortive suicide to an ironic extreme which works to characterize Cleitophon as deilos, and clearly toys with the Aristotelian concept of the noble death. Thinking that he has just seen Leucippe sacrificed, Cleitophon prepares to stab himself, but stalls the blow when he sees two men approaching; he states that he had presumed them to be bandits, and had delayed so that he might die at their hands (K å s ºfi Åa r ÆØ ŒH, ‰ i  ’ ÆPH I ŁØØ, 3.17.1). Rather than simply being thwarted by a friend (the usual pattern in such situations), Cleitophon actually hopes that 144 MacAlister (ibid.), 29 suggests that Chaereas’ behaviour here may be an assertion of identity in the face of his parents’ attempt to control him; this may be correct, as we will see shortly that autonomy plays a part in the ability to display andreia. 145 Toohey (2004), 164–71.

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someone else will do the deed for him. If novelistic suicide is an act of andreia, then Cleitophon is conspicuously deilos, and the placement of the scene shortly after his exhibitionistic cavalry manoeuvres gives it an additional piquancy: he is certainly not the andreios man he is so keen to appear. The two supposed brigands, who turn out to be Cleitophon’s friend and slave, Menelaus and Satyrus, then fulfil the expected function of ‘hero’s friend’, physically restraining Cleitophon from suicide, to which he responds as follows: ‘By all the gods,’ said I, ‘do not grudge me a death that is honourable, nay, is a cure for my woes; I cannot endure to live, even though you now constrain me, after Leucippe has thus been murdered. You can take away this sword of mine from me, but the sword of my grief has already stuck fast within me, and is little by little wounding me to death. Do you prefer that I should die by a death that never dies?’ (Ach. Tat. 3.17.3–4; trans. Gaselee)  ¯ ªg , “—æe ŁH,” çÅ, “ Ø çŁ Å ŁÆı ŒÆºF, Aºº b çÆæŒı H ŒÆŒH· Pb ªaæ ÇB Ø ÆÆØ, Œi F  ØÅŁ, ¸ıŒ Å oø IfiÅæÅÅ . F b ªaæ IçÆØæ Ł ı e ç , e b B KB º Å ç  ŒÆÆ  Ū ŒÆd Ø ŒÆ Oºª. IŁÆø fi çƪfiB I Ł ŒØ  ºŁ;”

Cleitophon’s reference to his search for a kalos thanatos (noble death) underpins the scene with Aristotelian ethics: we might think that he has suddenly realized the deilia apparent in his hesitation, and is now trying to recast his actions in an Aristotelian light, hoping that his dramatic outburst will make him appear more andreios. It is not only his philosophical borrowings that Cleitophon hopes will give him a manly glow. He is keen for his audience (Menelaus and Satyrus at the time of the action, as well as the anonymous narrator to whom he later reports his story) to note the manner in which he had chosen to kill himself, referring to his sword (e ç ) five times from 3.17.1 to 3.17.4. According to MacAlister, swords were perceived to bring a more manly death than other means of suicide.146 But his emphasis on his sword cannot disguise his profound misunderstanding, or misuse, of the philosophy on which he is drawing: he speaks of 146 MacAlister (1996), 55. As the weapon of hand-to-hand warfare, the sword might be seen as a symbol of andreia, and thus invested with manliness (see e.g. Petr. 82, where Encolpius’ sword is confiscated, implying a negative evaluation of his masculinity – there, of course, the sword has the additional dimension of phallic symbol).

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seeking his kalos thanatos in response to the death of Leucippe and as a cure for his troubles; but for Aristotle, a kalos thanatos is found in battle: suicide for love, or as an escape from troubles or grief, would be anything but noble, regardless of whether or not it was committed with a sword (EN 1115a30ff., 1116a13ff.). Cleitophon thus emerges as deilos whether he is viewed from the perspective of romantic fiction (he waits for someone else to commit his suicide for him) or from that of Aristotelian ethics (he wants to die for the wrong reasons). His use of the concept of the noble death, and thus of the virtue of andreia, is significantly flawed.147 We also find the generic suicide motif in Longus, although there it is characteristically downsized and given a pastoral spin. When Chloe and the animals are carried off by the Methymnaeans, Daphnis blames the Nymphs and resolves to lie in their sanctuary, waiting ‘either for death or a second war’ ( ¯ ÆFŁÆ æØH Œ j ŁÆ j º æ, 2.22.4). In the final book, Eudromus warns Daphnis that Gnathon plans to take him back to the city, and Daphnis determines either to flee or to make a suicide pact with Chloe (KªªøŒ –Æ fiB #ºfi Å ºBÆØ çıªE j I ŁÆE ŒØøe ŒIŒÅ ºÆ , 4.18.2). Shortly afterwards, thinking that Astylus is about to seize him on Gnathon’s behalf, Daphnis runs away, intending to throw himself from the headland ( æe c ŁºÆÆ Kçæ Þłø Æıe I e B ªºÅ æÆ , 4.22.2). The motivations for these suicide threats are actually rather complex, and are related to Daphnis’ masculine status as it develops throughout the novel. We will see in Chapter 3 that Daphnis gradually acquires a subliminal sense of elite masculinity and the values it entails. His contemplations of suicide seem to be a part of that sense. The first example is somewhat similar to Cleitophon’s suicide attempt: rather than actively seeking suicide, Daphnis decides to wait for death, or for a war which he presumably expects to kill him. His passivity here might be taken as a sign of his immaturity, but a hint is also given that he is developing an understanding of honour and shame, an understanding that is vital for his progression to the status of elite adult male: it is not only the loss of Chloe that makes him wish 147 There is a further irony in the fact that the ‘sword’ Cleitophon initially hopes Menelaus and Satyrus, the supposed brigands, will kill him with, turns out to be a stage prop, and not a real blade at all (3.20.6–7): even had it got to that point, his attempt to get someone else to kill him would have ended in an embarrassing failure.

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for death, but also the loss of his animals, which he interprets as a failure at his job and thus as a cause of shame before his parents (—Ø d ¼ ØØ Ææa e ÆæÆ ŒÆd c ÅæÆ ¼ı H ÆNªH, ¼ı #ºÅ , ºØ æªÅ K ; åø ªaæ Ø Ø P, 2.22.3);148 his desire for death therefore has a positive motivation in classical terms. The final two references to suicide are again driven both by Daphnis’ feared separation from Chloe, and by notions of honour and shame, this time as they relate to the elite male sexual role, a role I will examine in detail in the next chapter. It seems significant that in the last of these suicide references there is no indecision or passivity, no ‘either-or’ phrase: the perceived threat is imminent, and Daphnis opts immediately for suicide. This newfound activity may signify that Daphnis is making the transition to manhood, but if so, the means of suicide—jumping from the headland—is not a straightforward or unambiguous marker of that transition, given its apparent connotations of cowardice.149 However, the reader might well reflect that Daphnis has few means of suicide at his disposal—how can he kill himself in a manly way when apparently the only sword in this pastoral world is a tiny recognition token (ØçØ, 1.2.3)?150

Andreia and autonomy Although suicide may constitute an andreios act in the world of romantic fiction, a more traditional conception of andreia as a physical quality linked to the agent’s autonomy is still very much in 148 Morgan (2004), 190 notes that this is a wry adaptation of a generic topos found at X. Eph. 5.10.4, where Habrocomes worries that his parents will see him return home without Anthia; the difference is that Habrocomes has undergone many ordeals, while Daphnis patently has not. I would add that the humour here is also derived from the order of priority (goats, then Chloe) in which Daphnis mentions his concerns: he is very much aware that the loss of the goats would be a far greater blow to his parents than the loss of Chloe. 149 For literary models for Daphnis’ chosen form of suicide, see Morgan (2004), 238. 150 This diminutive sword among Daphnis’ recognition tokens may be of some significance as a small-scale symbol of the full manhood he will ultimately attain. It is mentioned again when the tokens are brought out before Dionysophanes to prove that Daphnis is not a suitable sexual amusement for Gnathon (4.21.2). Somewhat amusingly, it is just such a ‘sword’ that Gnathon threatens to turn upon himself if Astylus refuses to take pity on him and ask his father to give him Daphnis (4.16.4).

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evidence. When Chaereas believes Callirhoe to have been awarded to Dionysius by the king, he first contemplates suicide, but is then persuaded by Polycharmus that they should exact vengeance on the king and die as heroes (I ŁÆ ‰ ¼æ , Chariton 7.1.8), an aspiration to which any Homeric warrior could have related wholeheartedly. With this newfound vim, Chaereas demonstrates two key characteristics of ideal Greek masculinity: the ability to defend himself against personal insults and to exact revenge for them,151 and the ability to maintain autonomy and independence of person.152 In his analysis of Plato’s Laches, Schmid notes that even Socratic andreia is more than just endurance: ‘it must also involve the will to attack boldly and win the victory, and the power to move swiftly towards its object’.153 Such a conception of andreia demands that, while passivity and the endurance of fate may be a legitimate aspect of a man’s character, he must also willingly place himself in an agonistic context when he is not necessarily under any obligation to do so.154 So, Aristotle’s definition of andreia stresses that ‘a man must not be andreios because of compulsion, but because it is noble to be so’ (E  P Ø IªŒÅ IæE r ÆØ, Iºº ‹Ø ŒÆºe, EN 1116b2). Chaereas here seems to meet such demands, making an autonomous decision to put himself in the firing line. He no longer intends merely to kill himself, but plans to go out in an andreios blaze of glory, ‘having the two things that most spur a man on to andreia, desire for death and desire for vengeance’ ( a ææ ØŒ ÆÆ N IæÆ å , ŁÆı ŒÆd IÅ æøÆ, 7.2.4). Prior to this change of heart, Chaereas had endured a twofold loss of autonomy, first a metaphorical slavery to love, and secondly a literal slavery. His enslavement to love does indeed appear to preclude him to some extent from displaying his manliness: when he and Polycharmus are working on the chain gang in Caria, Chaereas is unable to do his 151 cf. Ch. 1, pp. 84–6 on Chaereas and Ch. 3, pp. 249–51 on Cleitophon. 152 See Fisher (1998), 70 on autonomy as an ideal masculine characteristic in Greek thought. A similar ideal existed in Roman society: the ability of a vir to wield power depended upon legal, financial, and personal autonomy, and a threat to that autonomy carried a concomitant threat to his status as a vir, on which see Alston (1998), 206ff. 153 Schmid (1992), 112. 154 Harrell (2003), 81ff. argues that andreia is the mark of an autonomous being. In discussing Artemisia’s exhibition of andreia in Herodotus (Hdt. 7.99), she suggests that Artemisia is able to demonstrate andreia precisely because she has become autonomous, having succeeded her dead husband.

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share of the work because his love for Callirhoe is sapping him of his strength; Polycharmus, by contrast, is said to be naturally andrikos and not enslaved by love, and is therefore able to do both his own and Chaereas’ work (4.2.3). By the time of the Egyptian revolt, however, Chaereas’ literal and metaphorical enslavements are over: he has been freed by Mithridates and has abandoned all hope of winning Callirhoe back, and is thus able to perform incredible feats of andreia, driven by his new autonomy and desire for revenge.155 His characterization, then, is perhaps not as inconsistent as it has previously been thought,156 but might be seen as a reflection of the circumstances in which he finds himself: his double loss of autonomy deprives him of his ability to demonstrate andreia, and it is only when he regains that autonomy that he is able to show his manliness. We might compare this newly autonomous Chaereas with Dionysius, who, as a subject of the Persian king, is obliged to take part in the king’s military expedition ( ”ø ªaæ q ŒÆd Pd H  ÅŒø Ø KB, 6.9.1).157 By contrast, Chaereas is subject to no one, and is in fact the only man in Babylon not bound by the king’s will (#ÆØæÆfi Ææ ªªغ P · Æغø ªaæ Fº PŒ q, Iººa   K BÆıºHØ KºŁæ , 7.1.1). Although Dionysius quickly and eagerly assumes his military role, he is nonetheless under compulsion to fulfil that role. Consequently, his andreia is somewhat less effective than that of Chaereas, who successfully storms Tyre, the only city holding out against the Egyptians.158 Chaereas’ victory here is made even more impressive by Chariton’s emphasis on the Tyrians’ bellicose nature and their determination to maintain their reputation for andreia (7.2.7).159 Chaereas may not be bound by subservience to 155 His drive for revenge is such that he claims that it is the sole reason for his continued existence (7.2.4); see Balot (1998), 157. 156 See Smith (2007), ch. 7, who argues that recurring equations drawn between Chaereas and Alcibiades also serve to account for Chaereas’ seemingly inconsistent characterization. 157 See also 4.6.8, where the king summons Dionysius to Babylon for the trial, referring to him as his slave (Ke Fº). Dionysius is not only subject to the king’s rule, but is also reliant on his favour, hoping that he will grant him Callirhoe in return for outstanding service (6.9.3). 158 Dionysius commands 5,000 troops (7.5.14), while Chaereas achieves his success with only 300, a figure which of course equates him with Leonidas at Thermopylae (7.3.9). 159 In light of the Tyrian reputation for fighting ability it is an amusing irony that the deilos Cleitophon is a native of Tyre (Ach. Tat. 1.3.1). Heliodorus turns the Phoenicians’ warlike reputation on its head by presenting his Phoenician merchants

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another man, but his autonomy can never be total, as he is obliged to some extent to behave in accordance with certain cultural codes. Greenblatt’s observations on Renaissance texts are pertinent here: any autonomy in acts of self-fashioning is necessarily limited, because the choice of action can only be made from a narrow set of possibilities authorized by the social and ideological system in which the man finds himself.160 Chaereas is therefore autonomous only within a narrow field of permissible action. So, for example, he is driven to war by a desire to avenge himself against the Persian king, a desire that shows him to be conscious of the need to maintain an image in keeping with the conventions of classical masculinity. While perhaps not autonomous, Dionysius’ andreia is presented as a quality to be performed, and he is clearly aware of its performative nature: Having arrayed himself in the finest armour and formed a formidable troop from those with him, he positioned himself in the vanguard and amongst those who were most conspicuous. It was clear that he would accomplish a noble deed, being by nature an ambitious man and one who did not treat aretē as a mere accessory, but deemed it one of the finest things. (Chariton 6.9.2) ŒÅ b ‹ ºØ ŒÆººØ ŒÆd Ø Æ Eç PŒ PŒÆÆçæÅ KŒ H Ł ÆıF, K E æ Ø ŒÆd çÆæøØ ŒÆÆ Æıe ŒÆd Bº q æø Ø ªÆE, x Æ c ŒÆd çØ çغØ Icæ ŒÆd P ææª c Iæc ØŁ , Iººa H ŒÆººø IØH.

The display-oriented nature of Dionysius’ approach to war is not difficult to see, but it is also not superficial: he both looks like, and intends to behave as, a man of andreia, proving his aretē in the process. The performative adjective çÆæøØ seems to suggest both distinction for fighting ability and vulnerability to attack. In placing himself amongst these men in the front ranks, Dionysius is thus doubly praiseworthy, for he demonstrates prowess in battle and fearlessness in the face of danger: he is every inch the Aristotelian warrior, for although compelled to fight, he takes to the role

as somewhat cowardly when faced by pirates (Hld. 5.25). On Phoenician stereotypes, see Briquel-Chatonnet (1992); I will return to this issue in Ch. 3 and in the Conclusion. 160 Greenblatt (1980), 256.

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enthusiastically, and is clearly undaunted by threat of death, going on to display his military ability in full view of the Persian king, and to prevent the escape of the Egyptian pharaoh.161 After describing Dionysius’ eager assumption of a prominent military role, Chariton turns his focus to Chaereas, and again stresses the performativity of such a role: But what spurred him on more and made him even more conspicuous was rivalry with the king and the desire to demonstrate that he was not contemptible, but worthy of honour. (Chariton 7.2.6) K ªØæ b Aºº ÆPe ŒÆd ØÆ æ æ K Å  æe ÆغÆ çغØŒÆ ŒÆd e EÆØ ŁºØ ‹Ø PŒ q PŒÆÆçæÅ , Iºº ¼Ø ØB .

The sense of performance is emphasized not only by the verb EÆØ, but also by the adjective ØÆ æ æ , which denotes a highly visual, eye-catching display.162 Chaereas is inspired to show his andreia by the sense of rivalry he feels towards the Persian king: by its very nature andreia is a competitive virtue, and is seemingly at its best when motivated by rivalry. Chaereas’ drive to andreia is verbally linked with that of Dionysius by PŒ PŒÆÆçæÅ , which was used of the troop Dionysius formed (6.9.2); we are led by this connection to expect that Chaereas’ achievements will be no less spectacular than those of his older and more experienced rival, and that he is now as aware as Dionysius of his image before others.163 Chaereas is also retrospectively identified with his illustrious father-in-law, the general Hermocrates, who is established early on as a successful military man (i.e. a man of andreia) and one who is PŒ PŒÆÆçæÅ (1.2.4).164 161 The Greek here is full of display- and competition-oriented vocabulary: åÆ  i ŒÆd Øçıª, N c ˜ØØ æª ŁÆıÆe K Æ· Œi fiB ıºfiB MªøÆ ºÆ æH , Id Æå ºÅ Æغø , ¥ Æ ÆPe º fiÅ, ŒÆd æH KæłÆ f ŒÆŁ Æ, 7.5.12–13; cf. the similarly competitive and performative spirit with which Chaereas’ troops display their abilities to him: Oºª  K ı P, Iººa uæÅ ŒÆd æØ æÆæåØ ŒÆd ŒıæBÆØ ŒÆd ÆFÆØ ŒÆd æÆØHÆØ  ›ø ,  æŁıÆ K ØÆØ #ÆØæÆ fi æH , 7.5.11; and also Theagenes’ bringing down of the bull right in front of Hydaspes’ throne (on which see pp. 152–3). 162 LSJ s.v. ØÆ æ . This concentration on the performative quality of andreia is continued with the initial description of Chaereas’ success at Tyre: ¯PŁf s æª K Æ ªÆ (7.2.6). 163 cf. also 2.4.1, where Dionysius is concerned not to appear PŒÆÆçæÅ before his servants for having fallen in love with Callirhoe. 164 It may be relevant to their displays of military andreia and leadership that both Chaereas and Dionysius are fathers: military handbooks of the imperial period state

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So Chaereas’ (partial) autonomy results in a grand display of military andreia, designed to cement his status as a man, and a formidable one at that. In Theagenes’ case too, autonomy seems to play an important role, though this time in an athletic context. Theagenes may sometimes see the need to be passive, retreating from battle to preserve himself for Charicleia, for instance, but at the Pythian Games he recognizes the need to be active. When there are no official opponents for the champion runner Ormenus, the field is thrown open to anyone who wishes to compete, and Theagenes immediately puts himself forward (Hld. 4.2ff.). Unlike in warfare, Theagenes is threatened here not with death, but with loss of reputation, a threat that is quite real, given his opponent’s history of successful racing. Calasiris emphasizes the precariousness of Theagenes’ situation by reference to the IÆ he will suffer should he lose the race (4.2.2): at stake, implicitly, are his reputation amongst other men and his image before Charicleia, who stands at the end of the track, ready to award the prize to the victor (4.1.2). Ormenus is so successful that Calasiris posits that success as the reason he has no official challengers (4.2.1). Theagenes’ own claim never to have been beaten on foot (Pd K c  æ   ÆæºŁg KÆ, 4.2.3) makes his loss of the race simultaneously less likely and more serious should it happen, since he has such a glorious reputation to maintain.165 His prowess on foot equates him once more with Achilles, whom Calasiris again says he looks exactly like (4.3.1). As we have already seen, Theagenes is a better version of Achilles—an Achilles minus the flaws. His confidence in his abilities on the track wryly reverses the words of his other epic avatar, Odysseus, and shows him to be a better version of him too: at the Phaeacian Games Odysseus is confident in every event except the foot race, where he fears he may be beaten (YØØ ØŒÆ d    ÆæºŁfi Å (ÆØ Œø, Hom. Od. 8.230–1).166 It is not just a simple foot race that Theagenes chooses as the occasion to show off his andreia, but the hoplitodromos, the race in that a good general should be a father of children; see Campbell (1987), 13 on Onasander’s treatise on generalship. 165 Theagenes’ words may reflect the common claim in imperial agonistic inscriptions never to have been beaten (on this practice see König (2005), 148; see also Dio’s Melancomas oration 29.11). 166 On the Phaeacian Games as a particularly masculine, performative, and competitive context, see Doherty (1992).

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armour, a fusion of athletics and warfare which perfectly symbolizes the roles played by those two activities in the construction of the andreios male. Theagenes’ victory may perhaps be predictable, but it is meant to do more than merely satisfy the reader’s expectations: given the fact that athletics was sometimes viewed as training for warfare, his success is indicative of his potential in battle, a potential that is later fulfilled in his hand-to-hand combat with Pelorus.167 While his decision to place himself in this agonistic situation may seem to be entirely his own, and while there is certainly no explicit compulsion here, Theagenes’ autonomy is only partial, as he is driven to compete by a sense of erotic rivalry, not wanting anyone else to be near Charicleia (P ªæ Ø KF Ææ ŒÆd ›æH !æ KŒ H #ÆæØŒºÆ åØæH e ،ŠæØ I ÆØ, 4.2.2): like Chaereas, he is motivated by masculine competition. But the similarity to Chaereas ends there. Where Chaereas’ strength was apparently sapped by love, for Theagenes love is an empowering force, giving him the impetus needed to win the race (4.4.1). Although ostensibly autonomous, then, Theagenes’ entry into the race, and his very triumph, depend upon love: his exhibition of andreia is erotically inspired.168

Wise andreia I have discussed here some very physical military and athletic examples of andreia. But andreia was not simply a physical virtue. It was also related to paideia and phronēsis, and it is this aspect that I want to consider now, looking to Chariton first. The first half of Chariton’s text focuses on paideia, as Dionysius struggles to maintain his accustomed character under the assault of his developing love and desire for Callirhoe. At the midpoint of the story we see a change in narrative focus, the result of which is a concentration on andreia. Chariton signals this new phase in the novel by a recapitulation of the story so far at the beginning of the fifth book, and our entry into a world of andreia appears to be flagged by his description of the Persian palace courtroom where the trial over Callirhoe is due to 167 Such displays of military potential are also evident in the Delphic pageant, where Theagenes appears in battle gear (3.3.5), and at Theagenes’ symposium, where the young Thessalian men perform the pyrrichē (3.10.3). 168 Given Heliodorus’ frequent flirtations with Plato, this probably reflects the Platonic notion that Eros provokes lovers to feats of andreia (Pl. Smp. 178eff., 196cff.).

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take place: as we might expect, the courtroom is assembled in an agonistic style, but this style is also specifically military, with a reference to the presence of lochagoi and taxiarchoi, both military positions (5.4.5).169 After the sudden appearance of Chaereas at the trial, the king grants a five-day postponement (5.9.8); Dionysius employs his paideia in an attempt to endure the delay, but we are told that even the most andreios man would not be able to tolerate the situation.170 The passage suggests a latent interplay between paideia and andreia in matters of self-comportment, to the extent that the two concepts are near-synonyms, or at the very least operate in a synergistic relationship; we might think here of Dio’s Diogenes– Alexander dialogue in which Diogenes remarks that divine paideia is sometimes known as andreia.171 Balot observes the emphasis on martial valour in the latter part of Chariton’s novel,172 but he does not, in my view, appreciate the link in sociocultural thought between andreia and the rational faculties. Cullyer notes that Platonic and Stoic thought viewed andreia as a ‘quieter’ virtue, constituted by endurance and self-control as much as by perseverance in physical action.173 This is an interpretation apparent in Dionysius’ efforts to cope with the delay in the trial. Balot sees Chariton’s examination of ‘self-mastery as a masculine ideal’174 as discrete from bravery, effectively amputating andreia from rationality and self-analysis. But Dionysius’ response to the delay shows that andreia and paideia are anything but opposing concepts. It seems rather that andreia is intimately connected to the rational faculties, to such a degree, perhaps, that Chariton has no need to invest much energy in depicting the connection. He has not abandoned his investigation into human psychology, as Balot would argue,175 for the link between

169 See also 5.4.1, where the run-up to the trial is described in military terms which serve to flag the shift of emphasis, and also to equate love and war, an equation I will explore further at the end of the chapter; cf. Lalanne (2006), 16. 170 On this passage see Ch. 1, pp. 61–2. Chariton’s reference to andreia here may be a deliberate foreshadowing of the fact that the contest for Callirhoe will, in the last analysis, come down to a display of andreia, although, as Balot (1998), 159 notes, it is not military victory that ultimately dictates who wins Callirhoe, but love itself. 171 Above, p. 27 and p. 103. 172 Balot (1998), 156. 173 Cullyer (2003), 225. 174 Balot (1998), 156. 175 Ibid.

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andreia and right judgement is for the most part implicit, and instinctively understood by the reader. We also see the importance of right thinking and self-control as a complement to the physical side of andreia in the characterization of Chaereas. When Chaereas joins the Egyptian army, the pharaoh recognizes that he has paideia (7.2.5). Chaereas then storms Tyre, demonstrating his capacity for andreia in a traditional context, but also employing intelligence in order to inveigle his way into the city (7.4.5ff.). Writing on the Attic orators, Roisman observes that the possession of manly courage usually assumes the possession of other manly qualities such as reason and self-control.176 This seems to be true for Chariton too, as he remarks quite pointedly that Chaereas is the only man able to show self-control in the thick of the fighting ( ¯  b fiH IØŪ ø fi ø fi Ææåø fi  KøçæÅ #ÆØæÆ , 7.4.9).177 Warfare demands a very physical and aggressive attitude, which Chaereas is able to demonstrate and yet keep under control: his andreia comprises the ability to restrain himself, and this selfrestraint marks him out from others. His display of controlled andreia (or ‘controlled display of andreia’) ensures that he is given command of the fleet, whose sailors are thrilled to have a man of such andreia as their leader (7.5.11), while the infantry are disappointed to lose him (7.5.10). Given that Chaereas is modelled intertextually on Achilles, the reader expects his characterization to be based to some degree on rash behaviour and fighting ability. But, like Theagenes, Chaereas proves himself a better version of Achilles, an Achilles with benefits—a formidable fighter who can hold back and use his intellect where necessary. And yet, Chaereas’ self-control does not exempt him from moments of poor judgement, as when he is on the verge of informing his troops of the Egyptian king’s death, and must be counselled otherwise by Callirhoe (8.2.4). Similarly, he intends to take the Persian queen and other notables as slaves, and must be dissuaded by Callirhoe’s prudent advice to the contrary (8.3.1ff.).178 It could be argued that the rash decisions Chaereas is on the point of making at

176 Roisman (2005), 110. 177 Chariton uses this Xenophontean phrase (X. Cyr. 7.1.32) of Artaxerxes too; in contrast with Chaereas, however, the Persian king displays a lack of sōphrosynē by thinking of Callirhoe instead of the war (6.9.5). 178 cf. Theagenes’ equal willingness to accept Charicleia’s counsel (e.g. Hld. 5.7).

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these moments are signs that he is still subject to youthful impetuousness. It might also be said that his reliance on Callirhoe signifies immaturity, inexperience, and weakness of autonomy. So, Haynes sees his behaviour here as indicative of a ‘lack of independence and general initiative’.179 But, as with Chaereas’ suicide attempt when confronted with his parents’ pleas, there is another side to the coin. Callirhoe’s advice on these occasions recalls that of Andromache to Hector (Hom. Il. 6.405ff.), but where Hector refused his wife’s suggestions, Chaereas, by contrast, is more than willing to accept Callirhoe’s.180 I suggested that Chaereas’ response to his parents characterized him as more emotionally rounded than Hector, and it seems to me that his adoption of Callirhoe’s advice has the same effect: by having Chaereas heed his wife, Chariton is once more offering the reader a superior version of an epic archetype. Chaereas may sometimes require his wife’s assistance in order to make the most judicious decisions, but in the heat of battle, when he has no one to assist him and when it is most vital to be sōphrōn, he is able to retain clarity of thought and to act independently: he does not fail at the critical moment, and can thus take pride in his successes, knowing that his military conduct has not brought shame to his wife (8.1.17).181 Self-control and careful thought are evident in the case of Theagenes too, in his wrestling bout with the Ethiopian giant. Theagenes faces up to this new challenge with no qualms, assessing his situation and judging that cunning will serve him better than outright physical andreia: Theagenes, who was a lifelong devotee of the gymnasium and athletic endeavor and a past master in the art of combat whose patron god is Hermes, decided to give ground to start with: he had already experienced the power of his opponent and was resolved not to come to grips with such a monstrous hulk of a man in the full spate of his bestial fury, but rather to use skill to outwit brute force. (Hld. 10.31.5; trans. Morgan) 179 Haynes (2003), 85. 180 van Nortwick (2001) argues that Hector’s rejection of Andromache’s words derives from a need to define himself as autonomous, and that he cannot allow his autonomy to be compromised by intimacy (see also van Nortwick (2008), 63ff. on Hector); Chaereas’ relationship with Callirhoe, on the other hand, seems to accommodate both autonomy and intimacy, with no sense of incompatibility between the two. 181 Failure in battle is a common source of shame in Greek ideology; so, for example, Hector’s response to Andromache’s advice is motivated primarily by fear that, were he not to immerse himself fully in battle, he would feel shame before the men (and notably also before the women) of Troy (Il. 6.440ff.).

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 ˇ b ¨ƪÅ , xÆ c ªıÆø Icæ ŒÆd IºØçB KŒ ø IŒÅc    Kƪ Ø  EæF åÅ MŒæØøŒ , YŒØ a æHÆ ªø ŒÆd I  ØæÆ B IØŁı ıø ºÆg æe b ZªŒ oø º æØ ŒÆd ŁÅæØøH æÆåı c › åøæE, K ØæÆ fi b c ¼ªæØŒ Nåf ŒÆÆçÆŁÆØ.182

Like Theagenes’ opponent in the hoplitodromos, this ‘monstrous hulk of a man’ is reputed to be peerless, unrivalled both on the battlefield and in wrestling and boxing (¼æÆ Ø æŒÇø ºø b ŒÆd ƃø IŁºÅc IÆƪ Ø ºÅ b ŒÆd ıªc c K ŒØ ŒÆd ÆØ Iı Æ, 10.24.3).183 This reference to his prowess in both archetypal manly arenas suggests that, like the race in armour, the contest is a conflation of warfare and athletics. It is also indicative of the severity of the threat Theagenes faces, and of the prestige he will gain from victory. The giant’s strength is crude and rustic (¼ªæØŒ ), and he has seemingly scored his earlier victories by reliance on sheer bulk. Theagenes’ strength, however, is complemented by years of experience in the gymnasium, and Heliodorus emphasizes just how much time and effort he has invested in his training with the clause, xÆ c ªıÆø Icæ ŒÆd IºØçB KŒ ø IŒÅc    Kƪ Ø  EæF åÅ MŒæØøŒ . König has demonstrated the importance of such training in the education of the elite, stressing that the gymnasium was also ‘regularly associated with the inculcation of the rhetorical, literary and musical skills which were seen as central to civilized elite identity’.184 Paideia and the gymnasium evidently went hand in hand, and the paideia Theagenes has received in the gymnasium has given rise to an intelligent andreia which proves his saviour.185 König observes that athletic success was often taken as a metaphor for many different virtues,186 and this seems to be so in Theagenes’ case: his athletic education has not been solely physical, but has taught him other skills suggestive of manliness, including an understanding of

182 The use of º æØ and æÆåı seems designed to evoke Pelorus and Trachinus in the reader’s mind: Theagenes was victorious against those men, suggesting that he will be against this one too. 183 cf. the description of Pelorus, which similarly highlights his indefatigability (Iæd a Æ ªÆø fi ŒÆd çØ KªªªıÆø fi Æ ººØ , 5.32.4). 184 König (2005), 47–63, quotation from p. 51. 185 cf. Chaereas, who has also had some form of educational experience in the gymnasium (Ch. 1, pp. 81–2); his experience, however, was presented as a potential contributory factor in his downfall. 186 König (2005), 132.

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when to apply force, and when it is more prudent to use alternative methods to secure victory. Like Chaereas in battle, he is able to withhold his natural manly force, and apply his culturally acquired (and equally manly) paideia—something his agroikos, barbarian opponent is unable to do. Theagenes’ use of intelligence characterizes him as a civilized Greek, in contrast to the brutish barbarian giant, locating the scene in a literary and cultural tradition that presented Greek intelligence and civilization as superior to barbarian brute force.187 Heliodorus is at pains here to demonstrate that his hero can be more than the extremes of passive and active, and is capable of combining a traditional, physical andreia with intelligence and foresight: Theagenes may be equated with Achilles, but he is clearly not the unthinking Achilles of Dio Chrysostom’s dialogue,188 or the efficient but rash warrior of the Iliad, and his triumph is the result of a fusion of the best aspects of his two epic archetypes, Achillean strength and Odyssean cunning and endurance.189 Ethiopia may be a barbarian land, but its ruler is cast in the mould of Hellenistic kingship discourse, and, as Lalanne observes, Hydaspes’ andreia is a model for the Greek Theagenes, who will succeed him to the throne.190 In the figure of Hydaspes, Heliodorus both explores andreia as a virtue of wisdom and self-control, and problematizes the roles of nature and culture in its formation. In his intricately conducted siege of Syene, Hydaspes demonstrates his military abilities, as well as his willingness to employ a cunning stratagem if the circumstances call for it. As apparently in athletics, trickery was an accepted element of sensible warfare, as evidenced by imperial military handbooks, which give instruction on tricking the enemy in battle and conducting a successful siege.191 Hydaspes’ form of andreia is one of which Odysseus would undoubtedly have approved: a capacity to 187 J. R. Morgan (1998), 62. 188 See p. 114. 189 After Theagenes’ display of wise andreia, he and Charicleia are accepted as heirs to the Ethiopian throne; while she is a native of Ethiopia, his athletic victory seems to have the power to confer upon him a high social status in a country that is not his own (see König (2005), 60 on imperial inscriptions: ‘athletic victory at the highest level could open doors to membership of cities other than one’s own native community’). cf. the new political power that Dionysius’ display of paideia brings him after the loss of Callirhoe (Ch. 1, pp. 62–4). 190 Lalanne (2006), 187. 191 See Campbell (1987), 16. Cleitophon has apparently never read such handbooks, given his comments on the Egyptians’ use of trickery (p. 130).

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succeed in open warfare, accompanied by the use of wit and wisdom in an effort to achieve the best results with the fewest casualties. But it is not only Hydaspes’ behaviour during active warfare that proves him a man of wise andreia: his sense of justice as a true king is also demonstrated, in his treatment of the people of Syene after their capitulation. There, the Ethiopians address the Syenians as follows: Hydaspes, King of the Ethiopians who dwell to the East and to the West, and now your sovereign also, has the capacity to destroy his enemies utterly but is naturally inclined to take pity on suppliants. While he adjudges the former course a mark of strength befitting the act of a soldier, he considers the latter to show a love of humanity germane to his own character. (Hld. 9.6.2; trans. Morgan)192  ) Å › H æe IƺÆE ŒÆd ıÆE `NŁØ ø ıd b ŒÆd H Æغf ºı  KŒ æŁE r  ŒÆd ƒŒÆ NŒæØ çıŒ, e b IæE, e b çغŁæø  ŒØÇø ŒÆd e b åØæe r ÆØ æÆØøØŒB , e b YØ B ÆıF ª Å .

This seems to make two distinctions, the first between brute force and considered reaction, and the second between learned behaviour and nature. On the one hand, destroying one’s enemies utterly is associated with andreia, and on the other, being lenient towards a conquered people is a mark of philanthrōpia. The latter is said to be Hydaspes’ natural response ( çıŒ), which in turn suggests that andreia, by contrast, is learned behaviour, and therefore not natural; indeed, the use of r , while denoting ability, also suggests acquired knowledge.193 However, while clemency and philanthropy are said to be natural, and things quite personal to Hydaspes himself (e b YØ B ÆıF ª Å ), clemency in response to appeals for mercy is in fact a mark of the pepaideumenos—the man of culture.194 Brute force and rational thought were usually equated to nature and culture 192 The Ethiopians go on to state that Hydaspes does not behave like a tyrant in times of victory, and Hydaspes himself later advises the captive Oroondates on the contrast between true kingship and tyranny (9.21.3). Hydaspes’ characterization in these scenes is foreshadowed by Thyamis’ words to Arsace, concerning her intention to treat Theagenes and Charicleia as prisoners of war: ‘And while it is in the nature of war to make slaves, it is in the nature of peace to set them free; the former act is a tyrant’s whim [ºÅÆ ıæÆØŒ]; the latter shows the judgment of a true king [ªÆ Æغ،]. The true distinction between peace and war resides less in the inherent meaning of the words than in the deportment of the agents concerned’ (8.4; trans. Morgan). 193 My thanks to Ken Dowden for alerting me to the connotations of r  here. 194 See Ch. 1, p. 84.

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respectively, but here Heliodorus seems to want to reverse this equation, making rational thought a natural part of Hydaspes’ character, and brute force (implicitly) something learned. The import of the passage is that andreia is something Hydaspes has learned to exhibit as a warrior, but that, as a good king and responsible man, he holds the force of andreia in check by the application of cultured, wise thought: a real man does not act on his impulses simply because he can.195 By attributing Hydaspes’ clemency to nature, Heliodorus leaves the reader with the impression that the king has learned so well how to make wise decisions that the application of that cultured, wise decision-making to learned andreia assumes the appearance of the natural.196 Heliodorus makes much of the Greekness of his Ethiopians, and Hydaspes’ Hellenization may be significant here: as a Hellenized Ethiopian, he is able to apply learned standards of Greekness to his behaviour in such a seamless manner that they appear natural. When Charicleia’s identity is revealed, we again encounter the nature/culture dichotomy. Hydaspes is torn between his newfound role as father, and his decision, as king, to sacrifice his daughter. We are told that his interior conflict is between paternal emotion and manly resolve ( ÆæØŒfiH fiH ŁØ ŒÆd Iæø fi fiH º ÆØ, 10.16.2),197 and that when he submits to his fatherly feelings, he is submitting 195 cf. Dionysius’ reaction to Leonas’ suggestion that he should have his way with Callirhoe because he is now her master (Chariton 2.6.3), and Artaxerxes’ response to a similar suggestion made by Artaxates (6.3.7); although a Persian, Artaxerxes is presented in a favourable light, a depiction that again draws heavily on Hellenistic ideas of kingship. Chariton’s presentation of the Persian king contrasts markedly with Heliodorus’, which in turn contrasts with the characterization of Hydaspes: Oroondates refers to his king as punishing deilia more vigorously than he rewards andreia (Hld. 9.21.4), suggesting a man who lacks the balanced and circumspect outlook of the Ethiopian king. 196 Hydaspes here seems to bear witness to Butler’s argument that the credibility of gender performances obscures the cultural construction of gender, making gendered behaviour seem natural. See Gleason (1995), 73 on the imperial confusion of nature and culture that led even to the physical ‘moulding’ of babies, designed to make their immature bodies conform with what were seen as their natural characteristics: ‘anyone who has been compelled to submit since birth to highly intrusive processes of nurture exacted in the name of nature might be expected to experience some uncertainty on the question of exactly where one ends and the other begins’ – in Epictetus, for example, ‘masculine integrity appears as both a natural phenomenon and a cultural construct’. 197 Hydaspes’ ruminations bear all the hallmarks of the functioning of an internal, private paideia, like that exercised by Dionysius.

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to nature. The scene thus establishes an opposition between private paternal feelings and the public duties of an andreios man, nature’s victory implying that paternal feelings are more natural, and stronger, than the responsibilities of andreia. However, although Hydaspes acknowledges his paternity, he is committed to his responsibility, his andreion lēma, namely the sacrifice of Charicleia. Yet we soon learn that his address to the Ethiopian populace is cleverly designed to cause the people to oppose his apparent determination to sacrifice his daughter (10.17.1).198 His wisdom and rhetorical skill (in other words, his culturally acquired paideia) enable him to maintain his reputation for andreia, as he is able to spare Charicleia at the behest of his people, without seeming to renege on his andreion lēma. Theagenes too is influenced strongly by manly resolve. Startled at the sight of a giraffe at the Ethiopian victory celebrations, a sacrificial bull breaks free, its rampage threatening the safety of the spectators (10.28). Quite literally taking the bull by the horns, Theagenes brings the animal under control, thereby saving the crowd from injury.199 Describing Theagenes’ response to the runaway bull, Heliodorus wonders whether his reaction is the result of his own manly resolve (YŒŁ Iæø fi fiH º ÆØ ŒØ , 10.28.4), or of some form of divine inspiration—here we have andreion lēma again, precisely the vocabulary used of Hydaspes earlier. While we might think that oikothen implies a natural quality, the equation drawn between Theagenes and Hydaspes through the repetition of andreion lēma suggests that, as with Hydaspes, we are dealing with an andreia that is learned. Oikothen is simply intended to contrast with the possibility that Theagenes’ exploits might be divinely inspired: he is acting either because of an external impetus, or because of a learned andreia that has become an internal and integral part of him. In fact, this learned andreia is so much a part of Theagenes’ make-up that it is visible to onlookers.200 The question Heliodorus raises over the origin of Theagenes’ action deliberately draws the reader’s attention to the possible reasons for that action. This attention is then focused still further by the

198 On the design of this address, see Morgan (2006). 199 Theagenes’ capture of the bull has several heroic precursors, of course: Jason’s yoking of the fire-breathing bulls (A.R. 3.1306ff.), Theseus’ slaying of the bull of Marathon, and perhaps even Mithras’ tauroctony. 200 See pp. 119–22.

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spectators’ reaction: they at first think he is trying to escape, but gradually realize that his sudden bolting is not due to cowardice (c I غÆØ , 10.28.5)—if what they are witnessing is not an example of deilia, it stands to reason that they must be about to enjoy a display of andreia. Finally, even Charicleia wonders what the purpose of Theagenes’ behaviour might be (10.29.2). Both she and the crowd think of his action as an ‘undertaking’ (e KªåæÅÆ), suggesting that they see him as having exercised his own free will and having chosen to act in this way, literally taking the situation in hand. But his behaviour is not as freely enacted as it at first seems. His pursuit of the bull may begin in spur-of-the-moment fashion, but its ending is aimed at influencing the spectators’ perception of him: apparently feeling the need to get the crowd on his side, he brings the bull down right in front of Hydaspes’ throne (10.30.3), and then intentionally whips up the enthusiasm of both king and populace (10.30.5), bringing himself into their favour. His capture of the bull impresses the people so much that they demand an encore, requesting that he fight the giant, a request to which he accedes wholeheartedly. His acceptance of the challenge (which he would prefer to be a sword fight in order to increase the threat of death) is aimed, he says, at provoking Charicleia to declare their relationship (10.31.1).201 Theagenes evidently feels an erotic compulsion to act. We might think back to his impromptu entry into the hoplitodromos, which also appeared autonomous, but was motivated by rivalry for Charicleia’s affections. Such motives may suggest that Theagenes’ andreia in these scenes is not performed entirely freely, but they also imply that it is reasoned and calculated: he does not act on a whim, but with very specific intentions. When it comes to his final chance to display his andreia in his fight with the giant, we have been prepared for his victory by means of his earlier assimilation with Hydaspes: Theagenes may not be as strong as his Ethiopian opponent, but he will triumph by wit and cunning, becoming, through a display of wise andreia, the intellectual equal of his future father-in-law.202 But it is not only in public performances of masculinity that Theagenes excels; his manliness is also apparent in other, more private contexts, and it is to those that I turn now. 201 Charicleia had in fact been on the point of revealing their relationship, but was sent into the pavilion by Hydaspes (10.22). 202 And also of his future wife, who used the cunning of archery against the pirates on the beach (see pp. 113–15).

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Erotic andreia I have said that, in the case of women, andreia is very much directed towards a sexual sōphrosynē. Although male andreia has a much broader scope, men too are required to employ it in the battle against desires and pleasures. So, Plato’s Laches identifies a sexual karteria as a form of andreia, and his Alcibiades characterizes Socrates’ chaste response to him as evidence of his andreia, amongst other virtues.203 Theagenes first displays his possession of sexual sōphrosynē, and thus erotic andreia, when he and Charicleia are alone in the Egyptian cave after the departure of Cnemon and Thermouthis: Now, for the first time, they were alone in one another’s company with no one to interrupt them as they hugged and kissed to their heart’s content with nothing to restrain or distract them. They instantly forgot their plight and clasped one another in a prolonged embrace so tight that they seemed to be of one flesh. But the love they consummated was sinless and undefiled; their union was one of moist, warm tears; their only intercourse was one of chaste lips. For if ever Charikleia found Theagenes becoming too ardent in the arousal of his manhood, a reminder of his oath was enough to restrain him; and he for his part moderated his conduct without complaint and was quite content to remain within the bounds of chastity, for though he was weaker than love, he was stronger than pleasure. (Hld. 5.4.4–5; trans. Morgan, modified)  ªaæ æH NÆ fi ŒÆd Æe I źºÆªØ F Oåº  Iºº ºØ Kıå I ÆæÆ ø ŒÆd ›ºåæH æØ ºŒH  ŒÆd çغÅø K  ºÆ. ˚Æd ø –Æ N º ŁÅ K  Yå K d ºE Iºº ºø ƒd ı çıŒ , ±ª b Ø ŒÆd ÆæŁ æø ŒæØ ŒæıØ b ªæE ŒÆd ŁæE N Iºº ºı ŒæÆØ ŒÆd ŒÆŁÆæE  تØ E çغ ÆØ·  ªaæ #Æ挺ØÆ e ¨ƪÅ Y Ø ÆæÆŒØFÆ ÆYŁØ ŒÆd IæØÇ   Ø H ‹æŒø Iºº, › b P åƺ H K Æ ª ŒÆd øçæE ÞÆ fi ø Må æø b Kºø B b Œæø ªØ .

The erotic charge of this scene is emphasized by the proliferation of semi-sexual vocabulary—I have underlined those words with an attested sexual sense, or which might possibly be read as having

203 See pp. 00–00.

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such a sense.204 Having himself been turned on by this surfeit of sexy words, the reader is all the more impressed by Theagenes’ selfrestraint, coming as it does at the climax of the episode. The reader remembers that it was in this very cave that the discourse of andreia was first activated, with Theagenes’ andreia implied by strong emphasis on Cnemon’s deilia. That discourse is now resumed, with Theagenes proving his possession of andreia in a sexual context by demonstrating sōphrosynē. In the case of Musonius’ virtuous woman, the verb IæÇÆØ referred to the defence of sōphrosynē, while here it obviously denotes a sexual demonstration of masculinity, which must be restrained by the application of sōphrosynē, rather as andreia must be controlled by sōphrosynē in battle and sport. This scene forms a sexual parallel to Theagenes’ flight from the fighting outside the cave.205 There, we saw a conscious decision not to show his masculinity in a military context, in order to preserve himself for Charicleia. Here, he again retreats from the fray, and for the same reason: he must preserve himself for Charicleia’s sake, for he has vowed to respect her chastity until they are married, and that promise entails respecting his own; a sexual demonstration of his andreia—his manliness—is thus out of the question. Theagenes is aware of the ideal he must try to live up to: it is acceptable for him to be ‘weaker than love’, but vital by the ethics of the masculine ideal that he prove himself stronger than his desire for pleasure, that he exhibit sōphrosynē in a situation where he has the power to indulge that desire. We should note that much is made of the couple’s isolation, suggesting that Theagenes could easily take advantage of Charicleia, should he so decide. But he is sufficiently in control of himself that he needs only to be reminded of his oath in order to rein himself in. In the earlier swearing of that oath he had anticipated this precise scene:

204 Heliodorus’ stress on his protagonists’ chastity makes the reader culpable for the way in which he (almost inevitably) interprets the vocabulary here – he seems to be playing a game very similar to that played by Longus in his prologue (see Morgan (2004), 148 on Longus’ prologue, where the narrator’s prayer to maintain sōphrosynē can be seen as ‘a duplicitous indemnity clause, which alerts the reader to the fact that there is prurient material to come, and challenges him to find it by disingenuously suggesting that smut is in the eye of the beholder’). 205 The correlation between this erotic scene and the earlier military one is emphasized by the description of Theagenes’ self-restraint with the verb K ƪÆØ, which can be used of military retreat.

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. . . Theagenes swore his oath, protesting that it was not fair that by a preemptive oath aspersions should be cast on his probity of character before it could be put to the test; he would not be able to display the power of moral choice, for people would think that he was acting under the compulsion of fear of heaven’s wrath. (Hld. 4.18.6; trans. Morgan) . . . K ı › ¨ƪÅ , IØŒEŁÆØ b çŒø N æº łØ206 F ‹æŒı e Øe F æ ı æß ÆØ, P ªaæ åØ K ØØ æÆæØ çø fi F Œæ ŒÆÅƪŒŁÆØ ØÇ . . .

Theagenes seems almost conscious of his status as a romantic hero, whose erotic andreia is bound to be tested.207 Here again there is a strongly performative element: he wants to display (K ØØ) his autonomy, and is anxious about how his motives for any future sōphrosynē might be perceived (ØÇ )—he is concerned for his image before potential audiences. This concern in turn guides the reader in his interpretation of the later cave scene: Theagenes is not being sōphrōn because of the oath, but because he chooses to be so,208 and the ease (P åƺ H ) and contentment (Må) with which he restrains himself contribute to his construction as a sōphrōn male. The decision not to show andreia, not to ‘be brave’ or ‘play the man’ in a sexual context, paradoxically invests Theagenes with andreia, with manliness, just as we observed in the presentation of his flight from battle: the man who is truly andreios exercises sōphrosynē by choice. We find Theagenes’ sōphrōn andreia reinforced when he is tortured to elicit submission to Arsace’s sexual advances. Cybele arrives on the pretext of bringing him food: . . . but, in fact, she had come to gauge his reaction to his present condition and see whether the rack had brought about any submission or softening of his resolve. But on the contrary he was more of a man than ever and rebuffed her advances with redoubled firmness. Though his body was in torment, his spirit had the strength of virtue, and he refused to bow his head to fortune, proclaiming proudly that despite her 206 There is surely a metaliterary wink from Heliodorus in the use of æº łØ: this is indeed a prolepsis of the erotic cave scene. 207 For self-awareness under the gaze of the reader, see also his earlier flight from the fighting (pp. 124–6). 208 The use of the term proairesis, a Stoic watchword, seems to suggest Stoic influence, and makes a distinction between what the body is forced to do and what the soul remains free to do (Sandbach (1975), 165); see Doulamis (2007) on Stoic proairesis in Xenophon of Ephesus; cf. also Morales (2004), 203 on Achilles Tatius.

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hostility in all else she had shown him kindness in the one thing that mattered by presenting him with an opportunity to display his love and devotion to Charikleia . . . (Hld. 8.6.3–4; trans. Morgan) . . . e b IºÅŁb I  ØæøÅ Æ Øa ª Å åØ æe a ÆæÆ ŒÆd Y æ KØÅ ŒÆd ƺØ æe H æº ø.  ˇ b q º Icæ  ŒÆd º I å æe a æÆ , e b HÆ ŒÆÆ  c b łıåc K d øçæfiÅ Þø , ŒÆd ªÆºÆıå –Æ æe c åÅ ŒÆd ªÆıæØH N ºı FÆ e ºE æØ fiH ŒÆØæØøø fi åÆæÇØ, K Øø Içæc B N c #Æ挺ØÆ PÆ  ŒÆd ø ÆæåÅÅ . . .

In ƺØ and º Icæ we have an antithesis. The ‘softening’ that Cybele hopes to induce in Theagenes implies a lack of sexual selfrestraint; torture has had the opposite effect, however, and Theagenes’ renewed resolve not to play a manly role with Arsace makes him appear more manly, precisely as in the earlier cave scene with Charicleia.209 His soul is strengthened in its urge toward sōphrosynē,210 so much so, in fact, that he is prompted to boast (ªÆºÆıå ) and bear himself proudly (ªÆıæØH) in the face of fortune’s treatment of him. Indeed, that treatment has resulted in the opportunity to display (K Øø ) his feelings for Charicleia by resisting torture and maintaining sōphrosynē.211 Heliodorus’ use of the verb ªÆºÆıåø seems designed to connect this scene to Calasiris’ physiognomical description of Theagenes and his horse.212 There, the set of Theagenes’ neck was highlighted (OæŁe e ÆPåÆ, 2.35.1), while his horse arched its neck (oø e ÆPåÆ ŒıÆø, 3.3.7) in response to the nobility of its rider, a description intended to serve as evidence of andreia. The verb ªÆºÆıåø is based on ÆPåø (‘boast’), but, given the Greeks’ rather liberal approach to etymology, it seems reasonable to think that Heliodorus may intend a pun

209 And again we have a parallel drawn between military and sexual andreia, this time by the use of I åÆØ. 210 Another suggestion, perhaps, of the Stoic differentiation between the enslaved body and the free soul. 211 Theagenes’ endurance of torture may have been thought an important marker of masculinity by an elite Second Sophistic reader: ‘In a society where cruelty was so pervasive, we should never underestimate the political weight of physical courage. A primal awe surrounded those who were known to have withstood torture’ (Brown (1992), 64). 212 The participle ªÆıæØH also refers back to the description of the horse, which was said to bear itself proudly (ªÆıæ , 3.3.7).

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on ÆPå .213 Here, then, in the face of Cybele’s blandishments, Theagenes is ‘big-necking’. The neck is a matter of concern to ancient physiognomists, for whom a long and thin neck, or a short one, is a sign of deilia (Adam. B21).214 By ‘big-necking’, Theagenes is therefore flaunting his andreia, this time through his demonstration of sōphrosynē. On that note we turn to Cleitophon, of whom the verb IæÇÆØ is used in a sexual sense, as it was of Theagenes, but who, unlike Theagenes, once again shows himself conspicuously deilos. After Cleitophon has kissed Leucippe for the first time, his slave Satyrus sees an opportunity for his master to secure his desires: now is the ideal time to be manly (IæÇŁÆØ, Ach. Tat. 2.10.1), he advises Cleitophon, since Leucippe’s mother is ailing (ƺƌÇÆØ, ibid.), and is consequently confined to her room, rendering Leucippe more accessible. Satyrus is encouraging Cleitophon to take a more active role in wooing Leucippe, the (not-very-well-hidden) implication being that he may be able to have sex with her, given the fact that her mother cannot now chaperone her: IæÇŁÆØ entails a physical demonstration of masculinity through sex. Achilles establishes an antithesis like that just seen in Heliodorus, between andreia and malakia—between the sexual andreia Satyrus expects Cleitophon to show, and the malakia (softness, weakness) of Leucippe’s ailing mother.215 But malakia more usually indicates moral weakness,216 and the reader versed in the erotic code of the genre knows that it will be Cleitophon who will show such malakia should he sleep with Leucippe before they are lawfully married. Achilles uses the verb IæÇÆØ again later, after Leucippe and Cleitophon have eloped together. Having fled the Egyptian bandits and joined the army, they are assigned a house while the general awaits the arrival of reinforcements. On entering the house, Cleitophon tries his luck with Leucippe: ‘As soon as I walked in,’ he tells us, ‘I wrapped my arms around her, ready to be a man’ (ŒÆd ‰ Yø 213 See Jones (2003) and (2006) on ancient attitudes to etymology, and on Heliodorus’ use of etymology in his character names. 214 Adamantius uses æåź rather than ÆPå , although the distinction between the two is not entirely clear (LSJ s.v. æåź ). 215 There is probably a certain degree of sexual innuendo in the contrast between andreia and malakia here: Cleitophon is expected to be a man, i.e. to be physically hard, in contrast to the current flaccidity of Leucippe’s mother. 216 See Ch. 3, passim.

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ÆæBºŁ, æØ ı ÆPc x  XÅ IæÇŁÆØ, 4.1.2). The use of a verb that evokes andreia gives a metaphorical military gloss to Cleitophon’s actions that complements the military context;217 similarly, battle had been raging outside Theagenes and Charicleia’s cave shortly before the use of the same verb. Just as Theagenes is able to play the man in the cave, should he choose to do so, so too is Cleitophon (x  XÅ)—he is primed and ready to demonstrate his erotic form of andreia in physical action. But Theagenes made a conscious choice (underscored by his reference to proairesis) not to play the man sexually, thereby exhibiting a sōphrōn andreia. Cleitophon, however, makes no such conscious choice, but is instead forced into inaction by Leucippe’s rejection of him, and unlike Theagenes, he protests at having to restrain himself (4.1.2–3). He either misunderstands or deliberately flouts the codes of erotic andreia, presenting that andreia not as sexual self-restraint, but as the fulfilment of sexual desire. Both the unabashed way in which Cleitophon narrates his misperformance of masculinity, and the lack of censure he receives for it, might suggest that Achilles is questioning the attainability and the legitimacy of ideal masculinity. Meanwhile, the reader is able to derive humour at the expense of (and perhaps even sympathize with) a man for whom military andreia consists solely in showing off his horsemanship, and erotic andreia in nothing more than having sex—notably, he fails to live up to even that mistaken ideal of masculinity.218

The lover as soldier and athlete In the final subsection of this chapter I turn to one further use of the language of andreia in erotic situations. Both Greek and Latin texts use military and athletic language in their description of erotic relationships. Such language may have been thought especially suited to this purpose because, strange as it may seem, love could be perceived as having much in common with combative contexts. For instance, warfare and athletics were governed by specific nomoi, to which their 217 Incidentally, æØ ø also has military connotations, suggesting the outflanking of an enemy: Leucippe is to be Cleitophon’s conquest, or so he hopes. 218 We will see in Ch. 3 that Cleitophon’s narration of the Thersander episode suggests that he is in fact familiar with the protocols of masculinity, but is either unwilling or unable to apply them to his own behaviour.

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participants were expected to adhere; similarly, lovers were not exempt from conformity to certain customs, especially during the courtship period. Like warfare and athletics, courtship could end in victory or defeat, and sex itself could be physically demanding. Everywhere, lovers try to fight off their erotic inclinations, rivals compete for the same beloved, couples strive to maintain fidelity, or vie over who loves the other more—with all of this, love itself might well seem to be just as much of an agōn as warfare and athletics, and so best described with military and athletic metaphor.219 I exclude Longus and Xenophon from the discussion here, since Longus’ pastoral setting and deliberate erotic naivety tend to preclude the use of urbane and sexually knowing military and athletic topoi, while Xenophon’s use of the militia amoris motif, although prolific, merely establishes the love of the hero and heroine, and seems to lack any wider significance.220 Chariton, Heliodorus, and Achilles Tatius, however, all use the motif of the lover as soldier or athlete as a means of meditating on the male role in an erotic relationship, and on the relative value of public competition for love and public displays of andreia; consequently, those authors are the focus of my attention here. From the very beginning of his novel, Chariton locates love in an agonistic context, describing Eros as çغØŒ (1.1.4),221 and this contentiousness is predictive of the series of contests that will be fought over Callirhoe in the course of the novel.222 But, ironically, 219 Konstan (1994b), 181: ‘Love, too, might be construed as a sport or competition, and one could rejoice in subduing the object of desire, or beating out one’s rivals’. 220 On the rare occasions that Longus uses this kind of erotic metaphor, he voices it through urban and sexually-experienced characters: Lycaenion speaks of the ‘wrestling’ Daphnis and Chloe will do together (3.19.2), and Gnathon begs Astylus to give him Daphnis as a present, hoping in this way to overcome ‘unconquerable Love’ (4.16.3). Xenophon’s rather banal examples include: Habrocomes as the victim of Eros’ warfare (1.2.1); Habrocomes imagining Eros setting up a trophy to commemorate his defeat (1.4.4); and Habrocomes thinking himself rendered anandros by Eros (1.4.1–3), although, ironically, Anthia considers him anandros and deilos for not having declared his feelings for her sooner (1.9.4) – andreia and deilia are associated with erotic matters as much as with military. 221 The manuscript reads çغØŒ (cf. X. Eph. 1.2.1), but Reardon prefers çغØŒ ; however, LSJ imply that the two are to some extent interchangeable. Whether Eros is a ‘lover of strife’ or a ‘lover of victory’ makes little difference to the discussion here, as both readings suggest a contentious god. 222 Balot (1998), 144 rightly considers that the description of Eros as çغØŒ ‘underlines the connection between erotic passion and martial contest which plays a central role throughout the novel’.

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Chariton uses military and athletic metaphor in a manner that implies that he rejects competition as a means of deciding erotic matters. While he does sometimes employ the military metaphor in traditional and straightforward ways,223 it is in the focalization of the more elaborate instances of the figure that Chariton allows his male characters to construct and project themselves as erotic subjects, simultaneously revealing their misconception of the nature of love. Such metaphor is first used of Callirhoe’s rejected suitors. Having initially fought each other (ÆåØ æe Iºº ºı , 1.2.1), they are now driven by Envy, who enlists them in a war against Chaereas (KæƺªØ b ÆPf K d e ŒÆa #ÆØæı º › (Ł , ibid.): erotic competition has become a metaphorical war, and indeed will escalate to a full-scale and very real war later in the novel. The fact that the suitors view themselves as competitors in a contest is made clear by the speech of one of them, the son of the tyrant of Rhegium: If any of us had married her, I should not have been angry, for, as in athletic contests, only one of the contestants can win; but since we have been passed over for one who has made no effort to win the bride, I cannot bear the insult . . . How long have we been slaves? . . . And now, competing with kings, this rent-boy, this good-for-nothing wretch, has carried off the victory crown without fighting for it. Let the prize be of no profit to him . . . (Chariton 1.2.2–4; trans. Goold, modified) N  Ø K H ªÅ, PŒ i TæªŁÅ, u æ K E ªıØŒE IªHØ £Æ E ØŒBÆØ H IªøØÆø· K d b ÆæıŒÅ A › Åb  bæ ªı  Æ , P çæø c oæØ. . . .  åæ ıºŒÆ; . . . › b æ 224 ŒÆd Å ŒÆd Åe Œæø Æغø IªøØÆø ÆPe IŒØd e çÆ XæÆ. Iººa IÅ ÆPfiH ªŁø e pŁº . . .

223 e.g. love as wounding: 1.1.7 (of Chaereas), 2.4.1 (of Dionysius), 4.1.9, 4.2.4, and 5.5.9 (all of Mithridates); the agōn between Love and the lover: 2.4.5 (of Dionysius) and 6.4.5 (of Artaxerxes). 224 I prefer (as does Reardon) the manuscript’s æ to Praechter’s emendation, ¼ æ , which has none of the opprobrium we might expect from embittered suitors. The suggestion that a man has chosen a passive sexual role in his adulthood, and particularly for financial remuneration, is an effective way to damage his masculine reputation (see Edwards (1993), 70ff.). Of course, the suitors are not genuinely claiming that Chaereas has prostituted himself, but soothing their bruised egos by impugning his masculinity in as extreme a manner as possible, amongst themselves. cf. Ach. Tat. 8.10.9, where Cleitophon is labelled æ when accused of having committed adultery with Melite. I will return to the implication of such terms in Ch. 3.

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Here, the suitor understands marriage to be akin to athletics: a competition between men, with a wife as figurative prize. In Heliodorus’ foot race we see that Ormenus cannot be declared the winner because he has not been challenged (4.2.1); likewise, on the suitor’s understanding of marriage, Chaereas ought not to have been proclaimed victor without getting dirty (IŒØ) in the metaphorical arena: by not competing, Chaereas has flouted the rules of the agōn. Writing on performance, Bauman highlights the framing of acts of communication, the performer’s intention being to guide the audience in its interpretation of those acts; such framing, he adds, might include the use of stylized language, or ‘appeals to tradition as the standard of reference for the performer’s accountability’.225 The suitor’s use of figurative language drawn from a long and familiar literary tradition can be seen to fulfil this function, though on two different levels. First, by projecting himself and his fellow suitors as erotic athletes, and by appealing to athletic nomoi, the suitor guides his internal audience (the other suitors) in its interpretation of the situation, in an attempt to gain support: the metaphor and the convention he cites are undoubtedly familiar to them. But secondly, by having the suitor project himself as a competitor for a mute prize, Chariton communicates to the external audience (the reader) the suitor’s profound misunderstanding of love: Chaereas had no need to compete, because where love is reciprocal, contest is redundant. So, while the suitor’s adoption of the athletic metaphor may positively influence his internal audience’s response to him, it negatively affects the reader’s reaction, because it emphasizes the one-sided nature of his desire for Callirhoe. The same effect is achieved immediately afterwards, as the tyrant of Acragas frames the male erotic role in military terms, requesting that the other suitors appoint him to the position of stratēgos in the war against Chaereas (1.2.5). By framing these performances of masculinity with familiar literary topoi, Chariton conveys to the reader his own endorsement of reciprocal love, thus exalting Chaereas and Callirhoe’s feelings for each other. In its use for polemical motives, the topos is similar to that found in Latin elegy. However, the author’s construction of suitors who project themselves as soldiers and athletes serves not as a wholesale rejection of a life of militia, but as a small-scale rejection of the agōn’s intrusion into love.

225 Bauman (1989), 264.

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The elegiac amator sometimes presents himself and his beloved as soldier and besieged town respectively.226 A similar self-projection is found in Dionysius’ case, although here it is he who is besieged. Having acquired a kiss from Callirhoe by guile, he is utterly defeated ( ÆÆåŁ b q KŒ  ºØæŒÅ , 2.8.1): he is the conquered city and Callirhoe the victorious (though unwitting and unwilling) besieger. The scene’s focalization through Dionysius conveys a singular perspective that excludes Callirhoe’s feelings, and simultaneously transmits to the reader Dionysius’ misconception of love and the male role in it: to him, Callirhoe’s love is something to be acquired by stealth and through military-style machinations; but, as we have already seen from Chariton’s presentation of the suitors at the beginning of the novel, true, reciprocal love cannot be forced into being by metaphorical (or even literal) warfare: it exists outside such trivial posturing and self-projection. In Chapter 1 I discussed Dionysius’ consciousness of his own image, and his desperation to maintain a certain front before his friends and servants, despite the fact that love was adversely affecting him. We see that consciousness again when he approaches Plangon to ask for assistance, presenting to her the image of a soldier who is not yet completely defeated, despite the ruinous effect of Callirhoe’s kiss. He casts Plangon as general in the campaign against Callirhoe (a b æH Ø . . . KæÆ ªÅÆØ, 2.8.1), for it was she who engineered the kiss, and offers himself as an ally (Æå åıÆ ŒI, 2.8.2),227 in an effort to reverse the siege and launch an assault upon Callirhoe. Despite his and Plangon’s combined attack, however, Callirhoe proves unconquerable ( ÆÆåŁ I Å , 2.8.2). The military imagery is unmistakable, and neatly contrasts with the condition in which Callirhoe’s kiss left Dionysius: while his erotic city was subjugated, his attempt to reverse 226 e.g. Ov. Am. 2.12.1–8 (the trope is found in Latin prose narrative too: see Ap. Met. 9.18 for the storming of a figurative house). Murgatroyd (1975), 62 argues that elegy’s militia amoris motif is modelled on New Comedy, although the extant comic fragments retain little of it – see e.g. Men. Pk., where Polemon’s efforts to recover Glycera are narrated in the language of a military siege; the surviving text preserves the tail end of the operation (468–9, 479). Chariton’s use of the metaphor might well be drawn from New Comedy rather than from elegy (see Borgogno (1971) on some of Chariton’s borrowings from the former), although his elevation of love over public competition does seem to align him with elegy. 227 cf. the tyrant of Acragas, who expects Jealousy and Love to work as allies against Chaereas (1.2.5); and of course Sappho’s famous use of the notion of an erotic ally (1.28).

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the siege finds her citadel unassailable. Unusually in instances of erotic metaphor, it is not Eros or the lover who eventually triumphs, but Tyche, and this twist on the militia amoris motif highlights the disparity between Dionysius’ and Callirhoe’s feelings: she is ‘outgeneralled’ (ŒÆæÆŪ ŁÅ, 2.8.3) not by feelings of love but by the whims of fate, when her discovery of her pregnancy by Chaereas forces her to surrender to Dionysius’ advances. Like Dionysius, Mithridates too thinks of Callirhoe’s love as something to be fought for. On discovering that Chaereas is Callirhoe’s first husband, he intends to use this information to sever Callirhoe’s new marriage to Dionysius. He hopes to sit on the sidelines like an athlete, biding his time while Chaereas and Dionysius fight over Callirhoe, and then take the prize himself without expending any effort (ŒÆŁ æ K E IªHØ E ªıØŒE çæ ø Æf #ÆØæı  ŒÆd ˜Øıı ÆPe IŒØ e pŁº [˚ƺºØæÅ] I ÆØ, 4.4.1). Chariton chooses his language carefully here, the words ŒÆŁ æ K E IªHØ E ªıØŒE , IŒØ, and e pŁº recalling the suitor’s u æ K E ªıØŒE IªHØ, IŒØ, and e çÆ at 1.2.2–4. Like the suitors, Mithridates projects himself as an athlete, believing that love is something that belongs to the competitive sphere, and something whose return may be forced or won as a prize. Of course, as a barbarian, he hopes to flout the rules, winning Callirhoe without having to compete. But Chaereas alone could marry Callirhoe IŒØ, because she reciprocated his love.228 It is not only those whose love is unrequited who view love as something to be won through competition. Upon the revelation of Chaereas before the court, Chariton states that warfare between love rivals is only to be expected ($ı ŁÅ b s ŒÆd æåØæ AØ E IæÆÆE º , 5.8.4), and then conveys the attitude of Chaereas and Dionysius by adding that the sight of the prize (e pŁº) stimulates their sense of competition.229 Despite the fact that his love was reciprocated IŒØ, Chaereas has been drawn into public 228 The language of andreia continues as Mithridates and Dionysius come to court over Callirhoe: each side is said to prepare ‘as though for the greatest war’ (u æ K d º e ªØ, 5.4.1), and each believes that victory is his (5.4.3); even the excited populace looks upon events as upon the Olympic Games (5.4.4), as if infected by Dionysius’ and Mithridates’ attitudes. 229 See also 6.2, where Chaereas and Dionysius return to court like Olympic athletes competing for a prize: the simile reads in part as self-projection by the two men, and in part as the internal audience’s interpretation of the situation.

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competition for Callirhoe, and he, like the other men in the novel, resorts to objectifying her as a prize, even squabbling over her in court.230 As Balot notes, however, Callirhoe ‘is not a prize to be won by an individual man’, and to look upon her as such is ‘a fundamental category mistake’.231 A small remark on the audience’s reaction to the stichomythic courtroom exchange between Chaereas and Dionysius seems designed to throw into relief the men’s misconception of love and the male role in it: the two men are first described in rather grand terms as warriors fighting each other ( æe Iºº ºı ÆåØ, 5.8.6), a description which assimilates their behaviour to that of the suitors (åØ æe Iºº ºı , 1.2.1), but Chariton then immediately says that those present listened to the confrontation ‘not without pleasure’ (PŒ IÅH , 5.8.6). It must be said that the exchange between the two rivals comes across as little more than petty namecalling, and the reaction of the internal audience appears designed to reinforce this reader-response: the audience’s pleasure encourages the reader to view with amused contempt the men’s competition over Callirhoe, and their self-projection as soldiers and athletes of love. What begins as erotic rivalry, described metaphorically in the language of warfare, escalates to literal warfare as Chaereas and Dionysius head off to fight for the Egyptians and Persians respectively. While this war is ostensibly between the mutinous Egyptians and their Persian overlords, it stands as a symbol of the erotic agōn between the two male protagonists.232 The notion of Callirhoe as a prize to be won recurs, with Dionysius hoping that Artaxerxes will grant her to him in return for his aristeia on the battlefield; notably, like Mithridates he anticipates acquiring Callirhoe without a contest (º łÆØ Ææa F Æغø ŒÆd åÆ Œæø pŁº B IæØÆ c ªıÆEŒÆ, 6.9.3)—bizarrely, he would rather go into a military battle than into a legal one, but to his mind the perceived certainty 230 The fact that Chaereas too has come to see the acquisition of Callirhoe as a form of victory in a competition between men is underscored when he receives the false news that the king has granted her to Dionysius (7.1.5–6). He refers to Dionysius’ apparent triumph as a ‘judgement by default’ (Kæ Å b ŒÆŒæŁÅ), and a victory ‘won without speaking’ (ŒÅŒ تH), and hopes that it will be of no advantage to him (Iºº Pb Zçº ÆPfiH B ŒÅ ), all of which provides a parallel in legal terminology to the complaints made by the suitors in athletic language that Chaereas had won Callirhoe IŒØ, and their hopes that his pŁº would not profit him. 231 Balot (1998), 158–9. 232 On Chariton’s escalating series of agōnes and their role in the structure of the novel, see Reardon (1982).

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of warfare will be a substitute for the uncertainty of the trial: the outcome of a trial could not be guaranteed, but Dionysius’ opinion of his own military ability convinces him that victory is within his grasp if he enters the fray. But the war, like the trial, does not produce a clear victor, implying that true love cannot be won through contest, either military or judicial. In the final book we learn that Tyche had intended to make Chaereas unwittingly leave Callirhoe behind on Aradus ‘as a spoil for his enemies’ (ºçıæ b E ÆıF ºØ , 8.1.2). Here, Callirhoe is to be a literal spoil of a real war, and in so being she will also be the figurative spoil of Dionysius’ erotic battle to win her. Balot quite rightly views Aphrodite’s intervention at this crucial point as a demonstration that love is not a prize to be won by competition between men, and as a rejection of the agonistic construction of Eros presented earlier in the novel.233 The lack of decisive victory, either in the courtroom or on the battlefield, suggests that true love cannot be won through such masculine, public contest, and it is only the intervention of the goddess of love that can resolve the issue: love may well be articulated through the masculine and agonistic language of military and athletic andreia, but literal agōnes cannot secure love for the contestants—Chaereas gets the girl, not by military triumph, but by virtue of requited love. In Heliodorus, we again find athletic and military metaphor used for the purpose of elevating reciprocal love over public, masculine contest.234 The first instance (chronologically, though not narratologically) of the motif occurs in Calasiris’ narration of the happenings at the Pythian Games: The following day was the last of the Pythian tournament, but for the young couple another tournament was still at its height, one presided over and refereed, it seems to me, by Love, who was determined to use these two athletes, in the only match he had arranged, to prove that his particular tournament is the greatest of all. (Hld. 4.1.1; trans. Morgan, modified) fiB b æÆÆ fi › b —ıŁø Iªg ºÅª › b H ø K ŒÆÇ IªøŁF , r ÆØ, ŒÆd æÆ % Eæø ŒÆd Ø IŁºÅH  233 Balot (1998), 158. 234 Heliodorus does not use the militia amoris figure in his description of his protagonists’ love at first sight, but instead depicts a Platonic meeting of souls (3.5.4–5). J. R. Morgan (1998), 75–6 notes, however, that he does toy with the metaphors of erotic fire and arrows on the first two occasions that Theagenes and Charicleia see each other (3.5 and 4.4).

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ø ŒÆd ø R KÇÆ ªØ Iª ø e YØ I çBÆØ çغØŒ Æ .

Eros is once more çغØŒ , casting Theagenes and Charicleia as figurative athletes in his erotic agōn, which is prioritized (ªØ) over the literal arenas of andreia: although Theagenes engages in spectacular feats of andreia at the end of the novel, Eros’ metaphorical agōn is specifically stated at this early point to be the greatest of all, and the prowess of the two erotic athletes will prove it so. So, while it is clearly important to Heliodorus to display his hero’s andreia in physical and competitive contexts, this is of less significance than his role in a love relationship: as in Chariton, literal andreia is not being rejected quite as elegy rejects virtus, but its significance in the construction of manliness seems to be being diminished. The characterization of both sexes as athletes in Eros’ game stresses mutual depth of feeling: Theagenes and Charicleia are players in the same game, players whom Eros joins together on equal terms. Theagenes’ subsequent victory in the foot race is contrasted with Charicleia’s erotic defeat: she has already been said to be utterly enslaved by her feelings for Theagenes (˜ºø b ªaæ ›ºåæH fiH ŁØ, 3.19.1), and is now completely defeated (lÅ ºÆ æH ŒÆd ºø fiH Łø fi º j ææ, 4.4.4); but these descriptions of erotic subjugation only serve to match her feelings with those of Theagenes, who earlier experienced his own figurative defeat at the hands of Charicleia (lÅÆØ ŒæÅ , 3.17.4). He and Charicleia have been proud and protective of their lack of erotic experience, and the onset of love leads them to conceive of themselves as adversaries.235 This metaphor is continued in the pseudo-kidnap of Charicleia from Delphi, which is presented as a military campaign led by Theagenes (KæÆ ªØ b ¨ƪÅ e KæøØŒe F º N ºå I e B  B R Kç ı ıÆ , 4.17.3), conflated with the image of a kōmos to a beloved’s house ( º ŒH , ibid.). Although siege and conquest metaphors often convey inequality or lack of reciprocity, here, by contrast, Charicleia’s complicity in the kidnap (– ÆÆ æØıEÆ, 4.17.4) betokens erotic reciprocity and equality: she is emphatically not a helpless spoil of war,236 and is merely playing the role of passive

235 Charicleia refers to Theagenes as e Kd ºØ (4.11.1). 236 Indeed, on learning that Charicleia returns his love, Theagenes must be held back by Calasiris, who stresses that Charicleia is not booty (P ªaæ –æ ƪÆ e

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beloved to Theagenes’ active lover in order to further her relationship with the man she loves.237 The only true agōn Theagenes and Charicleia face is a mutual one, in which they are both engaged for the preservation of their sōphrosynē and pistis.238 Chariton and Heliodorus use military and athletic metaphor with earnest intent, flying the flag for true, reciprocal love. Achilles Tatius, on the other hand, seems to use it in as knowing and ironic a fashion as the Latin elegists themselves, and indeed, as an ego-narrative, Cleitophon’s romance comes closest to those of elegy.239 Cleitophon describes his first sight of Leucippe as a metaphorical wounding (PŁf I øº ºØ· Œºº ªaæ Oæ Øæ ŒØ ºı ŒÆd Øa H OçŁÆºH N c łıåc ŒÆÆææE· OçŁÆºe ªaæ ›e KæøØŒfiH æÆÆØ, 1.4.4), projecting himself as an erotic warrior, as though conscious of his role as romantic hero. His use of the metaphor offers both his internal and external audiences exactly what they might expect in terms of narrative topoi from a tale about love at first sight. Because Cleitophon is narrating his own story, other characters’ speech is filtered through him, and he projects his own fondness for literary clichés onto others. So, for instance, in offering his erotic advice, his cousin Cleinias refers to a lover’s initial attempts in terminology that would not be out of place in a military handbook (f . . . øŁ IŒæºØf H KæÆH, 1.10.4). Satyrus too falls easily into military metaphor, recommending that Cleitophon advance his erotic efforts by drafting in a second figurative siege engine ( æƪ c ıæÆ ÅåÆ , 2.4.3). Cleinias and Satyrus, æAªÆ, 4.6.5). Charicleia is mistakenly considered a spoil of war by Thyamis (1.19.6), and by Pelorus and Trachinus (5.31.3). 237 Lateiner (1997) suggests that the abduction scene reflects a real-life practice which, if the woman was complicit in it, allowed her to exercise choice in a matter over which she would usually have little or no control. 238 They embark on a form of erotic competition with each other in their endurance of captivity and punishment, wherein each believes that to undergo a lesser punishment than the other would constitute a symbolic defeat; they are each other’s inspiration to continue the agōn to maintain their sōphrosynē and pistis (8.9.22). 239 The ego-narrative form also suggests a certain proximity between Achilles’ novel and the Latin novels of Apuleius and Petronius (although we of course have no way of knowing how unusual Achilles was in his use of that form – there are traces of ego-narration in the Phoenicica, for example). More interesting in its suggestion of proximity is the repeated recourse to notions of performance and truth-manipulation shared by Achilles and the Latin novels. This may imply cross-fertilization between Latin and Greek novels, or it may simply be the result of a pervasive cultural preoccupation with such notions in the 1st and 2nd centuries.

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Cleitophon’s praeceptores amoris, clearly conceive of Leucippe as an erotic city to be besieged and conquered.240 If Leucippe must be conquered, has she really fallen for Cleitophon at first sight, as he purports to have fallen for her?241 Of course, there is no way to answer this question, and the use of the ego-narrative mode is deliberately occlusive (as it is in elegy), denying both internal and external audiences access to Leucippe’s feelings. The possibility that Cleitophon’s feelings are not returned, and his self-projection as a soldier of love, make him seem a Phoenician version of the elegiac amator, who must often battle the resistance of his beloved. But it is not only the role of erotic soldier that Cleitophon performs. In his response to Satyrus’ advice he declares: By Athena! You’re training me up for the task convincingly. But I fear that I may be a gutless and cowardly athlete of love. (Ach. Tat. 2.4.4) —ØŁÆH  . . . c c ŁÅA, N e æª ÆØæØE · ØŒÆ b c ¼º J ŒÆd غe æø IŁºÅc ªøÆØ.

Here he moves into athletic territory, drawing on Greek texts’ long history of erotic sport. Cleitophon casts Satyrus in the novel role of gymnastic trainer ( ÆØæÅ ) in an erotic context, implying that Satyrus’ advice will mould him mentally for an attempt on Leucippe, as a trainer would mould and manipulate his pupils physically;242 240 Cleinias and Satyrus are not the only ones to whom Cleitophon lends his penchant for military metaphor: besotted with Leucippe, the general Charmides describes his state of mind, deftly managing to pack in almost every cliché of militia amoris (4.7.3–5: the whole process of love as a battle; Eros as an armed soldier; the wounding and defeat of the subject; the equation of the sexual act with a military skirmish; and explicit reference to Aphrodite and Ares); and Melite is as accomplished as Charmides at employing the metaphor (5.26.2–4: she appeals to Cleitophon to make a ‘truce’ with her, after allowing her one symplokē, a noun that can indicate a military engagement, a close hold in wrestling, and the act of sex itself; she refers to the wounds caused by Eros’ arrows; and she acknowledges her defeat); cf. Heliodorus’ Arsace, who uses the military topos to describe her attempts to seduce Theagenes (7.10.2). 241 Cleinias’ words on how to make a girl return one’s desire by making her feel loved (1.9.6–7) leave room for doubt as to Leucippe’s feelings for Cleitophon; after a kiss acquired by guile, Cleitophon admits total ignorance of her feelings (2.8.1); he only gains her consent to his nocturnal visit by persistent sweet-talking (2.19.2); and her motive for elopement with Cleitophon is rather the prospect of escape from an overbearing mother than love for him (2.30). 242 The casting of Satyrus as Cleitophon’s trainer may also be intended to recall the supposed teaching of the young Demosthenes by the famous actor Satyrus (Plu. Dem. 7), thus likening Cleitophon to the 4th-century orator; see Ch. 3, pp. 249–51 for another possible example of Cleitophon’s self-assimilation to Demosthenes.

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Leucippe is thus constructed indirectly as an opponent whose resistance must be overcome. But there is another possible meaning in the use of ÆØæÅ . Athletic trainers were often suspected of having erotic relationships with their pupils,243 so the figurative use of ÆØæÅ may well constitute a joke on Achilles’ part at the expense of Cleitophon’s masculinity: our hero calls Satyrus his paidotribēs in matters of love without realizing that it might also imply his own willing submission to the sexual domination of his slave, a role indicative of effeminacy.244 Although erotic ‘athletics’ are common, the precise ‘athlete of love’ figure is an elusive one, which I have been unable to find in other texts. It may be that Achilles alludes here to a phrase used by Plato of the guardians in the Republic, who are described as ‘athletes of war, temperate and manly’ (¼æ IŁºÅÆd ºı  çæ  ŒÆd IæEØ, R. 416d). If æø IŁºÅc is indeed a deliberate allusion to these ‘athletes of war’, then the allusion shows Cleitophon up, highlighting the very things that he is not: sōphrōn and andreios. Achilles then reverts to military metaphor, as Satyrus assures Cleitophon that Eros does not admit of cowardice: Eros’ appearance alone is stratiōtikos, and full of andreia and tolma; when inspired by Eros it is impossible to be cowardly (2.4.5). Here we have the Platonic conception of the god of love as a promoter of andreia in the lover (Smp. 178e, 196c), and one whose weaponry further cements his association with manliness and bravery. Yet Satyrus’ words debase the andreia that philosophy associates with erotic inspiration: Satyrus presents Eros as a god who will invest Cleitophon not with the andreia to accomplish great feats of military bravery, but merely with the figurative andreia required to get Leucippe into bed;245 Cleitophon’s efforts to aggrandize his performance by casting himself as an erotic warrior246 and athlete are ironically undercut by this misappropriation of philosophy.247 243 See Hubbard (2003a) on this. For examples of such suspicion, see AP 12.34 and 12.222; and see Aeschin. 1.9ff. on efforts made to prevent trainers from taking advantage of their pupils. 244 I will consider other examples of Cleitophon’s self-feminization in the next chapter. 245 Reardon (1994), 86 notes that Cleitophon’s aim is sexual satisfaction, rather than ideal marriage. 246 He proceeds to call himself precisely this, fretting that he is a cowardly soldier in the service of a manly god ( b غe r æÆØ Å Iæı ŁF;, 2.5.1). 247 In his observation of intertextuality between this scene and Callinus, Christenson (2000) argues for just such an irony: while Callinus was exhorting his people to

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After being urged IæÇŁÆØ by Satyrus, and managing to secure a kiss from Leucippe, Cleitophon picks up the military metaphor as he describes his preparations for a second dalliance. He and Satyrus ‘lie in wait’ (KçÅæ, 2.10.2) for Leucippe and Cleio, a verb often used of troops waiting for an opportunity to attack the enemy;248 once Cleio has been waylaid by Satyrus, Cleitophon waits for near-dark before making his move on Leucippe: Having thus maintained a surveillance, when most of the sun’s light had waned I advanced towards her, emboldened by my first assault, like a soldier already victorious and contemptuous of the war; for many were the arms that made me brave at that moment: wine, love, hope, solitude . . . (Ach. Tat. 2.10.3) K ØÅæ Æ s ‹ e ºf B ÆPªB KÆæÆ, æØØ æe ÆPc ŁæÆæ ª KŒ B æ Å æºB , u æ æÆØ Å XÅ ،Ōg ŒÆd F ºı ŒÆÆ çæÅŒ · ººa ªaæ q a  › ºÇ  ŁÆææE, r  , æø , Kº  , KæÅÆ . . .

Again seemingly conscious of his status as a literary lover, Cleitophon projects an image strikingly similar to that of the Ovidian amator conducting an erotic campaign,249 taking advantage of the cover of darkness when the beloved is less easily defended against the erotic attack250—unlike Theagenes in the cave with Charicleia, he fully intends to make the most of his seclusion with Leucippe. It is of course impossible to know whether Achilles (or any of the other novelists) is deliberately intertexting with elegy, or simply borrowing motifs already present in Greek literature, but my preference is for the former. The elegiac amator consciously manipulates the militia amoris figure, using it to construct himself quite deliberately as mollis, and thus to reject his culture’s expectations of viri. Cleitophon’s behaviour in the rest of the narrative suggests that he intends, by an unironic use of the topos, to make himself appear andreios. But the

martial valour, Cleitophon is merely trying to summon the courage to approach Leucippe. 248 It also has athletic uses: cf. Chariton’s use of çæ in relation to Mithridates’ intention to bide his time while Dionysius and Chaereas fight over Callirhoe, and then take her himself without a contest (4.4.1). 249 Ov. Am. 1.9. 250 See ibid. 1.9.21ff. for the advantages of darkness to the lover; see also Ach. Tat. 2.20.1, where Cleitophon and Satyrus are planning yet another nocturnal attempt on Leucippe.

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reader versed in the erotic warfare of elegy and its connotations for masculinity surely could not help but see those same connotations in Cleitophon’s use of the topos—there certainly is irony here, in that Cleitophon in fact presents himself as malakos by choosing a topos that emphasizes his lack of andreia. Is Achilles only having fun at the expense of his character? Cleitophon is, after all, a poor soldier in both erotic and military terms. Or is it more than that? Is there here, as in elegy, a serious, subversive, counter-cultural rejection of the protocols of masculinity?

CONCLUDING REMARKS Konstan states that ‘overcoming opponents and rescuing his beloved are not the mode in which the novelistic hero operates, even if he can claim Achilles as an ancestor’.251 Yet we have seen that Chariton and Heliodorus clearly felt the need for their heroes to operate at least to some degree in this mode. Their andreia is most overtly associated with physicality, and is exhibited in battle and athletics. Andreia is evidently a visible quality, and can be seen in a man’s external appearance even more than can paideia; in their emphasis on andreia’s visibility, the novelists demonstrate the influence of contemporary physiognomy. But although andreia may be seen in a man even when he is not performing some physical feat, he must not rely on it manifesting itself in his appearance: the heroes show themselves conscious of the need to display andreia in decisive action. Yet what seems the most obvious way of displaying manliness must sometimes be rejected, and a man must avoid physical action in the short term in order to protect his masculinity in the long term. Heliodorus is particularly interested in the traditional antithesis of andreia and deilia, and cleverly implies his hero’s possession of andreia by reference to Cnemon’s deilia. The discourse of andreia does not, therefore, have to be engaged with directly; it may simply be alluded to by reference to its opposite, or by equating a man with a Homeric hero; it may even be implicit in the act of attempted suicide, which, in other genres, might well be considered deilos.

251 Konstan (1994b), 22.

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But andreia in the novels is more than a physical virtue. The military and athletic exploits of Chaereas and Theagenes are constructed on the blueprints of more wily or even ‘passive’ heroes like Odysseus and Jason as much as, if not more than, they are on the blueprints of figures like Achilles. And so, while they may exhibit some of the qualities of Achilles, they are, like Odysseus and Jason, conscious of their weaknesses and their limits, and not ashamed to employ cunning or to accept the advice and aid of their lovers. Novelistic andreia functions in a synergistic relationship with paideia. It is physical strength complemented by wise thought and rational judgement, and closely connected to other virtues. It is a fusion of natural manliness and learned behaviour—both an essential element of masculinity and something constructed by culture. Despite andreia’s very public face, it has an important private aspect. In the novels this is expressed within the erotic relationship, where andreia is exercised in sexual self-restraint: like paideia, andreia has a role to play in proper self-comportment in erotic contexts. The language of andreia may even be adopted as part of a self-conscious selfprojection in erotic matters, yet also used by authors to demonstrate the superior strength of erotic sentiment over more traditional realms of masculine performance. But while Chariton and Heliodorus may ultimately prioritize love over public displays of masculinity, they clearly still value such displays. Once more it is up to Achilles Tatius to expose the potential superficiality of masculine display, and to question the validity of culturally endorsed ideals.

3 Masculinity and Sexual Ideology INTRODUCTION In the course of Chapters 1 and 2 I have turned intermittently to men’s self-comportment in their relationships with women. In this chapter I concentrate for the most part on the ways in which gender identity might be constituted or affected by potential or actual erotic relationships between men. Xenophon, Achilles Tatius, and Longus all feature male characters who appear exclusively or primarily attracted to members of their own sex: Xenophon’s Hippothous narrates his intense but doomed love affair with Hyperanthes, and later establishes a lasting relationship with the young Cleisthenes; Achilles’ Cleinias and Menelaus are thwarted in their erotic relationships with boys, and discuss the pros and cons of boy-love and woman-love with Cleitophon; and Longus’ pederast Gnathon unsuccessfully attempts to initiate Daphnis into his way of love. All three authors also engage with the notion of effeminacy, Achilles and Longus doing so in quite an in-depth way: both Xenophon and Longus are concerned with the threat of feminization posed by their heroes’ attractiveness to pederasts; and Achilles reveals the potential effeminacy attached not only to male–male sexual liaisons, but also to what we might think of as ‘heterosexual’ behaviours. The fact that the novels show an obvious interest in the social and cultural meanings of love and sex does not mean that investigation of the matter is easy or straightforward. The subjects of the previous two chapters, paideia and andreia, can be demonstrated beyond doubt to have been meaningful concepts in Greek thought; by contrast, the question of whether ‘sexuality’, in the sense of homosexuality or heterosexuality, had any currency in Greek and Roman antiquity

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has been, and remains, a hotly contested one amongst modern scholars, and one upon which a consensus is unlikely ever to be achieved. Before turning to the novels, I want to begin with a brief outline of the different theoretical positions adopted by some of those who have studied Greek and Roman sexual behaviours and ideologies, and an explanation of the terminology I have chosen to use in this chapter. Having done so, I will delineate the belief systems surrounding the Greek practice of pederasty, and then the apparent obsession with the concept of effeminacy evidenced by both Greek and Roman texts. Both the pederastic ideal and the figure of the effeminate male inform the ways in which the authors of the Greek novels depict their male characters’ sexual conduct.

Problematizing ‘sexuality’ Sexuality is a controversial and politically charged subject. Needless to say, it is impossible to approach any concept entirely objectively; this, however, is one whose debate attracts a larger degree of subjectivity than many others, because it is an issue that affects us all in some way, and in which many of us have vested interests.1 Foucault advanced the groundbreaking theory that sexuality was not an essential, immutable given; it was not something that one was born with, but rather something that was, at least in part, created and shaped by one’s society and oneself: sexuality was engendered by discourse.2 Consequently, the semantics of sex may vary across time and from culture to culture, with seemingly identical sex acts carrying radically different meanings in different periods.3 The pioneering work of Dover argued for the absence of a homo-/heterosexuality dichotomy in the ancient world, on the grounds that Greek and Roman sexual classification systems tended to emphasize and evaluate the roles played by the participants in a sexual act (active/passive), rather 1 Davidson (2007), chs. 4–6 offers some examples of the ways in which our cultural and personal experiences can affect our interpretation of love and sex in classical texts; those chapters also offer an interesting, though sometimes rather tendentious, critique of some of the major 20th-century works on Greek and Roman same-sex love. 2 Foucault (1979). On Foucault’s arguments, see Thorp (1992); Weeks (2001), 112 ff.; and Davidson (2007), passim, but esp. 152ff. 3 See Weeks (1991), 15. Walters (1993) illustrates this by examining the vastly different meanings ascribed by Apuleius and Boccaccio to what is essentially the same story (Ap. Met. 9.4ff.).

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than the sexes of those participants (male/female).4 This argument, together with Foucault’s jettisoning of essentialism in favour of a social constructionist view of gender and sexuality, has become something of an orthodoxy, although such views have been built on considerably in recent years. Following Foucault’s lead, Halperin pinpointed the creation of the category of ‘the homosexual’ to the late nineteenth century, claiming that ‘Nothing resembling [homosexuality or heterosexuality] can be found in classical antiquity’.5 Parker enlarged upon Halperin’s thesis, borrowing the language of cultural anthropology to identify ‘homosexuality’ as an ‘etic’ category vis-à-vis antiquity – that is, an extrinsic concept meaningful to external observers of a society, but not to the members of that society.6 So, while modern western cultures may see meaning in the binary opposition of homosexuality and heterosexuality, considering the sex(es) of the people involved to be of prime importance, such a system of classification is rare in global terms and, for Parker, malapropos in historical terms: to assume the existence of that system in a culture and time period other than one’s own would be merely to retroject one’s own cultural constructs.7 Richlin, on the other hand, holds that Greek and Roman sexual categories did make distinctions on the basis of sexual preference.8 Although I think there is mileage in some of Richlin’s arguments, the sources she cites are open to readings at odds with the ones she offers, 4 Dover (1978); to a lesser extent also Foucault (1987). 5 Halperin (1990), 7; see also Halperin et al. (1990); while also taking a Foucauldian constructionist stance, Winkler (1990) and Williams (1999) are less dogmatic. 6 Parker (2001). The opposite is an ‘emic’ category, one that can justly be said to have meaning within the cultural systems of a society, and not simply to external observers. It should be noted that the definition offered by Parker and paraphrased here is not fixed, and the concept of emic/etic categories is differentially understood and employed by many disciplines. 7 Boswell’s approach provides an example of the retrojection of modern cultural constructs, and of the dangers of imposing one’s own subjectivity on the past. Throughout his survey of late antiquity, Boswell writes of ‘gay people’, as if there is some transhistorical and essential core of ‘gayness’ which makes the term suitable for any application. For him, a ‘gay’ person is one who is ‘conscious of erotic inclination toward [his or her] own gender as a distinguishing characteristic’ (1980), 44. This seems to assume that it is possible in every case for us to reconstruct self-definition in the ancient world: as Boswell himself states, ‘gay’ has a self-assigned sense, relaying the way in which the person in question wishes to be viewed (ibid. 43, 45) – can we really be sure of how a Roman or a Greek wished to be viewed? For a review of Boswell which succinctly explains the inherent problems of his approach, see Weeks (1980). 8 Richlin (1993); see also Taylor (1997).

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and readings which demonstrate the importance of distinguishing carefully between behaviours (which may well be in some sense essential and transhistoric) and identities (which are historically and culturally specific).9 Richlin uses Suetonius’ imperial biographies as evidence of fixed sexual identities similar to what many of us would term ‘homosexual’ and ‘heterosexual’, stating that Suetonius ‘includes . . . a section on sexual identity’, and that he effectively ‘describes Claudius as a “heterosexual” [and] Galba as a “homosexual”’.10 But if we look at Suetonius’ comments in context, we find that they are made amongst remarks on behaviour in other areas of life. For example, Claudius’ lack of interest in male sex partners is made to contrast with his excessive lust for women, food, drink, and gaming (Cl. 33): Suetonius’ words do not grant Claudius a ‘heterosexual’ identity, but an all-or-nothing character. Similarly, Galba’s inclination towards males, and of them towards tough, full-grown men, is recounted together with his habit of eating excessively and at peculiar times of day (Gal. 22): Galba is not characterized as a ‘homosexual’, but as a man who inclines to extremes, in diet as much as in sex object. While I think it is perfectly possible to find instances in Greek and Roman literature which imply the existence of sexual categories with which many of us would identify, these examples from Suetonius should not be seen in such a light.11 In his writings it seems that sexual preferences, whether exclusive or not, are employed not to delineate specific sexual identities, but as tools for more general behavioural characterization: in Suetonius and elsewhere it is the nature of the behaviour, more than the sex(es) of the person(s) with whom it is performed, that has the power to ascribe some sort of identity. One issue often raised in discussions of sex in the ancient world is that Greek and Roman antiquity apparently had no vocabulary

9 I borrow the point about behaviours being universal and identities specific from Weeks (1977), 2–3. 10 Richlin (1993), 531–2. 11 Neither am I entirely convinced by Habinek’s argument that Ovid ‘invents the category of the heterosexual male’ (1997), 31. Habinek interprets Ars Am. 2.683–4 (Odi concubitus, qui non utrumque resolvunt; Hoc est, cur pueri tangar amore minus) as a rejection of boy-love, when in fact Ovid simply states that he likes boys less than women (Ars Am. 1.524, another of Habinek’s examples, is not straightforward either).

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corresponding to the English ‘homosexuality’ and ‘homosexual’.12 This is frequently cited as an argument against the use of such words in studies of ancient sexual ideology,13 and as an index of the distance between their and our erotic ideologies. But the absence of equivalent terminology does not seem to me to be the important point. That absence may mean not that nothing resembling ‘homosexuality’ existed for Greeks and Romans, as Halperin would have it, but simply that sexual behaviour, while resembling our own in many ways, was not conceptualized and expressed in quite the same way: although there certainly were Greek and Roman men and women who felt an exclusive attraction to members of the same sex (or the opposite sex), and who may well have felt that attraction to be a fundamental part of their identities, they would not necessarily have articulated their preferences in the same way as would someone with those preferences in the modern world; nor would their cultures have defined and related to those preferences in the same way as our own.14 It is difficult to justify the use of terms like ‘homosexual’ and ‘homosexuality’ of the ancient world for another reason, which seems to me more important than their absence from Liddell & Scott or the Oxford Latin Dictionary. That is that our own views on what precisely such terms mean in even our own culture may vary greatly15—there is no ‘one-size-fits-all’. Our own ‘sexuality’ in the modern world is such a personal and subjective matter that it is extremely difficult, not to say impossible, to speak and write of ancient sexual behaviour in language that is acceptable to all. Hubbard, by contrast, does use the term ‘homosexuality’ of the ancient world, because he sees a certain continuity between various ancient same-sex erotic practices. He observes that ‘Even in modern society, “homosexual” is a somewhat unsatisfactory and abstract catch-all for a plethora of practices and

12 Or indeed to ‘heterosexual(ity)’ or ‘bisexual(ity)’. 13 So Halperin (1990), passim and Parker (2001), 322. 14 See e.g. Cohen (1991), 171, who sees in some classical Athenian sources evidence of the existence of categories of sexual role which we might associate with the homosexual/heterosexual dichotomy. This acknowledges that classical Greeks engaged in sexual behaviours, and may have made certain distinctions on the grounds of those behaviours, that had much in common with some of our own behaviours and distinctions, but that they would not necessarily have expressed their practices in the same way as we might. 15 Williams (1999), 13 makes a similar point; see also Davidson (2007), 11 on the complexities of erotic language.

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subcultures: flaming queens, leather daddies, chickenhawks, bull dykes, lipstick lesbians, and Log Cabin Republicans could not be more different, but even they find it convenient to posit a certain affinity in counterdistinction to the dominant heterosexual culture’.16 This makes some sense on the face of it, but to use such ‘abstract catch-alls’ risks obscuring the differences between types of evidence: the representation of ‘homosexuality’ in a piece of Roman invective, for instance, is unlikely to be the same, or subject to the same motivations, as the representation of ‘homosexuality’ in a Greek philosophical text. This is by no means to say that Hubbard is unaware of these differences, but an abstract catch-all might well mislead a non-specialist reader. A different approach is taken by Williams, who flags up the distinction between sexual behaviours and sexual identities: to write of a person as a ‘homosexual’ inscribes a cultural ideology and deep-rooted identity, where describing an act in that way does not. Williams uses the concepts of homosexuality and heterosexuality ‘heuristically, in order to expose their historical specificity and their inadequacy as categories of analysis in a description of Roman ideological traditions’.17 To facilitate in particular the non-classicist’s understanding, I have chosen to avoid the use of terms like ‘homosexual(ity)’ and ‘heterosexual(ity)’ wherever possible. This has entailed using rather clunkysounding language at times, but language that I hope transmits my arguments more clearly and with less twenty-first-century cultural baggage. That does not mean that I see no correlation between ancient and modern sexual practices and ideologies (or that I can make any claim to objectivity), but I find it problematic to write of a discourse of homosexuality, as it remains unclear from the texts whether exclusive same-sex sexual attraction entailed widespread cultural recognition of a ‘sexuality’. My main aim here is not to establish whether the Greeks had ‘sexual identities’ like our own (though similarities will certainly emerge along the way), but to establish the effect that the novels’ male characters’ words and behaviours have on their masculinity – how is the reader to think of those characters’ masculinity in the light of the things they say and do in the erotic sphere?

16 Hubbard (2003b), 1.

17 Williams (1999), 6.

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Pederastic ideals The most obvious example of cultural difference in the understanding of sex and love is that of the Greek practice of pederasty. While modern Britain views erotic contact between older men and younger boys as illegal and abusive,18 such relationships were often valorized in classical Greece.19 But not just any relationship: in classical Athens in particular, male–male erotic behaviour was circumscribed by a multitude of conventions and a strict etiquette, which combined to promote a behavioural ideal.20 Other city states besides Athens endorsed certain forms of male same-sex eroticism,21 and although their practices and the values they attached to them may have differed from Athenian ideology, all those states that figure in the ancient evidence as practitioners of pederasty do seem to be unified by an overriding preoccupation with age and age-appropriate behaviour.22 This is a preoccupation that abounds in the Greek novels, and especially in Xenophon and Longus, as we will see shortly. The Athenian pederastic model was characterized by hierarchy and inequality: the common difference in age between erastai and erōmenoi; the erastēs’ customary position of authority over the erōmenos; the initiative taken by the erastēs in his overtures to the erōmenos; the offering of gifts by the older to the younger partner; the older partner’s appreciation of the younger’s beauty – all of these elements inscribed the model with a sense of inequality, even if many same-sex relationships were not, in reality, unequal.23 While acknowledging the inherent hierarchy and inequality in the pederastic ideal, Davidson has criticized earlier studies of Greek ‘homosexuality’ for the heavy emphasis they placed on the notion of penetration: Dover’s work in

18 Similarly, a 30-year-old man wishing to marry a 14-year-old girl would be criminalized by the British legal system, although a marriage of this sort would have been fairly commonplace in 5th-century Athens, not to mention earlier periods of British history. 19 This is not to suggest that those relationships were without their detractors; Hubbard has written much of interest on the variety of opinion on pederasty (and other forms of same-sex activity) that coexisted in the ancient world – see e.g. Hubbard (1998) and (2003b), 7–10. 20 Plato’s Pausanias emphasizes the complexity of the customs pertaining to Athenian pederasty: the system is ‘intricate’ ( ØŒº , Smp. 182a–b). 21 See Davidson (2007), passim, and esp. 300ff. and 467ff. 22 Ibid. 71ff. 23 See Dover (1978), 81–91.

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particular conceived of the roles of erastēs (active lover) and erōmenos (passive beloved) in far too rigidly sexual terms, and set too much store by the idea that pederastic relationships were all about dominance and subordination, honour and shame;24 the consequences of this emphasis, argues Davidson, are the sexualization of the evidence (even when there is little or no evidence of sex) and the downplay of the emotional elements – of the genuine and enduring love and affection – in many of these relationships.25 Davidson is right that the affective aspects of pederasty have been neglected because of an overemphasis on sexual mechanics, and in fact, Xenophon’s Hippothous will provide us with a strong example from the Greek novels of a man with a lifelong emotional devotion to another male. Hippothous’ erotic relationship with Hyperanthes is clearly not all about penetration and who does what to whom. Nevertheless, penetration, honour and shame, and who does what to whom are issues of grave importance for the authors of the novels, and ones which are tightly bound up with masculine identity.26 Although theoretical pederastic ideals were precisely that, ideals, and in many cases may not have reflected the realities of practice,27 the members of any society are usually complicit in denying deviations from such ideals, as Cohen points out.28 This complicity is evidenced by textual and iconographic representations of pederasty, which are overwhelmingly based on the traditional (Athenian) model: Golden acknowledges that while some men must have been sexually involved with others of the same age, the evidence for such relationships is sparse; and Richardson notes that in the Greek evidence reciprocal desire between partners in the same age group is rare.29 As many equal, reciprocal, non-hierarchical same-sex (and 24 See also Hubbard (1998), who sees distinctions of social class as more significant than the active/passive dichotomy, especially in classical Athenian texts. 25 See Davidson (2007), 114–121 on Dover’s (1978) study. 26 On the functioning of honour and shame within pederastic courtship, see Cohen (1991), 183ff., and for a useful comparative study of the operation of honour and shame in a modern culture, see Lancaster (2002). 27 So e.g. Ogden (1996), 109ff.; Davidson (2001); Hubbard (2003a), 16. 28 Cohen (1991), 174. 29 Golden (1984), 322; Richardson (1984), 113–14. Ogden (1996), 110 et passim argues that the existence of same-sex erotic relationships between age mates in military contexts does not corroborate the hierarchical terms and age boundaries of the Athenian model; this seems to me somewhat problematic, since military contexts are not necessarily comparable with other social contexts.

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even same-age) relationships as there may have been in reality, it was nonetheless the pederastic ideal, and not the reality, that carried the weight. But it may be that the age gap between the lovers and beloveds that we see in the literary and pictorial evidence for the Athenian ideal has been overestimated. Indeed, Davidson argues that erastai and erōmenoi were actually usually fairly close in age (though not the same age), and that only those relationships where the younger partner was about 18 years old or more met with social approval.30 However, the inherent hierarchy in the pederastic paradigm must have inscribed the practice with a sense of transience and ephemerality, a sense that, as sincere as the feelings shared by the partners might be, and as close in age as they might be, there would eventually come a time when the erōmenos must cease from that role, and enter another stage of manhood, perhaps becoming an erastēs himself, and certainly taking a wife and fathering children. The discussions in Plato’s Symposium may be taken as evidence of the paramount social importance of the Athenian pederastic paradigm, and of the existence of divergent views which should dissuade us from endeavouring to find in ancient sources any sort of coherence or consistency.31 Much in the discussions in the Symposium suggests both that male same-sex relationships could be profound and enduring, and that erōmenoi were often older, and closer in age to their erastai, than has been imagined. The Platonic Aristophanes tells an extraordinary creation myth which he uses to account for different forms of sexual attraction (Smp. 189dff.). According to him, men who are attracted only to their own sex were originally derived from double-males, and are driven to find their other halves not by a simple desire for somatic pleasure, but by a deep psychic longing for something they cannot explain (192c–e). Such men wish to spend their lives with other males, and they only marry and have children under social duress (192b).32 Comments like this do seem to suggest that Greek same-sex love was not – or not always – a superficial matter, as Foucault had argued, but might sometimes be heartfelt and longlasting.33 However, as Halperin observes, Aristophanes carefully

30 Davidson (2007), 68ff. 31 See Cohen (1991), 202 on the contradictions in the evidence. 32 cf. the very similar remarks of Callicratidas (Ps.-Lucian Am. 33, 35, 38), and those of Protogenes (Plu. Amat. 750c). 33 On this see Thorp (1992).

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specifies that males descended from double-males act as erōmenoi (he terms them philerastai, adorers of erastai) when young, and erastai (paiderastai, lovers of boys) when older, thus marking out two distinct age phases (192a–b). Bizarrely, Aristophanes does not seem to credit the existence of same-sex, same-age lovers (191eff.), despite the fact that, of the original double-male, each half must have been the same age.34 Aristophanes’ ability to ignore this fact speaks to the power of cultural ideology: the older erastēs/younger erōmenos protocol leads him to efface same-age pairings. Pausanias’ speech, which distinguishes between two forms of love, base and heavenly, advocates the love of young men (he stresses that he does not mean boys, paides, 181d) who are beginning to acquire facial hair; young men of this age are developing their own minds, and love of them is heavenly and eternal.35 The importance Pausanias attaches to the beloved having his own mind seems to imply that he favours relationships in which the junior partner has reached a level of maturity that enables him to exercise some autonomy, and thus to be more than a passive receiver of his erastēs’ affections – an independent party, perhaps, making his own decisions and reciprocating the love given him. Pausanias’ heavenly love does not seem to recognize the hierarchy and apparent lack of reciprocity inherent in the pederastic model. Nor does it endorse the termination of erotic male–male relationships; instead, it sees value only in those partnerships which endure beyond the point at which physical beauty begins to fade (183e). So both Aristophanes and Pausanias describe deeply loving same-sex relationships that last throughout the partners’ lives. Pausanias is of course bound to favour a long-term partnership, given his own relationship with the tragic playwright Agathon. But relationships of this kind, although painted very romantically here, did not proceed without impediment or social censure, such was the pressure of the traditional pederastic model.

34 Halperin (1990), 21. 35 cf. Ps.-Lucian Am. 48–9: Callicratidas advocates a long-term same-sex love; his love is a sexless one, founded on the Platonic model of Heavenly Eros.

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The effeminate male Partnerships which continued too far into the adulthood of the erōmenos put the beloved’s masculinity at risk. So, Agathon was a butt for the jokes of the real comic playwright Aristophanes, who presented him as highly effeminate in appearance and behaviour, so much so that he was hard to tell apart from a woman (Thesm. 95ff.). Long-term involvement in a relationship which had begun as pederastic exposed the erōmenos to accusations of being like a woman, because it implied that he was passively allowing himself to be penetrated, and that he was lascivious, both of which were the typical traits of the female sex.36 Neither was the erastēs in such a relationship completely safe from suspicion, since his romantic involvement with a now-adult male might well suggest that he was not necessarily confining himself to the active sexual role. Similarly, a freeborn youth who succumbed too readily to, or sought out, the attentions of an erastēs invited accusations of effeminacy, as such behaviour implied an eagerness for passivity.37 The young man must also safeguard the masculinity bestowed upon him by his social class: pederasty was a practice by which the elite marked themselves out from others,38 so submission to penetration by a social inferior could be extremely damaging to one’s gender. Pederasty therefore walked a very fine line: in its exclusion of women it might be perceived as an especially manly practice, but its (theoretical) requirement of passivity in one partner meant that it was also a potentially feminizing practice. Indeed, Plato’s Aristophanes is really rather keen on highlighting the knife-edge on which masculinity is poised in the practice of pederasty. He describes erōmenoi as naturally very manly (IæØÆØ Z çØ, Smp. 192a), and driven to do what they do by andreia and manliness ( e Łææı ŒÆd IæÆ ŒÆd Iææø Æ , ibid.), but the fact that these assertions are placed in the mouth of a comic playwright fond of mocking those who engage in same-sex relationships makes it very difficult to take them wholly

36 On these qualities in Aristophanes’ Agathon, see Duncan (2006), ch. 1; see Dover (1978), 73–81 on the perceived relationship in the classical evidence between effeminacy and the passive sexual role in male same-sex relationships. 37 Pl. Smp. 184a: according to Pausanias, to give in to the advances of a lover too quickly is shameful; see also Halperin (2002), 71. 38 See Hubbard (1998).

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seriously, and to take at face value Aristophanes’ acknowledgement of the existence of deeply loving, long-term same-sex relationships. The claim to manliness that he makes for erōmenoi seems rather to highlight the potential for effeminacy inherent in the way Aristophanes’ culture constructs pederasty.39 Effeminacy was the marker in contrast to which masculinity defined itself.40 But effeminacy was not just about sexual passivity, nor did its threatening spectre loom only over relationships between males. It was also about excessive sexual appetite, whether for males or females:41 paradoxically, both sexual passivity and sexual hyperactivity had the power to feminize, and a man who was overly interested in penetrating women might just as easily be accused of effeminacy as might one who sought to be penetrated by men.42 The worst kind of effeminate, the bogeyman of much Greek and Roman invective, chose to be promiscuous with both women and men, playing both the active and the passive sexual role with gratuitousness and shamelessness: for those intent on the character assassination of others, accusations of moicheia (the seduction of women) and kinaideia (lewdness, possibly including willing sexual passivity with men), were favourite means of defaming a man’s masculinity.43 To fail to master one’s sexual urges was to fail to be a man, and by logical extension to be womanish. In Chapter 2 I touched on the operation of this discourse in Theagenes’ resistance to Arsace’s attempts to seduce him: submission would have feminized him, but his stalwart refusal to give in helped to reinforce his masculinity.44 We will encounter the concept again later in this chapter in relation to both Thersander and Cleitophon; they, however, are by no means up to Theagenes’

39 See also Dover (1980), 118 and Rowe (1998), 156. A wry reference at the end of Aristophanes’ speech to the masculinity of Pausanias and Agathon only adds to the irony (193b). 40 On effeminacy as a key concept in the construction of masculinity, see Edwards (1993), 63ff. and Williams (1999), 125ff. 41 In fact, excess in any area of life (food and drink, personal grooming, flamboyant clothing) might brand a man effeminate. 42 See Langlands (2006), 292–3 on excessive ‘heterosexual’ behaviour as indicative of weakness, passivity, and effeminacy. 43 See Gleason (1995), 62ff. on kinaidoi as ‘paradigms of effeminacy’ in physiognomic writings; Davidson (2007), 55ff. offers a new definition of the kinaidos which, while intriguing, seems to me far too narrow. 44 Ch. 2, pp. 156–8; see also pp. 154–6 on Theagenes’ self-restraint when alone with Charicleia; and cf. Cleitophon’s rather less admirable behaviour, pp. 158–9.

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standards of masculinity. But for now I want to return to the subject of pederasty, and to examine Xenophon’s Hippothous, whose relationships with males show a consciousness of both the theoretical ideals of pederasty, and the practical realities of male same-sex love.

RESISTING IDEOLOGY? Having fled the robber chief Apsyrtus’ household and gone in search of Anthia, Habrocomes meets the bandit Hippothous, who comes from an elite family (3.2.1) and explains that his current life of brigandage is merely the result of a doomed love affair he had had with a young man in his home town of Perinthus. Hippothous begins his story as follows: When I was young I fell in love with a beautiful youth; the youth was from the area and his name was Hyperanthes. I first fell for him when I saw him wrestling in the gymnasium, and I couldn’t control myself. When a local festival with a night-time vigil took place I approached Hyperanthes and begged his mercy; hearing what I had to say the youth took pity on me and promised me everything. Our first steps on the road of love were kisses and touches and many tears on my part; but finally, seizing an opportunity, we were able to be alone together, and the matter of our age in relation to each other was unsuspicious. And we were together for a long time, loving each other deeply, until some spirit envied us. (X. Eph. 3.2.2–4)  ¯ ŒE  J MæŁÅ ØæÆŒı ŒÆºF· q b e ØæŒØ H K Øåøæø· ZÆ  ) æŁÅ q ÆPfiH.  HæŁÅ b a æHÆ K ªıÆØ ØÆ ÆºÆÆ Ng ŒÆd PŒ KŒÆææÅÆ.  EæB IªÅ K Øåøæı ŒÆd Æıå K  ÆPB æØØ fiH  ) æŁfiÅ ŒÆd ƒŒø ŒÆØŒEæÆØ· IŒFÆ b e ØæŒØ Æ  ØåEÆØ ŒÆºB . ˚Æd a æH ª F æø ›Ø æE çغ ÆÆ ŒÆd łÆÆÆ ŒÆd ººa Ææ KF ŒæıÆ· º b Mı ŁÅ ŒÆØæF ºÆØ ªŁÆØ  Iºº ºø Ø ŒÆd e B ºØŒÆ [Iºº ºØ ] I   q. ˚Æd åæø fi ıB ººfiH, æª Iºº ºı ØÆçæø , !ø Æø Ø E KÅ.

Hippothous and Hyperanthes’ bliss is interrupted by the arrival of a rich man, Aristomachus, whose immoderate desire for Hyperanthes leads him to bribe the young man’s father into handing over his son to him, after his own overtures to him have met with resistance

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(3.2.5ff.). Posing as a teacher of public speaking, Aristomachus takes Hyperanthes to Byzantium. Hippothous follows, but is unable to spend much time with his beloved because of the intense surveillance under which the lad is kept. Frustration leads Hippothous to sell his belongings, and then kill Aristomachus while he sleeps, but his elopement with Hyperanthes is cut short by a shipwreck near Lesbos, which results in Hyperanthes’ death by drowning. Hippothous makes a small grave (3.2.13) and keeps a lock of Hyperanthes’ hair (3.3.3), and his subsequent grief and penury force him into a life of brigandage (3.2.14), but later, having established a better life for himself, he sets up a grand tomb on Lesbos in honour of his lost love (5.15.4). Hippothous’ love for Hyperanthes, I will argue, forms the basis of a serious contestation on Xenophon’s part of the prescriptive and constraining ideology surrounding male same-sex love. As Konstan rightly remarks, however, the way the affair is initially described suggests that we are dealing with a standard-issue pederastic relationship:45 Hippothous’ viewing of Hyperanthes casts him in the role of voyeur – an older potential erastēs enjoying the sight of a younger potential erōmenos exercising in the archetypal pederastic context;46 conforming to pederastic etiquette, the erōmenos accepts him without seeming too keen and without allowing the relationship to progress too quickly. But the remark ŒÆd e B ºØŒÆ [Iºº ºØ ] I   q (‘and the matter of our age in relation to each other was unsuspicious’) throws a semantic spanner in the works.47 Editors and critics have long had problems with the line, and have usually deleted Iºº ºØ , or emended it to ¼ººØ , giving the meaning ‘and the matter of our age was unsuspicious to others’. This has been taken to mean that Hippothous and Hyperanthes were coevals, and that no one suspected them of an erotic relationship because their age did not conform to the pederastic norm of an older erastēs and a younger erōmenos—because they were age-equals, they were able to conduct a secretive relationship without arousing suspicion. So, while the relationship adheres in most respects to the pederastic paradigm, in that Hippothous appears to be taking the role of erastēs and Hyperanthes

45 Konstan (2007), 33; also Halperin (1990), 169 n. 9. 46 Pederasty had a long-standing association with the gymnasium, a distinctly elite context: see Davidson (2007), 484–6. 47 It might be interpreted as ‘and the matter of our age was unsuspicious to each other’, but this seems an even odder remark.

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that of erōmenos, their ages in fact deviate from the paradigm. However, the phrase  J, with which Hippothous begins his narration of his love for Hyperanthes, is frustratingly vague, but is taken by Konstan, I think rightly, to contrast with Hippothous’ description of Hyperanthes, who is said to be a meirakion. Konstan advances the possibility that e B ºØŒÆ in fact refers to a slight difference in age between the two, a difference that would normally be sufficient to cause others to suspect an erotic relationship. He proposes that the line be emended to give the sense ‘even though our ages were otherwise suspicious’,48 implying that the nature of their relationship evades detection despite the fact that their ages fit those of the pederastic paradigm. The suggestion of a slight age difference is a good one, especially since the relationship appears to conform in every other way to the typical presentation of pederasty in literary sources. Yet it seems to me that the line needs no emendation. Its sense may not be that the young men avoided detection despite their ages, but simply that their difference in age gave no cause for concern precisely because it was sufficient to conform to the pederastic paradigm. Nobody looked askance at the pair because they were of an age to be engaging in a pederastic relationship and were merely doing what erastai and erōmenoi do: being of different ages (even if only slightly), they were not deviating from pederastic etiquette, and the matter of their age in relation to each other could therefore be described as I  . But there would presumably be no point in Hippothous making his enigmatic remark about age if there were nothing unusual about the relationship—if it were a pederastic liaison like any other. If their ages conform to the ideal and are not therefore suspicious, what then is Hippothous’ intention in mentioning them? Why should he give us the impression that there was something about the relationship that had to be hidden? I see the remark as being much more suggestive than has previously been thought. Hippothous may be implying that while the relationship conformed at surface level to the norms of pederasty, in that their ages were unequal and thus unsuspicious, his feelings for Hyperanthes were in fact far more profound than those of an erastēs would normally be for his erōmenos: to all intents and purposes this was a run-of-the-mill, short-term pederastic liaison, and gave no reason for onlookers to be

48 Konstan (2007), 37.

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concerned, but in reality Hippothous was deeply and enduringly in love with Hyperanthes, and intended their relationship to continue past the point at which it would be expected to end. Such a reading would seem to be supported by the fact that Hippothous follows his comment about their age not being suspicious with a reference to the strength and longevity of their love. In the real world, even if lovers and beloveds were genuinely devoted to each other, the ideal against which they were measured was marked by a sense of ephemerality. I suggest that Hippothous flags up his and Hyperanthes’ ages not because they are important in themselves, but because their apparent conformity to a cultural ideal ironically enables the lovers to conduct a relationship that is far more meaningful than the ideal: their love is no rite of passage, to be curtailed by transition to another stage of manhood;49 it is not determined by age, even if it appears, at surface level, to be so. Retrospectively, the reader can relate Hippothous’ use of the term ºØŒÆ to its use by Habrocomes, after the hero hears the love story of Aegialeus and Thelxinoe. That tale is presented as a sort of erotic paideia for Habrocomes, who, after hearing it, proclaims that he has learned that true love has no boundary of age (ŒÆd F IºÅŁH ŁÅŒÆ ‹Ø æø IºÅŁØe ‹æ ºØŒÆ PŒ åØ, 5.1.12). On one level this may mean simply that true love is everlasting, but it could also be taken to mean that anyone of any age can feel true love, and can feel it for anyone of any age – that true love will not be circumscribed by cultural concerns about age-appropriate behaviour. Anthia too uses the term ºØŒÆ when contemplating her feelings for Habrocomes at the beginning of the narrative, wondering at the fact that she has fallen in love at such a young age ( ÆæŁ Ææ ºØŒÆ KæH, 1.4.6), and questioning where will be the boundary of her desire (› B K ØŁıÆ ‹æ , 1.4.7). Age boundaries and age-appropriate behaviour, and their relation to erotic sentiment, are recurring issues that preoccupy Xenophon, and the loves of Aegialeus and Thelxinoe, Hippothous and Hyperanthes, and Habrocomes and Anthia appear to be analogized by the repetition of these themes. Although there are certainly differences between the inset tales of Aegialeus and Thelxinoe and Hippothous and Hyperanthes, they are far outweighed by the parallels. The reader seems intended to observe those parallels and to relate the stories to each other. Like Hippothous, Aegialeus came 49 We will meet this transitional sense of pederasty later, in relation to Daphnis and Habrocomes.

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from a prominent family (5.1.4). Like Hippothous and Hyperanthes, he and Thelxinoe met at an all-night festival (5.1.5), had to be secretive about their relationship (5.1.6), and attracted the envy of a god (ibid.). Like Hyperanthes from Hippothous, Thelxinoe was to be parted from Aegialeus by an unwanted relationship arranged by her parents (ibid.). Like Hippothous and Hyperanthes, the two had to elope by night in order to escape that relationship, and both Hyperanthes and Thelxinoe are presented as having agreed in advance to the proposed escape plans (5.1.7), a consent that suggests an equality of mind and desire;50 Aegialeus and Thelxinoe even dressed as young men (ibid.), a detail that surely assimilates them to Hippothous and Hyperanthes. While, as we will see shortly, the ideological pressure of the pederastic paradigm dictates that Hippothous’ relationship be cut short, no such pressure exerts itself on Aegialeus’ relationship, and he and Thelxinoe are able to enjoy a life together until her death in old age. Aegialeus still feels the need to keep a physical reminder of his beloved, and although Thelxinoe’s embalmed body is somewhat more striking than the lock of Hyperanthes’ hair that Hippothous carries with him, and the tomb he later builds for him, it nonetheless draws another equation between the two inset tales. All of these parallels suggest that the erotic lesson learned by Habrocomes from Aegialeus’ narrative may also be found in Hippothous’ narrative, even if it may not be explicitly stated: true love reaches beyond boundaries of age, and even beyond death, in pederastic relationships as much as in male–female relationships. It might be objected that the narrative form of Hippothous’ story precludes us from identifying any sort of authorial intention: it is not the author or an omniscient narrator who relates Hippothous’ story, but Hippothous himself, and we might think it in his interest to portray his own erotic preferences in a positive light, and himself as a romantic hero on a par with the novels’ protagonists. But the fact that Aegialeus’ tale is also an egonarrative, and one from which Habrocomes learns an important lesson, implies that first-person narration in Xenophon’s text should be viewed as reliable, and that it is therefore reasonable to read Hippothous’ story as much more than the stereotypical lament of a pederast who wishes to cast himself as the hero of his own pederastic mini-novel.

50 cf. Charicleia’s consent to ‘abduction’ by Theagenes (Hld. 4.17.4).

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So, while appearing, superficially, to conform to the pederastic model, and thus evading suspicion, in reality Hippothous’ relationship with Hyperanthes has a strength, depth, and endurance that contravene that model – this is no ephemeral rite of passage, but a lifelong love that has no care for age boundaries. But, although similarities between the inset tales and the primary narrative have often been noted, commentators frequently argue that Xenophon intends Hippothous’ story of same-sex love to stand in negative contrast to the love of Habrocomes and Anthia.51 This argument is based on the ‘active’ and ‘passive’ roles of Hippothous and Hyperanthes respectively. Konstan, for example, cites Hyperanthes’ seeming passivity and dependence upon the more active Hippothous as signs of inequality. He argues that, by contrast, Habrocomes’ passive behaviour ‘is best understood as a function or condition of . . . equivalence’ with Anthia.52 To my mind there is no need to interpret Hyperanthes’ and Habrocomes’ passivity differently. It is worth observing that Hippothous and Anthia (both of whom Konstan identifies as active and resourceful) also have moments of weakness and passivity, which might be thought to imply equivalence with their seemingly more passive partners.53 Consideration of some of the language Xenophon uses of each relationship in fact suggests not that he intends to contrast the two, but that he intends Hippothous’ love to be read on a par with that of the hero and heroine. For instance, Hippothous says that he and Hyperanthes were together for a long time, ‘loving each other deeply’ (æª Iºº ºı ØÆçæø , 3.2.4), while Anthia uses the same words to acknowledge Habrocomes’ feelings for her (ŒÆd æªŁÆØ ØÆçæø  e F  ıŒÆ, 2.4.5). And when beleaguered by the advances of Aristomachus, Hyperanthes is said to resist because he feels eunoia (goodwill) for Hippothous (› ªaæ  ) æŁÅ Øa c æe Kb hØÆ PÆ æ, 3.2.7), while Anthia refers to the eunoia Habrocomes feels for her, with regard to his resistance to 51 e.g. Schmeling (1980), 54, 67–8; Konstan (1994a), 51 and (1994b), 27, 48; O’Sullivan (1995), 52; Watanabe (2003a), 26ff. 52 Konstan (1994b), 26ff. 53 Both Hippothous and Anthia shed tears upon their first erotic experience with their partners (1.9.2, 3.2.4); Anthia waits passively in the bandits’ cave after killing Anchialus, as she has no one to lead her (4.5.6; see Ch. 2, pp. 112–13); and Hippothous flees from battle twice (2.13.4, 5.4.3), once even dropping his weapons, a classic sign of cowardice.

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Manto’s sexual overtures (“åø b” çÅ, “  AæŒÅ, c hØÆ c c . . . ”, 2.4.5). This repetition of æªø, ØÆçæø , and ıØÆ seems to analogize the two relationships.54 Neither should we see Hyperanthes’ premature death as a contrast to the happy ending of Habrocomes and Anthia’s story, as some do.55 Klabunde and Watanabe offer an alternative explanation for the premature death of an erōmenos, proposing that death at the height of beauty leaves a lasting and aesthetically pleasing memory, while also obviating the difficulty of how a same-sex relationship would proceed once the participants were grown men.56 This analysis, which I find convincing, suggests that Xenophon may be acknowledging a very real problem almost inevitably faced by those involved in loving pederastic relationships. The pressures of the pederastic model constrain the two young men to perform the ideal roles of erastēs and erōmenos in order to have an erotic relationship that is free from the suspicion and scrutiny of others, and oblige the curtailment of that relationship before it becomes obvious in its transgression of erotic norms.57 As well as on Hyperanthes’ premature death, commentators’ arguments for the inequality of Hippothous’ relationship have been based on Hyperanthes’ ultimate failure to ward off the advances of Aristomachus, and have highlighted the fact that Anthia, by 54 Hippothous’ relationship with Hyperanthes bears similarities to other loving male–female relationships too: his neglect of his own affairs when Hyperanthes is taken to Byzantium (3.2.9) echoes the behaviour of Chariton’s Chaereas after he has fallen in love with Callirhoe (1.1.9–10), and of Dionysius when he is grieving for his dead wife (2.1.1). 55 Hyperanthes’ death is also viewed as an intended contrast with the natural death in old age of Thelxinoe (see references at n. 51). Watanabe (2003a), 76–7 and (2003b), 13 notes the similarity between the circumstances of Hyperanthes’ death and the death of Hadrian’s young lover, Antinous; he does not note that if Xenophon was alluding to this historical incident, such an allusion would have consequences for his dating. However, potential death by shipwreck and drowning is a stock motif in the Greek novels, and may serve to equate Hippothous’ relationship with those of the genre’s heroes and heroines. 56 Klabunde (2001), 29; Watanabe (2003a), 75. 57 We find a similar reflection of the cultural power of the pederastic model in Achilles Tatius’ portrayal of Cleinias and Menelaus, who, like Hippothous, lose their beloved meirakia prematurely in tragic circumstances (1.12, 2.34). These pederastic relationships must be severed before the erōmenoi mature, even if the participants might prefer them to continue beyond the attainment of adulthood (though we will see that Cleinias’ and Menelaus’ attitudes to same-sex love are not quite as profound as those of Hippothous seem to be).

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contrast, makes stalwart and repeated defence of her chastity.58 But Hyperanthes does attempt to resist Aristomachus. The failure of his resistance may not signal inequality in his relationship with Hippothous, but rather the inequality that was often perceived to be inherent in pederastic relationships more generally: Xenophon, I argue, endorses mutual, reciprocal same-sex love, and Aristomachus is introduced as the embodiment of its opposite. When Aristomachus’ blandishments meet with rejection (because Hyperanthes feels eunoia for Hippothous, 3.2.7), he resorts to the coercion that ancient opponents of pederasty often cited as one of its disadvantages.59 Appealing to Hyperanthes’ father, Aristomachus effectively buys the youth from him under the pretext of furthering his education ( æçØ ØÆŒÆºÆ , 3.2.8), first keeps him shut away,60 and finally takes him off to Byzantium. Aristomachus’ motives are clearly other than education, and his characterization employs the familiar topos of the philosopher or teacher of rhetoric who abuses his position in order to advance a pederastic relationship with his young and sexually vulnerable charges.61 It is this form of pederasty with which Xenophon seems to want to take issue. Hippothous and Hyperanthes are only unequal insofar as Hippothous appears to be independent and no longer reliant on his parents, while Hyperanthes is young enough still to be subject to the whims of his father. This inequality of maturity in no way implies inequality of emotion. The fact that Hyperanthes is utterly at his father’s mercy both demonstrates the

58 See e.g. Konstan (1994a), 51 and (1994b), 27. 59 See e.g. Plu. Amat. 751d, where Daphnaeus argues that pederasty without a boy’s consent involves ‘force and brigandage’. 60 A stock motif symbolizing a love that is not reciprocated: cf. the treatment of Thisbe by Thermouthis (Hld. 2.10.2), and Leucippe by Sosthenes and Thersander (Ach. Tat. 6.3.6). The impression of Hyperanthes as a prisoner is given again at 3.2.9, where Hippothous is unable to spend much time with him because he is constantly being watched: the surveillance under which Hyperanthes is kept suggests that he is being treated in much the same way as a young wife, or a female prostitute whose services have been purchased on an exclusive basis; this accords well with the sense given that Hyperanthes’ father has sold him for sex. 61 See e.g. Plu. Amat. 752a, where Daphnaeus claims that pederasty disguises itself as philosophy; and Petr. 85ff., where Eumolpus feigns disgust at same-sex love so as to be entrusted with the education of his host’s beautiful son, and thus have the opportunity to sleep with him; see also Ps.-Lucian Am. 23–4, where Charicles mocks philosophers who claim to love only the souls of boys; and on philosophy as a cloak for sexual deviance, see Goldhill (1995), 46–111. There is probably some innuendo intended in the notion of Aristomachus ‘educating’ the young Hyperanthes.

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onus on elite youths to do what is expected of them, and suggests that the lovers in a pederastic relationship cannot petition their parents for the seal of approval. Whereas, for example, Chaereas can approach his father and broach the subject of his love for Callirhoe (Chariton 1.1.8), no such option seems to be open to Hippothous and Hyperanthes, and the latter’s father is in any case a wicked and corrupt man ( Åæe ¼æÆ ŒÆd KºÆ åæÅø, 3.2.7): even if it is profound, pederastic love has a sense of termination inbuilt.62 Hyperanthes’ sale to Aristomachus is perhaps unusual, as we might instead expect his relationship with Hippothous to be threatened by an imminent marriage. Both Achilles Tatius (1.8) and Plutarch (Amat. 749e) feature pederasts presenting their relationships as suffering at the hands of marriage, while Chariton’s Callirhoe implies that Chaereas’ role as erōmenos has been curtailed by his marriage to her, and that his erastai have taken umbrage (1.3.6). All of these texts suggest that marriage signals the end of pederasty for the erōmenos who, by becoming a husband, moves on to a new stage of manhood;63 this new role is not a positive one, however, but one of subordination to a woman, at least according to the erastai who are left behind.64 It is not marriage, however, but a second pederastic relationship that jeopardizes Hyperanthes and Hippothous’ love, but the point, nonetheless, is the same: just as the pederasts in other texts present marriage as a relationship which excludes mutual love and equality, so Hippothous presents Hyperanthes’ new relationship with Aristomachus as one in which he is dominated and controlled. When Hippothous enters Aristomachus’ house and finds him in bed with Hyperanthes, he refers to Hyperanthes as pais, while he

62 There is another possible explanation both for Hyperanthes’ powerlessness to preserve himself for Hippothous, and for his premature death. Writing on Achilles Tatius, Bartsch (1989) has argued that narratorial digressions guide the reader’s interpretation of the larger story, and often deliberately mislead. Xenophon may have just such a narrative purpose in mind: presented at the midpoint of the novel, the curtailment of Hyperanthes and Hippothous’ relationship, together with Hyperanthes’ death, could make the reader fear the same fate for Habrocomes and Anthia. Something similar could be argued for the happier tale of Aegialeus and Thelxinoe: set near the novel’s climax, it leaves a clue as to the actual outcome of Habrocomes and Anthia’s story. 63 Of course, not all such relationships would cease on marriage: an epigram attributed to Strato, and perhaps deliberately transgressive, suggests that marriage was not necessarily an impediment to the determined pederast (AP 12.9). 64 See pp. 221–6 on Achilles Tatius’ Cleinias and Charicles.

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had earlier called him meirakion. For Watanabe, this symbolizes inequality: in Hippothous’ eyes, ‘Hyperanthes has slid down the scale of masculinity’.65 But the use of pais seems to me intended to spell out the nature of the relationship between Hyperanthes and Aristomachus. Hippothous does not mean to slur Hyperanthes’ masculinity, but to make explicit the fact that Aristomachus has taken him as his boy lover, and that this is in no way an equal partnership: a pederastic relationship between two willing participants who love each other equally is a positive thing, but here Hyperanthes is an unwilling pais; it is Aristomachus who damages Hyperanthes’ masculinity, by reducing him from a meirakion to a pais. The inequality and lack of reciprocity in this new relationship stands in stark contrast with the kind of love that Hippothous has with Hyperanthes.66 Hippothous’ relationship does not contrast with Habrocomes’, then, but with Aristomachus’, and through Hippothous’ story of tragic love Xenophon presents two forms of pederasty, one positive and mutually loving, the other negative, hierarchical, and one-sided. It is Aristomachus who signals the real inequality in Hippothous’ tale, embodying that hierarchical, unequal form of pederasty which has no regard for the erōmenos’ consent, which buys what it desires, and which allows the erastēs to abuse his position of superiority. Loving, reciprocal pederasty appears to be endorsed, while all that may be thought negative about the pederastic model is denigrated: its structure facilitates hierarchical, non-reciprocal liaisons, and enables the abuse of power. Not only does Xenophon seem to want to establish a contrast between two forms of pederasty. He also appears to be trying to emphasize the depth and exclusivity of the sentiment that may exist

65 Watanabe (2003a), 58 n. 74; also 68, 85. 66 Watanabe (ibid.), 86, and (2003b), 9–10, 14 observes that Hippothous’ murder of Aristomachus recalls the historical tyrannicides valorized in the Greek literary tradition, thus legitimizing what is essentially an illegal act. If correct, this might suggest that Aristomachus’ form of pederasty is figured as erotic tyranny. Hippothous’ anger-driven response (OæªB ºÅŁd , 3.2.10) to the sight of another man in bed with his beloved also parallels Chaereas’ reaction to Callirhoe’s supposed adultery. I argued in Ch. 1 that Chaereas’ violence might be countenanced as the legitimate reaction of a cuckolded husband, avenging himself against insult. Might we also see Hippothous’ violence as reasonable in view of the offence he feels he has suffered? If his love for Hyperanthes may be read as the pederastic analogue of that between Habrocomes and Anthia or Chaereas and Callirhoe, it is worthy of the same protection; he avenges himself on an adulterer in an appropriate manner, asserting his masculinity in the mould of both classical tyrannicide and wounded novelistic lover.

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in the positive pederasty that he endorses, such that a man devoted to that form of pederasty experiences those feelings for his own sex alone. When Hippothous first meets Habrocomes, to whom he reveals his enduring love for Hyperanthes, he appears to find the hero physically attractive: his first words to Habrocomes are a comment on his beauty and manly appearance ( ˇæH ªæ , t ØæŒØ, ‹Ø b r , ŒÆd OçŁBÆØ ŒÆºe ŒÆd ¼ººø IæØŒ, 2.14.2). In fact, Schmeling goes so far as to suggest the existence of an unnarrated pederastic relationship between the two.67 I will consider this argument further in the next section of the chapter, but for now I want to concentrate on what Hippothous’ apparent attraction to Habrocomes suggests about his feelings for males. After being separated from Habrocomes for some time, briefly married to a rich old woman (a marriage I will discuss shortly), and bequeathed her estate upon her death, Hippothous is said still to remember Habrocomes, and to pray that he will be reunited with him so that he might share with him his life and possessions (KÅ b Id F  AæŒı ŒÆd F IıæE Åhå, æd ººF Ø ŒØøBÆ  ÆPfiH F ı Æe ŒÆd H ŒÅø, 5.9.2). On one level this might be read merely as an index of the strength of the friendship Hippothous feels for Habrocomes: the bandit certainly seems to fulfil the prerequisite generic role of hero’s friend, a role emphasized by his later explanation to Anthia of the philia he holds for the hero (5.9.13).68 But immediately after this reference to his desire to share everything with Habrocomes, we are introduced to Cleisthenes, a beautiful elite meirakion whom Hippothous takes with him to Italy, and who is himself said to share all of Hippothous’ possessions (ŒÆd ø Eå H  I Łı ŒÅø, ŒÆºe þ, 5.9.3). The repetition of this notion of sharing seems to analogize Hippothous’ feelings for Habrocomes and Cleisthenes. This equation also extends to his feelings for Hyperanthes, as Habrocomes, Hyperanthes, and Cleisthenes are all said to be beautiful youths, with the description focalized through Hippothous.69 It appears that in Habrocomes and later in 67 Schmeling (1980), 52. 68 Alvares (1995), 403 views Hippothous’ desire to share his life with Habrocomes as a desire for a particular type of life, that of respectable elite male; for Alvares this marks a point of progress in Hippothous’ rehabilitative journey, during which he comes full circle from respectable elite male, through violent bandit, and back to respectable elite male. 69 Habrocomes: 2.14.2; Hyperanthes: 3.2.2; Cleisthenes: 5.9.3.

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Cleisthenes, Hippothous is reminded of, and perhaps seeks a replacement for, his true love Hyperanthes. It is worth noting that Plato’s Pausanias states that those men who pursue heavenly love are motivated by a desire to spend their whole lives with their beloveds, and to share everything with them ( ÆæŒıÆØ ªaæ r Æ NØ ƒ KFŁ IæåØ KæA ‰ e  – ÆÆ ıØ ŒÆd ŒØB fi ıØøØ, Smp. 181d). Is it too much to think that by his references to Hippothous’ sharing of his life and possessions, Xenophon might be alluding to this notion of Pausanias’? Pausanias makes his heavenly/base distinction not just between male–male and male– female love, but also within same-sex love itself: base lovers love boys for their bodies, and their love is ephemeral; heavenly lovers desire lasting and profound relationships. If it is right to suggest that Xenophon draws on this distinction, then we might see Aristomachus, the supposed teacher of rhetoric who buys boys for the physical services they can render, as the epitome of base pederasty, and Hippothous, who desires a life shared with his beloved, as the representative of heavenly love; having lost Hyperanthes prematurely, however, he looks for a substitute for that true love in Habrocomes and Cleisthenes. Habrocomes’ love for Anthia precludes him from being Hippothous’ erōmenos,70 as I will discuss further later. Cleisthenes, on the other hand, although not explicitly said to be his beloved, does seem to fulfil this role.71 Indeed, at the end of the novel Hippothous and Cleisthenes are said to rest together after the long reunion celebrations, and Xenophon gives the reader the distinct impression of three couples, each romantically involved: Leucon and Rhode, Hippothous and the young and beautiful Cleisthenes, and Habrocomes and Anthia (5.13.6). The final line of the narrative appears to explain the progression of Hippothous’ relationship with Cleisthenes, but it is lacunose: ŒÆd e ˚ºØŁÅ Æ Ł (5.15.4). If correct, the supplement conjectured by editors suggests that Hippothous adopts or looks upon Cleisthenes as a son.72 The 70 Hippothous does, however, achieve his desire to spend his life with Habrocomes, albeit with Anthia too (< . . . ›  I > Ł ØBª K  ¯ çø fi Ł AæŒı ŒÆd ŁÆ , 5.15.4). 71 O’Sullivan (1995), 49 takes Cleisthenes’ first appearance to mark him out unambiguously as Hippothous’ beloved. 72 The phrase ÆEÆ K ØE is used of Araxus’ treatment of Habrocomes (3.12.4), providing a precedent for the supplement.

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reference to the adoption of Cleisthenes is juxtaposed with Hippothous’ building of a tomb to Hyperanthes, implying, perhaps, that the two relationships are akin. Hippothous has found a replacement for Hyperanthes, and by adopting Cleisthenes he is able to convert what may have begun as a pederastic relationship into a lifelong love.73 Like Hyperanthes’ premature death, the adoption is indicative of some of the cultural pressures imposed upon men: for social acceptability, pederastic relationships must have a limited shelf life, and those men who love males must nevertheless produce heirs. But in the case of Cleisthenes, the outcome is much more positive, and seems to reinforce Xenophon’s apparent endorsement of reciprocal same-sex love: the ‘adoption’ of Cleisthenes – if this is indeed what is described in the lacuna – enables Hippothous to circumvent pederastic age protocols, and to continue a loving relationship neatly analogous to those of Habrocomes and Anthia, Leucon and Rhode, and, more importantly, his own earlier relationship with Hyperanthes, while also creating an heir to his estate without obliging him to marry a woman.74 In contrast to the unequal, hierarchical, and abusive pederasty between Aristomachus and Hyperanthes, Cleisthenes is a replacement for, and reminder of, the true love Hippothous had, and still has, for Hyperanthes.75 Notably, the main narrative ends with a reference to Hippothous and his pederastic loves alongside the names of Habrocomes and Anthia (˚Æd XÅ  ) æŁfi Å ç XªØæ ªÆ ŒÆa ¸ ª , ŒÆd e ˚ºØŁÅ Æ Ł

73 I would not want to suggest that this also applies to Araxus and Habrocomes, but rather that when the context is evidently pederastic, it is very difficult to read the word ÆE without sexual overtones; cf. Hippothous’ use of ÆE in relation to Hyperanthes earlier, and Longus’ use of the word in the Gnathon episode (4.12.3), to which I will return later. 74 Konstan (1994b), 39 argues that the adoption signals the end of the pederastic relationship, though I am not sure we can be so confident, especially in view of the sense Xenophon has given shortly before of three couples. 75 It is unclear whether the reader is to take any meaning from the names Xenophon chooses for his characters. Hägg (2004) [1971], 214 takes Cleisthenes’ name to be a reference either to the tyrant of Sicyon or to the political reformer, and to be ‘without any discernible symbolical meaning’ (58). He does not mention that Cleisthenes was also the name of an effeminate politician lampooned in several of Aristophanes’ plays. If I am right in what I have been suggesting about Xenophon’s intentions, it seems somewhat unlikely that this connection is one he would have wanted readers to make; nonetheless, the educated reader (if such a reader read Xenophon) could surely not help but be put in mind of Aristophanes on encountering the name of Hippothous’ new meirakion.

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ØBª K  ¯ çø fi Ł  AæŒı ŒÆd ŁÆ , 5.15.4): are Hippothous’ same-sex relationships as important to the author as the love of the hero and heroine? The erotic attraction felt by many Greek males for both sexes has traditionally been thought to imply a certain superficiality and fluidity of sexual preference. I have suggested above that, by contrast, Hippothous’ feelings for males – and especially for Hyperanthes – are profound and enduring. Yet his involvement in two relationships with women might be thought to support the argument for superficiality and fluidity. However, these two relationships are described at breakneck speed (even by Xenophon’s standards) in the space of one chapter, and both seem to serve a purpose rather than being motivated by true and deep-seated emotion, perhaps implying that Hippothous’ feelings for his own sex are in fact the driving force in his erotic and emotional life. The first is his marriage to an elderly woman following his separation from Habrocomes, a relationship which is easily explained as the product of simple pecuniary constraint (ŒÆd ªÅ    IªŒÅ B ŒÆa c I æÆ c æFØ, 5.9.1). Immediately upon the old woman’s death, his thoughts return to males: is the abrupt introduction of Cleisthenes at this point the result of some butchery of the text, or are we to assume that Hippothous has been finding a sexual outlet with Cleisthenes while awaiting the death of a woman whom only financial constraints forced him to marry? The second ‘relationship’, his attempt to get Anthia into bed, is rather more difficult to account for if Hippothous is, as I have suggested, a devoted lover of males. Konstan argues that Xenophon does not divide erotic sentiment into sexual desire and more profound attraction, and that he tends to present rivals as motivated by love (erōs), rather than by lust (epithymia). Epithymia, he writes, is merely a consequence of erōs, and ‘everyone who conceives a passion for Habrocomes or Anthia appears to be moved by erōs’.76 But if we take a look at the language Xenophon uses of Hippothous’ feelings for Anthia, we can see that this argument does not quite hold: . . . and through day-to-day living with the girl, Hippothous too entered upon a desire for Anthia, wanted to have sex with her, and promised her many things. (X. Eph. 5.9.11) 76 Konstan (1994b), 38ff., quotation from p. 42.

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. . . KŒ b B ŒÆŁÅæØB f B fi ŒæfiÅ ØÆÅ N K ØŁıÆ ŁÆ ŒÆd  I Ł æåÆØ ŒÆd ıºŁE Kº ŒÆd ººa  ØåEÆØ ÆPB fi .

Neither the verb Kæø nor the noun æø is ever used of Hippothous’ inclinations towards Anthia: his approach to her is motivated not by erōs, but only by epithymia, which marks him out radically from every other rival. Is Xenophon deliberately employing the language of epithymia rather than erōs because he wishes his readers to interpret Hippothous’ feelings for Anthia as different from those of the novel’s other love-rivals? Certainly, the language chosen casts some doubt on Konstan’s argument. It is also worth asking what the import of the words ŒÆd  I Ł might be. Is it simply that Hippothous is just another in a long line of admirers (‘Hippothous too . . . ’)? Or might it carry the sense of ‘even Hippothous’, implying that Anthia’s beauty and nature are such that even someone committed to his own sex might have his head turned? This would of course also serve the generic literary purpose of emphasizing the heroine’s beauty.77 But whatever Hippothous feels for Anthia, it is apparently ephemeral and easily forgotten, for as soon as he learns that she is Habrocomes’ wife, he abandons his epithymia and assists her in recovering her husband (5.9.13). The fleeting and crush-like nature of his epithymia for a woman might be taken as a contrast with the profound and enduring feelings he seems to have for males, and especially for Hyperanthes.78 I noted earlier that in relating his myth to account for human sexual desire, Plato’s Aristophanes claims that a man derived from a double-male wishes to spend his life with other males: marriage and fatherhood are simply not in such a man’s nature (physis), but he is compelled towards them by social custom (nomos) (Smp. 192b). Aristophanes’ myth suggests that we are all seeking the same thing in a sexual partner: a symbolic substitute for a part of ourselves that we have lost. In attaching himself to Habrocomes and subsequently adopting Cleisthenes, and yet never forsaking the memory of Hyperanthes, Hippothous seems to be seeking something similar: a surrogate for an original and true love, now lost. It may be, then, that in his 77 cf. Hld. 8.9.4, where beauty and nobility are capable of moving even barbarians to pity, and 8.13.2, where the eunuch Euphrates similarly experiences a change of heart towards Theagenes and Charicleia as a result of their looks and characters. 78 Quite where Cleisthenes has gone during the episode with Anthia is unclear! Perhaps he has had the good sense to make himself scarce while Hippothous fulfils the generic function of love rival, however briefly.

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characterization of Hippothous, Xenophon was drawing not only on the Platonic Pausanias’ speech, but also on the Platonic Aristophanes’. While, given Aristophanes’ profession, it is hard to read his creation myth without at least a small pinch of salt, Plato’s inclusion of the story nonetheless implies that it must have been meaningful to at least some of his readers: even if it is intended as a joke, a joke only works if its audience can relate to it in some way. For Thorp, Aristophanes’ words suggest that Greek antiquity recognized definable categories of sexuality, and held sexual preference to be a profound matter with strong similarities to the way we might think of it today. Thorp argues that Aristophanes is attempting to explain not a simple sexual preference, but a whole way of life.79 This seems to me to be half-right. Aristophanes’ words do appear to describe men who feel their sexual and emotional attraction to other men to be a vital component of their identities: sexual preference was, for some men, much more than a superficial matter. But whether such men’s sexual preferences were recognized at a wider cultural level as identities, is much harder to say. I am not sure it is possible to argue, on the basis of Aristophanes’ words, that Greek antiquity in general recognized ‘sexualities’. However, Thorp’s argument for the potential profundity of sexual preference seems especially applicable to Hippothous. His enduring love for Hyperanthes may not imply the existence of culturally recognized sexual identities, but it certainly appears to confirm the notion that Greek sexual preference could be profound. Xenophon’s characterization of Hippothous is contradictory and fraught with inconsistencies. On the one hand he is a loyal friend who respects Habrocomes’ marriage to Anthia, and on the other he is a bandit (always a semantically complex figure) with no compunctions about stringing up a woman as a sacrifice to Ares (2.13.1–2) or abandoning her to be mauled to death by dogs (4.6.3), and implicitly a coward, who throws away his weapons and flees from battle (2.13.4, 5.4.3).80 The one consistent thing in all this, however, is his devotion 79 Thorp (1992), 57–8. 80 Hippothous’ violent and apparently cowardly behaviour might be attributed to the typical generic characterization of bandits as often brutal and lacking in true andreia (cf. Ap. Met. 4 and the Boukoloi of Lollianus (B.1, Stephens & Winkler) and Achilles Tatius (3.15), who are murderous and cannibalistic), and his positive behaviour to the fact that he is ‘really’ an elite male, forced into banditry by circumstances beyond his control (cf. Heliodorus’ Thyamis, who easily kills what he thinks is Charicleia, and yet is the heir to an Egyptian high priesthood, Hld. 1.30.7).

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to the love of males, and in particular to Hyperanthes, a devotion which his dealings with women only emphasize.81 The possibility that the text we have is not the original work as Xenophon wrote it (a view towards which I incline) prevents us from making any more than tentative suggestions. What I have argued here should be seen in this light. Nevertheless, I think there is enough in the portrayal of Hippothous to make a case for viewing the text as a serious engagement in the imperial debate which negotiated the relationship between male–male and male–female erotics. But the narrative differs from the other extant participants in that debate, Achilles Tatius, Plutarch, and Pseudo-Lucian, in that Xenophon does not consider the merits of one sex over another, but is instead concerned with the promotion of one form of relationship over another – mutual, reciprocal love, whether for the same or the opposite sex, over hierarchical, coercive relationships dictated and constrained by social conventions. But if I am correct to see in the narrative the endorsement of reciprocal male–male love unfettered by ideology, the text never makes this endorsement explicit. This may be because we do not have the original, but it is perhaps more likely the result of the social conditions of the period. The classical pederastic model, with its hierarchy and its inherent transience, was still powerful. On top of that, new attention was being paid to the marriage bond and men’s relationships with their wives. To endorse explicitly the continuation of a pederastic relationship into the erōmenos’ adulthood, and that within a genre which prioritized marriage, might well smack of cultural militancy.82 In order first to have a relationship with Hyperanthes, Hippothous must appear to conform to the masculine ideals of pederasty. In order to continue his later relationship with Cleisthenes, thereby perhaps sustaining the memory of Hyperanthes, 81 I have suggested that the characterization of Hippothous may owe something to Plato’s Symposium. There too we find some degree of contradiction, in that Agathon, the eternal beloved of Pausanias, appears to have quarters reserved for women in his house (176e): are those women simply servants, or is this devoted lover of males actually married?—See Duncan (2006), 53. 82 In his Amatorius, Plutarch remarks that, in contrast to male–female pairings, there are few examples of long-lasting male–male relationships (770c); he does not acknowledge the possible influence of the traditional pederastic model, which must surely have contributed to this dearth of examples: if it is not the done thing to continue a same-sex relationship beyond a certain age boundary, then such a relationship will presumably either peter out or retreat underground, accounting for the shortage of overt instances.

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he must appear to fulfil his social obligation to have a son and heir. Social and sexual ideologies repeatedly require of Hippothous particular performances of masculinity, but ironically, his performances apparently allow him to express profound erotic feelings which to some extent go against those ideologies.

IMPERILLED MASCULINI TY In this section of the chapter I want to explore two episodes of what we might call ‘hoped-for pederasty’, first from Xenophon and then from Longus, both of which are figured as placing the masculinity of the hero (the intended erōmenos) in grave jeopardy. I have suggested that Xenophon uses Hippothous’ story to present two very different forms of pederasty, one loving and reciprocal, the other hierarchical and abusive and embodied by Aristomachus. But even before we read of the corrupt and corrupting teacher of rhetoric, we have already met another representative of this negative form of pederasty which damages young men’s masculinity, in the figure of the Phoenician pirate Corymbus, who captures Habrocomes and Anthia. The repeated sight of Habrocomes causes Corymbus to fall in love with him. The pirate is unsure of his ability to persuade Habrocomes, given the hero’s love for Anthia, and does not dare to use force lest Habrocomes do something terrible to himself (1.15.1). This mention of persuasion and force implies that Corymbus sees Habrocomes as a young man with a very fixed sexual preference, so fixed, in fact, that should someone try to alter it by force he might even kill himself. Arriving on dry land and unable to contain his feelings any longer, Corymbus confides in his fellow pirate Euxeinus, who has romantic designs on Anthia, and each agrees to plead the cause of the other. Having told Habrocomes of Corymbus’ desire for him, Euxeinus ends his long speech with a question that says much more than meets the eye: Why do you need a wife and worries now, why a ladylove at such a tender age? (X. Eph. 1.16.5)   Ø ªıÆØŒe E F ŒÆd æƪø,  b KæøÅ ź،fiH ZØ;83

83 Euxeinus’ question echoes the common (and by no means exclusively pederastic) views that women spell trouble ( æƪø), and that youth should not be

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Behind Euxeinus’ words lurks the question, ‘Why should one so young want to play the conjugal role of erastēs to an erōmenē, when his age better suits him to the role of erōmenos in a pederastic relationship?’84 Here again we find an emphasis on age and its relation to erotic matters, and we might well think that Euxeinus has a point. His double reference to Habrocomes’ age in the words F and ź،fiH reminds the reader that the hero is only 16, and yet is already married. Habrocomes is a meirakion, while his prospective erastēs Corymbus is a neanias (1.13.3), a difference that might seem ideal for a pederastic liaison. But although Euxeinus’ arguments hold a certain amount of water, Habrocomes’ elite social status could not possibly admit of such a relationship, even if he were himself amenable to it, since in order for a man’s gender to remain unimpeached, he must not allow himself to be penetrated by a social inferior. The emphasis of Euxeinus’ speech is very much on Habrocomes’ new slave status which, he says, may be reversed if Habrocomes does the sensible thing and gives Corymbus what he wants ( ”ŁØ ªaæ ‰  Ø ŒÆd PÆØÅ ŒÆd KºıŁæÆ I ºÆE, N Łº Ø ŁŁÆØ fiH  fi Å ˚æıø fi , 1.16.4). Greek and Roman ideology identified the penetrative sexual role as the domain of the free male, and often associated the passive role with young slaves, who were obliged to submit to their masters.85 This connection is ominously hinted at by Euxeinus’ repeated references to Habrocomes’ loss of liberty, and his parting advice that the young man should attend only to his master ( æe  E  e  Å º Ø, ø fi ŒºÆØ  ÆŒØ, 1.16.5). Habrocomes’ masculinity is thus in deep danger, for although he has been taken as a slave he is truly an elite male, and as both pirate and barbarian his would-be erastēs Corymbus is doubly his social inferior. When reunited with Anthia, Habrocomes bitterly denounces the role of erōmenos to Corymbus’ erastēs:

marred by marriage. Though not himself sexually interested in Habrocomes, Euxeinus is well able to make the stock arguments that a prospective erastēs might make, assuming a role and giving a performance on Corymbus’ behalf. 84 Euxeinus’ use of the term KæøÅ seems designed to evoke its masculine counterpart, Kæ  , in the reader’s mind, so that he does not have to spell out what it is that Corymbus wants from Habrocomes, but is able to make his point obliquely. 85 Edwards (1993), 72–3.

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Was it for this that I kept myself chaste up to now, to submit myself to the shameful lust of an amorous pirate? And what life will be left to me, becoming a whore instead of a man, and deprived of my Anthia? But I swear by the chastity that has been with me from childhood till now, I could not submit myself to Corymbus. I will die first and prove my chastity with my own dead body! (X. Eph. 2.1.3–4; trans. Anderson, modified) . . . N F ¼æÆ åæØ F  çæø KÅæ ŁÅ, ¥ Æ KÆıe  ŁH ºfiÅB fi KæHØ c ÆNåæa K ØŁıÆ; ˚Æd  Kd  æغ ÆØ æfiÅ b Id Iæe ªø fi , I æÅŁØ b ŁÆ B KB ; ºº P a c åæØ ¼æØ øçæÅ KŒ ÆØ Ø æç, PŒ i KÆıe  ŁÅ ˚æø fi · Ł ÆØ b ææ ŒÆd çÆFÆØ Œæe  çæø.86

His vilification of the proposition is dictated by a vital issue that Euxeinus himself raised in his earlier speech: the hero’s marriage to Anthia. When Habrocomes married Anthia, he assumed the role of active male in a sexual sense, a role denoted in his reaction here by the word anēr; indeed, on his wedding night he referred to himself as Anthia’s anēr and erastēs (1.9.3).87 Were he now to become a pederast’s erōmenos, both his sexual maturity and his masculine status would be vitiated. For the generic hero, marriage is a boundary marker terminating the period in which the young man may reasonably perform the role of erōmenos, so, while Habrocomes may be the perfect age for that role, his marital status precludes it: marriage results in progression to a new level of masculinity from which a man cannot regress without forfeiting his gender status. Despite his youth, Habrocomes appears aware of the forfeit involved as, with quite stunning vitriol, he uses the feminine, æÅ, to express a fear for the integrity of his gender.88 This is the sole application of 86 Much as Theagenes’ sōphrosynē was something he felt the need to display (see Ch. 2, pp. 154–8), so here Habrocomes will make his sōphrosynē manifest by means of his death (çÆFÆØ Œæe  çæø). 87 The terminology that we tend to associate with pederasty is frequently employed in male–female contexts in the novels, seemingly to denote parity of emotion: while Habrocomes thinks of himself as Anthia’s erastēs, she twice refers to him as her erōmenos (1.4.7, 3.6.3); and Callirhoe describes Chaereas as both her erastēs and her erōmenos (3.10.7), and as a ‘beautiful and amorous youth’ (ØæŒØ ŒÆºe, KæøØŒ, ibid.), which sounds very much like something a pederast might say to his beloved. 88 With this we might compare his earlier outburst at the realization that he had fallen for Anthia: he no longer considered himself IæØŒ , and thought that love had made him ¼Ææ (1.4.1–2); but although love for a woman may have unmanned

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æÅ to a male in the extant Greek novels. Callirhoe’s suitors brand Chaereas æ (Chariton 1.2.3),89 and Cleitophon is also labelled æ when accused of having committed adultery with Melite (Ach. Tat. 8.10.9);90 in each of these cases, however, although the hero’s masculinity is under attack, it is nonetheless the masculine grammatical gender that is used. By contrast, Habrocomes’ use of the feminine suggests that he envisages the role of erōmenos to Corymbus’ erastēs as emasculating him so completely that it will result in a figurative sex-change. And not only will it strip him of his maleness, but it will reduce him to the level of the basest kind of female prostitute. His identification of the passive sexual role as that of a prostitute stems in part from the promise Euxeinus made to him, that were he to accede to Corymbus’ desires, he would be restored to his previous good fortune, effectively being remunerated for the sexual services he would provide.91 The symbolic sex/gender change that Habrocomes anticipates reflects the Greek and Roman cultural conception of the passive participant in male–male sex as playing a woman’s role. Aeschines, for instance, accuses Timarchus of having allowed his body to be used like a woman’s (e ¼æÆ b ŒÆd ¼ææÆ e HÆ, ªıÆØŒEÆ b ±Ææ ÆÆ ÆæÅŒÆ, 1.185). Petronius’ Encolpius maligns Giton and Ascyltus with feminizing language, claiming that even those who considered Ascyltus a vir hired him like a puella, while Giton has been raised like a girl, has done ‘women’s work’ (opus muliebre), and has behaved like a street hooker (81). Of course, the force of Encolpius’ words is ironically undercut by the dubious social status and moral character of the Satyricon’s protagonists, although the accusation he makes would be extremely serious if Ascyltus and Giton were true viri, since the maintenance of virility entailed the maintenance of bodily impenetrability.92 Catullus presents a gender transformation taking place at the precise moment when Attis mutilates his own genitals (63.6ff.), demonstrating the him in his own eyes, it did not have as severe an effect as he now envisages the pederastic role of erōmenos to have. 89 See Ch. 2, n. 224 for my preference of the manuscript’s æ over Praechter’s emendation, ¼ æ . 90 I will consider this instance later in the chapter. 91 cf. the exchange of money between Aristomachus and Hyperanthes’ father. 92 On the Roman concept of stuprum, a disgrace usually pertaining to sexual activity, see Williams (1999), 96–124; on the relation of bodily impenetrability to the status of the vir, see Edwards (1993), 75 and Walters (1997).

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extent to which masculinity was perceived to lie in the male genitals and the ability to play the active sexual role. Although Habrocomes will not be emasculated in a literal sense, by taking on the role of erōmenos he will forfeit the status of erastēs that he has newly gained through marriage, and will thus become feminized. In terms of age Habrocomes may still be a meirakion, but in terms of sexual maturity he is very much an anēr. His disgust thus reflects the ramifications of a scenario that would invert the protocols on which Greek (and Roman) masculinity operates.93 I want to return now to Schmeling’s argument that Habrocomes has a pederastic relationship with the bandit Hippothous. He suggests that ‘when Hippothous (the older man) meets Habrocomes (a youth) . . . , they strike up a very natural homosexual relationship, temporary in nature, and aberrant from Habrocomes’ natural instincts, but not from Hippothous’, as the story will illustrate’; Schmeling believes that this relationship remains unnarrated ‘because [Xenophon] supposes that every reader will understand what is happening’.94 But by this point in the narrative the reader has already encountered Habrocomes’ violent reaction to Corymbus’ advances, a reaction that complicates immeasurably the assumption of a sexual relationship between the hero and Hippothous. Interpretation of the meeting between the two is actually far from simple, and we may be justified in seeing something rather sinister in it: Habrocomes encounters a man who is probably older than he, is specifically said to be armed (‰ ºØø fi ), and who runs to him ( ææåØ), greets or embraces him (çغçæEÆØ), asks him, possibly with a sense of necessity or compulsion (EÆØ), to join him on his travels, and praises his looks; Habrocomes keeps quiet about his reason for being on the road, agrees to join Hippothous, apparently under duress (IƪŒÇØ fiH  I Łø fi ), and the two then swear oaths to cooperate in brigandage (ıæª Ø  ŒÆd ıºº łŁÆØ, 2.14.1–4). It may well be that Habrocomes’ youthful beauty reminds Hippothous of his lost love Hyperanthes, as I have suggested, but the meeting of the two also smacks of an intimidating older man 93 In its implication of both social and physical submission to Corymbus, Habrocomes’ repeated use of the verb  ŁÅØ emphasizes what is wrong with the proposed relationship: should he play the passive role in pederastic intercourse and literally ‘put himself beneath’ Corymbus, he would accept the pirate’s social and sexual superiority. 94 Schmeling (1980), 52.

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press-ganging a youth into joining him, and thus beginning to replenish his bandit gang, a gang that will be all the more effective if it is good-looking – later, he is again on the lookout for attractive young men to add to his force (ÆŒı IŒÇÆ , 3.1.2).95 If I am correct to see Xenophon as endorsing reciprocal male–male relationships, then the sense of coercion evident in Hippothous’ approach to Habrocomes militates against reading an unspoken sexual relationship between the two. And although Xenophon may advocate certain forms of same-sex love, there is a very clear-cut point of sexual maturation beyond which a young hero can no longer engage in the role of erōmenos without jeopardy to his masculinity. This is a point that Habrocomes has already passed, and this factor alone makes a sexual liaison between the hero and the bandit highly unlikely. Now that the reader knows that pederasty poses a potential threat to the masculinity of the romantic hero, the suggestion of Hippothous’ sexual attraction to Habrocomes might simply serve the literary purpose of provoking a fear in the reader’s mind for the integrity of Habrocomes’ manhood.96 Similar sex and gender politics are at work in Longus’ treatment of Gnathon’s attempt on Daphnis. Gnathon’s overtures may be less threatening and more humorous than those of Corymbus, but their amusing exterior belies very serious repercussions that relate to Daphnis’ social and sexual status. Longus’ introduction of Gnathon is economical with details, but despite its brevity the eagle-eyed reader is able to glean a surprising amount of information from it: Astylos arrived on horseback, with a hanger-on of his, also on horseback. He was just growing his first beard, but Gnathon (that was his 95 Hippothous’ ambiguous approach to Habrocomes may suggest that Xenophon is attempting to fulfil one of the requirements of the genre: a sense of threat, followed by a transition to friendship and benefaction, fits the generic pattern evidenced by characters such as Dorcon and Gnathon in Longus, Thyamis in Heliodorus, and Xenophon’s own Lampon. The relationship between the bandit and the hero may be little more than another box ticked on the romantic prose checklist. 96 Burg (1984) has argued that male–male sexual behaviour was common among brigand groups in the 17th century. If the bandit-pederast was also a familiar figure to readers of the imperial period, whether from life or merely as a literary stereotype (and Xenophon’s casting of both Hippothous and Corymbus as pederasts might suggest that he was drawing on a recognizable type), then the mere suggestion of Hippothous’ sexual attraction to Habrocomes might serve the literary purpose of compounding the reader’s fear for the hero’s masculinity. Hippothous, however, is only a temporary brigand, and his pederastic inclinations might be related more to his real status as an elite male; on pederasty as a class-marked institution, see Hubbard (1998).

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name) had been shaving his for some time. (Longus 4.10.1; trans. Morgan) ffl HŒ b › @ıº Kç ¥ ı ŒÆd ÆæØ ÆPF, ŒÆd y Kç ¥ ı, › b IæتØ , › b ˆŁø (ıd ªaæ KŒÆºE) e ªøÆ ıæ  ºÆØ . . .

Gnathon is a parasite, a character type rooted in Greek and Roman comedy and one which suggests that he is not a true threat, as will turn out to be the case later in the narrative.97 But this label is also indicative of a lack of moderation in all areas of life: the man hired by Chariton’s tyrant of Acragas to pose as Callirhoe’s seducer is a parasitos (1.4.1), and knows exactly how to dress in order that Chaereas should believe him an adulterer (1.4.9) – a parasite is just the sort of man to engage in moicheia, and even if in this case it is only mock-moicheia, he knows just how to appear to be going about it. As with Chariton, Longus’ intention in labelling Gnathon a parasitos is to enable the reader to identify instantly a man who is prepared to play an effeminate role. As readers, we do not yet know quite what sort of effeminate role that is, but the mention of Gnathon’s name helps to fill in some of the blanks. As a stock moniker for comic parasites, the name Gnathon (‘Jaws’) would have been immediately suggestive of gluttony,98 a trait especially associated with the effeminate.99 Food, drink, and sex were all thought to require moderation;100 consequently, over-indulgence in any or all of these areas had the power to label the agent an effeminate,101 and if a man is gluttonous towards food and drink, it is safe to assume that he may also be sexually voracious, and indiscriminately so.102 The name Jaws may thus also insinuate that he puts other things into his mouth besides food and drink: his implied incontinence may extend to oral sex, an activity that would certainly 97 See Winkler (1990), 112; Konstan (1994b), 18; and Morgan (2004), 229. 98 See Morgan (2004), 229. 99 See Corbeill (1997) on gluttony as fuel for accusations of effeminacy in Roman political invective. 100 See e.g. Muson. 12 (On Sex) and 18B (On Food): excess in these aspects of life is shameful. 101 See Goldhill (1995), 48 and Davidson (1998), passim. 102 cf. Aeschin. 1.42: Timarchus is presented as a slave to food, drink, gambling, and women, as well as to passive sex with men. After later rejecting Gnathon, Daphnis not only avoids him himself, but also keeps a special watch over Chloe (KŒE b çªø, #ºÅ b ÅæH, 4.12.3): it seems that he instinctively knows effeminacy when he sees it, and assumes, quite feasibly, that Chloe too is at risk from the parasite’s lust.

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characterize him as a gender deviant according to both Greek and Roman ideologies of masculinity.103 So Gnathon’s name begins to hint at his effeminate practices, and when Longus draws attention to the parasite’s facial hair (a matter of perpetual concern in pederastic contexts), our suspicions are aroused still further. While Astylus is just beginning to grow a beard, and is therefore just emerging from youth into adulthood, Gnathon has been shaving for some time (e ªøÆ ıæ  ºÆØ). Prior to the second century, shaving had been a sign of Roman identity, and beards a mark of Greekness,104 but owing to Hadrian’s sporting of a beard, facial hair became especially popular.105 Might the fact that Gnathon shaves his beard therefore be an implicit and very contemporary comment on his masculinity, or lack of it? Of course, his shaving may simply suggest that he is old enough to pose a sexual threat (to anyone, male or female), but it may also imply something more. Hair removal was commonly associated with effeminacy. This applies especially to the depilation of the body, often presented as the practice of the habitual passive, but to some extent it is also true of facial hair, whose presence generally marks out mature (i.e. potentially sexually active) males from immature (i.e. potentially sexually passive) males.106 Shaving could easily suggest a desire to defer adult

103 See Williams (1999) 197–203; cf. also below, pp. 257–8 and 259–60, on Thersander. Seemingly cognate with ª ø (‘bend’: LSJ s.v. ªŁ , ªÆ  æ, ª ø, ªÆçÆ), presumably owing to the curving shape of the jaw, Gnathon’s name may well suggest the bending involved in certain passive male–male sexual roles; ª ø is used in this kind of double entendre at AP 12.222, of a wrestling teacher taking advantage of his student. Could it also be that Longus intends the name ˆŁø to evoke ªŁø, a name that symbolized effeminacy because of Agathon’s long-term relationship with Pausanias? Just as Agathon discusses love at his symposium, so too has Gnathon learned about love at such events; but while Agathon’s symposium is a sober affair, with drunkenness deliberately rejected (Pl. Smp. 176), Gnathon prefers a profligate gathering (4.17.3). If Longus did indeed intend this connection, it would function both straightforwardly and ironically, on the one hand simply evoking the effeminacy inscribed in the figure of Agathon, and on the other implying just how far removed is Gnathon from the heavenly love of which Agathon’s lover Pausanias speaks. 104 See e.g. D. Chr. Or. 36.17, where beards are manly and Greek, and beardlessness the sign of a Roman sympathizer; Zanker (1995), 218: by the time of Hadrian’s accession, the Romans had ‘been basically clean-shaven for centuries’. 105 Zanker (1995), 218–19; Elsner (2007), 218. 106 See Frontisi-Ducroux & Lissarrague (1990), 217 and 228 on the beard in pederastic scenes in iconographic evidence, and Gleason (1995), 67–70 on the social significance of the depilation of the face and body.

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masculinity, and to remain an erōmenos, and thus passive, beyond an age considered acceptable:107 neither Agathon nor Cleisthenes was bearded, a fact that provided ink for Aristophanes’ pen (Thesm. 191 ff., 574–5),108 and the schools of Greek philosophy frequently viewed shaving as a denial of ‘natural’ manliness, and as suggestive of ‘sexual lust and a weakness for luxury’;109 it is these sorts of meanings that I think Longus intends the reader to take from Gnathon’s shaven face. The language Longus uses of Gnathon’s beard may even be deliberately chosen to hint at a preference for male–male sex, while retaining some ambiguity as to whether Gnathon prefers the active or the passive role: Astylus is IæتØ , having only the first downy fluff, but Gnathon shaves a real beard, a ªø, which might be thought intentionally close to words with the root ıª-, referring to the buttocks and anal sex. I do not want to overstate the case on the subject of beards, and it is not without contradictions in the text: Dorcon is described (like Astylus) as IæتØ (1.15.1), and he makes much of his facial hair (and Daphnis’ lack of it) in the beauty contest, suggesting that beards are indeed markers of masculinity; but Daphnis is then able to use his own beardlessness (IªØ ) to positive effect, likening himself to Dionysus, and Dorcon’s beard ( æªØ ) to that of a goat (although that simile is not unproblematic: Daphnis’ status as a goatherd undercuts the power of the goat as a negative paradigm of masculinity). Physiognomical texts, the obvious place to turn for a moral evaluation of facial hair in this period, are strangely silent on the matter,110 which may suggest, as Swain would argue, that the beard was perhaps not as important a symbol of masculinity as it has so often been assumed to be.111 And yet there clearly were plenty of advocates of the notion that facial hair was synonymous with manliness, and that, conversely, the 107 cf. D. Chr. Or. 33.63, which presents the Tarsians’ shaving as symptomatic of effeminacy. 108 Dover (1978), 144 suggests instead that Agathon ‘cut his beard close in order to retain the appearance of a young man whose beard is beginning to grow’, and argues that Aristophanes’ reference to Agathon’s shaving refers not to his face but to his body. Cleisthenes was apparently unable to grow a beard, which may have contributed to his characterization as a sexual passive. 109 Zanker (1995), 108. 110 See Elsner (2007), 218 on Polemon. 111 Swain (2007b), 13; however, Elsner (2007), 218 raises the possibility that physiognomical references to facial hair might risk the emperor taking personal offence.

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smooth-chinned man was no man at all.112 Daphnis’ own beardlessness emphasizes his tender age and potential delectability to a man of Gnathon’s sexual interests, while Gnathon’s shaving is perhaps emblematic of his luxurious and licentious (i.e. effeminate) city lifestyle. Daphnis’ masculinity is doubly threatened, since he is at risk not only of being feminized by the role of erōmenos, but also of being feminized by an effeminate. To the dirty-minded reader (whose presence Longus evidently anticipates in the prologue’s ironic prayer to maintain sōphrosynē),113 or simply to the pepaideumenos versed in literature and the codes of masculinity, all of these titbits of characterization are suggested by a seemingly throwaway reference to a beard and a name. The assumptions the reader makes from that reference are then substantiated by Longus’ simple yet vivid remarks on Gnathon’s moral fibre and most pertinent physical characteristics: . . . Gnathon, . . . whose accomplishments comprised eating, getting drunk, and drunken fornication, and who consisted of nothing more than jaws, a stomach, and the parts below the stomach . . . (Longus 4.11.2; trans. Morgan) › b ˆŁø, xÆ ÆŁg KŁØ ¼Łæø  ŒÆd Ø N ŁÅ ŒÆd ºÆªØ a c ŁÅ ŒÆd Pb ¼ºº J j ªŁ ŒÆd ªÆcæ ŒÆd a  e ªÆæÆ . . .

Longus chooses his vocabulary carefully here in order to add to Gnathon’s effeminate characterization. The verb ºÆªø denotes not merely sex, but gratuitous and immoderate sex,114 and stands in punning contrast to the harmless intentions of Astylus: Daphnis’ fluffy-faced brother has come to the country to hunt hares ( æd Ł æÆ r å ºÆªøH, 4.11.1), while the beard-shaving Gnathon has come for drunken, animalistic sex (ŒÆd ºÆªØ a c ŁÅ), as his inebriated attempt on Daphnis goes on to show. Gnathon’s excessive behaviour with regard to food, drink, and sex characterizes him so completely that he can be summed up as no more than mouth, belly, and genitals: he is his actions, and those actions brand him effeminate. With his next words, Longus plays a trump card designed to dispel any last traces of ambiguity regarding the parasite’s sexual 112 See e.g. Muson. 21; Ap. Ty. Ep. 63; Gleason (1995), 68–70. 113 See Ch. 2, n. 204. 114 LSJ s.v. ºÆªø, with the cognate adjective ºª (‘lecherous’, ‘lustful’).

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proclivities: he is a natural pederast (çØ ÆØæÆc ).115 The effeminacy at which the author has been hinting is of the pederastic kind. That is not to say that pederasty was perceived to be inherently effeminate, but rather that Gnathon, a man who can be described as nothing more than body parts, is an effeminate practitioner of pederasty, just as he is evidently effeminate in his uncontrolled attitude towards food and drink.116 The ‘natural pederast’ begins his efforts at seducing Daphnis by promising the goatherd manumission (4.11.3), much as Euxeinus had promised Habrocomes would be rewarded for obliging Corymbus’ desires. Gnathon wants to ‘soften’ Daphnis (ƺŁø b ÆPe, ibid.) into accommodating his own lascivious attitude to sex, but the reader understands that Daphnis, as an elite Greek male,117 cannot become ‘softer’, and certainly cannot barter his body in exchange for his freedom, without putting his masculinity in grave peril. Later that evening, couching his request in terms he hopes the rustic Daphnis will understand, Gnathon asks the goatherd to give him what the nannies give the billies ( ÆæÆåE ØF x ƃ Ær ª E æªØ , 4.12.1). But this faux-naïf euphemism for pederastic sex ironically gives Daphnis the verbal weapons he needs to rebuff the pederast, as he goes on effectively to argue that what Gnathon proposes is unnatural because the animals don’t do it like that (ŒÆd ºª ‰ Ær ªÆ b ÆØ æªı ŒÆº, æª b P  Ø r  ÆÆ æª Pb ŒæØe Id H O+ø ŒæØe Pb IºŒæıÆ Id H IºŒæø f IºŒæıÆ , 4.12.2). While an argument from nature is an appropriate one for a country boy to make, the reader is aware that it is a cultured, and thus urban, argument;118 in this

115 See Ch. 1, n. 162 on çØ as a euphemistic word for ‘genitals’; if such a meaning is in operation here, it might suggest that Gnathon’s pederastic desires are centred in his genitals and are therefore motivated entirely by sex rather than any higher, more philosophical goal. 116 I think that Winkler (1990), 112–14 is essentially correct in his argument that it is not male–male sex per se that is reacted against in Longus’ text, but the way in which Gnathon conducts himself with regard to sex. 117 The reader has surmised Daphnis’ elite status from the recognition tokens found with him, if not from the generic convention of casting an elite young man in the role of hero. 118 On the irony in Daphnis’ argument, see Goldhill (1995), 66 and Morgan (2004), 231; for the argument from nature against pederasty in contemporary texts, see Plu. Amat. 751c and Ps.-Lucian Am. 20, 22; and for the philosophical grounding of the argument, see Goldhill (1995), 52ff., with particular reference to Plato’s Laws.

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respect it ‘naturally’ reflects Daphnis’ as-yet-unrevealed origins as an elite city boy. In Longus’ text, as often elsewhere, pederasty is characterized as a city pastime:119 so, for instance, Astylus asks his father if he may take Daphnis home so the boy can learn ‘the ways of the city’ (a IØŒ) under Gnathon’s tutelage ( e ˆŁø , 4.19.1), a rather coy way of marking the roles of erōmenos and erastēs as urban ones. In describing Gnathon as a pederast ‘by nature’ and having Daphnis argue that pederasty is against nature, Longus explores the way in which culture naturalizes the practices of sex and gender: within Gnathon’s social ambit, convention promotes pederasty as natural, but within Daphnis’, the familiar actions of the animals are natural.120 Daphnis’ rusticity might seem to distance him from the urban, elite practice of pederasty, and yet Daphnis is really an urban, elite boy; the reader may wonder whether, if pederasty is ‘naturally’ a city pursuit, it might therefore be more ‘natural’ to Daphnis than he thinks. But while the natural pederast may wish to teach Daphnis ‘the ways of the city’, Daphnis has already learned other urban ways, which now govern his aversion to Gnathon’s proposition. Prior to Gnathon’s appearance on the scene, Daphnis had had sex with Lycaenion, who herself came from the city ( ÆŒ K ¼ , 3.15.1). During this experience nature was said to take over (3.18.4), suggesting that while Gnathon’s form of a IØŒ may be natural to him, another form of a IØŒ comes naturally to Daphnis.121 From this first introduction to male–female city ways, he acquires a ‘natural’ grasp on the distinctly cultured argument from nature, and is paradoxically able to argue against a form of urban sex of which he knows nothing.122 119 See Hubbard (1998), 49 on pederasty in classical Athens as a ‘strongly classmarked institution, of which subsistence-level laborers and farmers . . . had little experience’; see also D. Chr. Or. 7.148ff. on pederasty as a city pursuit; and Morgan (2004), 230 on the city–country/culture–nature dichotomies in Longus. 120 Winkler (1990), 69 observes that in classical discourse ‘nature’ often ‘refers precisely to convention: it is norm-enforcing language’; see also Veyne (1985), 26–7 and Gleason (1995), pp. xxvi–xxvii. 121 cf. Theocritus (or Ps.-Theocritus) 20, where a IØŒ denotes the urban love bestowed by women: a boukolos is rejected by a city girl, who describes her own kisses as IØŒ (20.4); the boukolos complains to his shepherd companions that women from the town (a IØŒ) will not kiss him (20.30); like Gnathon before Astylus he proceeds to cite examples of divine beings who have loved animal-herders. 122 Daphnis’ ‘natural’ awareness of his own masculinity seems a good example of the way in which narratives often struggle to establish how identity is formed: to paraphrase Culler (see Introduction, pp. 7–8), Daphnis discovers who he is by acting in such a way as to become what was always his nature.

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Although Daphnis’ elite status has not yet been formally revealed, the reader suspects that, in terms of social class, he would not make a suitable erōmenos for the parasitos (4.10.1) Gnathon.123 But social status is not the primary motivating factor in Daphnis’ reaction to Gnathon’s request. Through Lycaenion he has had an acculturative experience which has imbued him with a subliminal comprehension of his own masculinity and of the cultural meanings of sexual acts, a comprehension that is attuned to elite city protocols; while such protocols may endorse pederasty, they also preclude the sexually mature (and socially superior) male from playing the role of erōmenos. Daphnis’ sex with Lycaenion is the moment at which he assumes the identity of active male, just as Habrocomes’ marital status classified him as an anēr:124 not for nothing does Lycaenion tell Daphnis to remember that she made him a man before Chloe (Å ‹Ø  ¼æÆ Kªg æe #ºÅ  ÅŒÆ, 3.19.3).125 As a newly made active male with a latent understanding of urban concerns, Daphnis recognizes that what Gnathon proposes is wholly unsuitable: Lycaenion has taught him to exercise his masculinity in the role of erastēs in a male–female context, and has thus prepared him for marriage; after making this transition, he cannot now regress to the passive role proposed by Gnathon.126 A strikingly similar concern with sexual boundaries is found in an epigram by Martial, which conveys the constraint upon young men to learn and perform masculinity in a socially appropriate manner. There, the poet warns a young husbandto-be who has prior experience only of sex with males, that he will get away with buggering his new wife only once. His best course of action is to be initiated into sex with women by a prostitute before marriage,

123 The issue of social status is noted by Winkler (1990), 112–14; see also Konstan (1994b), 29–30 and Watanabe (2003a), 48. 124 Daphnis’ assumption of the active role is signified by the fact that Lycaenion subordinates herself to him: Æc b  æÆÆ (3.18.4). 125 cf. Nape’s fear that if Chloe is not married off soon, she may ‘make a man’ (¼æÆ Ø ÆØ, 3.25.2) of one of the shepherds. Note the use of the middle voice ( Ø ÆØ) in Chloe’s case, and the active (  ÅŒÆ) in Lycaenion’s, suggesting perhaps that Lycaenion is making a man whom she then turns out into the world, while Chloe may make a man ‘for herself’, in the sense of a man whom she would then have to marry – the goal of Lycaenion’s man-making is (pseudo-altruistic) pleasure, not matrimony. 126 Epstein (1995), 70 rightly notes that ‘[Daphnis’] experience with Gnathon corroborates the lesson that masculinity depends upon the assumption of the active role’; see also Epstein (2002), 36.

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since ‘She’ll make a man; a virgin does not teach well’ (illa virum faciet; non bene virgo docet, 11.78). Commenting on another of Martial’s epigrams, Kay notes that the use of vir signifies a transition from male–male to male–female sex: it is never used of the passive pederastic partner (puer), and it indicates that the male is now past the age of excusable same-sex liaisons; Kay also observes the semantic equivalence in such contexts between the Latin puer/vir and the Greek ÆE /I æ.127 Visits to prostitutes were a common part of a young man’s education,128 and when we take into account the connotations of prostitution in Lycaenion’s name, we see that Daphnis has had an experience remarkably akin to what Martial recommends for the young man in the epigram.129 He has not had pederastic sex like Martial’s character, but he has made the transition from a period when such behaviour would be socially acceptable (at least in the city), so he is socially obliged to reject Gnathon’s advances: Lycaenion has made him an anēr, and no anēr plays the role of pais without becoming feminized. Gnathon’s wish to play billy goat to Daphnis’ nanny reflects the desire for the active sexual role suggested by the term paiderastēs, while his identification of the role of erōmenos with the sexual behaviour of a female goat betrays the dominant cultural assumption that sexual passivity is feminine and thus feminizing. Gnathon’s intention in using this language is simply to make what he wants intelligible to Daphnis (a goatherd needs a familiar frame of reference), but, for the reader, the nanny goat euphemism drives home the seriousness of the threat Gnathon’s desire poses to the hero’s masculinity. The perceived feminization of the passive role is also evident when Lamon, knowing Daphnis’ true social status and so trying to defend his foster-son from Gnathon’s designs, declares to Dionysophanes that the parasite wants to take the young man to Mitylene for ‘women’s work’ (ªıÆØŒH æªÆ, 4.19.5).130 Just as Daphnis has a ‘natural’ awareness of the cultured argument from nature, so too is the country-bumpkin Lamon ‘naturally’ aware that passive sex is feminizing. Both Daphnis’ and Lamon’s ‘natural’ understandings 127 Kay (1985), 120. 128 Ibid. 167 on the Roman context. Achilles Tatius’ Cleitophon has also received some education from prostitutes, an issue to which I will return later. 129 On Lycaenion’s name, see Morgan (2004), 208–9. See Ch. 1, pp. 77–9 for Daphnis’ experience with Lycaenion as a form of education. 130 cf. Encolpius’ claim that Giton had performed opus muliebre (Petr. 81).

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appeal to and reinforce the educated reader’s apprehension of the protocols of elite masculinity.131 The extent of Gnathon’s contravention of those protocols becomes clear, as he wishes not only to be the figurative billy goat, but also to be one of Daphnis’ nannies so that he might be ‘put to graze by him’ (  KŒı  , 4.16.3), a coy innuendo suggesting a desire for the passive role,132 and thus invoking the meanings implicit in Gnathon’s shaven face. So not only do his words demonstrate the feminizing effect of passive sex, but they also reveal the indiscriminate nature of his desires: his lasciviousness extends to wilful neglect of the conventions of pederasty, which require him to be either active or passive, but never both within the same relationship.133 Daphnis rejects Gnathon not only verbally but also physically: Gnathon then laid hands on him and was set to take him by force, but Daphnis pushed him away and sent him sprawling to the ground (he was drunk and could barely stand), then ran off like a puppy, leaving him lying there. It was not a boy he needed now to lend a helping hand, but a man. (Longus 4.12.3; trans. Morgan) x   q › ˆŁø ØÇŁÆØ a åEæÆ æçæø, › b ŁÆ ¼Łæø  ŒÆd HÆ ºØ Ææø çź N c ªB ŒÆd u æ ŒºÆ I æÆg Œ ŒÆºØ , Iæe P ÆØe K åØæƪøªÆ  . . .

If Daphnis is now an anēr, having been made so by Lycaenion, what are we to make of his being likened to a baby animal? Here, focalization seems important. It is, at least in part, through Gnathon’s eyes that Daphnis is puppy-like, suggesting that the innocent-sounding 131 It is telling to note that Dionysophanes readily agrees to Astylus’ request to take Daphnis back to the city to learn ‘city ways’ under Gnathon (4.19.1) as long as he believes the goatherd a slave, but as soon as he realizes that he is of higher status (4.19.4–5) the idea is completely out of the question (4.20.1). 132 cf. Chloe’s naive but gender-appropriate wish to be a goat grazed by Daphnis (  KŒı øÆØ, 1.14.3). 133 I do not mean to imply that those involved in pederastic relationships always confined themselves to ‘active’ or ‘passive’ roles, but merely that convention required at least the semblance of conformity to those roles. Gnathon reverses the roles twice more, first referring to himself as an erastēs (4.17.3, 4.17.4, 4.17.6), and later, having rescued Chloe from Lampis with an eye to getting back into Daphnis’ good books, begging Daphnis to take him as a slave who has his uses (Fº PŒ . . . ¼åæÅ, 4.29.4): given that slaves were always potential sex objects for their masters, Gnathon’s request may well have an ulterior motive, other than the desire to retain access to a well-stocked table.

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simile may have a sexual sense (as ever with Gnathon). And indeed, to judge from an epigram attributed to Strato (AP 12.238), who was famously enthused by boys, the notion of puppyhood does seem to have been closely connected to youthful sexual activity between males, and perhaps especially to the alternation of sexual roles: in an implicit analogy between humans and animals, Strato refers to a tendency among young male dogs (ƒ ŒØ HºØ) to mount each other and to swap between the roles of active mounter and passive mounted; they are described as ‘playing the boy’, or ‘acting a youthful part’ (ØæÆŒØıØ), as if such behaviour is especially associated with youth. Longus’ use of the word ŒºÆ might therefore denote the sexual way in which Gnathon views Daphnis: he wants him to be his ‘puppy’, and to alternate between the active and the passive role with him. Furthermore, puppy-like behaviour might suggest not only youthful sex, but also rough sex. Support for this is found in the fragments of one of Decimus Laberius’ mimes, Catularius (The Mime of the Puppy), which appears to involve a young man (adulescens) being buggered roughly.134 Sandy believes that the title Catularius in itself indicates buggery, while Panayotakis argues that Laberius’ language implies that the buggery here is of a deliberately humiliating and punitive kind.135 If such a sense were inherent to the puppy metaphor, it might well give the reader a little more insight into Gnathon’s sexual tastes. The puppy motif is emblematic of developing masculinity, in both a sexual and a social sense.136 Plutarch relates a story about the Spartan lawgiver Lycurgus’ use of differently trained puppies as examples of how best to train young men (Moralia 225dff.). One is trained to eat only the finest food, provided by its owners, while the other is taught to hunt; as a result the former puppy becomes a lazy glutton, while the latter becomes self-sufficient and useful. Just as this puppy parable presents two forms of training with two very different outcomes, so Longus outlines two ways of life open to the ‘puppy’ Daphnis: the ‘city ways’ represented by the lazy glutton Gnathon, 134 Laber. 30, 32, Bonaria; Panayotakis (2010), 168ff. Laberius evidently also wrote a mime entitled Scylax (Laber. 101, Bonaria; see Panayotakis (2010), 171). My thanks to Costas Panayotakis for drawing my attention to Laberius’ mimes. 135 Sandy (1974), 343 n. 32 (also 335 n. 13); Panayotakis (2010), 177. 136 Whitmarsh (2001a), 202 notes the occurrence of the puppy figure in one of Dio Chrysostom’s Alexander orations, and argues quite rightly that it signifies ‘the dangerous and liminal period between childhood and full socialization’.

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whose raison d’être is drunken sex and the delights afforded by a master’s table (4.16.2–3), or the conjugal goal towards which the novel has always been leading, and which Daphnis has been taught to achieve by his educative sex with Lycaenion.137 To describe Daphnis as a ‘puppy’ is to highlight the fragility of male youth on its journey to fully gendered status. In this respect, the juxtaposition of the words I æ and ÆE in the puppy passage is important,138 and here we need to look to the first inset myth narrated in the novel, where two young cowherds, a boy and a girl, compete at singing. The boy – very significantly, because the boy stands for Daphnis – is said to have a voice that is louder because he is an I æ, but sweet because he is a ÆE (1.27.3): he is on the cusp of becoming a man, and is therefore in some sense both man and boy. The myths in the novel correspond to the various stages of Daphnis and Chloe’s sexual development, and so by Book 4, having been constituted an anēr by Lycaenion in Book 3, Daphnis has passed the point at which he might be thought both man and boy; Gnathon is thus mistaken to view him as a potential pais.139 The use of I æ and ÆE in both the myth and the passage here emphasizes the vulnerability of Daphnis’ masculinity, and the ease with which he might be robbed of it.140 Writing on Roman texts, Richlin observes that there is a point in a young man’s life when he is ‘just on the edge of too-old-to-be-a-puer, just the age for teasing’, and that, ‘[t]esting this edge was a great source of Roman humor’.141 137 Like the wolfish Lycurgus training his Spartan puppies, the lupine Lycaenion has trained the ‘puppy’ Daphnis. 138 Needless to say, there is a double entendre in the phrase Iæe P ÆØe K åØæƪøªÆ : having wanted to get his hands on Daphnis, thus making him his pais, the prostrate and inebriate Gnathon now needs real physical help from an anēr simply in order to get back on his feet. 139 A notable point on his journey to manhood was his euphemistic acquisition of Philetas’ large syrinx (c . . . æتªÆ c ªºÅ) in place of his own small one (c NÆ . . . c ØŒæ), which he dedicated to Pan (2.37.3). 140 cf. Chariton’s use of  ÆØı and ØæÆŒØ Å at Dionysius’ symposium, which similarly highlights the delicate balancing act masculinity entails (Ch. 1, pp. 52–3); also Ov. Met. 3.337ff., where the 15-year-old Narcissus seems both young man (iuvenis) and boy (puer) at once, and is both lover and beloved – just as Gnathon seems to want Daphnis to be; and Ov. Her. 15.93 on Sappho’s love for Phaon, who is not yet a iuvenis, but no longer a puer, an age described rather suggestively as ‘useful’ (utilis) – cf. here p. 246: Cleitophon is at precisely that pivotal age at which being an erōmenos could be problematic for his masculinity; he too is described by Thersander’s legal counsel, Sopater, as ‘useful’. 141 Richlin (1993), 532; see also Walters (1997), 33 on the ambivalent and worrisome status of the freeborn male youth in Roman thought.

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Daphnis’ ‘edge’ is tested in just such a humorous (though inherently serious) manner: Gnathon’s approach to him takes place at a time when he has recently made the transition from boy to man by ‘learning’ to perform the ‘natural’ role of the adult male, but has not yet cemented his gender through formal marriage, and consequently when his masculinity is most fragile. Both Daphnis and Habrocomes are clearly aware (even if only latently so in Daphnis’ case) of the protocols that govern the performance of sexual masculinity. Their new active male sexual status is a key factor in their reactions against the prospect of becoming another man’s erōmenos. Hence, as well as social considerations (in that the heroes are the social superiors of their admirers) and generic considerations (in that the novel as genre tends to privilege male–female, conjugal love), we must also take into account sexual considerations. Habrocomes’ and Daphnis’ social, sexual, and thus gender identities are fundamental: to submit to these erastai would result in the heroes’ feminization and loss of masculinity. Habrocomes articulates explicitly the potential repercussions of youthful passivity, and his fear of feminization raises a concern never far from the mind of the elite second-century male reader, whose intellectual circles were subjecting the relationship between pederasty and masculinity to increasing scrutiny. Habrocomes’ and Daphnis’ violent reactions against their prospective erastai may be read as further examples of the imperial contestation and problematization of pederasty evidenced by such texts as Plutarch’s Amatorius and Ps.-Lucian’s Amores. Those reactions are prompted not by any antipathy towards pederasty per se, but by a concern for how certain forms of such behaviour might impinge upon the hero’s emerging masculinity, to whose performance he is a newcomer.

MASCULINITY AS ROLE PLAY Of all the extant novels, Achilles Tatius’ is particularly concerned with notions of performance. This is evident not just in the form of the narrative (a narrator reporting a character’s oratorical performance of his own experiences), but also in the text’s stress on theatricality.142 142 On which see Morales (2004), 60ff.

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This is a narrative in which performance has a more literal sense than simply the conscious or unconscious playing of social roles: it has a definite theatrical dimension in which the characters’ self-positioning is modelled on a literary heritage, making it very difficult to judge how seriously we should take the text’s performances of gender. In this section I want to discuss three scenes: the presentation of Cleinias’ pederastic relationship with Charicles, and his related outburst against the evils of women; Cleinias’ advice to Cleitophon on how to seduce Leucippe; and finally, Cleitophon’s debate with Menelaus over whether boys or women are preferable as lovers. In each of these scenes, Achilles presents his characters as performing roles which are strongly influenced by literary genres such as tragedy, rhetoric, philosophy, and erotic poetry. However, those performances are heavily ironized by the fact that none of the characters seems to understand the gender rules of the principal genre in which he is performing his masculinity – erotic prose narrative. One of Achilles’ intentions appears to be for the reader to derive amusement at the expense of men who do not truly understand what masculinity means in the genre of which they are a part, and who are capable of performing their gender only on a very superficial level – the reader can feel smugly superior to these men. But amongst all that smug superiority, does the reader not also feel a niggling suspicion that Achilles’ men are somehow more real, despite their evident and very self-conscious literariness? Does Achilles’ deliberate subversiveness extend to questioning the ideals of masculinity to which many other of the genre’s male characters direct themselves? Is he asking whether it matters that his men are unconvincing in their manliness? In Achilles’ first book, Cleitophon approaches his cousin Cleinias for advice on how best to advance his relationship with Leucippe. Cleinias is two years older than he, has already been initiated in love (æøØ º , 1.7.1), and is himself currently in love with a boy (ØæÆŒı b › æø q, ibid.), all of which is presented by Cleitophon as qualifying him for the important role of praeceptor amoris, the teacher of love. The cousins have done little more than greet each other when Cleinias’ beloved youth Charicles bursts in to report that his father is planning to marry him to a rich but ugly girl: effectively, he is to be sold into an unwanted relationship, much as Xenophon’s Hyperanthes is sold to Aristomachus. Charicles’ dramatic opening statement, ‘I am dead to you, Cleinias’ (ˇYåÆ

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Ø, ˚ºØÆ, 1.7.3),143 and Cleinias’ equally perfervid reaction, ‘You will kill me with your silence! What grieves you? What must we fight?’ ( ŒE Øø H·   ºı E; Ø E åŁÆØ;, 1.7.4), suggest that they see themselves as classical pederasts whose relationship may well be ended by marriage. Cleinias urges Charicles to refuse the proposed match (1.8.1), and proceeds to quote from Hesiod and Homer, and to offer a string of classical examples, in order to illustrate the inherent evil of women (1.8.2ff.). He objects not only to marriage per se, but also to the fact that Charicles is to marry at such a young age (ˆ . . . XÅ Ø øØ › Æ æ;, 1.8.1), a comment that seems to refer to age-appropriate behaviour, as Euxeinus did in his approach to Habrocomes on Corymbus’ behalf: Cleinias implies that now is the time for Charicles to play the role of erōmenos, not husband. Both Cleinias and Charicles are evidently able to appreciate female beauty, considering the evil of women to be somewhat mitigated by a tolerable outward form (1.7.4, 1.8.8), though this does not equate to sexual attraction towards women. Like those descended from double-males in the Platonic Aristophanes’ creation myth, they would rather not marry at all, but if social duress constrains them to, a wife who is pleasant to look at can soften the blow. Cleinias and Charicles’ devotion to pederasty and detestation of women (notwithstanding their recognition of female beauty) might seem at first glance to imply the possession of a fixed and quite profound sexual preference. But any sincerity in Cleinias’ preference for males is compromised by the fact that his self-positioning locates him in a tradition of misogynist diatribe which is not necessarily fuelled by pederastic inclination: the progymnasmata of the imperial schools of rhetoric included exercises on the subject of whether or not men should marry, and the classical texts recommended by rhetorical theorists for pupils’ study offered an abundance of examples of overly powerful wives.144 Cleinias is every inch the drama queen, and his use of literary quotations and references to poetry and the stage identify his words as part of a self-conscious performance,145 while his catalogue of women who have brought ill to 143 cf. Gnathon’s declaration to Astylus, YåÆØ Ø ˆŁø (Longus 4.16.2), after his rejection by Daphnis; astoundingly, Gnathon is even more pretentious than Charicles, going so far as to refer to himself in the third person. 144 See Hawley (2005). 145 And in turn a self-conscious performance by Cleitophon, who narrates the incident.

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men (several of whom might raise a few eyebrows) reads not as the outburst of a man who is provoked by the depth of his feeling for his beloved meirakion, but as the product of his schooling: this is not, perhaps, sincere pederastic sentiment, but an opportunity for Cleinias to show off his learning by arguing the case against marriage in a rhetorical exercise.146 And this seems to be one of his favourite pastimes, as Cleitophon later remarks to Menelaus that misogynist speeches are his cousin’s regular fare (Kº ªaæ ºªØ ŒÆa ªıÆØŒH, u æ N ŁØ, 2.35.2). How profound should we think his pederastic devotion to be when he seems to revel in the opportunity to play the role of distraught classical erastēs?147 In Cleinias’ eyes, marriage will only result in the loss of liberty, youth, and beauty: In the name of the gods, Charicles, please do not become a slave yet, do not destroy the flower of youth before its time; for on top of all the rest, marriage has this misfortune too: it withers one’s bloom. Do not wither yet, Charicles, I beg you; do not give away a fair rose to be picked by an ugly farmer. (Ach. Tat. 1.8.9)  , æe ŁH, #ÆæŒºØ ,  ø Ø Fº ªfiÅ, Åb e ¼Ł æe ŒÆØæF B lÅ I ºfiÅ · æe ªaæ E ¼ººØ ŒÆd F Ø F ªı e IåÅÆ· ÆæÆØ c IŒ .  , ÆØ, #ÆæŒºØ ,  ø Ø ÆæÆŁB fi · c ÆæÆfiH hæç æıªBÆØ Þ Iæçø fi ªøæªfiH.

Cleinias himself is content to be a metaphorical slave to pederastic pleasure (1.7.2), but he sees Charicles’ marriage as true slavery, which will force the young man to assume a subordinate role in relation to his moneyed wife. Cleinias draws on the commonplace and especially pederastic image of male youth as a short-blooming flower: if one behaved in accordance with the conventions of pederasty, there was a limited length of time in which to play the role of erōmenos; consequently, the beautiful youth was destined to blossom in his admirers’ eyes, and rapidly fade and wither at the onset of adulthood, a status which spelled imminent marriage, at least for the young men of the Greek novels, who seem to marry especially young – the window of 146 cf. Gnathon’s justification of his feelings for Daphnis (Longus 4.17.6), which appears to be drawn from a manual; see Morgan (2004), 235. 147 Charicles’ feelings appear equally superficial, to judge from his apparent ability to forget his predicament and go horse-riding (1.8.10–11). Even Hippothous’ feelings seem more genuine than Cleinias’ and Charicles’, despite the suspect status of Xenophon’s text and the breathless pace of his narrative.

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opportunity for the erōmenos in this genre is likely to be slammed shut even more quickly than elsewhere. But Cleinias’ rose metaphor also inverts gender roles, reversing the topos of the virgin wife as soil to be ploughed, fertilized, and harvested by her farmer-husband:148 here, the bride-to-be is the farmer who will harvest the rose, suggesting, perhaps, that Charicles’ marriage will be his first experience of sex with a woman, that he will lose his ‘virginity’, be ‘deflowered’, by his new wife – maybe he is in need of the sort of teaching recommended by Martial for the young man naive in the ways of male–female sex.149 The ‘rose and farmer’ image finds a near-twin in one of Catullus’ poems, which likens the poet’s love to a flower cut down by a passing plough, implicitly figuring his mistress as the ploughman (Catul. 11.21–4) – a similar inversion of gender roles from which we can infer that love for a woman potentially has an adverse effect on a man’s masculinity.150 Cleinias reaches for the rose metaphor as if practising prosōpopoeia – as if assuming a persona (something like ‘The erastēs on the point of losing his erōmenos’) and saying what he thinks is called for in a situation like this. According to Cleinias, Charicles’ new wife’s wealth will effectively allow her to enslave him, terminating the androcentric role of erōmenos, stripping him of his youthful appeal, and, by extension, feminizing him. Cleinias pretentiously positions Charicles in a long literary line of young men at risk of being feminized by women: Plutarch’s pederasts, Pisias and Protogenes, fear that the young Bacchon may be feminized by marriage to the wealthy Ismenodora, whose apparent financial self-sufficiency confers upon her a symbolic masculinity (Amat. 752eff.); and in the Ps.-Lucianic Amores, pederasty is presented as enhancing masculinity, while a preference for women

148 The examples from classical texts are too numerous to mention here; for references see DuBois (1988), 39ff., 65ff. 149 See pp. 215–16; on male ‘virginity’ and ‘defloration’, see also pp. 243–5. Cleinias’ reference to the plucking of Charicles’ rose has the unfortunate corollary of invoking another euphemistic use of ‘rose’: in Greek epigram the term is used of a boy’s anus, taking a favourite euphemism for ideal beauty to sexual extremes (see Richlin (1983), 35–6). Cleinias anticipates a woman plucking the ‘rose’ of Charicles’ virginity, but he himself has presumably been plucking Charicles’ other rose for some time; if we take into account this rather more prurient meaning of ‘rose’, the romantic metaphor loses its lustre somewhat. 150 See Williams (1999), 155, and cf. Virgil’s transfer of the Catullan simile to a pederastic context, of the death of Euryalus (A. 9.435ff.).

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works to the detriment of gender:151 the pederast Callicratidas is hypermasculine, excelling in all spheres of male public life, while his counterpart Charicles’ orientation towards women leads even to his use of cosmetics, a distinctly feminine and effeminate practice (Am. 9, 29, 38–41).152 But Cleinias’ implicit fear for his beloved’s masculinity is ill-founded for two reasons. First, Charicles’ manliness is on equally shaky ground if he does not make the transition to marriage, as to continue in his relationship with Cleinias might well expose him to charges of effeminacy; and furthermore, pederasty in itself was labelled effeminate just as frequently as was a passion for women: in Plutarch, pederastic relations engaged in willingly are effeminate and womanish (Amat. 751d–e); in Ps.-Lucian (as elsewhere), passive pederastic sex has a feminizing effect (Am. 28); and in the Symposium, Plato knowingly has the effeminate Agathon eulogize the innate softness of Eros, using ƺƌ and its cognates six times (195e–196b); even Cleitophon himself may insinuate that pederasty is effeminate: narrating his arrival at Cleinias’ house, he states – for no obvious reason – that Cleinias’ bedroom is upstairs (K  æfi ø fi ªaæ e ŁºÆ r å, 2.26.1), a part of the house that was usually reserved for the women’s quarters.153 And secondly (and concomitant with the first point), masculinity in the novels is exercised in part precisely through a young man’s progression to the role of erastēs in marriage. It may be possible to construe the role of erōmenos as particularly masculine and manly, but it is a role that is figured as relatively short term, and as a step on the path to full manhood; that status is achieved through marriage, or at the very least through male–female sex that prepares the ground for marriage, as we see in Longus. In urging Charicles to defy his father and reject the proposed marriage (1.8.1), Cleinias is therefore advocating the rejection of a cultural and generic masculine ideal: despite all of his grounding in

151 cf. also Plu. Amat. 750f–751b: passion for women constitutes ‘an effeminate and bastard love’ (ŁBºı ŒÆd Ł), belongs to the women’s quarters, and pursues all that is soft (a ƺŁÆŒ). 152 See Halperin (1994), 27. 153 It might be argued that this seemingly superfluous detail is intended by Cleitophon as testimony to the authenticity of his narrative; however, if it is right to see an insinuation of effeminacy in it, it also paves the way for him to initiate the debate at the end of the book with the statement that he does not understand the preference for boys.

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literature, he apparently fails to understand how masculinity is performed in his own genre. Cleinias’ assault on marriage denigrates the very telos of romantic fiction, and consequently undercuts his authority in the role of praeceptor amoris to the hero of an erotic novel. Nonetheless, this is a role he is eager to adopt, and following Charicles’ exit he quickly forgets his own erotic anguish and puts aside the mask of devoted pederast. When Cleitophon complains of the torment his feelings for Leucippe are causing him, Cleinias points out how lucky he is to have Leucippe so close – most lovers do not have such good fortune (1.9.1–4); just being regularly in a woman’s presence is enough to wear down her resistance; a similarity of age between lover and beloved will make her more inclined to love; and most importantly, letting her believe that she is beautiful and loved will win her over (1.9.5–7). But this basic advice is not enough for Cleitophon. He again emphasizes Cleinias’ credentials as praeceptor amoris (f ªaæ IæåÆØæ Å KF ŒÆd ıÅŁæ XÅ B fi ºB fi F ŁF, 1.9.7), and begs for further teaching. Although Cleinias claims that love requires no teaching (ÆPÆŒ ªæ KØ › Łe çØ , 1.10.1), he is more than happy to give his younger cousin the benefit of his greater years (all two of them!), and launches into a step-bystep seduction guide (1.10.2ff.). Cleitophon considers his cousin to be much more knowledgeable than he, but that belief appears to be based not on any experience with women (whom Cleinias supposedly detests and might thus be imagined to avoid), but on the fact that Cleinias is older and has already been in love for a while. The fact that his love is for a boy suggests that his advice is merely the grafting of his own pederastic techniques onto Cleitophon’s situation.154 Cleinias seems aware that his authority on the subject of women might be undermined by his inexperience with them, as he feels it necessary to emphasize his qualification for the role of praeceptor amoris by remarking that the pais and the parthenos are identical when it comes to the matter of erotic shame (1.10.3). This might seem superficial to us, but given the dual-purpose nature of erotic theory evident in, for example, Tibullus 1.4 (on pederastic liaisons) and Ovid’s Ars Amatoria (on male–female liaisons), there is perhaps nothing to be criticized in this approach: while proponents of same-sex and

154 Noted also by Klabunde (2001), 29–31.

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male–female love might have disagreed as to the relative aesthetic value of their object-choices, and may well in some cases have felt themselves to belong to separate sexual categories, they seem to have pursued the same erotic theory – what works with boys will work, mutatis mutandis, with girls.155 It is not Cleinias’ preference for boys that compromises his authority in the matter of wooing girls, but his self-confessed and avowed hatred of the opposite sex: the teacher of love who prefaces his erotic advice with misogynist vitriol (even if it is only lifted from the pages of his school handbooks) surely cannot hope to be taken seriously – by anyone other than Cleitophon, that is, who of course believes that his cousin has given him great supplies for his erotic journey (1.11.1). As alike as the pais and the parthenos may be, the fact that a man who apparently detests females can offer advice on seducing them only makes that advice seem more like the assumption of a role for vanity’s sake.156 Cleinias begins both parts of his lesson with philosophical motifs, first an exposition of the workings of beauty, which flows into the soul through the eyes (1.9.4–5), and then the figure of love as a pregnancy which must be brought to term (1.10.1–2). But despite these lofty beginnings, Cleinias rapidly lowers his sights and proceeds to draw on the advice of amatory handbooks.157 Many of his recommendations seem to come straight from works like Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, and it might not be pushing things too far to suggest that we are intended to surmise that he has recently read Ovid or something similar:158 both

155 See e.g. Ps.-Lucian Am. 53–4, where the candidly ambisextrous Theomnestus gives a graphic description of the pleasures offered by sex with boys which seems equally applicable to female partners; the unisex nature of the account is implied by his ambiguous use of Æ , and by his subsequent swearing by the Cnidian Aphrodite, who had earlier been established as an archetype of male–female sex (11). 156 Morales (2004), 152 also notes the unsuitability of Cleinias as a teacher for Cleitophon. 157 cf. also Satyrus’ advice to Cleitophon (2.4.3–4), which is similarly formulaic; and Cleitophon’s first attempt at chatting up Leucippe (1.17–18), which appears derived from the recommendations given in rhetorical handbooks for appropriate subject matter for erotic speeches (see e.g. Men. Rh. 401, Spengel Rhet. 3; cf. Morales (2004), 185–6). 158 I am certain that Achilles is familiar with Latin elegy, and that his narrative is engaged in a constant playful dialogue with that genre (though there is not the scope here for a full discussion of the matter); see also Ch. 2, pp. 168–9 and 171–2 on Achilles and elegy. For a neat reversal of an elegiac topos (impotence caused by Thessalian magic), see 5.22, where Melite asks the supposedly Thessalian Leucippe to provide some magical remedy for her to apply to the seemingly impotent

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Ovid and Cleinias recommend dwelling on a girl’s beauty (Ars Am. 1.621ff.; Ach. Tat. 1.9.6–7); both advise that the method of attack should be adjusted depending on the age of the prey, as older and younger women respond in different ways (Ars Am. 1.765–6; Ach. Tat. 1.10.3–4); both suggest that women like to appear to have been coerced into sex, and enjoy the semblance of force (Ars Am. 1.664ff., 1.673ff.; Ach. Tat. 1.10.6); and both urge the lover to take on the task with gusto (Ars Am. 2.198; Ach. Tat. 1.10.7). Cleinias relishes the opportunity to show off in the role of praeceptor amoris, but he is as shallow a teacher of love as he is an erastēs: his advice, like his tirade against women and marriage, reads as little more than the regurgitation of a literary education, and is quickly characterized as aiming only at sex, and thus as out of sync with the chaste goal of the genre.159 Cleinias is certainly no Philetas. His words reveal a conception of courtship (whether pederastic or male–female) as a performance, with lover and beloved playing roles which mask their true intentions and are designed to present an outward appearance of conformity to the protocols of appropriate behaviour.160 The educated reader knows that Ovid’s erotic advice is deliberately subversive, undermining chaste marriage and promulgating sexual liaisons for their own sake. Again Cleinias fails to understand his own genre and is consequently held up to the reader’s ridicule – can he really be drawing on works like the Ars Amatoria in order to advise the hero of Cleitophon. Morales (2004), 75 also notes that certain elements of Achilles’ novel ‘would not be out of place in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria’, or in fact in more explicit sexual handbooks, and she suggests, fairly convincingly in my view, that such associations might well work to mark both text and reader as effeminate; see also ibid. 209–11. I cannot agree with Smith (2007), 228, who considers that Konstan (1994b) ‘perhaps overemphasizes the influence of love elegy on the romance tradition’. 159 His use of ƺÆåŁÅ (1.9.6) and ƺŁÆŒ æ (1.10.7) implies moral softness and degeneracy. 160 Cleinias’ use of theatrical terminology (åæ ªÅ c  ŒæØØ, c I ºfiÅ ı e æAÆ, 1.10.7) emphasizes the performative nature of love; see O’Sullivan (1978), 322–3 and Morales (2004), 63 on the interpretation of this line.  ) ŒæØØ is also a rhetorical term, used of an orator’s delivery (LSJ s.v.); again this stresses that love has a performative aspect, and foreshadows Cleitophon’s ex tempore oratorical performance in the garden at the end of Book 1 (on which see Ch. 1, pp. 70–2). The use of åæ ªÅ may reflect the classical belief that men in positions of power, like the chorēgos, might be tempted to abuse their authority for sexual ends: Aeschin. 1.9ff. refers to the measures set in place to prevent those responsible for training young men, including the chorēgos, from taking advantage of their charges; Cleinias, however, positively encourages Cleitophon to play the role of a corrupt chorēgos by seducing Leucippe.

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a genre which endorses marriage? That is one level on which we can read Cleinias and his advice. But perhaps in addition, if we are to take Cleinias’ words as a prose version of erotic poetry like Ovid’s, we are to read in them a similar sense of subversiveness. That is not to say that Cleinias himself intends them subversively, but that through Cleinias (as well as through Cleitophon, as I suggested in Chapters 1 and 2, and will suggest again later), Achilles posits an alternative (and possibly preferred) mode for the performance of gender: the erotic sentiment that is fired up by Cleinias’ Ovidian advice may culminate in legitimate marriage (at least according to Cleitophon, 8.19.2), but at no point does that generic telos seem to have been the hero’s (or Cleinias’) own aim; while just about managing to stay within the boundaries of their genre, Achilles’ men espouse a masculinity much more like that of the elegiac amator than that endorsed by Heliodorus or Chariton, or even Longus. This subversive form of masculinity is again on show in the debate between Cleitophon and Menelaus at the end of Book 2. Having eloped with Leucippe on a ship together with Cleinias, Cleitophon meets the Egyptian neaniskos (2.33.1), Menelaus. The young man tells Cleitophon and Cleinias the story of his accidental killing of his beloved meirakion (2.34.1), a tale that immediately allies him with Cleitophon’s cousin, whose own erōmenos has recently been killed by the very horse Cleinias bought for him. Cleinias and Cleitophon share their own love stories with Menelaus, and Cleitophon then initiates a debate on whether women or boys make better lovers, himself arguing in favour of women and Menelaus in favour of boys. Cleitophon provokes the debate as follows: Cleinias really has the upper hand now: he probably wanted to speak against women, as usual, and he’ll find it even easier to speak now that he’s found an erotic accomplice. I just don’t know how it is that love for males is so popular these days. (Ach. Tat. 2.35.2–3)  Ææa ºf ŒæÆE ı ˚ºØÆ · Kº ªaæ ºªØ ŒÆa ªıÆØŒH, u æ N ŁØ. ÞA fi  b i Y Ø F XØ, ‰ ŒØøe æø æ . PŒ r Æ ªaæ H K ØåøæØÇØ F › N f ¼ææÆ æø .

Cleitophon seems to be drawing a clear boundary here, and placing Menelaus and Cleinias on one side and himself on the other:161 the 161 Something similar is found at Ps.-Lucian Am. 5, where different sexual passions are said to ‘divide’ Charicles and Callicratidas (Øfi æÅ  ÆPH).

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words ŒØøe and K ØåøæØÇØ have an almost territorial feel, as if Cleitophon sees his companions as inhabiting an entirely different part of the erotic map. The phrase K ØåøæØÇØ F has a somewhat scornful tone, and characterizes pederasty as coming in and out of fashion, a fashion to which he cannot relate at all; this depiction of boy-love as fad-like and thus transient heralds Cleitophon’s imminent argument that boys’ beauty is inferior to women’s because of its ephemerality: the physical appeal of the erōmenos comes and goes in much the same way as the cultural practice of which he is a part. Cleitophon’s words suggest a very particular self-positioning in relation to Cleinias and Menelaus in matters of sexual preference. His ability to distinguish between himself and them on the basis of erotic object-choice implies that it was perfectly conceivable to differentiate and categorize according to sexual preference: the same erotic theory might be applicable to both boys and women, but that does not mean that lovers of boys and lovers of women considered the two forms of love to be homogenous, or themselves to be akin. Cleitophon seems to present himself as having a very fixed sexual preference. Similarly, Plutarch’s Daphnaeus appears to define himself sexually by his preference for women, in opposition to his interlocutors, Pisias and Protogenes: while he acknowledges that desire for boys is a form of love (Amat. 751f ),162 its expression is nonetheless para physin and carries connotations of effeminacy (751c–e). And an anonymous epigram grouped with the work of the avowed pederast Strato strenuously identifies its author as a lover of males only (AP 12.17). Such statements, made in opposition to an ‘other’ (love of males contrasted with love of females, and vice versa), read very much like expressions of sexual orientation. They imply that (pace Halperin) something like a heterosexual or a homosexual consciousness could exist irrespective of the labels ‘heterosexual’ and ‘homosexual’. We may not be able to argue that every man understood himself to belong to a certain sexual category, or that the population at large recognized such categories, but debates like the one initiated by Cleitophon could be thought to suggest that some men, at least, considered sexual preference to bestow membership of a group whose identity was constituted through alterity.

162 cf. Cleinias’ recognition of female beauty, which does not necessarily mean that he finds women sexually attractive.

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But sadly, things are not quite as simple as that. Before sparking the discussion, Cleitophon states his motive for doing so to be a desire to divert Cleinias and Menelaus from their grief by means of an erotic łıåƪøªÆ (2.35.1), a term indicative of something done at least in part for amusement-value.163 Such a motive somewhat complicates the argument that there is anything remotely earnest in Cleitophon’s self-positioning. It seems rather that he is adopting a deliberately outspoken stance in order to bait his friends and draw them into an argument for its own sake. One might think that for Menelaus and Cleinias to take the bait, they must see themselves as substantially different from Cleitophon, or there would be no debate to be had. But to advocate a position in a debate is not necessarily to advocate it sincerely in other contexts: the practices of the imperial schools of rhetoric are evidence enough that the whole notion of debating was frequently performative and display-oriented, geared to the exhibition of oratorical skill and flair rather than to the genuine advocacy of a particular viewpoint. Cleitophon’s stance is perhaps more for show than it is indicative of a strongly-held and self-defining sexual preference. I have already argued that Cleinias’ feelings for boys are much more superficial than his outburst against women and marriage would have us believe, and Cleitophon’s first words in the debate seem to support that argument: his teasing reference to Cleinias’ penchant for anti-women philippics, and his claim that his cousin will find it easier to speak against women now that he has found another who prefers boys, set up an expectation in the reader that is deliberately left unfulfilled; Cleinias’ apparent ability to ignore the goad of Cleitophon’s words causes the reader to question the depth of his pederastic feelings. Of course, since Cleinias has already given quite a full account of his feelings for women in Book 1, Achilles would in all likelihood wish to keep him out of the debate in order to avoid dull repetition, but we might at the very least expect some response to Cleitophon’s barbed comment. The fact that he remains completely silent implies disinterest, and leaves the field open for Menelaus and Cleitophon. As I suggested with regard to Cleinias

163 LSJ s.v. łıåƪøªÆ; note in addition that Cleitophon smirks ( ØØH, 2.35.2) as he begins to speak. The term łıåƪøªÆ (‘soul-drawing’) is also suggestive of Cleitophon’s tendency to aggrandize himself: he thinks it necessary to lead Cleinias’ and Menelaus’ souls back from the figurative underworld they have been inhabiting since the deaths of their erōmenoi, and styles himself the sorcerer to perform this feat.

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earlier, the arguments made by Cleitophon and Menelaus here are really little more than literary clichés.164 Do the two men truly feel themselves to be so different from each other, or are they merely trotting out formulaic, prosaic platitudes, and assuming the roles of rhetoricians or philosophers just for fun? Cleitophon begins by stating that a boy’s love cannot fulfil the lover because it is necessarily short term (2.35.4–5), an argument which Menelaus counters by claiming that its very ephemerality makes it all the more special (2.36.1–2); he uses the Platonic distinction of ‘heavenly’ and ‘vulgar’ love (e b PæØ . . . e b Å, 2.36.3) to mark the difference between pederasty and love of women, and offers mythological exempla to prove his points (2.36.3–4). Cleitophon, on the other hand, claims that women’s love is the more heavenly, and similarly offers examples from myth (2.37.1–4). He then moves from mythology to ‘deeds’ (æªÆ, 2.37.5), using his experience with prostitutes to argue for the superior skill of women in the sexual act, and the greater reciprocity afforded by male–female sex (2.37.5–10). Menelaus, of course, argues the opposite, claiming that boys are preferable precisely because they are more natural and do not depend on any artifice (2.38.2–3), and because a form of foreplay can be enacted in the male-only territory of the palaestra (2.38.4). The discussion clearly takes its cue from Plato’s Symposium,165 but though the speakers take on the manly role of philosopher/rhetorician with enthusiasm,166 their words reveal their attitudes to sex to be far from manly. The two young men focus solely on superficial concerns,167 being too self- and sex-obsessed to understand the fundamental points of the philosophy on which they are basing their arguments. The Platonic theme of heavenly and pandemic love is debased by its application to mere physical beauty, and the debate is quickly reduced to a discussion of the relative sexual pleasure to be found in women and boys. Given the power of sexual hyperactivity to connote effeminacy, the speakers’ emphasis on the ins and outs of sex says rather more about them as men than they might imagine. 164 For more detailed discussion of Achilles’ debate alongside Plutarch’s Amatorius and Ps.-Lucian’s Amores, see Klabunde (2001), and alongside Plato (with reference to Plutarch and Ps.-Lucian), see Repath (forthcoming a), ch. 3 – Menelaus’ and Cleitophon’s arguments can all be found in these texts, as well as elsewhere. 165 See Goldhill (1995), 91. 166 And Cleitophon is certainly keen to be seen as a philosopher of sorts (1.12.1). 167 See Klabunde (2001), 40 and Repath (forthcoming a), ch. 3.

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Cleitophon admits quite openly that his arguments for the sexual superiority of women are premised solely on his encounters with prostitutes. He tries to make a distinction between prostitutes and ‘women’, with regard to whom he claims to be a novice (Kªg b æø Øæ J N ªıÆEŒÆ , 2.37.5),168 and yet he proceeds to hold up prostitutes as representatives of the entire female sex, including, presumably, his own supposedly chaste love-interest, Leucippe – and all this from the hero of a narrative whose telos is marriage!169 In Cleitophon’s description of male–female sex, the reader’s attention is drawn quite deliberately to the centrality of pleasure.170 Cleitophon emphasizes the reciprocal nature of this pleasure, intending a contrast with the perceived inequality of pederastic pleasure, and thus making a standard argument frequently used by opponents of pederasty. But the major focus of his speech is on the woman’s enjoyment of sex, and although this accords with a tradition of viewing women as revelling in being penetrated,171 it also raises some ethical problems associated with the exchange of pleasure. One might expect a man who hires prostitutes to be more concerned with his own pleasure than with theirs, but Cleitophon appears to have spent his money learning how to please sexually the very women he ought to be paying to please him. Not only does the fact that he has been spending his time and money on pleasuring prostitutes compromise Cleitophon’s masculinity, but his extensive technical knowledge of how to give a woman pleasure is in itself problematic, since one thread in the construction of manliness branded effeminate any man who sought to please an erotic partner.172 In a period when reciprocity and mutual pleasure were seemingly increasing in importance, Cleitophon’s emphasis on female pleasure might be thought to escape being tarred with the effeminate brush. The cultural focus, however, was on reciprocity within marriage, but it is not wives – or even just women in general – with whose pleasure Cleitophon is obsessed, but prostitutes! His intimate knowledge of pleasuring women forces the reader to wonder 168 Rightly, I think, Morales (2004), 152–3 articulates the distinction Cleitophon makes as one between sex and love. 169 cf. ibid. 216: Morales notes that later in the narrative Leucippe does indeed become a (figurative) prostitute, when she swaps clothes with an actual prostitute in the company of the pirates. 170  : 2.37.6, 2.37.7, 2.37.8, 2.37.9. 171 See Halperin (1990), 133. 172 See Gleason (1995), 64–5 on Clement of Alexandria.

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just how many visits to prostitutes it took for him to learn these skills. While it was perfectly acceptable for men to use prostitutes, and while such visits were even sometimes a part of a young man’s socio-sexual education, excessive frequency could elicit moral criticism.173 The sexual immoderation that Cleitophon’s detailed disquisition implies can only cast aspersions on his masculinity, particularly when he is measured against other generic heroes; he knows too much about pleasing women, and has talked himself into appearing effeminate. Cleitophon had begun his account of the pleasures of sex with women with a rhetorical captatio benevolentiae (¼ºº ªaæ i Yø N E Ø ŒÆd º åØ ıÅ · Næ ÆØ  Ø, Œi æø åø æÆ , 2.37.5), but when he has finished, Menelaus speaks for the reader by exclaiming that Cleitophon’s words make him seem not like the novice he purports to be, but like a man of some experience (ººa  Ø ŒE c æø Øæ Iººa ªæø N çæÅ ıªåØ, 2.38.1) – indeed, the word ªæø implies that he speaks as if he has a lifetime’s worth of sex to draw upon. Menelaus remarks on the sheer quantity of ‘useless knowledge about women’ that Cleitophon possesses (ÆÆ H ŒÆåÆ ªıÆØŒH æØæªÆ , ibid.), and although, given his own sexual preferences, Menelaus is bound to consider such knowledge superfluous, his reaction is nonetheless likely to be close to that of the reader. But Cleitophon is not the only one to make potentially selffeminizing arguments. Menelaus concludes the debate by returning to the subject of boy-love, and here again, pleasure is the central concern.174 He wishes to present pederasty as the more natural of the two forms of love under discussion, stressing the natural beauty and appeal of boys in contrast to the cosmetically enhanced appearance of women (2.38.2–3), and the natural way in which boys kiss in contrast to women’s overly skilful kisses (2.38.5); but ironically, one of his main arguments for the superiority of boy-love is that it is facilitated by the existence of the palaestra, where a man is able to road-test a boy’s body before committing to anything further (Ø b ÆPfiH ŒÆd æe B K çæfi Å ı ºŒB ŒÆd K ƺÆæÆfi ı E ŒÆd 173 See Williams (1999), 41. Williams notes that ‘an excessive indulgence in prostitutes could also be held to be incompatible with military discipline’ (ibid.), which seems especially pertinent in Cleitophon’s case (see above, Ch. 2, pp. 128–30 on his lack of military andreia). 174 2.38.4, 2.38.5; see also Menelaus’ first defence of pederasty, where he referred to boy-love as the height of pleasure (e ŒçºÆØ B B , 2.36.1).

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çÆæH æØåıŁBÆØ ŒÆd PŒ åıØ ÆNåÅ ƃ æØ ºŒÆ, 2.38.4):175 the pederasty Menelaus paints as natural requires an eminently cultural context. His reference to the palaestra constitutes an unabashed acknowledgement of it as a site for initiating pederastic relationships: this ostensibly innocent context provides an opportunity to window-shop and to test the ripeness of the merchandise.176 Menelaus is as open about his fumblings with boys in the gym as Cleitophon is about his visits to prostitutes, and that frankness tells us a lot about his masculinity, just as it did about Cleitophon’s. Having begun the debate on a philosophical high-note by claiming that pederasty is the more heavenly form of love, and having teased Cleitophon for his periergia regarding women, Menelaus proves himself just as much of a vulgar periergos where boys are concerned, by concentrating solely on the physical aspects of love. The pandemic lovers vilified by Pausanias in Plato’s Symposium are more interested in the bodies of erōmenoi than in their souls (Smp. 183d–e), so, while Menelaus may tell himself (and others) that boy-love is divine, his personal practice of it is very much earth-bound,177 as his brief but instructive description makes clear. For him, a boy will always be preferable to a woman because: He doesn’t soften his grip in Aphrodite’s match through fleshy voluptuousness; instead, the bodies strike against one another and compete for pleasure. (Ach. Tat. 2.38.4) ŒÆd P ƺŁØ a K çæfiÅ æØ ºŒa ªæÅØ ÆæŒH, Iºº IØı E æe ¼ººÅºÆ a  ÆÆ ŒÆd æd B B IŁºE.

We have evidently proceeded from the wrestling ground to the bedroom here, but the seamless transition created by the continued use of athletic language leaves the reader with a mental image of Menelaus actually consummating his relationships in the gym. He presents lover and beloved as erotic athletes, competing with each other to

175 Given that he is able to wrestle with them in the palaestra, the boys Menelaus prefers must be close to him in age. 176 Ancient sources frequently associate pederasty with the gymnasium: see e.g. Plu. Amat. 751f–752a, where gymnasia are said to have encouraged the spread of pederasty, and to be used as pretexts for spending time with boys; cf. Ps.-Lucian Am. 9, where Lycinus claims that Callicratidas was fond of the palaestra only because of his love of boys; see also Hubbard (2003a). 177 Likewise, Repath (forthcoming a), ch. 3 notes that Cleitophon’s use of knowledge gleaned from sex with prostitutes characterizes him as a pandemic lover.

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reach a hedonistic telos,178 and the words he uses are telling. His claim that boys’ lack of bodily softness ensures that they do not soften their holds during sex is evidently a response to Cleitophon’s praise of women’s suppleness and softness (ªıÆØŒd b s ªæe b e HÆ K ÆE ı ºŒÆE , ƺŁÆŒa b a åºÅ æe a çغ ÆÆ, 2.37.6), and seems intended as a form of the traditional argument that pederasty is manly and the love of women effeminate; but Menelaus’ intense interest in pleasure ensures that he, just as much as Cleitophon, comes across as a proponent of moral malakia. Theoretically at least, the classical pederastic ideal promoted a degree of aloofness in the junior partner, so that he should not seem too keen or seem to take too much pleasure in any romantic engagement. Menelaus, however, suggests that both partners enjoy the experience, vying for pleasure. He is clearly trying to respond to the common accusation that pederasty is an unequal practice and therefore less agreeable than male–female sex, but his language implies a failure to comport himself in accordance with the codes of ideal pederasty, and a sense of sexual immoderation. The notion of ‘striking’, as in the verb Menelaus uses, IØı ø, often carries an obscene sense.179 In the phrase IØı E æe ¼ººÅºÆ a  ÆÆ ŒÆd æd B B IŁºE, the reader with a dirty mind might well see a suggestion not merely of bodies striking against one another, but of an alternation of sexual roles, giving rise to pleasure: just as a pair of wrestlers takes it in turns to practise each hold so as to perfect their technique, so Menelaus and his male partners take it in turns to penetrate and be penetrated in order to squeeze the maximum amount of pleasure from the encounter. Like the supremely effeminate Gnathon, Menelaus appears not to content himself with the role of erastēs alone. Menelaus ends his argument in favour of boys by stressing the tantalizing nature of pederasty (which Cleitophon himself had earlier raised as a negative point, 2.35.4–5), such that a boy’s kisses leave the lover ever-thirsty for more. There is then an abrupt halt to the discussion, a lack of conclusion that seems intended as a clever literary echo of the tantalizing quality of boys’ kisses: like the erastēs taking pleasure in his erōmenos, the reader has taken pleasure in this 178 The reader may here equate Menelaus with Cleitophon, remembering the latter’s use of the unusual expression æø IŁºÅ (see Ch. 2, pp. 169–70). 179 See Henderson (1975), 172; cf. e.g. åÆÆØı ø (‘to be a prostitute’), and e åÆÆØı E (‘brothel’), the latter found at Ach. Tat. 8.8.12.

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debate, but he is left craving more.180 But, like much else in this novel, there is more to Achilles’ decision not to give a conclusion to his debate. It might be argued that a conclusion is impossible in the absence of an arbitrator, because Cleitophon and Menelaus each feel so strongly about their own sexual preferences:181 this is no setpiece ‘which is better’ debate, but a discussion fuelled by profound, identity-shaping emotions, in which neither speaker can possibly be ‘converted’ by the other. But any effort to read the lack of conclusion as implying seriously held sexual preferences is substantially undercut by the way Cleitophon introduces the debate. Clearly, in part at least, the debate is about exhibitionism, and the entrenched stances adopted by the two speakers are more for show than anything else. We might just as easily argue that the lack of conclusion implies not that the two men feel diametrically opposed by their sexual preferences, but that they are actually more similar than they might care to admit: the two forms of love under discussion are not necessarily homogenous, but the speakers’ attitudes to them are, so that there is ultimately no battle to be won and nothing to conclude. By participating in a debate on love that owes much to Plato’s Symposium, Cleitophon and Menelaus position their arguments in a philosophical tradition. But the details of their debate ironize the philosophical stance assumed, and present both men as unashamedly preoccupied with sex, demonstrating just how far removed this debate is from its Platonic model. They are both ‘soft’ men, not because of their sexual preferences, but because of the way they conduct themselves; they are immature, naive exhibitionists, who appropriate philosophy to justify their erotic hedonism,182 and while their preferences may set them apart from each other to some degree, their hedonistic obsessions unite them, making a conclusion in favour of one side or the other impossible. In their ultimate self-characterization as effeminates whose chief interest is sex, Cleitophon and Menelaus demonstrate the impossibility of meeting the ideals set for men by the philosophy to which they pretentiously appeal. And perhaps this is the author’s point. A reader of Achilles’ novel may well have identified more easily

180 cf. Morales (2004), 149–51 on the ending of the novel. 181 Notably, the comparative debates of Plutarch and Ps.-Lucian are not resolved among the interlocutors themselves, but by arbitrators. 182 See also Ch. 1, pp. 71–2 for Cleitophon’s misappropriation of paideia, and cf. pp. 76–7 on Gnathon.

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with the effeminacy of Cleitophon and Menelaus than with any erotic ideal. It is, as I have said, very hard to ascertain just how seriously we should take what we have read, although the existence of more lengthy debates by Plutarch and Ps.-Lucian on the same topic suggests that the relationship between boy-love and woman-love was an especially important subject in this period.183 It may be that the era’s increased focus on men’s role in marriage made the social place of pederasty contentious. All three debates consider the relative manliness of the two forms of love, betraying a concern over what a man’s erotic behaviour and preferences might say about his masculinity. Achilles is evidently picking up a thread in the contemporary negotiation of masculinity’s relation to sex, but he runs with it in an especially playful and subversive direction, having his interlocutors characterize themselves as effeminate through their attitudes to sex, but also leaving the debate unresolved in a way that might be thought to imply those speakers’ exculpation. In his focus on pleasure, Achilles himself takes pleasure in revealing what lies behind the outward image of both pederastic and male–female courtship, and in the process he challenges the philosophical erotic ideals of hierarchy and self-restraint, seeming to contest the legitimacy of cultural paradigms of male sexual behaviour.

‘A MAN WITH WOMEN AND A WOMAN WITH MEN’ If Cleitophon’s effeminacy is signalled by his words in the debate in Book 2, it is crystallized in concrete action at the end of Book 5 and the beginning of Book 6. At this point in the novel, Achilles expends a great deal of energy on having his ‘hero’ characterize himself as effeminate. In this final section of the chapter, I want to look at the ways in which he has Cleitophon hoist himself by his own petard, both directly, through his own behaviour here, and indirectly, though his narration of the behaviour of the equally effeminate Thersander. 183 Brioso Sánchez (2000); see also (1999). See Halperin (1994) on sexual preference in Ps.-Lucian, though I am not convinced by his argument that the apparently exclusive preferences of Charicles and Callicratidas would have seemed absurd and therefore amusing to contemporary readers.

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Having just learned that Leucippe is alive (5.18), and having claimed that, with this new knowledge, he could not even look at another woman (Kd b IÆ q ¸ıŒ Å I ºÆØ ªıÆEŒÆ æÆ Œi NE, 5.21.1), Cleitophon nonetheless sleeps with the married Melite (5.27), thereby confirming the reader’s suspicions about his moral mettle. Melite then encourages him to put on her clothing in order to effect his escape, and she is very taken with the transvestite Cleitophon, saying that she is reminded of a painting of Achilles (ØF åغºÆ  KŁÆÅ K ªæÆçB fi , 6.1.3). This reference to the tale of Achilles disguised as a girl on Scyros picks up Cleitophon’s own earlier comparison of himself to the cross-dressed Heracles, enslaved by Omphale in Lydia (˚Æd c  æÆŒ   Ø ŁH u æ ŒÆd e  HæÆŒºÆ B fi  Oçºfi Å, 2.6.2). In these myths the masculinity of each hero is ultimately reinforced, for both exercise their gender by fathering sons during that period.184 Cleitophon might wish his audience to identify him with the positive attributes of Heracles or Achilles, emerging triumphant from their feminine bonds to resume their masculine status, but the masculinity of neither of those heroes was uncomplicated. Furthermore, the notion of transvestism was fraught with anxieties in Greek and Roman thought, with clothing taken to be an external signifier of gender identity. Any man wearing a woman’s clothing, or merely clothing deemed overly long or loose and thus insufficiently masculine, might easily be thought effeminate: Aristophanes portrayed Agathon as fond of feminine dress and accoutrements (Thesm. 130ff.); Aeschines abused Demosthenes by claiming that his clothing was indistinguishable from a woman’s, and relating his style of dress to anandria and kinaidia (1.131); Clodius’ infiltration of the Bona Dea festival by disguising himself as a woman gave Cicero political ammunition for a long time after the event;185 and the Romans even used the adjective discinctus (‘loose-belted’) to imply a man’s effeminacy, regularly drawing attention to ambiguous clothing in their rhetorical invective.186 Aware, as he must have been, of such sartorial angst, the educated imperial reader was surely more likely to equate Cleitophon with the figure of the effeminate than with the heroic manliness 184 Cyrino (1998), 214; on the significance of these myths, see also Lindheim (1998) and Raval (2002). 185 See Corbeill (1997), 120. 186 See Edwards (1993), 90 and Richlin (1993), 542.

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of legend. This equation is sealed by Melite’s exclamation that Cleitophon is even better-looking wearing a dress ( Pæçæ Ææa ºf ªªÆ B fi ºB fi , 6.1.3). Quite apart from the suggestion it gives that Cleitophon makes a better woman than he does a man, the remark assimilates him with that culturally notorious figure, the moichos (adulterer), believed unable to control his sexual urges, and thought to adopt feminine clothing and to indulge in excessive grooming in order to make himself more attractive to women: Callirhoe’s supposed lover is heavily made-up, and sports soft and luxurious clothing so that Chaereas should believe him a moichos (Chariton 1.4.9), which he duly does (1.4.10); and Ps.-Lucian’s Charicles, an ardent fan of women, is adept in the use of cosmetics in order to attract them (Am. 9–10).187 As Marinčič sees it, Cleitophon ‘styles himself . . . as a morally and sexually ambiguous character . . . [who] can be seen as a spectacular representative of the species cultus adulter, the virile adulterer who uses woman’s clothes or effeminate appearance only as a camouflage’.188 This is not quite right. Cleitophon’s transvestism certainly draws on the stereotype of the cultus adulter, but he fails to perform adequately even at such a morally low level of masculinity, since an adulterer of this kind traditionally adopts an effeminate appearance in order to initiate his adultery, and not, as in Cleitophon’s case, at the behest of a woman, in order to effect an escape. Since Melite is a married woman, and Cleitophon himself is as good as married,189 he is indeed the moichos his feminine clothing now announces him to be. But the catch-all nature of the concept of effeminacy meant that while feminine adornments like this might be thought to attract women, they could just as easily imply that a man 187 An effeminate appearance was thought to be particularly appealing to lustful women, so the fact that Melite finds Cleitophon even more attractive in her clothing says much about her own sexual morality; see Edwards (1993), 82–3, and see also Lucian DDeor., where Zeus complains that he is unable to attract women in his natural state, and Eros advises him that he will have as many women as he wants if he will only let his hair grow long, wear ribbons, dresses, and slippers, and dance to pipe music. 188 Marinčič (2007), 195. 189 Despite the fact that he had not yet slept with Melite at the time, he claims that when he received Leucippe’s letter reproaching him for his supposed marriage to Melite, he felt as if he had been caught in the act of moicheia (u æ K  ÆPç æø fi Øåe ŒÆغÅ , 5.19.6); this suggests that he thinks of himself as a husband, or at least wishes to present himself in such a light.

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was willing to play the passive sexual role with other men: Ovid illustrates the difficulty of maintaining a masculine reputation while a man is on the hunt for women, advising limited grooming in order to attract the opposite sex, since excessive beautification is the province only of lascivious females and men who seek the passive role in male–male liaisons (Ars Am. 1.523–4; also 3.433ff.).190 The image of Cleitophon shedding his masculine trappings and willingly donning a woman’s clothes inevitably evokes in the mind of the reader that accusation so prolific in invective, namely that a man has offered his body for use by another man. So, for example, Cicero accuses Antony of assuming the dress of the vir, but quickly exchanging it for womanly garb (sumpsisti virilem, quam statim muliebrem togam reddidisti, Phil. 2.44), and Encolpius accuses the fickle Giton, in his absence, of having put on a dress instead of a toga when the day of his maturation came (Qui [tamquam] die togae virilis stolam sumpsit, Petr. 81). These images of cross-dressing are figurative rather than literal, serving as euphemistic metaphors for the moral corruption (and indeed alleged self-prostitution, to which I will return shortly) of their targets. Cleitophon’s sexual licence revolves around extramarital sex with Melite (and excessive sex with female prostitutes, as we saw earlier), but apparently not sex with men. But while Achilles may not be implying that Cleitophon has actually willingly submitted his body to other men, he may well intend the hero’s literal and unquestioning transvestism to provoke this association in the mind of the reader: if Cleitophon is guilty of moicheia, and is even willing to assume the appearance of a woman, of what other effeminate behaviours might he be capable? The sartorial semantics in operation here are closely related to the physiognomy we have seen at work in several other scenes in the Greek novels, wherein a man’s outward appearance reveals his hidden core. But Achilles writes Cleitophon’s transvestism as a wry play with such notions, as a sort of culmination of his earlier behaviour: 190 According to Phylarchus (FGrHist 84 F45), a law of Syracuse stated that any man who expended excessive effort on his personal grooming was open to identification as a moichos or a kinaidos – in other words, as a man obsessed with gratuitous and deviant sex (see Davidson (2007), 58). In the light of this Syracusan law, the dressed hair, make-up, heavy jewellery, and soft clothes of Chariton’s Syracusan parasite are especially instructive as to the moral softness of his character. See Gleason (1990), 400, 409; Edwards (1993), 78; and Richlin (1993), 541ff. on the dress of the effeminate.

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Cleitophon has already exposed his own effeminate core so many times that it is almost inevitable that he should put on these clothes, as if now making the exterior agree with the interior. His cross-dressing in fact concretizes, and makes appear rather proleptic, some remarks made by Melite earlier, when she had complained of his lack of sexual interest in her, describing him as a eunuch, an androgynos (manwoman), and a woman (5.22.5, 5.25.7–8).191 Paradoxically, eunuchs were considered on the one hand to be unable to have sex and undesirous of it, and on the other to be near-transvestites who were inclined to all kinds of sexual vice,192 and to pose a perpetual threat of adultery: so, Apollonius’ companion Damis believes that, because they have been castrated, eunuchs no longer feel sexual urges (cf. Thersander’s words, 6.21.3), but Apollonius contradicts him and foretells an imminent example of the lust of eunuchs, in which a eunuch is caught ‘playing the man’ (IæØÇ) in the Persian king’s harem (Philostr. VA 1.34ff.).193 By calling him a eunuch, an androgynos, and a woman, Melite accuses Cleitophon of being less than a man, of being passive in the sense of having no sexual drive. But the reader’s thoughts surely incline to the more common attributions shared by eunuchs, androgynoi, and women: an inability to moderate their sexual behaviour, and a desire to be penetrated by males.194 In the imperial era, eunuchs were primarily associated with the worship of Cybele, the Roman face of the Syrian Atargatis and the Phoenician Astarte.195 Given Cleitophon’s Phoenician nationality and his meeting of the narrator before a votive offering to Astarte, the metaphorical eunuchism of which Melite accuses him seems 191 The fact that Cleitophon’s post-coital transvestism had transformed him into an honorary woman lends heavy irony to his own later claim that his bed-sharing with Melite was comparable to that between two women (‰ I e ªıÆØŒe IÅ ªı , 8.5.2). 192 See Kuefler (2001), 35 et passim. Examples of transvestism and sexual vice at Ap. Met. 8.24ff., Ps.-Lucian Asin. 35ff., Lucian Syr. D. (the latter less cutting). 193 cf. also Lucian Eun. 10, where the eunuch Bagoas (Favorinus) is alleged to have once been caught engaged in moicheia; and Terence’s Eunuch (and apparently also its model, Menander’s Androgynos), where a character poses as a eunuch in order to rape a slave girl, thus presenting the sort of behaviour considered typical of eunuchs (the plot of the Iolaus fragment appears to be similar, seemingly also engaging with notions of kinaideia; see Stephens & Winkler (1995), 358ff.). 194 The androgynos sometimes seems synonymous with the kinaidos (especially in physiognomy: Gleason (1995), 64–5), one of whose penchants is sexual passivity. 195 For the elision in Greek and Roman thought of the eunuch priests of Atargatis/ Astarte with the galli of Cybele, see Taylor (1997), 331ff.

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especially appropriate. Melite understands manliness to reside in a display of active male sexuality, but, as I have already argued, sexual masculinity in this genre in fact rests in self-restraint. Were Cleitophon to continue to practise the sexual continence about which Melite complains, and for which she brands him a eunuch, he might reclaim at least some of the masculine kudos he has already forfeited in the course of the narrative. But in his eventual submission to Melite he does a comprehensive job of castrating himself figuratively, revealing that he does indeed have the moral fibre of a eunuch, an androgynos, or a woman, while in his cross-dressing he also assumes the external appearance of such figures. This is not just cross-dressing, however, but virtual gender-swapping, as Cleitophon not only puts on Melite’s clothes, but also readily forfeits the external emblems of his masculinity by leaving her his own clothes at her request (Kd b c c ŒÆºØ , ‰ i åØØ KıÅ Ø æØŒåŁÆØ, 6.1.3), an exchange which again picks up Cleitophon’s earlier reference to the myth of Heracles and Omphale. In Ovid’s version of that tale, as narrated by Deianeira, Heracles had put on women’s clothing while his mistress Omphale had taken his lion-skin and club, the very symbols of his manliness; Deianeira is in no doubt about the damage this does to her errant husband’s masculinity, rendering Omphale a more convincing man than Heracles (Her. 9.105ff.): it is one thing to put on a woman’s clothes, but quite another to let her put on yours.196 After this exchange of clothes Melite gives Cleitophon a hundred pieces of gold, and there is some similarity between this scene and the transaction that takes place between the Phoenicica’s Persis and its male ego-narrator. There, Persis offers the narrator her gold jewellery, apparently in return for a sexual encounter which will be the narrator’s first; when he refuses the jewellery, she offers money instead, which appears to be accepted. The narrator seems to be being recompensed for his ‘deflowering’ (ØÆŒæ ø , A.2.5ff., Stephens & Winkler) by Persis. This reference to a young man’s loss of virginity to a woman might remind us of two remarks made by Cleitophon. Having discovered, before his tryst with Melite, that Leucippe is alive, 196 Melite’s desire to wear Cleitophon’s clothes is instructive as to her sexual scruples, since female prostitutes in Rome customarily cross-dressed in togae (as, notably, did convicted adulteresses), signifying their profession and marking them out from respectable women (see Duncan (2006), 157ff.).

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he stresses to Satyrus that he is ‘pure’ (ŒÆŁÆæ , 5.20.3) with regard to Melite, and writes to Leucippe that he has imitated her virginity, ‘if there is any such thing as virginity in men’ (Y Ø Kd ŒÆd K IæØ ÆæŁØÆ . . . , 5.20.5). Cleitophon later repeats the reference, almost verbatim (Y Ø ¼æÆ Kd Iæe ÆæŁÆ, ÆÅ ŒIªg åæØ F Ææ æe ¸ıŒ Å åø, 8.5.7), when narrating his adventures to Leucippe’s father and asserting that he has not slept with Leucippe. Both of his claims are technically true, as when he makes the first, he has not yet had sex with Melite, and when he makes the second, he has not yet had sex with Leucippe, but their equivocal tone suggests that the author is playing ironically with the sexual licence his own culture affords to men: Cleitophon has evidently had plenty of sex with prostitutes, but his culture’s masculine sexual ideology allows him to claim virginity with regard to particular women; while a woman’s virginity must be total, a man’s may be partial and heavily qualified.197 In discussion of Cleitophon’s debate with Menelaus, I noted his assertion that he was a sexual novice with regard to women, a claim that assumed a distinction between ‘women’ and prostitutes. That distinction seems to be in play here too: despite his experience with prostitutes, Cleitophon can call himself a virgin in his letter to Leucippe; Melite, as the first ‘real woman’ (i.e. non-prostitute, in social status if not in sexual morality) he has had, might be seen as taking his ‘virginity’, hence the qualification in his declaration to Sostratus, that he has maintained his virginity in relation to Leucippe. The fact that the first reference to virginity comes so soon before Cleitophon’s sex with Melite might indeed suggest that we are to look upon that encounter as the loss of his (partial and very qualified) virginity, and upon her payment of him as remuneration for the taking of that virginity, just as we see in the Phoenicica.198 As ever in this novel, there are many ways to read the scene of Melite’s payment of Cleitophon, but none of them is flattering to his 197 Though in the subversive world of Achilles Tatius, the canny woman may also get away with less than ideal behaviour: Melite escapes punishment for adultery by a loophole in the wording of the accusation (8.11.2–3). 198 The references to Cleitophon’s virginity seem very carefully positioned, the first shortly before his adulterous sex with Melite (5.27), and the second shortly before the claim made in court that he is effectively a prostitute who behaves like a man with women but becomes a woman with men (8.10.9, to be discussed presently). The damage these subsequent scenes inflict on his masculinity rather makes a mockery of his pretence to chastity.

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masculinity if we read in terms governed by traditional gender codes. We may see him as a virgin deflowered by the voracious Melite, an image which in itself feminizes him. Paid by Melite and sent on his way dressed as a woman (6.1.4), he may seem like a female prostitute. Or – and perhaps even worse still – we may see him as a male prostitute: the sort of effeminate male who dresses in feminine clothing and prostitutes himself with men, while Melite, now the possessor of Cleitophon’s clothes, has become the male client.199 This image of Cleitophon as quasi-prostitute resurfaces in Book 8, when he is accused by Thersander’s counsel, Sopater, of adultery with Melite. Sopater is closer to the truth than he realizes when he alleges that Melite had found herself a prostitute ( æ ) with whom to commit moicheia (8.10.9). What makes Melite’s behaviour still worse (F ªaæ e EÇ IåÅÆ, ibid.), according to Sopater, is that Cleitophon is the sort of prostitute ‘who imitates men with women, but becomes a woman with men’ (n æe b ªıÆEŒÆ ¼æÆ I ØEÆØ, ªıc b ªÆØ æe ¼æÆ , ibid.): her hiring of a male prostitute would have been bad enough, but the shame is apparently compounded if that prostitute also offers his services to members of the same sex. This accusation, that Cleitophon penetrates women but is penetrated by men, is one that would be familiar to the reader from rhetorical invective: Suetonius records Curio as having accused Julius Caesar of being ‘every woman’s man and every man’s woman’ (omnium mulierum virum et omnium virorum mulier, Jul. 52.3); and Cicero claims that the notorious transvestite Clodius is ‘often a woman among men and a man among women’ (inter viros saepe mulier et inter mulieres vir, Dom. 139).200 Rather unusually in accusations of this type, the alleged man-woman Cleitophon is not the direct target: such is the sense of moral outrage induced by this kind of claim that the accusation can be used indirectly, to denounce Melite, so that her choice of moichos becomes as damning as her 199 It might be argued that Cleitophon is merely playing a role here, like a male actor taking a female part in the theatre, but actors who played female roles were particularly open to accusations of effeminacy (Williams (1999), 139–42; Webb (2008), 139–40). Moreover, actors and prostitutes inhabited the same conceptual category (Edwards (1993), 128ff.; Duncan (2006), 124ff.), so Cleitophon’s similarity to both of these figures can only have a damaging effect on his masculinity. 200 See also Cic. Ver. 2.2.192, where he accuses Verres of much the same; see Edwards (1993), 70–1 and Langlands (2006), ch. 6 on Cicero’s fondness for this form of attack.

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moicheia itself. This is not the first claim of this kind that Sopater has made, for he has already tried to discredit his opposing counsel, the priest of Artemis, by implying that he has slept with Cleitophon, who is still young and easy on the eye, and is therefore a potential source of pleasure for the priest (‰æÆE b ŒÆd F e ØæŒØ, ŒÆd P ø c ZłØ IæªÆº, Iºº Ø åæ Ø æe a F ƒæø  , 8.10.5). His language is drawn straight from the pages of Aeschines’ speech against Timarchus, who is said to have been similarly attractive and thus ‘useful’ in his youth (ŒÆd ÆPe y , h ø a ˜Æ u æ F IæªÆº J c ZłØ, Iºº Ø åæ Ø , Aeschin. 1.61).201 It is not quite clear exactly who did what to whom in Sopater’s allegations: his use of Aeschines equates Cleitophon with Timarchus, implying his passivity in sex with the priest; in addition, while pondering whether it was Leucippe or Cleitophon who most appealed to the priest, he uses › æÆ (8.10.6), a feminine form which suggests Cleitophon’s ‘womanishness’, i.e. passivity; however, he also alleges that either Leucippe or Cleitophon ‘bought’ (Kø Æ, ibid.) the priest, leaving the supposed sexual roles of all three parties rather vague. Cleitophon clearly wishes his narratee to view Sopater’s allegations not as elements of a well-prepared, well-founded speech, but as hurriedly improvised mud-slinging – a hackneyed rhetorical device, drawn from a quick scan of a forensic handbook (or indeed of Aeschines). In addition to the vagueness of the accusations, he describes Sopater as jumping up suddenly to make his speech before the priest of Artemis can begin, and as rubbing his face (8.10.1–2), his intention apparently being to present Sopater as inexperienced, nervous, and unreliable. But while Cleitophon might wish us to dismiss Sopater’s words, there is one big obstacle that no amount of Cleitophontic ‘spin’ can get around: our hero’s behaviour up to this point makes Sopater’s allegations seem perfectly feasible, however inexpertly they may be delivered. Cleitophon’s youth renders him a potential object of desire, and this in itself is not problematic. But with the claim that he has been a woman with men, Sopater accuses him of having played the role of ‘object’ with willingness (like Timarchus) – this is the problem for Cleitophon’s masculinity, regardless of the truth or falsity of the allegations.

201 For the notion of a sexually ‘useful’ age in male youth, see also above, pp. 218–20, with n. 140.

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Sopater’s equation of Cleitophon with the infamous alleged manwoman Timarchus inevitably affects how the reader, as jury-byproxy, views Cleitophon.202 But his use of Aeschines is not the only part of his accusations that is linguistically instructive as to Cleitophon’s moral character. In his claim that Cleitophon plays the part of a man with women but a woman with men, Sopater chooses his verbs very skilfully, stating that the young man imitates (I ØEÆØ) men with women, but becomes (ªÆØ) a woman with men. In other words, he is such an effeminate that the best he can manage is a mimesis of active male sexuality; conversely, his alleged adoption of the passive role with men is so complete that he essentially becomes female.203 Perhaps Sopater is not the ineffectual speaker Cleitophon wants us to think he is. The reader easily relates Sopater’s words to Cleitophon’s sex with Melite and his subsequent transvestism: while he may have played the active part with her, he very soon turned himself into a woman (and such a convincing one that the cell guard was dumbfounded to learn that it was not in fact Melite that he let out, 6.2.1–3), and promptly ran straight into the company of men. Those men are Thersander and his slave Sosthenes, into whom Cleitophon runs headlong shortly after leaving the scene of his adultery dressed in Melite’s clothes (6.5.1).204 Unlike the cell guard, Sosthenes has no trouble identifying him, proclaiming to Thersander, ‘Look! Here’s the adulterer, setting upon us like a bacchant, and wearing your wife’s spoils!’ (ºº N, y › Øåe ÆŒåø E  ØØ ŒÆd B B ªıÆØŒe åø ºçıæÆ, ibid.). Having already been encouraged to recall two cross-dressing males, Heracles and Achilles, we are now presented with the image of a third, Pentheus, who, deranged and disguised as a bacchant, was torn limb from limb by women.205 While Sosthenes might intend to attack Cleitophon’s

202 We will see shortly that Thersander too is equated with Timarchus. 203 cf. Heliodorus’ use of ªªÆØ, which gives a wholly different impression of Theagenes, ultimately reinforcing his masculinity (Ch. 2, pp. 124–6). 204 Rather bizarrely, Cleitophon states that when he bumped into Sosthenes and Thersander it was done ‘carelessly’ (I æØŒ ø ): given the fact that he is wearing women’s clothes and trying to avoid being caught for adultery, we might expect him to be a little more circumspect; the reader could be forgiven for thinking that this is something he has done before and has therefore become somewhat blasé about. 205 While it might be possible to argue that the masculinity of Heracles and Achilles is fundamentally reinforced by their transvestism, the same cannot be said for Pentheus’ (see Cyrino (1998), 236ff.).

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masculinity,206 the bacchant analogy he uses is far from straightforward, and in fact casts aspersions on the manliness of Sosthenes and Thersander themselves, in two ways: first, the evocation of Pentheus prompts the reader to wonder if the ‘women’ who are going to rip our ‘Pentheus’ apart are the slave and his master; and secondly, Sosthenes’ exclamation that Cleitophon the bacchant is attacking them (E  ØØ) casts Cleitophon as one of the female worshippers of Dionysus, and themselves as Pentheuses, about to be torn apart – however we read it, Sosthenes unwittingly figures himself and his master as just as womanish as Cleitophon, an effeminacy that has only recently been hinted at in Sosthenes’ offer to lock up Leucippe so that she might be at Thersander’s sexual beck and call, and in Thersander’s eager assent to this proposal (6.3.6–4.1), about which I will say more shortly. Sosthenes’ bacchant remark may be a less successful indictment of Cleitophon’s masculinity than he would wish it to be, but Cleitophon’s wearing of feminine clothing is an indictment in itself, since it both proclaims his moicheia, as Sosthenes’ cry of ‘Here’s the adulterer’ makes clear, and exposes him to the sexual aggression of other males – any man who voluntarily sports women’s clothing forfeits his active male sexuality, and concomitantly announces his availability for the ‘womanish’ role. Sosthenes’ exclamation calls to the reader’s mind one possible punishment for the crime of moicheia, which would seriously compromise the masculinity of a free man: Thersander may well rape Cleitophon.207 Indeed, by the ideology at play in this scene, Cleitophon’s transvestite condition positively invites such treatment, as we see in one of Seneca’s declamations, which offers the hypothesis of a young man who is gang-raped while dressed in women’s clothing as part of a bet:208 the adulescens concerned is said to have made such a convincing girl that he found himself a rapist (sic imitatus est puellam ut raptorem inveniret, Con. 5.6).209 206 For a comparative example of the bacchant motif as an attack on masculinity, See Russell (1998), 131–2 on Plutarch’s use of it in his Life of Antony. 207 For rape as a punishment for adultery, see the miller’s revenge at Ap. Met. 9.28; see also Walters (1997), 39. Thersander may also beat Cleitophon (which he has done once and will do again), or indeed kill him, which he later points out he is within his rights to do (8.8.13). 208 Morales (2004), 69 makes the attractive suggestion that the novels can be read as a ‘series of controversiae come to life: fleshed out and narrativised’. 209 Interestingly, it is also said that the outfit so became him that it may well not have been the first time he had worn such clothes (Sic illum vestis sumpta decuit ut videretur non tunc primum sumpsisse) – cf. Melite’s remark that Cleitophon is

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But in addition to potential sexual repercussions, there are also other, less tangible, consequences arising from Cleitophon’s cross-dressing. Seneca’s hypothetical male rape victim might have won his case against his rapists, but he was also prohibited from speaking in public, because the admission that he had cross-dressed and been raped ‘threatened to vitiate his eloquence and destroy his standing as a man’.210 Similarly, having summarized Heracles’ great labours, Ovid’s Deianeira suggests that her husband’s wearing of Omphale’s clothes ought to prevent him from speaking of his triumphs (Haec tu Sidonio potes insignitus amictu dicere? Non cultu lingua retenta silet? Her. 9.101–2), both because, as an honorary woman, he ought to be silent, and because feminine garb deprives him of his masculinity, of which the power of speech is a large part. Cleitophon’s own public admission that he has played the role of a woman – even if that role extends only to cross-dressing and nothing more – might well be thought to detract from his masculine authority as orator in his own epideictic performance.211 The moicheia in which Cleitophon has engaged is more than sufficient to feminize him, while his transvestite escape only makes matters worse, and yet he appears oblivious to this gender-suicide. Our moichos may avoid being raped by Thersander, but he has already suffered a beating at his hands, and will yet suffer another. The first of these beatings occurs when Thersander returns from his long absence and, having heard of Cleitophon’s presence in his house, sets upon him, hitting him repeatedly about the head (ŒÆd ÞÆ ÇØ  ŒÆa ŒææÅ ºÅªc ŁıF ªıÆ, 5.23.5). Thersander believes himself to have been cuckolded, so his attack might well be thought legitimate.212 But Cleitophon is here being punished for a moicheia which he has not as yet committed, and for this reason he really ought

especially fetching in her clothes (6.1.3), and n. 204 for the suggestion that Cleitophon may have done this before. 210 Gleason (1995), 100. 211 Marinčič (2007), 194–5 identifies Cleitophon’s self-presentation as effeminate with the more feminine style of oratory adumbrated by Gleason as an alternative form of self-projection and persuasion that an orator might choose; see Gleason (1990), 405 ff. and (1995), 127ff. et passim. This is an attractive connection, and it may well be that Achilles is inspired by such practices in his characterization of Cleitophon, although, as Marinčič notes, Cleitophon does not use an effeminate rhetorical style. 212 cf. Ch. 1, pp. 84–6 on Chaereas.

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to defend himself against what is effectively hybris.213 He seems aware of his shortcomings here, as he attempts to frame his lack of response as philosophical self-restraint (çغçH, 5.23.7), claiming that he feared to avenge himself even though he was able, because he suspected that something was not quite right (  Æ  Ø ŒÆŒe r ÆØ, KŒØ IÆŁÆØ, ŒÆØ ı , 5.23.6). Exactly what Ø ŒÆŒe means is unclear, but it is tempting to think that it refers to an underlying intention on Cleitophon’s part to sleep with Melite after all, and that he accepts a beating from Thersander as punishment in advance for a crime of which he suspects he is going to be guilty. The second of Thersander’s attacks (8.1.3–5) takes place shortly after Cleitophon has been reunited with Leucippe’s father Sostratus (from whom he also takes a beating which he again casts as hybris, but does nothing to defend himself against, 7.14.3), and Leucippe herself, who had been thought dead. The reader knows that this second beating at Thersander’s hands is really deserved, for Cleitophon has indeed committed the moicheia of which Thersander initially accused him. Perhaps aware of his guilt, he again fails to retaliate, and yet he continues to present his treatment as hybris, in which his own teeth come to his rescue by wounding Thersander’s hand; in an apparently unironic analogy, he goes on to refer to his injuries as comparable to wounds received in battle (8.2.3)! He seems to wish his audience (both the witnesses at the time of his beating, and the primary narrator to whom he now tells his story) to think of him as some sort of Demosthenes-figure, showing incredible sōphrosynē in restraining himself from retaliation, even though the victim of hybris, and instead putting his faith in his recourse to the law (Dem. 21.72ff.). But as usual, it seems more likely that the reader would draw other conclusions from Cleitophon’s lack of retaliation. In Roman thought, the ability to protect one’s body from physical attack, whether this attack took the form of beating or sexual penetration, was a mark of the free, elite male; so, to allow oneself to be attacked ‘was to put oneself in the position of the slave, that archetypal passive body’.214 Perhaps Cleitophon’s claim that he was in fact 213 He asks Thersander why he is being maltreated in such a way, using vocabulary that implies that he views the attack as hybristic (ŒÆd   oø fi MŒø;, 5.23.7). His inadequacy is underlined by the fact that the same expression (ÞÆ ÇØ ŒÆa ŒææÅ ) is used of both Thersander’s attack on Cleitophon here and his attack on Leucippe at 6.20.1 (about which more shortly); she, by contrast, stoutly defends herself. 214 Walters (1997), 37ff.; quotation from p. 40.

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able to defend himself implies awareness of this ideology. The Greek Demosthenes too is clearly aware that a hybristic attack is potentially prejudicial to a man’s masculine status: the problem for the free man, he says, is not sufferance of physical attack per se, but sufferance of an attack that is motivated by hybris (21.72); Demosthenes is keen to define his lack of retaliation as driven by his moral scrupulosity, clearly conscious that his self-restraint may well be interpreted negatively by the jury (21.70).215 Cleitophon’s moicheia feminizes him and exposes him to physical assault, while his submission to that assault further compromises his free, elite male status, and effectively identifies him with the passive figure of the slave.216 The association of the moichos with effeminacy, and the slave with passivity, causes the reader to wonder whether, if Cleitophon allows himself to be beaten, he might also allow other forms of bodily invasion. I am not convinced that the reader would see Cleitophon’s ‘restraint’ as an example of Stoic endurance,217 though that may well be the light in which he himself wishes it to be seen. Apparently ignorant of the effeminate connotations of his own behaviour, Cleitophon describes in detail the lascivious actions of Thersander, first his attempts on Leucippe, and then the courtroom allegations that he had prostituted himself during his youth. In his narration of these episodes, Cleitophon seems to be trying to establish himself, indirectly, as a ‘real man’, in contrast to the effeminate Thersander, but his words in fact only compound the impression the reader has already formed, that Cleitophon is anything but what he wants to appear. The first indication the reader is given of Thersander’s sexual incontinence is his acceptance of Sosthenes’ suggestion that Leucippe be kept locked up in order that Thersander may take advantage of her (6.3.4ff.). At this point, Thersander has not even seen Leucippe, but he has so little control over his sexual desires that he accedes eagerly to Sosthenes’ offer, urged by the slave to believe in Leucippe’s beauty as if he had actually seen her. His characterization here as effeminate is paralleled by that of Callisthenes, who also experiences an uncontrollable lust for Leucippe, 215 And indeed it would be used against him by his rival Aeschines (Aeschin. 3.52); see Duncan (2006), 71–2. 216 Cleitophon is in fact assimilated with a slave very early on in the narrative, when Leucippe’s mother worries that the man she almost caught in her daughter’s bedroom may have been a slave (2.24.4). 217 See Perkins (1995), 91.

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having never seen her, but only heard about her beauty: there, sowing the seeds for his later defamation of Thersander, Cleitophon sententiously declares that the hybris of licentious men is such that they fall in love under the influence of hearsay alone (2.13.1). Cleitophon seems to intend a certain distancing of himself from such lustful men – he, after all, fell for Leucippe on sight, not hearsay218 – but he in fact has much in common with them, as his moicheia with Melite shows. As yet, Thersander believes Leucippe to be a slave, bought from the brigands who kidnapped her. Given that slaves were considered possessions with no bodily autonomy, and were therefore available to be penetrated or otherwise physically abused,219 there is nothing inherently effeminate in Thersander’s presumption of sexual rights over her. And yet in the novels we find the masculine ideal of self-restraint extended to a man’s dealings, sexual or otherwise, with his slaves. So, for instance, Callirhoe makes a point of the fact that Chaereas had never even struck a slave, suggesting that he was within his rights to do so, but had always restrained himself (Chariton 1.14.7);220 and Dionysius is acutely aware of the importance of not being thought to have used force on his new ‘slave’ Callirhoe, despite it seemingly being permissible (ibid. 2.4.9–10).221 So although Thersander may fairly expect to take whatever he wants from Leucippe as long as he believes her his slave, he ought not to do so. But it is not only in respect of a man’s treatment of his slaves that such codes of conduct operate: he must also – and very much more importantly – moderate his behaviour in relation to free women. So, Theagenes demonstrates his masculinity by restraining his desire for Charicleia when alone with her in the Egyptian cave, and later by rejecting the advances of Arsace.222 While Thersander has sexual rights over a slave but should nonetheless control himself, he has no such rights over a freeborn, elite woman. Knowing that Leucippe is not a slave, the reader is aware that Thersander is at double the risk of feminizing himself, should he try to take advantage of her. When 218 A distinction also noted by Morales (2004), 88. 219 See Walters (1997), 39. 220 cf. the unmanly Cleitophon, who is capable of beating nobody but a slave, and an Egyptian one at that (4.15.6) – and that only shortly after his disquisition on Egyptian cowardice (4.14.9). 221 cf. the licentious Arsace’s elated reaction to the news that Theagenes is her slave, and she can therefore do with him what she will (Hld. 7.24). 222 Ch. 2, pp. 154–8.

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Sosthenes lauds him to Leucippe in an effort to make her well disposed towards him, her response underscores Thersander’s failings as a man: he ought to be lavishing his attentions on his city and his wife, rather than on her, and she will only look upon him as a good man when he ceases subjecting other men’s wives to hybris ( K ÆØø ¨æÆæ ‰ ¼æÆ IªÆŁ, ‹Æ N a IººæÆ c KıæÇfi Å ªıÆEŒÆ , 6.12.5). Leucippe’s phrase, ‰ ¼æÆ IªÆŁ, means much more than simply ‘as a good man’. The sense is more like ‘as a man who is good at being a man’, or ‘as a man who performs manliness well’; here, such a quality would be exemplified by the ability to hold oneself back from sexual hybris – self-restraint even when the desired object is within one’s grasp.223 But this is something of which Thersander is clearly incapable, and he soon fulfils his promise as an effeminate. He has already heard from Melite that Leucippe is Cleitophon’s ‘wife’ (ªı , 6.9.6–7), and in conversation with Sosthenes he then claims to fear the truth of that information, as though shrinking from the possibility that his desire for Leucippe may prove to be adulterous (£ b  çFÆØ, ŒÆd K ªÆØ ÆŁE æd B ŒæÅ , N fiH ZØ ªıc ıªåØ F ÆŒı ªÅ, ‰  "ºÅ Ø ØŪ Æ, 6.15.3); immediately after this expression of fear, Thersander eavesdrops on Leucippe’s soliloquy in the hut in which Sosthenes has imprisoned her, a speech which leaves absolutely no room for doubt as to her status as a free woman and (effectively) a wife: in her solitude, Leucippe four times refers to Cleitophon as her ‘husband’ (I æ), states categorically that she is not a slave, and even announces her elite lineage (6.16),224 all of which emphasizes the hybristic and adulterous nature of Thersander’s imminent behaviour towards her – he is no more afraid of the label of moichos than is Cleitophon. Hearing how much Leucippe loves Cleitophon, Thersander curses the fact that his rival is apparently so desirable to women, and wishes that he might become him in order to have Leucippe ("ºÅ çغE, ¸ıŒ Å çغE. þçº, t ZF, ªŁÆØ ˚ºØçH, 6.17.1–2). This is clearly a characteristic effort at self-aggrandizement on Cleitophon’s part (‘I’m so irresistible to women that other men want to be me’), but Thersander’s wish prompts Sosthenes to advise him not to go soft in his commitment 223 cf. Ch. 1, pp. 47–50 on Dionysius and Artaxerxes. 224 One might say that in his efforts to paint Leucippe as chaste and Thersander as sexually incontinent, Cleitophon overdoes it somewhat.

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to the task at hand (ºº P ƺƌØ,  Æ, æe e æª, 6.17.2), a response that is in fact rather detrimental to Cleitophon’s masculine image: the remark pertains to Thersander’s resolve in something that has mutated from the seduction of a slave to fullblown moicheia, but if the wish to become Cleitophon means that Thersander is going soft, then collaterally it implies that Cleitophon himself is effeminate.225 In addition, Sosthenes’ comment demonstrates just how profoundly the slave misunderstands what manly behaviour really is: to him (as to Thersander, Melite, and indeed Cleitophon himself), manliness lies in getting laid. Although Cleitophon may wish us to view him as a very different kind of man from Thersander, his narration of both his and Thersander’s behaviour in fact shows them to be remarkably alike: both are soft adulterers who do not understand what it means to be good at being a man in this genre. On entering the hut, Thersander initially controls himself (ŒÆææ Æ , 6.18.2), but, finding Leucippe resistant to his charms, he tries to force her to kiss him (6.18.4–5). She responds by pointing out the extent to which Thersander’s attempted hybris compromises his masculinity: a free, well-born man ought to be able to hold his desires in check; Thersander’s behaviour therefore reduces him to the level of a slave (ˇh ‰ KºŁæ ØE , h ‰ Pª · ŒÆd f KØ ø $øŁÅ. ¼Ø › Fº F  ı, 6.18.6). His lust has enslaved him, and that figurative slavery carries with it an implicit suggestion of passivity which paves the way for the charges of samesex promiscuity and prostitution that will soon be laid at his door: ironically, by trying to exercise his masculinity in the most active, aggressive manner possible, Thersander leaves himself open to the accusation of passivity.226 Here again we find a parallel with Cleitophon, whose acceptance of multiple beatings (not to mention his attempts at premarital sex with Leucippe, and his adultery with Melite) makes him appear slave-like. Maintaining her resistance, Leucippe boldly asserts that Thersander will have no success with 225 Noted also by Morgan (2007a), 109. 226 When Thersander later bursts into the shrine of Artemis, demanding the return of his ‘slave’ Leucippe, Cleitophon labels him æıº (8.1.2). While this term literally denotes slavery by descent through three generations (LSJ s.v.), Cleitophon seems to intend it to signify the triple desires of the akolastos (food, drink, and sex), which characterizes Thersander very much as a Gnathon-figure; knowing Cleitophon’s own moral weaknesses, the reader might well question whether he has a leg to stand on.

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her unless he becomes Cleitophon (Iºº I åı F ºØ F, Åb Kº fi Å ıåE, ºc N c ªfi Å ˚ºØçH, ibid.). This of course recalls Thersander’s own earlier wish to become Cleitophon, and should be read in the same light, as an attempt by Cleitophon to emphasize the behavioural distance between himself and Thersander (‘I’m such a fine example of a man that a beast like Thersander couldn’t hope to “become” me’); but once more the words he attributes to another in fact stress the two men’s proximity: Thersander, the wannabe moichos, is really rather similar to Cleitophon, who is indeed a moichos, the only real difference being that moicheia was offered to Cleitophon on a plate, while Thersander must try to commit it by force; Cleitophon presumably considers himself exonerated by the resistance he initially made to Melite’s advances, but that supposed manly self-control was nullified by his later submission, much as Thersander’s initial karteria is given the lie by the force he goes on to employ on Leucippe. Thersander’s subsequent physical violence (6.20.1) only strengthens Leucippe’s defiance. She claims that his and Sosthenes’ hybristic treatment of her is worse than anything she was subjected to by the real brigands she encountered earlier (6.22).227 Bandits and pirates were often characterized as lacking the ability to moderate their desires,228 so Leucippe’s charge that Thersander is even worse than a brigand is profoundly damning of his masculinity. Furthermore, it creates yet another retrospective analogy for the reader between Thersander and Cleitophon, who has himself previously been likened to a bandit: Pantheia’s dream that caused her to interrupt Cleitophon’s attempted tryst with Leucippe featured a bandit ripping her daughter open from the groin up (2.23.5), and in her criticism of him, Melite referred to him as ‘more savage than a bandit’ (t ŒÆd ºfi ÅH IªæØ æ, 5.25.7).229 Indeed, Cleitophon is perhaps even more bandit-like than Thersander, since bandits are the sort of men who dress up in women’s clothing for 227 cf. Dionysius’ words to Leonas upon the latter’s suggestion that, because Dionysius now owns Callirhoe, he can have his way with her: even the pirate Theron did not take advantage of her (Chariton 2.6.3; see Ch. 1, p. 48). 228 See e.g. Aeschin. 1.191, where those driven by sexual insatiability are said to be those who make up bandit and pirate gangs. On bandits as morally incontinent, with particular reference to the novels, see Hopwood (1998). 229 Melite’s meaning is that, in his refusal to sleep with her, Cleitophon lacks pity, but the reader associates bandits, like eunuchs, with a lack of sexual self-control; like Thersander, Cleitophon is presented as even worse than such a man.

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dubious purposes: one of Apuleius’ robbers tells how he had escaped capture by soldiers by dressing as a woman (Met. 7.8);230 and Achilles’ lustful Callisthenes had engaged a band of brigands to kidnap Calligone, which they effected by disguising themselves as women (2.17.3), and, like Cleitophon by the cell guard, they were taken to be female without question (2.18.3).231 It seems that the more effort Cleitophon expends in his traducement of Thersander’s character, the more he reveals his own likeness to that effeminate, adulterous slave-brigand. Given the perceived indiscriminate quality of the effeminate’s desires, it would come as no surprise to the reader to find Thersander depicted both as an attempted adulterer with Leucippe in adulthood, and as a passive participant in male–male sexual liaisons in his younger days: just so, Julius Caesar is alleged to have acquired a reputation for both impudicitia and adulterium (Suet. Jul. 52.3), having been first the puer of Nicomedes, and later the lover of many different women. Allegations like this are of the ‘man with women, woman with men’ type, shortly to be aimed at Cleitophon, and depict the accused as so lacking in morals and masculinity that he chooses to be both moichos and kinaidos, engaging in adultery with women and any and all forms of sex with men.232 Accusations of this kind usually comprised three elements: promiscuity, payment, and passivity to another man’s penetration,233 and the charges levelled at Thersander are no exception. Though Thersander is never explicitly labelled a kinaidos, the courtroom proceedings that Cleitophon narrates in Book 8 certainly depict him as just such a sexual deviant, a man whose enslavement to lust leads him into the worst forms of selfabasement, including porneia (8.9.1),234 an activity which, for a freeborn adult male, signified the willing forfeit of masculinity.235 In his 230 Even he feels it necessary to defend his masculinity, aware of the stigma his sporting of women’s clothing carries (Nec ab illa tamen paterna gloria vel mea virtute descivi, quamquam semitrepidus iuxta mucrones Martios constitutus . . . ). 231 Cleitophon’s cross-dressing is also linked to that of Callisthenes’ bandits by the fact that both take place during holy festivals (2.16.2; 6.3.2). 232 See Edwards (1993), 82–3 and 91 on the moechocinaedus in Roman texts. 233 Winkler (1990), 46. 234 See ibid. 45ff. on the kinaidos as the opposite of the hoplite in Athenian masculine ideology. See Williams (1999), 175ff.; Hubbard (2003b), 7; and Davidson (2007), 55–60 on the interpretative difficulties posed by the kinaidos. 235 On the legal and constitutional consequences of a citizen male prostituting himself in classical Athens, see Aeschin. 1, with Dover (1978), 19ff.; Winkler (1990), 56ff.; and Halperin (2002).

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account of the courtroom scene, Cleitophon moves from his usual mode of epideictic oratory to forensic oratory, and while his words may be as peppered with innuendo as an Aristophanic play, they owe rather more to Aeschines.236 The debt is one of which any educated reader would be aware, and the especially attentive might also recall that Aeschines names one Thersander as a man with whom Timarchus has had sexual relations (Aeschin. 1.52). The contextualization of the priest of Artemis’ speech in the world of real-life Greek and Roman rhetorical practice ensures that even before encountering the word porneia, the reader knows the kind of accusations Thersander will face. The priest first alleges that Thersander is ‘impure of mouth’ (Æ KØ P ŒÆŁÆæF) and that ‘he has a tongue full of hybris in every way’ ( ÆÆåF c ªºHÆ c oæø åØ, 8.9.1–2). These words refer to the verbal abuse Thersander has recently aimed at Leucippe, Cleitophon, and the priest himself, but the audience is certainly expected to infer an accusation of oral sex.237 The separate references to tongue and mouth may well be intended to imply that Thersander engages in both cunnilingus and fellatio,238 both of which mark a man as passive, as the former requires physical submission to a woman, an effort to please, and oral contamination, while the latter results in the fellator being both penetrated and made unclean.239 With his very first words, then, the priest makes an effective attack 236 The motive and effects of Cleitophon’s remark that his counsel, the priest of Artemis, emulates Aristophanic comedy (8.9.1) are threefold: the remark is another example of the hero’s desire to lay claim to paideia by flaunting his knowledge of the literary canon; it prepares the reader for the smutty material to come, encouraging him to look for the innuendo; and simultaneously it compromises the gravity of the allegations about to be made. 237 In a Roman context the inference would be the same, since Roman texts tend to use the language of purity and impurity when referring to oral sex (Williams (1999), 198; see e.g. Mart. 3.17, 9.63). 238 It seems reasonable to think that the jury/reader is intended to understand Thersander to be just as lewd with women as he is alleged to be with men: not only has Thersander’s behaviour towards Leucippe already suggested as much, but the priest’s main oratorical influence, Aeschines’ speech against Timarchus, itself presents its victim as addicted to women as well as to passive sex with men (Aeschin. 1.42). 239 See Williams (1999), 197ff. on the assumption in imperial sources that any man morally corrupt enough to carry out one of these activities will readily engage in the other, and on the detrimental effects of oral sex on a man’s reputation. Morales (2004), 191–2 notes an apparent connection between Phoenicians and cunnilingus, with the verb çØØŒÇø seemingly denoting this practice; might such a connection have influenced Achilles in his casting of the effeminate Cleitophon as a Phoenician?

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both on Thersander’s masculinity and on the legitimacy of his claim to speak in such a public, manly environment as the courtroom: the inference is that Thersander’s dirty mouth ought to strip him of the masculine privilege of public speech. The priest then conducts a chronological defamation of Thersander’s life, beginning with his youth, and imitating the details given by Aeschines of Timarchus’ experiences as a meirakion. At a time when he was most attractive, Thersander allegedly spent his days in the company of important men – nothing wrong in that, one might think, but the priest claims, in deliberately euphemistic language, that he was acting the part of sōphrosynē and using the guise of paideia purposefully to seek out passive sex (ÅÆ  æÆŒ ŒÆd øçæÅ  ŒæÆ, ÆØÆ æ Ø KæA ŒÆd E N ÆÅ ÆPfiH åæøØ Æ  Œ ø ŒÆd  ŒÆÆŒºØ I, 8.9.2), and he employs some very ambiguous verbs to hint that Thersander prostituted himself (›ÅæÇø b a ºº, Æ b f åæÅı æe – æ XŁº æÅÆØæÇ å , 8.9.3). The claim that Thersander used paideia as a means of acquiring sex trades on, but reverses, the stereotype of teachers of paideia abusing their positions for the same purpose.240 While Timarchus too is alleged to have used education as a smokescreen (Aeschin. 1.40), Thersander’s pretence to sōphrosynē and his manipulation of paideia also make him sound really rather like Cleitophon, who used paideia to impress and get close to Leucippe (2.6.3), and later told Leucippe’s father his back story in such a way as to give a shine to his sōphrosynē (8.5.2).241 Once again it is tempting to think that Cleitophon has much in common with the man from whom he is trying to distance himself. Next, Thersander is said to have frequented the gymnasia, using wrestling as a pretext for indulging his lust for other men.242 The priest has already insinuated that Thersander sought out the passive role in his sexual encounters, a proclivity that characterizes him as 240 Xenophon’s Aristomachus is the prime example of such abuse in the Greek novels, but Petronius’ tale of Eumolpus and his Pergamene student takes things one step further, having both parties, teacher and pupil, abuse the relationship (Petr. 85ff.). 241 See Ch. 1, pp. 71–2 on Cleitophon’s use of paideia to advance his relationship with Leucippe. 242 Thersander’s association with the gymnasia recalls Cleitophon’s use of the words ÆØæÅ and æø IŁºÅc (Ch. 2, pp. 169–70), so once more the two men are connected.

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effeminate. But it gets worse, for his preferred ‘wrestling’ partners were those neaniskoi who were ‘more manly’ (ŒÆd f b ÆŒı , x æ ºÆØ, æe f IæØæı ºØÆ ı ºŒ , 8.9.4), a euphemism which seems to imply two possibilities. First, it might be thought to suggest that Thersander not only enjoyed being penetrated, but that he enjoyed being penetrated by well-endowed males, a pleasure generally attributed to women and effeminate men.243 Secondly, the notion of being ‘more manly’ might indicate that the men Thersander chose were somewhat older than was acceptable; in other words, this is another way for the priest to allege Thersander’s passivity without being explicit about it, since an attraction to older males would likely provoke doubt over who was doing what to whom. Thersander is not just effeminate, but hypereffeminate, his ambiguous preference for ‘more manly’ men seeming to invert the classical Greek homoerotic ideal of beautiful boys with small genitalia.244 Furthermore, his alleged use of the gymnasium as a venue for sexual encounters recalls Menelaus’ admission of his own erotic shenanigans in that very same place. The similarity encourages the reader to equate Thersander and Menelaus, an equation which reinforces our identification of Thersander as a sex-obsessed effeminate. We might even think that, had Menelaus been around in Thersander’s younger days, the two may have got on very well. Having covered the things to which Thersander subjected his own body when it was in full bloom (ÆFÆ b s ‰æÆE þ, 8.9.5), the priest turns to what he did once he reached the age of majority (K d b N ¼æÆ wŒ, ibid.). He apparently saved his most deviant sexual behaviour for his adulthood, when he revealed all those things that he had formerly hidden ( Æ I Œºıł, L  I Œæı , ibid.). His body having become past its best (øæ , ibid.), he now employed his tongue for licentiousness (IºªÆ, ibid.) and his mouth for shamelessness (IÆØåıÆ, ibid.), committing hybris upon 243 See Williams (1999), 86 on the significance of Priapus and the Priapic male in Roman thought, and Richlin (1983), 43 on the attractions of a large penis. Taylor (1997), 365 notes that Roman invective presents the habitual sexual passive as preoccupied with the size of other men’s genitals; see Hist. Aug. ‘Elagabalus’ 5.3 for the claim that Elagabalus sought to play the passive role with well-endowed men, on which see Kuefler (2001), 88; see also Petr. 92, where, on account of the incredible size of his penis, Ascyltus is picked up and taken home by a man described as infamis; and Petr. 105, where Lichas recognizes Encolpius by feeling his genitals. 244 On this ideal, see Lear & Cantarella (2010), 24–5.

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everyone, his face clearly showing the signs of his disgraceful conduct (K d H æ ø çæø c IÆØÆ, ibid.). The priest has now brought his rhetoric full circle, back to the veiled accusation that Thersander willingly performs oral sex.245 In case the repeated reference to Thersander’s use of his tongue and mouth for hybris does not make the priest’s meaning clear enough for the audience, he elaborates with the reference to Thersander’s face bearing the marks of his shamelessness: not only does this suggest that Thersander made no effort to disguise what he was up to, and was thus doubly immoral, but it also reflects the contemporary physiognomical belief that such sexual immorality often inscribed itself on a man’s physical appearance.246 What makes the priest’s allegations still more shocking is the fact that they pertain to Thersander’s adulthood: they were not youthful follies that might perhaps be left behind on maturation, but activities in which he has continued to engage at a time of life when he ought to know better.247 Likewise, recounting Timarchus’ misdeeds, Aeschines decides to pass over the offences his target committed during his boyhood, and to focus instead on his behaviour after he reached manhood (1.39), by which he means behaviour for which Timarchus is wholly culpable, and which he cannot attribute to the foolishness of youth. The priest’s return to his starting point, the insinuation of oral sex, ensures that he concludes his allegations of Thersander’s sexual misconduct with the most morally reprehensible and memorable one of all. Cleitophon may wish us to denounce the moichos and the kinaidos in Thersander, but this entails our recognition of those same identities in him; he is just as morally corrupt, and thus effeminate, as the man whose behaviour he criticizes. The way in which Cleitophon recounts Thersander’s moicheia and kinaideia suggests that he himself is fully aware of the cultural meanings invested in certain male sexual behaviours: he is conscious of the script according to which real men ought to perform masculinity. So why should he represent himself as an effeminate, if, to some extent at least, he has the power

245 See also Worman (2008), 322–3 on this kind of accusation. 246 See Gleason (1995), 62ff. 247 Writing on Roman sources, Richlin (1993), 539 notes that accusations of continued passivity in an adult male are rare and often vague; in a Roman context, then, the priest’s allegations against Thersander would be particularly appalling.

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to shape his own narrative?248 Writing on stories of transvestism, Raval argues that such narratives often serve as a means of ‘exploring and venting insecurities about the provisional nature of masculinity’.249 It seems to me that Achilles has Cleitophon present himself in such an effeminate way for just such a reason, as a means of demonstrating the instability of gender, and of challenging the validity of the accepted scripts of masculinity – after all, Cleitophon’s masculinity is so provisional and unstable that the adoption of Melite’s clothing seems to grant him a new gender, and virtually even a new sex. Perhaps we are not (or not only) meant to laugh at Cleitophon’s spectacular misperformance, but are meant to question whether, if masculinity can so easily evaporate into thin air, there is any point in expending so much effort on its maintenance. On reading of Cleitophon committing adultery, dressing as a woman, accepting Melite’s money like a prostitute, unintentionally equating himself with his effeminate rival, and then being branded a moichokinaidos in court, should we think that his masculinity has hit rock bottom, or should we think instead that he has actually done rather well for himself: he has had no-strings-attached sex with a beautiful woman,250 come out of it financially better-off than he was before, and got away with it scot-free – a personal triumph, if not a triumph for his masculinity!251 And if I am right to view this novel as, to some degree, a prose version of Latin elegy, perhaps we are indeed to see Cleitophon’s weaknesses as strengths, and his failures as successes.252 But is Cleitophon an accidental misperformer of masculinity – a man who simply never gets it right but is ignorant of his failings, and who is able to see others’ faults but not his own? Or does he know what he is doing, and know he is doing it wrong – does he know the 248 Cleitophon’s narratorial autonomy is of course circumscribed by the fact that it is another narrator who narrates Cleitophon narrating his story. 249 Raval (2002), 152. 250 See 5.26 for Melite’s offer of a ‘one-night stand’ in place of the relationship she had supposedly been seeking prior to the discovery that both Leucippe and Thersander were alive. 251 Adultery does occasionally receive a positive spin: the soldiers in Caesar’s Gallic triumph were reported to have announced his arrival with a chant advertising his reputation as a ‘bald adulterer’ (Urbani, servate uxores: moechum calvom adducimus. Aurum in Gallia effutuisti, hic sumpsisti mutuum, Suet. Jul. 51); a common element of invective may thus be transformed into a bizarre sort of compliment. 252 See Sharrock (1995) on reading Ovidian weakness and failure as strength and success, and elegy as ‘programmatically “impotent”’(p. 159).

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performance he is supposed to give, but deliberately do the opposite? This is of course an impossible question to answer. Either way, Cleitophon’s own phenomenal misperformance, and the fact that so many other male characters in this novel are created in his image, seem to pose a challenge to the male script of both the romance genre and the elite of the real world.

CONCLUDING REMARKS Chariton and Heliodorus have been notably absent from this chapter. Neither author engages to any great extent with the issue of male same-sex love, and it is worth asking why this might be. Do they deliberately avoid the issue, or is it simply surplus to their requirements? Is the absence of the theme related to the fact that both authors seem to set their fictions in the classical past, while the dramatic dates of Achilles’, Longus’, and Xenophon’s stories are rather more vague? But this would surely make the presence of pederasty more likely, rather than less, since the practice truly found its footing at that time. Is there some significance in the likelihood that Chariton is the earliest and Heliodorus the latest of our authors? Given the apparent cluster of interest in the issue in the second century (Plutarch, Ps.-Lucian, Achilles, Longus, Xenophon, Strato), might Chariton be too early and Heliodorus too late for samesex love to be a significant presence on their intellectual radar? This might hold for Heliodorus, though I noted in Chapter 1 that I incline towards a second-century date for Chariton, which would locate him in the period of intense interest in the subject. And in fact, while he makes no full-scale investigation of the topic, Chariton does see fit to mention it, in Callirhoe’s reference to Chaereas’ erastai, and possibly also obliquely, in the importance of the gymnasium in Chaereas’ life, and in the use of Homeric intertexts pertaining to Achilles and Patroclus (although he usually transposes these intertexts to a male–female context).253 It may be that such references are Chariton’s way of killing two birds with one stone: of adding classical colour to his classical tale, and of acknowledging contemporary,

253 On those intertexts, see Sanz Morales & Laguna Mariscal (2003).

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imperial interest in the subject. A full exploration of the matter may not be relevant to his particular purposes, however. Those purposes are somewhat different from the purposes of the authors who do confront the issue of same-sex love: Chariton’s novel is far more focused than any of the others on the separation and eventual reunion of the hero and heroine, and it is especially focused on the experiences of Callirhoe; with the exception of the characterization of Dionysius and other rivals for Callirhoe’s love, this novel is little concerned with male sexual behaviour. Heliodorus, on the other hand, is certainly concerned with male sexual behaviour, and tackles the discourse of effeminacy through Theagenes’ resistance both to his feelings for Charicleia and to the advances of Arsace; pederasty, on the other hand, seems not to exist in his romantic world. Like Chariton’s, Heliodorus’ novel is rather different from others, in that it is about a return to a homeland as much as it is about love and sex. In the case of both Chariton and Heliodorus, then, it may be that such differences in focus are sufficient to induce the author to prioritize some discourses for close examination, and to reject others. Achilles Tatius has long been acknowledged as part of the imperial debate on the merits of love of women and love of boys, alongside Plutarch and Ps.-Lucian. But we should also view Xenophon and Longus as contributing to that debate. It is possible to see in Xenophon’s text both the contestation of classical-style, hierarchical pederasty, and the advocacy of ‘true’ love between males. Although Hippothous’ relationships with Hyperanthes and Cleisthenes conform in some outward respects to the pederastic model, both seem expected – if not necessarily destined – to endure beyond the attainment of adulthood, and are in many ways comparable to the relationship between the hero and heroine. For the hero to be involved in a homoerotic relationship is a very different matter, however. Habrocomes and Corymbus are in no way equals, either in terms of emotion or in terms of social status. What is more, Habrocomes has already become a man and learned to exercise adult, heteroerotic masculinity. His reaction to the prospect of becoming an erōmenos illustrates the potential threat to masculinity that Greek thought perceived as inherent to pederasty: pederasty was constructed simultaneously as a rite of passage for a young male and as a potentially feminizing practice. The situation is similar in Longus, though he is less interested in contesting classical pederasty than in questioning the roles of nature and culture in the formation of masculinity. Both Gnathon

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and Daphnis seem to act as sites for the investigation of sexual identity, but the results of Longus’ experiment are ambivalent. Masculinity and sexual identity appear to be the products of both nature and culture, and ultimately, Daphnis must perform his gender according to a well-established, traditional script. Achilles Tatius shows as much interest in the feminizing effects of misperformed heteroerotic masculinity as he does in those of misperformed pederasty. For his men, sexual preferences seem to be fixed, though neither preference is privileged over the other. In a typically comprehensive, subversive, and audacious manner, Achilles contests the ideals of sexual masculinity: he exposes the reality behind those ideals, seeming to imply that when the mask of performance is removed, everything comes down to sex – but that’s okay!

Conclusion This project has entailed resigning myself, with some difficulty, to several rather unsettling facts. First, I have found repeatedly that the discourses of masculinity into which I have been delving will not remain neatly in their boxes: no matter how hard I have tried to confine them to their respective chapters, they seem to want constantly to feed and bleed into one another.1 The trouble this discursive overlap has caused me may well suggest that I am an obsessively tidy person, but I think it is also indicative of the fact that the performance of gender cannot easily be unpicked, unpackaged, deconstructed: any person’s gender identity is made up of interlocking (yet not always entirely compatible) elements; only when those elements are taken together does a man’s masculinity, or indeed a woman’s femininity, come into being. The second problem I have faced is that, while discourse plays a vital role in forming identity,2 and while literature is in itself a discursive practice,3 there will always be a sizeable shortfall between reality and its representation in literature.4 This shortfall is inevitably exacerbated by the passage of time,5 and this of course has important consequences for a discursive analysis of ancient texts, which will ever confront us with a frustrating distance between discourse and reality. The men in the novels may not be ‘real’ men, 1 See Phillips & Jrgensen (2002), 143 on the inevitable overlap in discourse analysis. cf. Carlson (2004), 205 on performance theory: performance is ‘complex, conflicted and protean’; he finds himself ‘troubled . . . with material from one discrete “chapter” constantly slipping away to bond with material in others’. 2 Phillips & Jrgensen (2002), 43; see also Gutterman (2001), 57 ff. on the relationship between discourse and identity. 3 Culler (1997), 113. 4 Fox (1998), 16. 5 Ibid.

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but I have argued that they reflect real concerns experienced by real men in the real world. In my analysis of those concerns, I had to come to terms early on with the fact that any reconstruction of the novels’ masculine identities could only ever be a somewhat fragmentary one. And thirdly, I have felt myself dogged by a constant awareness of not being able to do everything, either in terms of exploring the many discourses by which the novels’ men are constituted, or in terms of giving every male character his due. Consequently, I am acutely conscious of the fact that things are missing from this book.6 I hope that someone will see fit to fill in the blanks. Of course, no book can cover every angle of its subject. My aim here has been to explore what I believe are the major ideologies informing the authors’ construction of their most important male characters. And while many stones may remain unturned, the project as I have chosen to conduct it (or indeed, as it has chosen to be conducted, since it has often felt to me to be autonomous) has highlighted some important issues. For instance, my study of paideia (and to some degree also andreia) demonstrates the extent to which Dionysius can (and I think ‘should’) be viewed as as much the hero of Chariton’s novel as Chaereas, and indeed as the embodiment of masculine ideals. Chariton invested a great deal of energy in his portrayal of his pepaideumenos, in a manner that suggests that he held him very dear to his heart. If he titled his novel Callirhoe, and not Chaereas and Callirhoe as it is now commonly known,7 this may have been a deliberate ploy to leave the reader at a loss as to who is the hero of the piece: this is, after all, the only novel of the five that offers such a huge amount of literary space (and remarkably favourable space) to a supposed antagonist. After Chaereas’ violence against Callirhoe, Dionysius might well seem a tempting choice for the role of hero in the reader’s mind. The pathos of his character is only increased by the

6 One profitable area for further research is that of brigandage. Hopwood (1998) and Watanabe (2003a) and (2003b) have made a start, but there is much more to be done here, both on the characterization of individual bandits and pirates and how this might relate to ideologies of masculinity in a wider sense, and on the broader semantics of brigandage. What exactly does it mean to call a man a bandit or a pirate? How are brigands different from other men? What are the differences between noble brigands like Thyamis and Hippothous, and run-of-the-mill bandits and pirates like Anchialus and Corymbus? And, still further, how does the representation of bandits in Greek fiction relate to that in Latin? 7 See Reardon (2003), 315.

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fact that it is Chaereas, and not he, who lives ‘happily ever after’ with the heroine, with the result that we feel that Dionysius, who has arguably been more ‘man’ than Chaereas, is the hero-that-never-was. A second major issue spotlighted by this study is Achilles Tatius’ use of Cleitophon as an instrument of subversion. Whereas in other novels male protagonists frequently strive to attain and maintain the ideals of masculinity (Dionysius is the obvious example), in Achilles’ novel they behave almost as if those ideals do not exist: Achilles seems deliberately to foreground masculine codes only to have Cleitophon (and others) flout them.8 John Morgan has argued – both for Cleitophon’s self-presentation as effeminate, and for his factual errors and his apparent knowledge of things he cannot possibly know – that we are to see in Achilles’ text a ‘hidden author’ technique, as Gian Biagio Conte has suggested for Petronius’ Satyricon,9 whereby the author ‘contrives to communicate with the reader behind the back of the narrator’.10 As I have indicated throughout, this is certainly one level at which we might read the text: Cleitophon provides a constant source of amusement for the reader who knows how a ‘real man’ should perform his masculinity. Morgan asks (but understandably never quite answers) the question of whether Achilles’ novel is ‘to some degree a satirical commentary’ on his world.11 My romantic desire to see Achilles as a gender renegade, cocking a snook at the predominant masculine ideologies of his day, tells me to answer that question affirmatively. If there is some attempt at subversion going on here, it goes to show just how important those ideologies were, since no one bothers to try to undermine something that holds no serious sway over a culture. I have noted the suggestion of Marko Marinčič, that Cleitophon in some ways resembles the real-world proponents of a more feminine style of oratory. In an analysis of performance and theatricality in Second Sophistic oratory, Joy Connolly argues that non-Roman orators of this type may sometimes have cultivated deliberately effeminate oratorical styles and physical appearances in order to subvert the ideals propounded in Roman rhetorical handbooks. These orators, she remarks, ‘play up Roman vices: they imitate, 8 The positive transformation of Callisthenes counterpoints Cleitophon’s own behaviour (though see Repath (2007c) for an alternative interpretation of Callisthenes’ story). 9 Conte (1996). 10 Morgan (2007a), quotation from p. 108. 11 Ibid. 114.

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pose, wear perfume, play the woman. Above all, they do not conceal the mimetic habits that Roman orators treat with fear and disgust’.12 With the possible exception of wearing perfume, this really does sound very like Cleitophon, so perhaps we should indeed see him as a studiedly effeminate orator. Connolly goes on to state that ‘the prescriptions of the performance of proper manliness which fill imperial rhetorical handbooks and ethical treatises contain the seeds of their own subversion’.13 In his construction of Cleitophon, a man who seemingly knows the script but does not follow it, and yet gets away with his misperformance, is Achilles similarly subverting such prescriptions of masculinity? But it is possible to read Achilles’ apparent gender-subversion in another way, too, and one which brings us back down to earth with a bump. Perhaps, paradoxically, he reinforces ideology even as he subverts it. I am thinking here of Achilles’ novel as a sort of imperial, literary version of the medieval carnival, in which rules are deliberately transgressed, only to be buttressed afterwards – a moment of wild rebellion, followed by the resumption of civilized conduct.14 Cleitophon does, after all, eventually take on the traditional role of husband, which might be thought to cancel out his prior shortcomings (his abuse of paideia, his avoidance of anything which might require andreia, and his numerous sexual misdemeanours), and bring him back into the fold.15 Yet the way in which Achilles tells of Cleitophon’s return to civilization casts some doubt on this reading: Cleitophon narrates his conjugal rites in a single line (8.19.2), and he is apparently dejected, and without his bride, at his meeting with the primary narrator (1.2). Are we to think that, like the elegiac amator, he was simply unable, or unwilling, to fit into a traditional mould of masculinity? In her discussion of the significance of the effeminate Agathon in Aristophanes’ comedy, Anne Duncan states that, ‘In Agathon, we

12 Connolly (2001), 92. 13 Ibid. 95. cf. Gleason (1995), 162, writing on the effeminate style of oratory: ‘There was something manly, after all, about taking risks – even the risk of being called effeminate’; the effeminacy of which Cleitophon is so often guilty might in itself be seen, even if somewhat counter-intuitively, as a mark of masculinity. 14 Bakhtin (1984), passim. A more appropriate analogy, given Cleitophon’s crossdressing and ‘bacchantry’ (6.5.1), might be that of maenads engaging in Dionysiac ritual, only to resume ‘normal service’ afterwards. 15 cf. Morales (2004), 231, who sees the novel as ‘unsettling, uncanny, and potentially subversive, but ultimately androcentric’.

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have playwright, actor, and character in one figure on stage. Aristophanes uses him to suggest the dangerous potential of watching tragedy: seeing him and listening to him make the audience resemble him’.16 This is a useful way of thinking about Cleitophon, whose identity is similarly ambiguous: he is a character in a novel, the narrator of his own story, and a performer within that story, and he treads a fine line between genders, frequently seeming to fall off the tightrope on the wrong side. Cleitophon is (like Agathon) the narrator of tragic experiences, and yet in the trial in Book 8 he finds himself surprisingly at home in an Aristophanic world (like Agathon); he is (like Agathon) a transvestite, and even if his cross-dressing is only a one-time thing, it is nonetheless a symbolic, performative moment at which the novel’s other hints at his effeminacy are concentrated in physical action. What effect might these things have on the reader? Cleitophon’s failings as a man may make him seem realistic, as I have argued, but how real is too real? When does his misperformance of masculinity get too close to the reader for comfort? If Duncan is correct in arguing that theatrical transvestism is a sign of a ‘crisis of identity not only for the actor (“is there anything under the costume?”), but for the audience (“what does watching a play make us?”)’,17 then how might the reader feel on reading of Cleitophon’s transvestism? After all, Cleitophon himself says that one is incited to imitate example (1.5.6). I find myself amused at Cleitophon’s expense, yet I am also irresistibly on his side; I do not fear that I might be similar to him in ways that my culture dictates I should not be. But a male reader, steeped in the performative, competitive, and intensely virile atmosphere of the Second Sophistic, might well experience such anxiety: the example Cleitophon sets of transvestism and moichokinaideia might be unsettlingly close to home.18 If Achilles’ novel is indeed a commentary on his world, how radical a commentary is it? And if the example Cleitophon sets might be thought to express the reader’s own concerns about masculinity in a way that could be unsettling to him, how does Achilles make his novel readable? In the first place, the narrative technique Achilles chooses (a primary narrator who narrates Cleitophon’s narration) doubly 16 Duncan (2006), 46. 17 Ibid. 47. 18 See Morales (2004), 74–6 and Webb (2008), ch. 8 on the potential effects of ‘effeminate’ forms of entertainment on their audiences/readers.

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distances the author from what he writes;19 to some degree, then, Achilles separates himself from the commentary he makes on his world’s masculine values: he makes that commentary only implicitly and obliquely. In the second place, Achilles casts Cleitophon not as a Greek, but as a Phoenician, thereby distancing his hero’s effeminacy both from himself and from the reader. As a totally Hellenized race, the Phoenicians are Greek enough for the reader to identify with them, and yet they remain alien enough to be stereotyped as debauched.20 By creating a central character who is sufficiently ‘Greek’ to be meaningful to the reader, but ‘other’ enough in his ethnicity to be non-threatening, Achilles is able to question the value and attainability of contemporary ideals of masculinity. The Phoenician Cleitophon is a safe site for the investigation of gendered identity, since by virtue of not being Greek or Roman, he has licence to misperform masculinity. However, by not resuming the novel’s frame and thus never passing judgement on Cleitophon’s misperformance, Achilles might perhaps be read, if not as endorsing Cleitophon’s actions, then at least as taking a laissez-faire attitude towards them. It remains to draw some more general conclusions. Although all five of the novels examined here are to some extent bound together by their subject matter and the bones of their plots, thus forming some sort of genre, the gender performed by their male characters is not exclusive to that genre. Gender in the novels is ‘generic’ only in the sense that the same or similar characteristics may be found in more than one text, and are sometimes performed in the same or similar ways. The novels’ masculinities do not exist in isolation, but draw on, and reflect on, both earlier and contemporary ideologies of masculinity. The encroachment of new or different moral values and understandings of gender in the real world may have resulted in the reinforcement through literature of what might be considered more traditional ideals – a reassertion of classical, or even Homeric, ideals, like, for example, the strong presence of a reflexive, ‘Isocratean’ paideia in Chariton’s novel, or andreia evidenced in epic-style hand-to-hand combat in Heliodorus’. Indeed, Brigitte Egger argues 19 A similar argument could be made for Longus, who presents his narrative through a painting and a narrator; Longus, of course, while he might test boundaries, ultimately reinforces accepted codes of masculinity. 20 On Phoenicians in the novels, see Briquel-Chatonnet (1992). For other implications of Cleitophon’s ethnicity, see Morales (2004), 48–50 and 55–6 and De Temmerman (2006), 361.

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that reading about constrained gender roles may become more popular at times when gender roles in the real world are undergoing change: ‘ . . . when strictly circumscribed models of femininity (as well as of masculinity) are relaxed, fantasies about the security of traditional, more limited gender identities tend to increase, even if or just because they are socially more or less obsolete’.21 The classical settings chosen by Chariton and Heliodorus, and the chronologically vague ones of Xenophon, Achilles, and Longus, might be thought a mark of this romanticizing of tradition and limitation. By adopting such backdrops our authors distance their male characters somewhat from contemporary realities such as the rise of the Roman empire and the spread of new religious movements; in so doing they free themselves of the obligation to confront such potentially sensitive matters head-on. But where the discourses of masculinity are concerned, none of the novels straightforwardly reconstructs the classical past. Without doubt they are all influenced by Homeric and classical notions of masculinity, but such notions are tempered by, or subordinated to, what seem to be defining aspects of imperial masculinity – and in fact, the very presence of those classical notions might be seen as characteristic of the Second Sophistic, and thus in itself very ‘of the moment’ and relevant. While the big issues of religion and Rome might be absent from the novels, smaller-scale contemporary issues affecting the everyday life of the elite male are very much in evidence – issues such as the practice of physiognomy, the interrogation of male sexual behaviour, and the prevalence of public figures like orators and sophists. We might therefore say that the novels present the imperial realities of gender within their classical fictions. Those imperial realities are characterized by the notion of performance, by ‘a sense of being “on” or doing something “for the camera”’.22 The ‘science’ of physiognomy – a preoccupation inextricably wrapped up with performance – seems to lurk in the background of many of the episodes I have examined in all three chapters. Paideia and andreia, for example, are inner qualities that a man shows to the world by means of his outer appearance, and they are qualities by which he may be judged; but his external image may also be fraudulent, concealing an inner nature that cannot live up to the promise of the appearance. Closely connected to physiognomy are the accusations of

21 Egger (1994b), 279–80 n. 54.

22 Bauman (1989), 266.

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effeminacy that we have seen in Achilles’ novel. Although such accusations have a long history and may be found in classical oratory and comedy (viz. Aeschines and Aristophanes), they are most at home in imperial rhetorical invective, to the extent that they may be seen as a hallmark of the first few centuries after Christ. Furthermore, Achilles’ characterization of Cleitophon seems to owe much to the epideictic oratory of the second century, and to the showy glitz and glamour about which Lucian complains so vociferously. So, while the novelists may set their fictions somewhere in the past, their concerns are inescapably symptomatic of the imperial present. Chariton and Heliodorus have much in common – perhaps surprisingly, given the likelihood that they are furthest apart in chronological terms. Both are especially interested in andreia as a component of masculine identity, and both de-emphasize male same-sex love. Xenophon, Achilles, and Longus, on the other hand, are particularly keen to explore sexual ideology and the relationship between male–male and male–female love, and all three appear to imply the existence of exclusive sexualities. It is notable that all five texts seem to subordinate certain specifically Athenian ideals of masculinity. In keeping with his generally negative presentation of Athens, Heliodorus has fun at the expense of that paradigm of Athenian military masculinity, the hoplite: the only representative of this figure is Cnemon, who might look like a warrior, but cannot perform as one, and is subjected to Theagenes’ mockery. Similarly, Chariton cannot resist mentioning Athens’ defeat by Syracuse.23 Fighting ability is as important to him as it is to Heliodorus, but the skills of both Theagenes and Chaereas in this area are implicitly superior to those of the Athenians. Achilles even flirts with, and never truly condemns, the image of the kinaidos, the Athenian ideological opposite of the hoplite, and the very essence of unmanliness. And Athenian-style hierarchical pederasty is demoted by Xenophon, in favour of mutual, reciprocal love, and exposed by Achilles (and to some extent also by Longus, through the figure of the pederast Gnathon) as being about nothing more than sex. Masculinity in these novels is certainly constructed through alterity: Theagenes’ masculinity is established initially by means of his contrast with Cnemon; Dionysius and Chaereas are threatened by emotions figured 23 On Chariton’s use of Athens, see Smith (2007).

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as feminine or immature; the gender of Daphnis and Habrocomes is reinforced by their rejection of a sexual role that stands in contrast to the one they have already learned to play; and Cleitophon attempts to draw an implicit contrast between himself and Thersander. The principal ‘other’ against which the novels’ male characters are constructed, or against which they try to construct themselves, seems to be the effeminate (or at least not-fully-manly) male. So, although they may reject certain Athenian values, the novels’ performances of masculinity draw on an opposition that goes back to classical Athenian ideology: real man vs. effeminate. But, as we have seen, this distinction is also very much a part of the literature and life of the imperial period, both for Greeks and for Romans: it has been absorbed into, and become one with, imperial Greek and Roman ideologies of masculinity. In differing ways and to differing extents, all of the novels confront what it means to be a man, and not just in a classical, romantic world, but in the real and very contemporary world: masculinity is epideictic – it is a thing performed, perhaps not well or convincingly, but performed nonetheless. In his analysis of Renaissance literature, Stephen Greenblatt views the cultural system of elite self-fashioning evident in his texts as existing in interplay with similar systems in the lives of the texts’ authors and the world in which they lived.24 Although the authors of the Greek novels are rather Cimmerian figures about whom we know next to nothing, we do know something of the ideals of elite life in imperial times. Perhaps we can believe that Chariton, Xenophon, Achilles, Longus, and Heliodorus in some way wrote their own (mis)performances of gender, their own experiences and fears, into their male characters, and that through his text each author expressed his own concerns, not just about being a man, but about being seen to be a man. 24 Greenblatt (1980), 4–6.

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Index Locorum Note: this index includes only passages from the extant complete Greek novels; for other texts, and for the fragments, see the General Index. ACHILLES TATIUS 1.2 268 1.2.1 70–1 1.2.1–3 43–5 1.3.1 140 n. 159 1.3.2 44 1.4.4 168 1.5.5 76 n. 157 1.5.6 269 1.6.6 71–2 1.7.1–4 221–2 1.7.2 223 1.7.4 222 1.8.1 222 1.8.2 222–3 1.8.9 223–6 1.9–11 226–9 1.9.6–7 169 n. 241 1.10.1 76 n. 156 1.10.4 168 1.11.3 59 n. 115 1.12 192 n. 57 1.12.1 232 n. 166 1.16.1–2 71 1.17.1 71 1.17–18 227 n. 157 2.4.3 168 2.4.3–4 227 n. 157 2.4.4 169–70 2.4.5 170 2.5 58–9 2.5.1 170 n. 246 2.6.2 239 2.6.3 59–60, 258 2.7 10 n. 41 2.8.1 72 n. 146, 169 n. 241 2.10.1 158 2.10.2 171 2.10.3 171–2 2.13.1 251–2 2.16.2 256 n. 231 2.17.3 255–6

2.18.3 255–6 2.19.2 169 n. 241 2.20.1 171 n. 250 2.22.1 114 n. 77 2.23.5 255 2.24.4 251 n. 216 2.26.1 225 2.29.2 83 n. 180 2.30 169 n. 241 2.33–8 229–38 2.34 192 n. 57 2.35.2 223 2.35–8 229–38 3.12 128 3.13.2 108 n. 56 3.14.2 129–30 3.15 201 n. 80 3.17.1 135–6 3.17.3–4 136–7 3.20.6–7 137 n. 147 4.1.2–3 158–9 4.7.3–5 169 n. 240 4.14.9 130, 252 n. 220 4.15.6 252 n. 220 5.5.6 85 n. 188 5.7.2 124 n. 111, 128 5.7.3 128 5.18 239 5.19.6 240 n. 189 5.20.3 243–5 5.21.1 239 5.21.2 55 n. 107 5.22 227 n. 158 5.22.5 242 5.23.5–7 249–51 5.23.7 250 n. 213 5.24.3 80 5.25.7 255 5.25.7–8 242 5.26 261 n. 250 5.26.2–4 169 n. 240 5.27 239

294 ACHILLES TATIUS (cont.) 5.27.2 59 n. 115 5.27.4 76 n. 156 6.1.3 239–40, 243 6.1.4 243–5 6.2.1–3 247 6.3.2 256 n. 231 6.3.4 251–2 6.3.6 193 n. 60 6.3.6–4.1 247–8 6.5.1 247–8, 268 n. 14 6.9–22 252–6 6.19 85 n. 188 6.20.1 250 n. 213 6.21–2 40 n. 70 6.21.3 242 7.3.7 80 7.9.12 80 7.10.5 130 n. 128 7.14.3 250 8.1.2 254 n. 226 8.1.3–5 250 8.2.3 250 8.5.1 128 8.5.2 10 n. 41, 258 8.5.7 243–5 8.8.12 80, 236 n. 179 8.8.13 248 n. 207 8.9 256–60 8.10.1–2 246 8.10.5 246 8.10.6 246 8.10.9 206, 245–7 8.11.2–3 244 n. 197 8.18.2 80 8.19.2 268 CHARITON 1.1.1 63 1.1.4 160 1.1.7 118–19, 161 n. 223 1.1.8 193–4 1.1.9–10 192 n. 54 1.1.10 117 1.2.1 85 n. 188, 161, 165 1.2.3 206 1.2.2–4 161–2 1.2.4 142 1.2.5 80, 162, 163 n. 227 1.2.6 74–5, 80–2, 117 1.3.3 84–5 1.3.4 84 n. 184

Index Locorum 1.3.4–5 83 1.3.6 194 1.3.7 84, 184 1.4.1 209 1.4.5 85 1.4.7 83, 84 1.4.9 209, 240 1.4.10 84, 240 1.4.12 79, 83–4 1.5.4 86 1.5.6 86 1.6.2 65–6 1.7.2 130 n. 127 1.9.5 127 n. 122 1.9.7 127 n. 123 1.11.2 39 n. 66 1.12.6 20, 42, 45 1.12.7 88 1.12.8 81 1.14.7 87, 252 2.1.1 192 n. 54 2.1.5 47, 88 2.1.9 81 2.3.6 87 n. 197 2.4.1 1, 5, 15–16, 50–3, 64, 142 n. 163, 161 n. 223 2.4.4 48 n. 88, 64 2.4.4–6 55–7 2.4.5 56, 161 n. 223 2.4.9–10 252 2.5.5 81 2.5.8–12 48 n. 89 2.6.1 36 n. 58 2.6.3 47, 48, 151 n. 195, 255 n. 227 2.8.1–3 163–4 2.8.3 74 n. 151 2.10.1 85 n. 188 2.11.1–4 39 n. 66 3.2.1 36 n. 57 3.2.6–9 57–8 3.3.8 119 n. 94 3.3.14 119 n. 94 3.3.18 119 n. 94 3.4.4–5 67–8 3.4.8 47 n. 85 3.5.4 134–5 3.5.7 135 3.7.6 81 3.9.4 81 3.10.7 205 n. 87 4.1.9 161 n. 223 4.2.3 139–40

Index Locorum 4.2.4 161 n. 223 4.3.9 74 4.4.1 164, 171 n. 248 4.4.2 64 n. 125, 74 4.4.9 80 n. 172 4.6.8 140 n. 157 4.7.6–7 73 5.1.1 80 n. 172 5.2.5 133–4 5.4.1 145 n. 169, 164 n. 228 5.4.3 164 n. 228 5.4.4 164 n. 228 5.4.5 144–5 5.4.11 61 n. 117 5.5.1 60–1 5.5.9 161 n. 223 5.8.4 164 5.8.6 165 5.9.8 61–2, 81, 145–6 5.9.9 80 n. 172 5.10.1 62 5.10.4–5 43 n. 76 5.10.6 62 6.1.5 89 n. 202 6.1.6 56 n. 109 6.2 164 n. 229 6.2.5 118 n. 88 6.3.2 74 6.3.3 52, 74 6.3.7 151 n. 195 6.3.7–8 48–9 6.3.8 49 6.4 49–50 6.4.4–6 49–50 6.4.5 56 n. 111 6.4.7–8 49 6.5.8–10 35–7 6.6.5 37 n. 60, 81 6.6.7 81 n. 176 6.9.1 140 6.9.2 66 n. 127, 141–2 6.9.3 140 n. 157, 165–6 6.9.5 53 n. 102 7.1.1 140 7.1.2 108–9 7.1.5–6 165 n. 230 7.1.8 139 7.2.4 49 n. 90, 139 7.2.4–5 46, 119 n. 82 7.2.5 42, 64–5, 146 7.2.6 66–7, 142 7.2.7 140–1

295

7.3.8 119 n. 94 7.3.9 140 n. 158 7.4.5 146 7.4.9 88, 146 7.5.10 146 7.5.11 62, 122 n. 105, 142 n. 161, 146 7.5.12–13 142 n. 161 7.5.14 140 n. 158 7.6.5 37–9, 66 7.6.7 88, 122 n. 105 7.6.10 88 8.1.2 166 8.1.3 86 8.1.15 82, 89 8.1.16 89 8.1.17 147 8.2.4 39 n. 66, 146–7 8.2.4–5 109 n. 57 8.2.10 89 8.3.1 146–7 8.3.2 38 n. 62 8.3.7 88 8.3.10 42, 47 8.4.4 82, 89 n. 202 8.5.10–11 62–3, 81 n. 177 8.5.12–13 63, 65 n. 126 8.5.15 64, 89 n. 203, 118 n. 88 8.6.11 118 n. 87 8.7.3–4 68–70 8.7.6–7 86 8.8.10 47 8.8.12 65 n. 126 8.8.13 99 n. 30, 122 n. 105 HELIODORUS 1.1.5 115 n. 80 1.2.1 121 n. 99 1.2.3 121 1.3.6 121 n. 99 1.7.2 130 n. 127 1.19.6 167 n. 236 1.21.3 40 n. 70 1.25.1–2 40 n. 70 1.30.7 87 n. 196, 201 n. 80 1.31.4 124 2.1.2 124–6 2.7.2–3 126–7 2.10.2 193 n. 60 2.11.3 127–8 2.13.2–3 130–2 2.18.3–4 132–3 2.19.5–7 132–3

296 HELIODORUS (cont.) 2.20.3 123–4 2.29.5 133 2.31.1 121 n. 97 2.33.3 39–40 2.33.7 39 n. 68 2.34.4 119–20 2.35.1 120–1, 157 2.35.3 39 n. 68 3.3.5 144 n. 167 3.3.7 121–2, 157 3.3.8 121 3.4.2 114 n. 76 3.5 166 n. 234 3.5.4–5 166 n. 234 3.10.3 144 n. 167 3.10.4–11.1 16, 53–5 3.17.4 167 3.19.1 167 3.19.3 39 n. 68 4.1.1 166–7 4.1.2 143 4.2.1 143, 162 4.2.2 143–4 4.2.3 73 n. 149 4.3.1 143 4.4 166 n. 234 4.4.1 144 4.4.4 167 4.5.5 122–3 4.6.5 167 n. 236 4.8.7 113 4.10.5 104 n. 44 4.11.1 167 n. 235 4.17.3–4 167–8 4.18.6 155–6 4.21.3 108 5.4.4–5 154–5 5.5.2 123 5.7 146 n. 178 5.25 140 n. 159 5.24.3 131 n. 130 5.26.4 122 5.29.6 113 5.31.3 167 n. 236 5.32.3–5 113–15 5.32.4 148 n. 183 6.1.4 127 n. 122 6.8.1 39 n. 68 7.10.2 169 n. 240 7.21.5 80–1, 82 n. 178 7.24 252 n. 221

Index Locorum 7.29.1 87 n. 196 8.4 150 n. 192 8.6.3–4 156–8 8.9.4 200 n. 77 8.9.22 168 n. 238 8.13.2 200 n. 77 8.16.3 125 n. 113 9.6.2 149–51 9.19.2 114 n. 79 9.21.3 150 n. 192 9.21.4 151 n. 195 9.25.5 82 n. 178 10.16.2 151–2 10.16.4 115 10.16.9 115 10.17.1 152 10.20.2 116 10.21.1–2 116 10.22 153 n. 201 10.24.3 148 10.28 152–3 10.29.2 153 10.30.3 153 10.31.1 153 10.31.5 147–9 LONGUS 1.8.1–2 77 n. 159 1.14.3 217 n. 132 1.15.1 211 1.15.4 77 n. 159 1.27.3 219 2.3.1–2 42 2.9.1 42, 93 n. 10 2.10.3 93 n. 10 2.15.1 42 2.19ff. 93 2.22.3 137–8 2.22.4 137 2.37.3 219 n. 139 3.13.4 93 n. 10 3.14.1 42 3.15.1 214 3.16–19 77–9 3.18.4 214, 215 n. 124 3.19.2 78 n. 166, 160 n. 220 3.19.3 215–16 3.20.2 77–8 3.24.3 78 3.25.2 215 n. 125 3.34.3 93 n. 10 4.10.1 208–12

Index Locorum 4.11.1 212 4.11.2 212–13 4.11.3 213 4.12.1–2 213–14 4.12.3 209 n. 102, 217–20 4.16.2 222 n. 143 4.16.2–3 218–19 4.16.3 160 n. 220, 217 4.16.4 138 n. 150 4.17.3 76, 210 n. 103, 217 n. 133 4.17.3–7 76–7 4.17.4 217 n. 133 4.17.6 217 n. 133, 223 n. 146 4.18.1 76 n. 156 4.18.2 137 4.19.1 77 n. 161, 214, 217 n. 131 4.19.4–5 217 n. 131 4.19.5 216–17 4.20.1 217 n. 131 4.21.2 138 n. 150 4.22.2 137 4.29.4 217 n. 133 4.40.3 78–9 XENOPHON OF EPHESUS 1.1.2 43 1.2.1 160 n. 220 1.4.1–2 205 n. 88 1.4.1–3 160 n. 220 1.4.4 160 n. 220 1.4.6 189 1.4.7 189, 205 n. 87 1.9.2 191 n. 53 1.9.3 205 1.9.4 160 n. 220 1.13.3 204

1.15.1 203 1.16.4 204 1.16.5 203–4 2.1.3–4 204–7 2.4.5 191–2 2.5 80 2.13.1–2 201 2.13.4 191 n. 53, 201 2.14.1–4 207–8 2.14.2 122 n. 102, 196 3.1.2 208 3.2.2–4 186–92 3.2.4 191 3.2.7 191, 192–4 3.2.8 193 3.2.9 191 n. 54, 193 n. 60 3.2.10 194–5 3.6.3 112, 205 n. 87 3.12.4 197 n. 72 4.5.4–6 112–13 4.5.6 191 n. 53 4.6.3 201 5.1.4–7 189–90 5.1.12 189 5.4.3 191 n. 53, 201 5.7 40 n. 70 5.8.7 112 5.9.1 199 5.9.2 196 5.9.3 196–7 5.9.11 199–200 5.9.13 196, 200 5.10.4 138 n. 148 5.13.6 197 5.15.4 197–9

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General Index Achilles: as model for Chaereas 80 n. 174, 118–19, 146 as model for Theagenes 119–24, 143 his transvestism on Scyros 239 Achilles Tatius 10–12, 43–5, 55 n. 107, 58–60, 70–2, 83 n. 180, 90–1, 114 n. 77, 124 n. 111, 128–30, 135–7, 140 n. 159, 158–9, 168–72, 173, 192 n. 57, 193 n. 60, 206, 216, 219 n. 140, 220–38, 238–62, 264, 267–70, 272 debate on love in 229–38 as subverter of masculine ideals 10–11, 58–60, 70–2, 90, 158–9, 168–72, 173, 220–38, 260–2, 264, 267–70 adultery (moicheia) 84–8, 185, 238–43, 245–6, 248–56, 260–2 Aeschines 170 n. 243, 206, 239, 246–7, 256–8, 260 Aesop, Life of 84 n. 181 Agathon 183–5, 202 n. 81, 210 n. 103, 210–11, 225, 239, 268–9 age: of partners in pederastic relationships 180–3 its relation to love 187–99 alterity, in gender discourse 5, 185, 229–32 andreia: and karteria 100–1 and paideia 98–9, 101–3, 111, 118–19, 144–53, 173 as product of nature or culture 101–2, 149–53 and sōphrosynē 97–8, 101–3, 111–15, 154–9 andrizomai (play the man) 11–12, 154–9 androgynos (man-woman) 241–3 anger 79–89 Anthia (Xenophon of Ephesus): her defence of chastity 111–13 appearance, contrasted with reality 124–33

Apuleius, Metamorphoses 44, 112 n. 73, 130 n. 127, 163 n. 226, 168 n. 239, 255–6 archery 113–15 Aristomachus (Xenophon of Ephesus): as embodiment of negative pederasty 192–5 Aristophanes: character in Plato’s Symposium 182–5, 200–1 Aristotle: on andreia 96, 101–2, 106–7 on anger 79, 84 n. 182, 85–7 on the ‘noble death’ (kalos thanatos) 96, 135–7 on suicide 133 Artaxates (Chariton) 35–7 Artaxerxes (Chariton): his feelings for Callirhoe 48–50, 74 athletics: as form of andreia 97–100, 143–4, 147–9 as metaphor for love and sex 103–4, 159–60, 161–2, 164–5, 166–8, 169–70 bacchants, imagery of in Achilles Tatius 247–8 Balot, R. 2 n. 4, 3 n. 6, 56 n. 111, 145–6, 165–6 bandits/pirates 87 n. 196, 108 n. 56, 122 n. 103, 127 n. 123, 130 n. 127, 201 n. 80, 203–8, 255–6, 266 n. 6 barbarians 37–8, 48–50, 81, 147–52, 164, 200 n. 77 beards 210–12 Boswell, J. 176 n. 7 Bowie, E. 11 n. 48, 12–13, 15–16, 21, 63 n. 123 Brown, P. 50 n. 93, 52 n. 99, 63 n. 121, 83 n. 79, 84, 90 n. 204, 157 n. 211 Butler, J. 7–8, 9 n. 33, 59, 151 n. 196 Calligone (fragment) 109 Callirhoe (Chariton): her paideia 35–9

300

General Index

castration 206–7, 242–3 Catullus 9, 206–7, 224 Cebes, Tabula 25–6, 41, 75–6 Chaereas (Chariton): as Achilles-figure 80 n. 174, 118–19, 146 as aristeus 118–19 his capacity for self-control 79–89, 146–7 characterization of as not inconsistent 65–7, 117–19, 139–40 equated with Hector 134–5, 146–7 as erotic soldier 118–19, 164–6 his kicking of Callirhoe 79–89 his use of paideia in rhetorical contexts 67–70 Charicleia (Heliodorus): her preservation of chastity 39–40, 113–15 her rhetorical skill 39–40 her use of archery 113–15 Chariton 1, 5–6, 15–19, 20–2, 35–9, 40, 41–3, 45–53, 55–8, 60–70, 73–5, 79–89, 92–3, 108–9, 117–19, 133–5, 138–43, 144–7, 160–6 Cleinias (Achilles Tatius): his advice to Cleitophon 226–9 as literary exhibitionist 221–9 his relationship with Charicles 221–6 Cleitophon (Achilles Tatius): as Agathon-figure 268–9 his claims to virginity 243–5 as confirmed ‘heterosexual’ 229–32 courtroom allegations against 245–8 as coward 128–30, 135–7 his debate with Menelaus 229–38 as Demosthenes-figure 169 n. 242, 249–51 as elegiac amator 168–72, 227–9, 268 as kinaidos (willing sexual passive)? 240–3, 245–7, 251, 260 as moichos (adulterer) 238–51 as parasite 129 n. 126 as ‘prostitute’ 245–6 his pursuit of Leucippe 58–60, 158–9, 168–72 reader-identification with 10–11, 70–2, 158–9, 268–70 as Socrates-figure 43–5 as tool for subversion of masculine ideals? 58–60, 70–2, 158–9, 171–2, 260–2, 264, 267–70

his use of prostitutes 232–4 as victim of beatings 249–51 clemency: shown to an adulterous lover 84 shown in war 149–52 clothing, see transvestism Cnemon, as coward 126–8, 130–3 Cohen, D. 178 n. 14, 181, 182 n. 31 Connolly, J. 71, 97 n. 24, 267–8 Corymbus (Xenophon of Ephesus) 203–8 cowardice, opposed to courage 124–33 cross-dressing, see transvestism Daphnis (Longus): his contemplations of suicide 137–8 his response to Gnathon’s proposition 208–20 his sex with Lycaenion 77–9, 214–20 his similarity to a puppy 217–20 Davidson, J. 175 n. 1, 178 n. 15, 180–2, 185 n. 43, 241 n. 190, 256 n. 234 debate on love (Achilles Tatius) 229–38 lack of conclusion to 236–8 Decimus Laberius 218 deilia (cowardice) 124–33, 133–8 Demosthenes 169 n. 242, 239, 250–1 De Temmerman, K. 69–70 Dio Chrysostom 27–8, 71 n. 144, 97–8, 103, 114, 115, 149, 218 n. 136 Dionysius (Chariton) 1, 5–6, 8–9, 16–17, 20–1, 41–2, 45–6, 46–8, 50–3, 55–8, 60–4, 73, 75, 140–2, 144–6, 163–5 Dover, K. J. 175–6, 180–1, 184 n. 36, 211 n. 108 Duncan, A. 127 n. 121, 184 n. 36, 202 n. 81, 243 n. 196, 251 n. 215, 268–9 effeminacy 184–6, 208–20, 224–6, 230, 232, 233–8, 238–62 Egger, B. 3, 14, 270–1 ego-narrative 70–2, 128, 168–9, 190 elegy (Roman) 79–80, 103–4, 162, 167, 168–72, 177 n. 11, 227–9, 240–1, 249, 261–2 eunuchs and eunuchism 242–3; see also androgynos facial hair, see beards first-person narration, see ego-narrative

General Index focalization, effect of on reader 59, 64, 104–5, 160–3, 217–18 footrace, see hoplitodromos Foucault, M. 35, 175–6, 182 genitals, male: as locus of virility 206–7 symbolism of size 258–9 Gleason, M. 9, 14, 22 n. 9, 31–2, 38, 46 n. 84, 121 n. 98, 122 n. 105, 151 n. 196, 185 n. 43, 210 n. 106, 233 n. 172, 241 n. 190, 242 n. 194, 249, 268 n. 13 Gnathon (Longus) 76–7, 138 n. 150, 160 n. 220, 208–20, 263–4, 272 Goffman, E. 6–9, 126 n. 116

301

Lollianus, Phoenicica 168 n. 239, 201 n. 80, 243–5 Longus 7–8, 42, 76–9, 93, 137–8, 160, 208–20 Lucian 28–31, 41, 98–100 Lycaenion 77–9, 214–16

jealousy 79–89

MacAlister, S. 133 n. 137, 134, 135 n. 144, 136 malakia (moral weakness, softness) 158–9, 171–2, 236 Marinčič, M. 70 n. 137, 240, 249 n. 211 marriage: as curtailing pederastic phase 194, 205–7, 215–16, 220 and paideia 32–5, 37, 60–1 Martial 215–16, 224 meirakiōdēs (boyish, immature) 5, 50–3 Melite (Achilles Tatius) 55 n. 107, 59 n. 115, 80, 161 n. 224, 169 n. 240, 238–46, 227 n. 158, 240 n. 187, 243 n. 196, 244 n. 197, 255 n. 229, 261 n. 250 Menander 24–5, 38, 80 n. 170, 163 n. 226, 242 n. 193 Menelaus (Achilles Tatius) 136, 137 n. 147, 223, 229–38, 259 Metiochus and Parthenope 75–6 militia amoris (love’s warfare) 103–5, 159–72 Mithridates (Chariton) 164, 171 n. 248 moichos (adulterer), physical appearance of 240–1; see also adultery Morales, H. 71 n. 144, 220 n. 142, 227 n. 156, 227 n. 157, 227 n. 158, 228 n. 160, 233 n. 168, 233 n. 169, 237 n. 180, 248 n. 208, 252 n. 218, 257 n. 239 Morgan, J. R. 42 n. 72, 42 n. 74, 76 n. 157, 77 n. 159, 78 n. 166, 122 n. 101, 127 n. 119, 138 n. 148, 138 n. 149, 152 n. 198, 155 n. 204, 166 n. 234, 213 n. 118, 214 n. 119, 216 n. 129, 254 n. 225 Musonius Rufus 34–5, 111, 115, 209 n. 100, 212 n. 112

kinaidos (indiscriminately lustful male) 240–3, 245–7, 256–62

nature, and culture 7–8, 149–52, 213–14, 216–17, 234–5

Lalanne, S. 65, 42 n. 75, 92 n. 4, 128 n. 124, 149

Odysseus 92, 102–3, 118 n. 88, 134 n. 142

Habrocomes (Xenophon of Ephesus) 43, 138 n. 148, 160 n. 220, 195–7, 203–8 Halperin, D. M. 176, 177–8, 182–3, 238 n. 183, 256 n. 235 Haynes, K. 67–70, 96, 133, 146–7 Heliodorus 15–16, 39–40, 42, 53–5, 92–3, 108, 113–17, 119–28, 130–3, 143–4, 147–58, 166–8, 172–3 Hippothous (Xenophon of Ephesus) 186–203 homosexuality, as category 175–9 hoplitodromos 143–4 Hubbard, T. K. 178–9, 180 n. 19, 181 n. 24, 208 n. 96, 214 n. 119 hybris 47–50, 79–80, 84–9, 249–54 Hydaspes (Heliodorus) 149–52 Hyperanthes (Xenophon of Ephesus) 186–203 Iamblichus, Babyloniaca 81 n. 175, 87, 113 n. 74, 116 n. 84 Isocrates: Chariton’s use of? 51 n. 96, 55–6, 61–2, 65, 67–8 his conception of paideia 23–4, 31, 32 n. 46

302

General Index

Odysseus (cont.) as model for Theagenes 123–4, 143, 173 oral sex 209–10, 257–60 Ovid, as influence on Achilles Tatius 171–2, 227–9 paideia: and andreia 27, 34, 61–2, 98–9, 101–3, 111, 118–19, 144–53, 173 and control of emotion 35–7, 50–5, 61, 62–4 and empathy for others 24–5, 37–9, 60–1 and jealousy 79–89 and knowledge of love 73–9 and maturity 41–5 and private reasoning 24, 55–60 and rhetoric/oratory 23–4, 39, 67–72 Panayotakis, C. 218 Parker, H. N. 176 Pausanias: character in Plato’s Symposium 180 n. 20, 183, 184 n. 37, 185 n. 39, 197, 235 pederasty 180–5, 186–227, 229–32, 234–8 Pentheus 247–8 performance, definitions of 5–12 Petronius 70 n. 138, 136 n. 146, 168 n. 239, 193 n. 61, 206, 241, 258 n. 240, 259 n. 243 Phoenicia and Phoenicians 140 n. 159, 242–3, 257 n. 239, 269–70 physiognomy 45–6, 52 n. 98, 54–5, 71 n. 144, 119–22, 172, 241–2 Plato 23, 56 n. 108, 95–6, 100–2, 106, 145, 154, 170, 182–5, 197, 200–1, 225, 232, 235, 237 pleasure, sexual 233–8 Plutarch 33–4, 88, 109–10, 122 n. 105, 182 n. 32, 193 n. 59, 193 n. 61, 194, 213 n. 118, 218, 224–5, 230, 235 n. 176 prostitution 193 n. 60, 204–7, 215–16, 233–4, 235 n. 177, 243–6, 256–60 praeceptor amoris (teacher of love) 221, 226–9 Ps.-Lucian, Amores 183 n. 35, 224–5, 229 n. 161, 235 n. 176, 238 n. 183

pseudopaideia 25–31, 70–2, 75–7 puppy motif 217–20 rape, of males as punishment for adultery 248 Repath, I. D. 44 n. 79, 44 n. 80, 56 n. 108, 63 n. 123, 109 n. 59, 120 n. 96, 232 n. 164, 232 n. 167, 235 n. 177 Richlin, A. 176–7, 219, 224 n. 149, 239 n. 186, 241 n. 190, 259 n. 243, 260 n. 247 royalty: and andreia 115, 149–52 and paideia 28, 37–9, 46–50 Schmeling, G. 42 n. 75, 207–8 Seneca 87 n. 195, 248–9 sex: as figurative warfare 103–5, 159–72 with women as progression to manhood 77–9, 203–8, 213–16, 224–6 sex-change 204–7, 241–9 sōphrosynē, of men: in military contexts 144–51 in sexual contexts 47–50, 154–9 sōphrosynē, of women 34–5, 111–12 speech, as symbol of masculinity 23–4, 50–5, 67–70, 82–4, 249, 257–8 Stateira (Chariton) 37–9, 56 n. 109 Stehle, E. 9 n. 38, 10–11 Strato 194 n. 63, 218, 230 Suetonius 176–7, 245 suicide 133–8 suitors (Chariton) 81–2, 85–7, 160–2, 164–5 symposium 50–5, 75–7 Terence 242 n. 193 Theagenes (Heliodorus): as Achilles-figure 119–24 his capture of the bull 152–3 contrasted with Cnemon 124–8, 130–3 his self-restraint 154–8 his wrestling of a giant 147–9 Thersander (Achilles Tatius) 247–60 Thorp, J. 175 n. 2, 182 n. 33, 201 Thucydides 107–8

General Index Timarchus 206, 209 n. 102, 246–7, 257–8, 260 Toohey, P. 135 transvestism 238–49 virginity, male 243–5 warfare 95–100, 103–5, 107–9, 113–15, 124–30, 138–42, 144–7, 149–51, 159–72 Weeks, J. 175 n. 2, 175 n. 3, 176 n. 7, 177 n. 9 Whitmarsh, T. 27 n. 26, 28 n. 28, 29 n. 36, 31, 33, 50 n. 94, 63–4, 111, 218 n. 136 Williams, C. A. 176 n. 5, 178 n. 15, 179, 185 n. 40, 206 n. 92,

303

210 n. 103, 224 n. 150, 234 n. 173, 256 n. 234, 257 n. 237, 257 n. 239, 259 n. 243 women: education of 32–5, 39–40, 111 ideal roles of 32–7, 39–40, 106–17 their interest in effeminate men 240 in warfare 107–9 Women Intelligent and Courageous in Warfare 115 wrestling 147–9, 234–6, 258–9 Xenophon (of Athens) 22–3, 32–3, 101–2 Xenophon of Ephesus 13–14, 40 n. 70, 43, 112–13, 160, 186–208